Giant Bomb Thread #4: A thread of perceived slights

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Empty Space said:
This has baffled me since the first time I listened to 1up Your! I've never heard anybody except games press and developers make SNES into a word instead of pronouncing out the letters.
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1- Sness
2- Ess-Ness
3- Ess-En-Ee-Ess
3- Super-Ness
4- Super Nintendo
5- Super-En-Ee-Ess

Bold is the ones I always usec - and still do.

Also, I say ""Bay-Tah"" not "Bee-Tah"
 
Question time at live panels should be all about efficiency. If you have to do a long-winded thank you thingy write them a letter or something. You're wasting valuable time that Jeff could potentially convert into a completely absurd situation!
 
Keyser Soze said:
2- Ess-Ness
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[esnes]? What is this madness.


SalsaShark said:
I feel kinda bad for the Alien Spidy devs, lol. That was harsh
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Not every game is worth the praise. In this case, I'm glad they could tell it like it is without reservations (even though there seemed to be ample leeway for the web slinging, Brad seemed to have less problems with it than he anticipated). Floaty jump platformers are just the worst.
 
It's Super Nintendo, or Super En-Ee-Ess, or Ess-Enn-Ee-Ess.

"Sness" makes you sound like a country bumpkin. "Super Ness" makes you sound like a child. "Ess-ness" is Satanism in our schools.
 
Haunted said:
Not every game is worth the praise. In this case, I'm glad they could tell it like it is without reservations (even though there seemed to be ample leeway for the web slinging, Brad seemed to have less problems with it than he anticipated). Floaty jump platformers are just the worst.
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yeah this is the thing that struck me as a bit over the top

"controls are terrible it's really hard to make the swings with the analog stick"

*makes every single swing*

game looked bad for sure
 
I like that Patrick plays interesting and unique games unlike, well, almost anyone else on GB (Jeff did play papers please). The thing I dislike about him is how he just sort of takes over the middle the show and drones on and on about it with Jeff occasionally asking a 3 word question or saying uh huh every few minutes. When only one person is talking I just kind of zone out and forget what they are talking about.
 
This is it—the end of an era. Bradley Strauthorpe Shoemaker has reached the end of his journey at Giant Bomb Industries. No great fanfare is to be had. No clamoring crowd surrounds him to see his final moments inside the warm, unctuous womb of the Giant Bomb Command Center… nay, COMMANDE CENTRE.

With a deep sigh, Brad (“Braderator Rex” to his “friends”) looks over his desk one last time. Between Moss Burger wrappers and negative pregnancy tests, there is a lone figure staring at him. It is a Sigismond Thalberg porcupine figurine, gazing up with what seems to be moist, regretful eyes. Porcupine Sigismond was one of Brad’s first tchotchkes in the interactive dreamscape industry. The character wasn’t popular and only appeared in one sensual missive—Porcupine Virtuoso Thunder Attack X—but it was the first sign to Brad that he was IN.

—TIME WARP—

It was a cloudy day at the Gladbrook Gentry Exposition Center (steel barn), in a lost part of Iowa. Brad was fresh off a tour of duty with the militia and was at Gamesman’s Authorship Camp (GAC = NO Girls Allowed!) to offer a fresh perspective on Gamesmanship that his mother craved. She would be the first, but not the last to crave his exquisite rants…

Long story short—Brad tripped over a drunken, nicely-dressed howler monkey, cracking his head on an oddly placed stone howler monkey statuette. “What is this? An aviary?” he would have quipped if not for being unconscious. Brad came to with Sigismond Thalberg resting in his hand, never having set foot in the actual exposition center (steel barn). The GAC had been over and done with for three weeks.

—TIME DEWARP—

With the memory passing, Brad reaches down to his shin to feel the scar that the howler monkey’s ivory cane had imparted on it. Mustering up some saliva to spit upon that cursed, possibly possessed, Sigismond Thalberg porcupine figurine, he pursed his lips for a good spatting-upon. Those missed three weeks still sting, dude. Brad just couldn’t do it, however. Porcupine Bros before ivory-handled, cane-wielding simians… and tilling implements… and that guy who can bend his elbows backwards. It’s just wrong.

Brad nods his head in approval as he picks up an empty, cardboard box. His fingertips brush along the corrugated edges as he feels a chill down his spine. The air-conditioning is on, drifting through the empty halls of GBCCentre at a medium blasting efficiency. Old Ortega must have left it on before he went home. Good ol’ Ortega… Brad wishes he had time to stick around and fire that wasteful miscreant, but luck was on Ortega’s side this time. This time, and EVERY TIME. That lucky hoobajoob has four war-crimes tribunals under his belt and no time served…

With a deep breath, Brad realizes that he doesn’t need to leave these hallowed halls with anything on his desk. No trophies, nor spoils of a war never battled, will outdo the honor and civility with which he served. Donning the dusty, wrinkled box on his head, Brad’s heartbeat echoes in his ears as he leans forward to give a parting kiss to that goofy, porcupine bizzle-snizzle. They never saw eye-to-quill on most things, but he would be damned if he didn’t go out with a dash of humanity.

As he leans forward to impart a wet one on Sigismond’s sweet, little forehead (or the interior of the box on his head), Brad whispers out “Mercurial!” misusing it as he always does.

Unfortunately for Brad, trying to kiss a four-inch tall, anthropomorphized-porcupine-virtuoso-ass-kicking-machine, which sits below waist level, while wearing a box one’s head, is NEVER SAFE. Losing balance, he falls forward onto his desk, Sigismond’s quills gouging deep into a taut, pulsing carotid artery. As he showers in his own blood, Brad gasps out his final words:

“Ragrgareragarggghleerlhgle!”

It was probably the blood pooling up in his throat.

Ortega threw Brad into the basement incinerator the following morning. The Sigismond Thalberg porcupine figurine was still in his neck at the time, thus melting into Brad’s remains with a dramatic "poof" of purplish, acrid smoke. They are one, now and forever… at the bottom of a well, or something. I’m not a bone smuggler, man! Don’t look to me for answers!

The blood stain on Brad’s former desk is now CEO of a Fortune 400 company. It speaks fluent Portuguese and loves tapas.

[Any mention of a "Brad" or "Bradley Strauthorpe Shoemaker" in this deranged exercise has a silent "isleavingmeme" following it wherever it appears. Please let it rest in peace, for the sake of surviving family members. Yes, this makes absolutely no sense. Just go with it, baby!]
 
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