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Why We
Sold Out Our first full day of work mainly involved signing more legal
documents, this time divorce papers. It was explained to us that when
you're hired by a site as big as GameSpot, you need to get a GameSpot
wife, a woman who looks good and can gaze lovingly at her husband for
hours while he and John Romero discuss Atari 2600 Football. Chet chose a
lovely 19-year-old juvenile underpants model. Erik, in a move that broke
more hearts than high cholesterol, picked 'N Sync's sentimental sweetie
Joey Fatone Jr., or, as he's now known, 'N Sync's unfortunately spoken-for
Joey Erik-Fatone Jr. Although young looking, Fatone Jr. is actually a
well-lit 27. GameSpot wives can be no older than twenty-eight, so, girls,
next year little Joey's all yours again.
We began the second day - our first real day of work - by enjoying a
liquid brunch then sobering up while spotting for a visiting Paul Steed as
he lifted weights. We participated in the GameSpot tradition of daily
communal bathing followed by the traditional knocking off early to go get
drunk again and pass out in a soft pile of Wing Commander hats. That left
little time for any journalism and led directly into day three. By now, we
were becoming acclimated to the GameSpot lifestyle: envelopes full of
cash, gold teeth, Dig Dug, blackouts, and replacing our outmoded notions
of waking up refreshed with the more journalistic activity of simply
regaining consciousness. None of this had prepared us for our first actual
bout of writing.
We had to concoct a preview or a review or something - the only clear
instruction was that it should be one thousand words, and, in response to
Erik's repeated queries, not one thousand swear words. Here's how it went:
The company sent over a complete, cutting-edge system that had been
precision-tooled and tested to play their games perfectly. A marketing rep
told us that when we were finished, the company courier might forget to
pick up the system, and if he did, to take our time alerting them, if, in
fact, we alerted them at all since we were such busy and muscular people.
They sent over both an aromatherapist and a personal trainer. Long load
times? Choppy gameplay? Between all the ab crunching and the refreshing
scent of pine bark, we couldn't tell you. Sometime during the playtest, a
company-delivered masseuse alerted us that some legal trouble Chet was in
for a home burial misadventure had been resolved.
Unfortunately, late in the day, we discovered a real showstopper bug
when the game deleted half our hard drive. Luckily, a patch was quickly
delivered. Just a disk, though, no entire replacement system. "Am I
supposed to install this myself?" asked a surly Chet. No, no the delivery
boy assured us as he unzipped the file and sang to us in a lovely,
otherworldy voice while he played the game back to our last save. The
sound of that heavenly singing was intoxicating, like the milky rum drinks
that coursed through our veins. We struggled for a critical thought.
"But... will every game consumer get this kind of service when this buggy
beta is released as a finished product?" Chet finally inquired. "Yes,"
said the boy. "Great. That's just great," we said.
And we mean it. Being professional game journalists is the best thing
that's ever happened to us. We remember, like the fuzzy, half-imagined
memories of our childhood ritual satanic abuse, that we once were enraged
by the daily news of the game community and its inhabitants. We honestly
can't remember what we were ever so mad about.
Editor's note: The views expressed in this column do not
necessarily reflect those of GameSpot.
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