Truly, this watch is beyond compare in design and manufacture. Why spend 10,000 dollars to look like almost every other follicly-challenged, champagne-chugging, chum-bucket, garrulous gorilla golfer, when you can look so great with a 10 dollar, dual-screen delight; so effortlessly demoting every other species of watch down the food chain, with its bold design, and democratic pricing?
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Yield to me. By the pseudo-random selection of fate and weight, I pull another chunky length of corporeal life-slicing lassitude from the tub.
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What you lose in portability, you gain in playability. Is that a teratoma in your pocket, or are you just pleased to see me? Identical twins? More like Schwarzenegger and DeVito.
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Day 4 of Easter's holidays. Guts immolating in vegetable and fruit oat/soya smoothie. Arms still tight and aching from ripping felt off a garden shed yesterday, and sorer still from the strains of several Saber songs: Daft Punk's Aughtie's Techno delights, and Camellia's alien DNA beam screeching modem warble trap. Just about time to be scorched with fresh-ground, blue-mountain coffee and a superheated shower that always ends in a sadomasochistic freezing finish, with at least 30 seconds on each quarter of my body.
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Though symmetrical, the B22 silhouette is fugly. A narrow, chafed neck screams against the severity and violence of the arcing bulbous protrusion hanging below. There’s no girthsome muscle or strength upstream of the electric fire. No gravity-simulated gradient, or natural scrotal resemblance. Just a bulky collar that looks as out of place as a fat Windsor knot on a skinny man’s spread-collar.
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Red is the colour of hatred, anger, power, aggression, adrenaline, worry, jealousy, murder, blood; faux-love, hearts, strawberries, stress, lust; and Mario.
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I lift high my trusty old, cushioned Logitech G Pro X Gaming-headset, stretch wide the supple cups to straddle my massive cranium, and immerse myself in a symphonic choir of strutting saw waves, and synthetic in utero basal…warmth.
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Then the PlayStation 2 landed. An obsidian black boxy monolith, evoking the opposite of fun. No more gonzo journalism, bat shit crazy curves, and see-through peekaboo. This was the dawn of a new era. Of seriousness. Striving for photorealism in textures, lighting technology, and enough polygons to realise the cancelled lad mags advertised promise: A simulacrum of nature’s finest soft protrusions. Why then, did it fail to embrace my attention?
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Quentin Tarantino liked to chop up his movies in the ’90s, and shuffle the scenes so they weren’t in chronological order. We all thought it was very clever, and I’ve just done that here now. Impressed?
Well, neither was I when I slipped into my dirty white Gi and tried to summon a fireball from my palms, solely with willpower and chi.
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143 games. Well, forty years ago, that would be a giant collection. More than a lifetime of enjoyment. Today, with our smoother and faster brains, that’s at least an afternoon’s delight.
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When I became a man again, I set aside childish incremental upgrades and revelled in having a long-lasting relationship with a phone.
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It’s hard for me to stress just how perfect the movement feels. The connection between player, controller and character in this game is ethereal. In marching, attacking, jumping, and dashing backwards to avoid a skeleton’s swipe or the lunging thrust from a hulking armoured guard, it is an immense and tireless pleasure to glide through.
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