In Street Fighter Two there is a creature named
Blanka who looks like if you rubbed a bottle of Mt. Dew in the fashion of a genie a very pissed off
scarlet haired incredible Hulk would sprout out like a slinky erection in a
mock can of pistachio’s. There is a character whose name is Ryu.
The point is simply to stand tete-a-tete and cudgel the fuck out of each other.
When it came out it Parents’ sent letter of complaints.
Teens who five years ago were trying to catch a log via Frogger or searching for an elusive triangle in a overhead lanbyrinth were now expereicne sanguainry warfare—the sight of bludegeoned warfare.
Youth of mall americana spend the summer of 1992 huddled around this
machine like they are drawing plays before third and long, feeding tokens bearing the name of the
establishment into the almost illuminated vaginal slits, gnawing at flesh and masticate the others computerized innards.
The goal of the game is to maul the opponent into
pacman pellets; into subatomic Nintendo power bleeps and quarks.
Leave your opponent mangled in a sanguinary nest of
severed limbs.
The Goal is to not only hurt the other but to leave them in a nest of decimated limbs.
The Goal is to not only hurt the other but to leave them in a nest of decimated limbs.
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