you're firing off those zingers too fast for your own good. in fairness, if i had such polished and exacting standards in tv write-ups, i'd definitely be in a hurry to share them with the world.

you have been known to fly off the handle…

bringing stax, volt, and j+m back to the fore
you might be a soul acolyte, me and my crew are soul apostles. playin' the trumpet, thinking about some pussy.

caged horse, what was your first hint?

don't know anything about the magnetic zeroes except that they provide the soundtrack to andrew reynolds backside flipping wallenberg, varial heelflipping the hollywood high fifteen, half cab flipping the carlsbad gap, and assorted gnar shit both specific and general, in stay gold. as far as second-hand worminess…

if you stumble around looking a fucking mess like a fucking emaciated ghost and a shell of your former vibrant self, people WILL begin to shun you. it's not exactly fair, but i don't make the rules.

frank, your bradbury comparison is actually pretty spot-on, as the first minute of the game will strongly demonstrate. no concrete evidence as to whether humans are still around in large numbers, but suffice it to say, chell won't have to worry about bumping into anyone she went to high school with. or their…

pretty sure it works on a rotation. pool of detectives, your turn comes up, and next time the phone rings, whatever's on the other end is yours. you gotta remember, though, it's only been four days since linden drew the case. seattle's a big enough city, but i doubt they have more than 300 murders a year.

"spaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaace!"

to mope is its own reward
they need to give callum rennie something to do on this show, and fast.

throwing science at the wall
this game is pure brilliance. jk simmons and stephen merchant are fucking priceless. i beat it in less than 10 hours and don't feel even the slightest bit of annoyance at dropping sixty bucks. there won't be five comedies in theatres this year that are funnier than this game, and you can…

ned is some shit you see on a septic tank maintenance worker's shirt. if i was as big a medieval swinging dick as sean bean is supposed to be, calling me ned would be the last mistake a lot of people made.

go away, please.

wendell pierce is a god among men. he stands astride this world like a fucking titan.

the ladies are always telling me about the little man in the boat. now i know who they're talking about.

kevin smith: portrait of a fat fuck.

rooker: portrait of a fucking badass.

seattle made it's own bed as far as that's concerned. on the plus side, i hear oklahoma city's lovely this time of year.

amended on advice from counsel: "never to be seen… not strapped to a fucking chair while a naked lightbulb swings overhead… again."

sick shit
henry: portrait of a stone cold motherfucker.