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Mother F****r!

Posted by Ali on July 22nd, 2011 @ 00:04

All,

The Good News: SWTOR is available for pre-order!.

The Bad News: Digitial pre-order is “not available in your region” when you try to buy it. This is because EA are p****s.

The “Seriously EA, Go and Get f****d!” News: You can pre-order the Collector’s Edition and Standard Edition through Amazon.

I have made the plunge this way and while I fully acknowledge that I am an idiot, so far so good. Amazon sent me my pre-order code straight away and the offical SWTOR redemption site seemed to accept my code.

Mind you, even if it works, I will have to play on US servers and will experience lag.

That is all,
Ali

Fumbles mad, Fumbles smash!

Posted by tofu on April 12th, 2011 @ 01:32

It wasn’t very sporting, but I was swept along ‘in the moment’. And in that moment, the wittiest, most satisfying thing I could think to do was to sneak up behind frag_spawn and wait for his squadmate—who I only recently dispatched amid a flurry of desk pounding and cursing—to spawn behind him…

Too far back for my own good, my screen darkens and numbers start to count down from 10, my life forfeit at 0 for being so brash. I crouch, buzzing with anticipation. Will an enemy spawn behind me? Will frag_spawn turn around and notice me here?

Luckily, I don’t have to wait long.

Fumbles’ outline resolves against the greyish background and I double-click. Two USAS-12 rounds find the side of his head in quick succession, then three more for frag_spawn, just to be safe.

*THUMP*“… and then silence over TeamSpeak as I try my best not to giggle like a Japanese school girl who has spotted a short skinny androgynous boy—or, well, a miniature anything really. It was a p***k thing to do, and I know it, but right now it’s easily the most fun I’ve had all night.

“Oh s**t” expressed Fumbles, only, in a low tone that didn’t convey the anger I had expected.

“What?”.

“Um, nothing” came the reply.

We play on in silence.

The afterglow has worn off, I realise how cheap that was and start to feel pretty sheepish. I manage to hold back from indulging in further beardiness, but without the rush of lurking behind enemy lines, Battlefield has lost its thrill.

We call it a night.

Not long after closing TeamSpeak and Steam my phone vibrates, it’s a message and an image. “This should explain the oh s**t:”

photo attached

“It’s not my desk either, Shmitee’s going to be p****d!”

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