Squigglydot
2020
damn son how about you color in some goddamn job applications
2023
hey yall i'm back at it again.
basically an expansion of a poem i wrote back in college running to its logical conclusion. featuring music by absolute legend ConeCvltist. This is a naked marketing move by Big Roxy... play my game!
play it here.. Enjoy a short lil' spooky thing.
basically an expansion of a poem i wrote back in college running to its logical conclusion. featuring music by absolute legend ConeCvltist. This is a naked marketing move by Big Roxy... play my game!
play it here.. Enjoy a short lil' spooky thing.
2010
This review contains spoilers
Some say he tore through the Mojave, a revenant hellbent on destruction. Others claimed she burned with righteous glory, a beacon of justice scorching the unjust, and others still claim they were just a kleptomaniac out to have a good time. Hell, I’ve heard they fell through the earth and woke up in D.C., that their mere presence would make you feel like your brain would stop processing, that they could carry a thousand pounds and run faster than the devil. End of the day, the trivia of the how and when barely matter as much as the “who”.
A decade ago, a batch of couriers set out with cargo bound to New Vegas. The whole lot of them carried worthless trinkets across the sands, a batch of diversions and a single Platinum Chip. Five couriers made it to New Vegas unscathed. Lady Luck must have had it out for the last poor bastard; the only package that mattered was signed off with two shots to the head and a shallow grave. That should’ve been the end of it, another nameless body lost to wasteland, but be it by fate, fury or spite, the dead man walked. Wasn't even two days later that the thief in the checkered suit was gunned down, 9mm justice ringing red hot. Within a week, President Kimball lost his head, the Followers of the Apocalypse were a smoking crater, the Brotherhood of Steel suffered a fatal error, and Caesar himself fell to the knife's edge. Crazy son of a gun even took the Strip by siege, running some police state ops under the table. Or at least, that's how I've heard it told.
When all is said and done, the devil's in the details. The Courier was just as much a sinner as a saint, but anyone could tell you that. Hell, I'd go as far as to say the moment-to-moment minutia doesn't matter; who cares that she traveled with a former 1st Recon sniper, or a whisky-chugging cowpoke? Will anyone remember the ghoul mechanic, the robo-dog, the Enclave reject, or the schizophrenic Nightkin?
No, even as the figurehead of The Strip, no one can really pin down the story in a way everyone can agree on. You'll hear a thousand stories, and the only two consistent factors are that some poor delivery boy got his brains blown out, and that when the dust settled, the Mohave was never quite the same. But listen to me rattle on… you know all of this. After all, that's exactly how you wanted it, right?
When you picked that platinum chip off of Benny, riddled with holes, you knew what you were doing, didn't you? How could you not; it wasn't the first time you shot the boy down. Last time, it was a Ripper to the gut, this time his own gun to the back of the head. Did everyone every figure out how Maria was in your hand and in his back pocket? When the mighty Courier crushed the Great Khans beneath their heel, did you so much as flinch, or was this just another quest in your wild wasteland? Even with cannibals licking their lips with you in their eyes, you smiled, like this was an old joke reminding you of better times.
A decade ago, you woke up in Doc Mitchell's practice, head like a hole with a big iron on your hip. Now, you're back in Goodsprings. Everyone acts like this is new, fresh, like you haven't done this a thousand times over. I know this story, you know it even better. Still, it's hard to stop yourself from doing the same old song and dance, isn't it? For as much as patrolling the Mojave can make you wish for a nuclear winter, you keep coming back. It's not just war; nothing about the desert ever changes. But that's just how you like it, isn't it, Courier?
Vegas never changes. You never change.
A decade ago, a batch of couriers set out with cargo bound to New Vegas. The whole lot of them carried worthless trinkets across the sands, a batch of diversions and a single Platinum Chip. Five couriers made it to New Vegas unscathed. Lady Luck must have had it out for the last poor bastard; the only package that mattered was signed off with two shots to the head and a shallow grave. That should’ve been the end of it, another nameless body lost to wasteland, but be it by fate, fury or spite, the dead man walked. Wasn't even two days later that the thief in the checkered suit was gunned down, 9mm justice ringing red hot. Within a week, President Kimball lost his head, the Followers of the Apocalypse were a smoking crater, the Brotherhood of Steel suffered a fatal error, and Caesar himself fell to the knife's edge. Crazy son of a gun even took the Strip by siege, running some police state ops under the table. Or at least, that's how I've heard it told.
When all is said and done, the devil's in the details. The Courier was just as much a sinner as a saint, but anyone could tell you that. Hell, I'd go as far as to say the moment-to-moment minutia doesn't matter; who cares that she traveled with a former 1st Recon sniper, or a whisky-chugging cowpoke? Will anyone remember the ghoul mechanic, the robo-dog, the Enclave reject, or the schizophrenic Nightkin?
No, even as the figurehead of The Strip, no one can really pin down the story in a way everyone can agree on. You'll hear a thousand stories, and the only two consistent factors are that some poor delivery boy got his brains blown out, and that when the dust settled, the Mohave was never quite the same. But listen to me rattle on… you know all of this. After all, that's exactly how you wanted it, right?
When you picked that platinum chip off of Benny, riddled with holes, you knew what you were doing, didn't you? How could you not; it wasn't the first time you shot the boy down. Last time, it was a Ripper to the gut, this time his own gun to the back of the head. Did everyone every figure out how Maria was in your hand and in his back pocket? When the mighty Courier crushed the Great Khans beneath their heel, did you so much as flinch, or was this just another quest in your wild wasteland? Even with cannibals licking their lips with you in their eyes, you smiled, like this was an old joke reminding you of better times.
A decade ago, you woke up in Doc Mitchell's practice, head like a hole with a big iron on your hip. Now, you're back in Goodsprings. Everyone acts like this is new, fresh, like you haven't done this a thousand times over. I know this story, you know it even better. Still, it's hard to stop yourself from doing the same old song and dance, isn't it? For as much as patrolling the Mojave can make you wish for a nuclear winter, you keep coming back. It's not just war; nothing about the desert ever changes. But that's just how you like it, isn't it, Courier?
Vegas never changes. You never change.
[Verse 1]
Come follow me, we will make a trip
And you will find something new that goes “cheep cheep cheep”
And you see him the first time, he’s so hip!
You will love him, love him
[Verse 2]
Fin Fin, my little friend, he’s so sweet
And when he’s hungry he needs some fruit to eat
So when I’m left all alone in the midnight heat
I go crazy, crazy
[Chorus]
Fin Fin, come and see him
Love and we’ll believe him
Always and forever, he’s your best friend!
Fin Fin, come and see him
Love and we’ll believe him
Always and forever, he’s your best friend!
[Verse 3]
Hey everybody look on the screen
And let us shout all together now, “Fin fin fin!”
We have joy, we have fun, and we’re gonna scream
We go crazy, crazy
[Chorus]
Fin Fin come and see him
Love and we’ll believe him
Always and forever, he’s your best friend!
Fin fin come and see him
Love and we’ll believe him
Always and forever, he’s your best friend!
He’s your best friend!
[Chorus] x3
[Outro]
He’s your best friend!
He’s your best friend!
He’s your best friend!
Come follow me, we will make a trip
And you will find something new that goes “cheep cheep cheep”
And you see him the first time, he’s so hip!
You will love him, love him
[Verse 2]
Fin Fin, my little friend, he’s so sweet
And when he’s hungry he needs some fruit to eat
So when I’m left all alone in the midnight heat
I go crazy, crazy
[Chorus]
Fin Fin, come and see him
Love and we’ll believe him
Always and forever, he’s your best friend!
Fin Fin, come and see him
Love and we’ll believe him
Always and forever, he’s your best friend!
[Verse 3]
Hey everybody look on the screen
And let us shout all together now, “Fin fin fin!”
We have joy, we have fun, and we’re gonna scream
We go crazy, crazy
[Chorus]
Fin Fin come and see him
Love and we’ll believe him
Always and forever, he’s your best friend!
Fin fin come and see him
Love and we’ll believe him
Always and forever, he’s your best friend!
He’s your best friend!
[Chorus] x3
[Outro]
He’s your best friend!
He’s your best friend!
He’s your best friend!
2023
another day volunteering at the russian-government funded bioshock museum. everyone keeps asking me if they can fuck the fridge. buddy, they wont even let me fuck it
2021
Somehow every review I write on this ends up
hampered by issues in clarity,
issues of both creative phrasing and,
technically, meaningful content.
For certain, my critique on the game is simple;
on any grounds, the writing and story are harmful,
routinely espousing the most toxic of views towards victims.
Clearly, Bloober Team relies on shock tactics to earn clout, an
underhanded attempt to earn viral attention through harmful
notions and rhetoric. I'm not writing in clearest terms, and
that could be chalked up to being tired of thinking about this
shit for cunts.
hampered by issues in clarity,
issues of both creative phrasing and,
technically, meaningful content.
For certain, my critique on the game is simple;
on any grounds, the writing and story are harmful,
routinely espousing the most toxic of views towards victims.
Clearly, Bloober Team relies on shock tactics to earn clout, an
underhanded attempt to earn viral attention through harmful
notions and rhetoric. I'm not writing in clearest terms, and
that could be chalked up to being tired of thinking about this
shit for cunts.
okay so we take the first game, right?
and we add... required combat arenas.
and open ended level design that just feels like shit
with none of the interesting characters of Spider-Man since we blew em all in the first game
Oh, and 90% of the bosses and story are almost one-to-one from the first game, just with different names.
Also no one gives a shit about Electro! Die!!
...really cute credit sequence tho. ups for that.
and we add... required combat arenas.
and open ended level design that just feels like shit
with none of the interesting characters of Spider-Man since we blew em all in the first game
Oh, and 90% of the bosses and story are almost one-to-one from the first game, just with different names.
Also no one gives a shit about Electro! Die!!
...really cute credit sequence tho. ups for that.
When your wheels touched concrete in the summer of 1999, you were sure nothing would ever compare to this. Propelled downhill, less by gravity but more by the venerated asphalt spirit, skaters far and wide convened here, a jam to end all jams. While you were happy doing everything you could, holding on to what you were, you couldn’t help but stare skyward at the street zephyrs soaring suspended; They careened through the air, making waxed wood and molded metal both their playthings. As you crashed down to the soul-shattering gravel, face bloodied and back broken, you could only wonder how they ascended from simple skaterdom, piercing the heavens of the board.
It took a year of shattered bones and busted lines to reclaim those halcyon days. A year of spilt blood and scattered teeth, splintered wood and worn polyurethane. It all felt like a dream then, placing bronze out in Roswell, but the age of simple skating had come and gone. You perfected flatland balance, dual-wheel worship at the altar of Mullen, but even perfection wasn’t enough for elusive gold; the Bullring by the Sea didn’t just cost you your metal, it cost you years of knowing you weren't good enough.
So now we’re here. Somehow, another year felt like two decade’s separation; Gone was the California sun, the first to die in the American Wasteland. A nation of Sparrows and Jackasses, failed projects and unproven theories, crept under wheel, biting at the ankles of the past. The spirit of yesterday was buried underground, leaving today to mourn in remembrance.
Well, maybe for some. The only angels you prayed to struck gold, immortalized in sharp vertexes and warped textures. They would be memorialized not in the world’s destruction, but in a final tour, eight stops; a send-off of olden days.
You forged your craft, refining your spark-casting perfection on the rails of automation, before skating to the north. Calgary’s frost-bitten hospitality was the first real test, but as if guided by Hawk’s holy hand, the snowy providence of Alberta bowed down, hailing 900s and McTwists like the second coming. For the first time in decades, a smile spreads across your face, your cheeks still rosy-red from the icy air…
You blink, and awaken to a crowd cheering your name. Looking down on the masses, faces revered and reviled stare back; Muska, Campbell, Reynolds and Margera. You glance around for Burnquist, hoping to celebrate with the hometown hero, but the master is missing in action. Somehow, you were sure you’d be able to show off this gold to him somewhere down the line.
It repeats, on and on: Suburbia becomes New Jersey, the Airport becomes a Mall. Twenty years made it all blend together. Even now, your second gold medal in hand, it barely feels like you’re awake. When those wheels roll, maple boards of a bygone age, time disappears, rendered in heelflips and darkslides. The pomp and circumstance of it all becomes an excuse, more than anything. In your immortalized element, the past is as real as you remember it.
The final jam beckons; neo-chrome Tokyo glistens, welcoming only the best of the best. The competition rages on, dreams dashed in fractured bones and dislocations. No matter what you do, face-to-face with your idols, no, your contemporaries, there's no break, no chance to cover lost ground. Rivals dwindle as career-ending injuries take one after another, but the legendary Birdman flies past.
Seconds are left in the last heat; only a miracle will change the course of destiny. You think to the future, to the final 900 and the first 1260. As if coming free from its wheels, the board possesses you one last time, as you pivot hard on impact, momentum propelling you into the cosmos.
180. 360. 540.
Tony looks skyward, the same shine that was in your eyes twenty years prior.
Two rotations. The 900. 1080.
Nothing else matters. An amoeba with a mind of its own, an ace of spades, whatever you were and where you come from don't matter. This lone moment, spinning on a golden axis, is what it all comes down to.
Zero seconds. You don't bother looking at the scoreboard; you knew better than to think that's what this is about.
All you were looking for was this lone moment of perfection, a revision of the summer of '99. You wrap your hand tight around your medal - does it even matter what it is? - as you board the plane back to California. Staring out the window, you see the past and future together, a first-hand account of what it's like when worlds collide. You never forget the past, and tomorrow closes in fast, but this single moment is eternal.
All the grand gestures can't ease your wonder. You finally unwrap the medal and take it in.
100% Pure Gold.
It took a year of shattered bones and busted lines to reclaim those halcyon days. A year of spilt blood and scattered teeth, splintered wood and worn polyurethane. It all felt like a dream then, placing bronze out in Roswell, but the age of simple skating had come and gone. You perfected flatland balance, dual-wheel worship at the altar of Mullen, but even perfection wasn’t enough for elusive gold; the Bullring by the Sea didn’t just cost you your metal, it cost you years of knowing you weren't good enough.
So now we’re here. Somehow, another year felt like two decade’s separation; Gone was the California sun, the first to die in the American Wasteland. A nation of Sparrows and Jackasses, failed projects and unproven theories, crept under wheel, biting at the ankles of the past. The spirit of yesterday was buried underground, leaving today to mourn in remembrance.
Well, maybe for some. The only angels you prayed to struck gold, immortalized in sharp vertexes and warped textures. They would be memorialized not in the world’s destruction, but in a final tour, eight stops; a send-off of olden days.
You forged your craft, refining your spark-casting perfection on the rails of automation, before skating to the north. Calgary’s frost-bitten hospitality was the first real test, but as if guided by Hawk’s holy hand, the snowy providence of Alberta bowed down, hailing 900s and McTwists like the second coming. For the first time in decades, a smile spreads across your face, your cheeks still rosy-red from the icy air…
You blink, and awaken to a crowd cheering your name. Looking down on the masses, faces revered and reviled stare back; Muska, Campbell, Reynolds and Margera. You glance around for Burnquist, hoping to celebrate with the hometown hero, but the master is missing in action. Somehow, you were sure you’d be able to show off this gold to him somewhere down the line.
It repeats, on and on: Suburbia becomes New Jersey, the Airport becomes a Mall. Twenty years made it all blend together. Even now, your second gold medal in hand, it barely feels like you’re awake. When those wheels roll, maple boards of a bygone age, time disappears, rendered in heelflips and darkslides. The pomp and circumstance of it all becomes an excuse, more than anything. In your immortalized element, the past is as real as you remember it.
The final jam beckons; neo-chrome Tokyo glistens, welcoming only the best of the best. The competition rages on, dreams dashed in fractured bones and dislocations. No matter what you do, face-to-face with your idols, no, your contemporaries, there's no break, no chance to cover lost ground. Rivals dwindle as career-ending injuries take one after another, but the legendary Birdman flies past.
Seconds are left in the last heat; only a miracle will change the course of destiny. You think to the future, to the final 900 and the first 1260. As if coming free from its wheels, the board possesses you one last time, as you pivot hard on impact, momentum propelling you into the cosmos.
180. 360. 540.
Tony looks skyward, the same shine that was in your eyes twenty years prior.
Two rotations. The 900. 1080.
Nothing else matters. An amoeba with a mind of its own, an ace of spades, whatever you were and where you come from don't matter. This lone moment, spinning on a golden axis, is what it all comes down to.
Zero seconds. You don't bother looking at the scoreboard; you knew better than to think that's what this is about.
All you were looking for was this lone moment of perfection, a revision of the summer of '99. You wrap your hand tight around your medal - does it even matter what it is? - as you board the plane back to California. Staring out the window, you see the past and future together, a first-hand account of what it's like when worlds collide. You never forget the past, and tomorrow closes in fast, but this single moment is eternal.
All the grand gestures can't ease your wonder. You finally unwrap the medal and take it in.
100% Pure Gold.
What if I told you this is the closest a game has gotten to perfection in vision, and nothing else has come remotely close
2022
she gob on my lin til i chop
1999
Maradona has refused to pay property taxes on her posts, so they have been repossessed by the Greater Backloggd Board.
The post, in its entirety, is as follows, and may not be reproduced without written consent to the Greater Backloggd Board:
--------------------------------
Three words:
Elf Bowling.
The post, in its entirety, is as follows, and may not be reproduced without written consent to the Greater Backloggd Board:
--------------------------------
Three words:
Elf Bowling.
2019
"None of this world is real. I made you.” Then why don't you make yourself a bitch and leave me alone, goddamn
2022
Justin Roiland On Cusp Of Coming Up With Third Voice
This review contains spoilers
Gobbler awaits you.
1984
Dragons!
Windmills!
Hotted Boobs!
Native American Racism!
All of this and more can be yours in... Super Don Quix-Ote!!
Windmills!
Hotted Boobs!
Native American Racism!
All of this and more can be yours in... Super Don Quix-Ote!!