There's Sex In My Violence! / What's this lame soft-core porn doing in my ultraviolent Grand Theft Auto? I am outraged!
Suddenly that downloadable patch you installed last night kicks in and there’s, like, a lame and badly animated sex scene, right there, right between the graphic bloody part where you bazooka’d the police helicopter and the part where the gang-banger gets his lame ass beaten with a large handgun, and suddenly you’re like, what the hell? Who stuck this lame badly animated sex in here? Where’d my soul-numbing ultraviolent racism go? I am outraged.
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Shouldn’t someone be outraged over the fact that 17-year-old virgin geeks who play endless hours of ultraviolent video games might somehow be tainted to their very cores by two minutes of badly animated sex, despite how you are, as a typical American teen, so regularly co-opted, so viciously pummeled by crass product placement and violence on the news and wicked misinformation about everything from marijuana to abstinence to cafeteria food, well, it pretty much makes the tepid and completely unarousing sex on GTASA look like outtakes from Shrek III: Now We’re Just Whoring It? You’re darned right there should!
“I came back for my own purposes,” said the Time Traveler, looking around my booklined study. “I chose you to talk to because it was . . . convenient. And I don’t want you to do a goddamned thing. There’s nothing you can do. But relax . . . we’re not going to be talking about personal things. Such as, say, the year, day, and hour of your death. I don’t even know that sort of trivial information, although I could look it up quickly enough. You can release that white-knuckled grip you have on the edge of your desk.” I tried to relax. “What do you want to talk about?” I said. “The Century War,” said the Time Traveler. I blinked and tried to remember some history. “You mean the Hundred Year War? Fifteenth Century? Fourteenth? Sometime around there. Between . . . France and England? Henry V? Kenneth Branagh? Or was it . . .” “I mean the Century War with Islam,” interrupted the Time Traveler. “Your future. Everyone’s.” He was no longer smiling. Without asking, or offering to pour me any, he ...
You arr kwestioning our gofernment, herr Jones?
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