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From the Wikipedia article:
Mullet Hilltop is a 1983 adventure video game developed and published by Atari, Inc. for the Atari 2600 video game console. In this game, the player must guide a nameless character through a series of levels populated by mulleted giants, but beyond this, there is no apparent goal or story. The game was allegedly written in just four days by an unknown junior programmer at Atari, although all records relating to this game were destroyed after the game was released. The result is often cited as one of the worst video games released and was one of the biggest commercial failures in video gaming history. The game's commercial failure and resulting effects on Atari are frequently cited as a contributing factor to the video game industry crash of 1983. When it became clear that the game had no commercial potential, Atari executives initiated a massive recall and burial similar to the one for E.T. the Extra-Terrestrial. As of 2012, no verified copies of the game have ever surfaced in the public.
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Imagine you're walking down a street in your city, one you've been on many times before. It's late at night and you've got a head full of chemicals, but you're not worried since there's no one else around and you're familiar with the route. Up ahead, on the far sidewalk, you make out a dark shape crumpled on the pavement. A sense of dread creeps up your spine as you cautiously approach the mysterious figure; it doesn't look quite human. With each step, you slowly realize that this is no human, no, this is some black hell-beast from the infernal depths of Neptune's kingdom. Somehow, it slithered out of the inky abyss it calls home, made its way onto land, and now sits silently waiting for you, its next meal. Each step brings you closer to your doom, but you are compelled to, as if the creature itself is commanding you to walk. Just as your mind is about to shut down out of pure existential terror, you get a closer look, realize its a black leather glove that somebody dropped, and continue on your way.
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I remember the first time I read about the European region called Flanders, I immediately pictured a country populated by citizens who all spoke like Homer Simpson's nemesis. Everywhere you'd go, you'd hear "howdy neighboreeno!" and the people would all be unnaturally polite as they offered you their land's signature dish.
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If a wizard offers you a strange brew, you drink it, no questions asked. It's always a gamble, but most of the time you luck out and get a nice vitality elixir or some Hi-C. Sometimes though, you're gonna get a brew made with pure mescaline, and when that happens, you better buckle up and get ready for the ride.
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I could post a link to horrible pictures of flipper babies or a scene from Eraserhead, but I'm not that kind of guy.
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Just in case you ever get too fucked up to remember how to microwave a hot dog, but not fucked up enough to forget how read and follow basic instructions, keep this recipe handy and it will save your life.
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| pages 26-27 |
Going on a late-night snack run is always fun, but for some extra bonus fun, try introducing any of these conditions to your adventure:
- Instead of 7-Eleven or the usual mart, go to that sketchy store you've never set foot in before.
- Try buying snacks while you're under the influence of DMT.
- Go to a city where you don't speak the language.
- Adopt any stray animals you encounter along the way.
- Only buy food that uses a historical dictator as its mascot.
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It would be even scarier if "the Duct-er" was an ex-Nazi type mad doctor who used duct tape in all his heinous experiments, taping together different animals to create the ultimate Aryan dog or whatever. "Ze Duct-or ess not pleased vith ze normal dachshund, und so I haff taken ze liberty of taping un eagle on his back! Now he can fly through ze heavens like ze Furher's glorious Luftwaffe!"
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| page 22 |
another quality snack from your friends at Kraft Foods!
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| pages 20-21 |
Take a journey to the scenic Guido Castle: a place where everybody is your "brah" and the Jager shots never run out. A place where your hair is always perfectly gelled and your designer shades are never counterfeit knock-offs. A place where all the women are bimbos and it's always happy hour. A place where the steroid needles never hurt and there's always an open tanning bed. A little slice of Jersey heaven right here on Earth.
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| pages 18-19 |
If anyone out there is on a team called the River Rodents, then congrats on being a sick motherfucker!
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| pages 16-17 |
Everybody should spend at least one hour walking around wearing a shark head. It's a very informative experience that can show you who you really are for two reasons. First, since you're wearing another head over your own, no one will know who you are; this anonymity can be liberating, especially in party situations. Second, you will become a celebrity the instant you put on a shark head and hit the streets. Random strangers will want to get their picture taken with you, people will wave and honk as they drive by, and bros will offer you more free beer than you can drink. The world is your oyster when you're wearing a shark head, my friends.
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| pages 14-15 |
Don't ask me how, but I was able to secure about a liter of Bill O'Reilly's blood from an undisclosed source (all I'm saying is he's on Fox and Friends and his name isn't Steve Doocy). I've personally tested this blood-on-bullet theory against all manner of cryptozoological creatures, and I can vouch for its effectiveness. Nothing else will bring down a werewolf, yeti, chupacabra, shapeshifter, or serial killer on the first shot. The secret is that each drop of O'Reilly's blood is full of highly concentrated hate, found in levels seen nowhere else in nature. This toxic hate gets into the bloodstream of the creature, which leaves them paralyzed with rage over Obama's secret war on Christmas and unable to attack you.
