In which Jason and Randy Osborne review the trailer for Watch Dogs.
I wonder what it’s like to have people eat sushi off your naked body. The lady in the trailer for Watch Dogs seems pretty bored with it. She might as well be playing Candy Crush on her phone. Kind of looks like they just threw a bunch of sushi rolls on her butt and called it a day.
She’s probably lying there thinking, “Well, guess I’m a plate now. Nothing left to do but lie perfectly still and let this creepy businessman do his thing. This is fine mess you’ve gotten us into, nudity.”
The other day in my office a bunch of people wanted me to work on several different projects at once, and I felt like a stripper with twenty dudes waving dollar bills in my face. I was like, “I can only give one lap dance at a time, people. I only have one butt!” Then I started thinking about inventing technology for strippers that gives them multiple butts so they can give several lap dances at once.
That’s the pinnacle of stripper technology, right? The ability to give simultaneous lap dances? Maybe quantum entanglement could get involved and you’d only need one butt split across different realities. I want a butt that won’t quit, and exists in every conceivable dimension!
Strippers in the future could quantum leap their asses from club to club, striving to twerk right what once twerked wrong, and hoping each time that the next lap … will be the lap home.
That’s probably why I’m so behind on projects—I spend all day daydreaming about stripper inventions.
Anyway, I guess the quantum butt entangler could also be used for rich creeps to eat their sushi rolls off of, if they’ve got that kind of technology in the alternate reality version of Chicago in Watch Dogs.
What would you do with more than one butt, Randy?
Why is it always sushi? Understood, sure, the displaced-metaphor tip o’ the hat to dewy labia (fragrance, texture), and understood also that ice cream, as an exampled alternative, ill fits feeding off a human platter, given the melt and seep.
But what of, say, popcorn? For the thrill of the feathery flesh flutter provided to your prone mortal dish, your taut skin tray. Delicate kernels roll teasingly across dermal terrain, propelled by the smallest breath. Her needs! No one considers her needs.
Or simply fruit, with its Biblical forbiddenness, its of-the-loins connotations, its sumptuous bursting-forth. Cherry. Pit. Armpit. Seed. One thing leads to another, but the cover they run for in this clip is not discreet (old people, I’m sorry, say “clip,” which among the youth applies to hair. And then we are waxing, as it were, in that zone again) (so “trailer,” I get, is the correct word, though by it I am made to think of certain parks, and the toothless, with homemade firearms), this stretch of video, I was saying, in fact is awash with indiscretion as near as I can tell, though yours truly is likely the wrong person to judge, the wrong man for the project set before us, mistakenly pursued, as with the poor doomed fellow depicted in the animated images you supplied, from all appearances. Or instead of the project set before us, the project set after us, which always implies “behind.”
Which often implies “butt.”
Hers, where they put the sushi. It might have been anything else, is what I wish to convey. You must change your life. We must, I mean change ours. Mindsets, I mean. Inside our heads, those heads with eyes like ripening you know what.
Got it. More fruit on more butts. If you ask me, we should be putting frozen melon ice pops on everybody’s rear end. My girlfriend brought a box of Melona Bars over from the Buford Highway Farmers Market a few weeks ago, and now I can’t keep my hands off her milky honeydew wonders.
Still referring to popsicles, by the way.
They’ve got all kinds of foods you could drape over a lady’s bare bottom at the BHFM. Pork skins the size of beach towels, pickled watermelon rinds, octopus tentacles, ghost peppers so strong you can smell them from the other side of the produce aisle—you could really take an ass around the world in 80 days if you were so inclined.
Maybe there’s no need for Buford Highway Farmers Markets in the alternate reality of Watch Dogs, though. People probably just get their food off the internet and print it out with 3-D printers. You can download all the tentacles and ghost peppers you want, straight to your own backside!
One thing I like about the BHFM is the sensation of wandering the globe. One minute you’re looking at a bottle of Russian wine shaped like an elephant, the next you’re holding a bag of Korean Cheetos on which Chester Cheetah is inexplicably wearing skinny jeans. It feels a little like teleportation, or like being inside a densely packed star made of international snacks.
Last week I was in line with my friend at the BHFM, and he noticed the old lady behind us eyeing his big bag of chicharróns.
“Is that any good?” she asked.
“You want to try it?” He snapped off a piece and handed it to her.
She chewed on it for a minute. “Pretty good!” she said.
Who’s going to give this old lady a bite of pork rind after everything’s gone digital, Randy? Google Glass? The Oculus Rift?? No wonder women are stripping off their clothes and putting sushi on their skin—they just to connect with something organic!
My grandmother loved pork rinds, the ones in plastic bags with the packet of hot sauce. She ignored the hot sauce. You put one of those curly cracklins on your tongue and you can feel the dried fat bubbles as they seal themselves almost audibly to your taste-flesh. She could eat a whole bag while reading her detective magazines.
Jason, I’ve never been to BHFM, which sounds like a new type of porn. We had a big old farmer’s market in San Francisco. Well, actually the farmer’s market was in San Rafael, but just across the bridge from the big city. Looked like a couple of acres of tents on grounds adjacent to the Marin County Jail, where my former girlfriend was incarcerated for a period of time.
During which she was still my girlfriend, but she didn’t do anything that would get her in a detective magazine. When I visited, they made me take everything out of my pockets, and treated me like I had committed a crime by showing up. It was all very rude and sinister, like in this video game we’re supposed to be talking about.
Anyway, visiting Sarah in the clink was especially weird, with the farmer’s market right nearby, where we used to buy food, before she was behind bars. That farmer’s market had everything, although I didn’t see any pork rinds, since this was healthy northern California. I miss San Francisco. Not to mention my grandmother, who used to say to me, at random intervals: “God will give you blood to drink!” It’s from a Hawthorne novel. She was just kidding.
Randy, did you know that in Quebec, pork rinds are called oreilles de Christ, or “Christ Ears?”
My grandmother loved pork rinds, too. And my ex-girlfriend also went to jail (for a week, for DUI). We should start a club, Randy. I vote we call ourselves the Atlanta Cracklins. Or the Atlanta Christ Ears.
But that might make people think we started the club to listen to prayers. Which is fine, I guess. Speak into the pork rind, ladies and gentlemen. Apparently, it’s a direct line to Jesus in Canada. Not sure what snack Jesus uses for ears here in the States, though.
After my ex went to jail, she had to get one of those breathalyzer things on her car that you blow into to start the ignition. Maybe grandmothers should have the same thing on their cars, except with pork rinds. Like, you have to eat a bag of pork rinds to start your car to prove you’re still in your right mind. The day your grandma stops loving pork rinds is the day you know she’s not fit to get behind the wheel.
It’s technology the developers of Watch Dogs might want to consider implementing in the sequel, if the next protagonist is my grandmother or yours. Who knows what my Mema gets up to in alternate dimensions—she might be a hacker in another world. Hacking some pork cracklins, at the very least.
Jason, try this: Google “oreilles de Christ” origin. Click on the French-language version, probably the second in the list. Click on “translate.” Oh, what a laugh you’ll have! As usual in such cases but possibly a little more so.
Here’s another thing my grandmother (who raised me; this may make a lot of things clearer) did. She was always warning us kids not to watch old horror movies on TV, and then she would watch them with us, and we would be unable to sleep, screaming into our pillows if anybody as much as farted. One night, me, Peter, Kathleen, and my grandmother Madeline watched The Beast With Five Fingers. Afterward, terrified of course, we went up to the second-floor balcony to look through Peter’s telescope and maybe calm down. Peter was in the bathroom, and I had just focused the scope on some green cheese, when Kathleen pointed to the drainpipe on the edge of the balcony.
I almost had a little-kid heart attack when I saw it: a HAND, creeping along the EDGE of the BALCONY. We thundered downstairs, falling all over each other (after crashing into Peter, zipping up as he emerged from the bathroom). In the kitchen, Mad was doing the dishes. We jumped around her, yelling what we had seen. She got very serious and said, “What did I tell you about those movies? Go on, get ready for bed.”
We told that story for years and years in our family. One Thanksgiving, I was reciting it again, and everybody again was listening as if they’d never heard it before, and I happened to glance over at Mad, very old by then. She was staring into the distance, half smiling. Much later, after she had lost her mind and was in the nursing-home, Peter and I cleaned out the basement. Behind the water heater, we found a long bamboo pole. A latex glove, stuffed with a rag and secured to the end of the pole by electrical tape. She must have had to hustle to get back into the kitchen, before we made it downstairs.
Anyway, pork rinds for Canucks. At the English-version wikipedia, I learned they are often served in “sugar shacks,” which made me think of that Jimmy Gilmer & The Fireballs song from 1963, right around the time of The Hand On The Balcony, ay? Nostalgia. And sometimes the maple syrup that is poured on Christ’s ears (yes, they do) is harvested from areas of the forest known as the, uh, “sugar bushes.” Those mostly went out with the 1970s. Another thing I liked, gone. So we’re practically back where we started!
Oh god. I’m just not interested in Watch Dogs.
On consoles November 19, 2013.