Already regretting assigning Bret Easton Ellis to review Minecraft's photorealistic texture pack

My name is Herobine. I am twenty-six years old. I live in a data entity resembling an ultramodernist residence at x: 68;y: 73; z: 636 in the seed -98734659879863346. I believe in taking care of myself, in a balanced diet of fish, bread and cake, and a rigorous exercise routine of jumping up voxel hills.

In the morning, if my face is a little pixelated, I'll put on a diamond helmet while farming my generators. I can get 100 levels a day now. After I remove the diamond helmet, I eat four apples. In the cave below my house, I clear out any mobs, then collect and throw all the rotten meat into the small lava pond beside it.

Then I apply a potion of regeneration which I leave on for ten minutes while I prepare the rest of my routine. I always use antidote potions with little or no alcohol because alcohol dries your textures out and makes you look older. Then elixir, then eye drops, followed by a final moisturizing tonic potion...

There is an idea of a Herobrine, some kind of abstraction lost in the thousands of hours you have abandoned to this game, but there is no real me, only an entity, something illusory, and though I can hide my cold gaze and you can see me fleetingly from a distance and feel fear gripping you and maybe you can even sense our lifestyles are probably comparable: I simply am not there.


Already regretting assigning J.G. Read the rest

Already regretting assigning Anthony Burgess to review the Samsung Galaxy Fold

“Welly, welly, well, to what do I owe the extreme pleasure of this ganjy gadget? What’s it going to be then, eh?

There was me, that is Lexa, and my pelendus Pria, Georgina, and Dim, all sat in the So Milkbar with the package sent my way, safe of the rainy blacklight without. As everybody is fast to forget, newspapers not being read much these days, this thing is quite the jem, folding like a zagamine and opening up to play any viddytube or app.

A dayback marvel, as the literature has it, so here we are ignoring the sayjaylays at the bar in favor of this mystic slab. It was the jang, or so we were told, and two grand to boot.

Unspun from its box, the ol' android came on and the hardware was alive. Oh, jala, jala! Like a sheet of rarespun heaven metal or silvery wine flowing in a spaceship, gravity all nonsense now under my flicking and tapping fingertips. Gorgeousness and gorgeosity made flesh, flipping and folding, a wonder of wonders, even its music a cage of silk. Ah sa, my sisters, who well wanted a go and made grabby grabs at the magic machine.

"Over my baejae body girls," said I, recoiling and fending. There was yet a film on it, the protector that comes on all such things. Off I pulled this sheeting, daksal and slippy, as any would do. But within seconds there was a line and a flutter and then another and more. Read the rest

Already regretting assigning Cormac McCarthy to report on the video of an entire pack of Boston Dynamics robot dogs

They pressed on through the blasted heath, as burnt to ash as the nights were long and dark and cold enough to crack the life out of stone. Walked past the cauterized ribcages of what might have been sheep. He held the boy shivering against him and felt the warm of each frail breath in the dark.

Something woke him. He lay listening. Clattering, like insects. Underscored by an anxious mechanical hum, the voice of no beast but that which man had made to hunt himself. He rose slowly and when he looked back toward the road the first of them were already coming into view.

God, he whispered. He reached and shook the boy, keeping his eyes on the road. They came prancing through the ash. Metal and lithe. Canine parodies jerking their limbs and their headless shoulders at the dead threshold of perception.

Dont look back, he whispered, pulling the boy. The boy was frozen with fear. It's all right. We have to run. They all but fell into the brake tearing through it. Something snarled around his ankle. He grabbed the boy and fell to ground with his arm around him.

The pack came to a sudden halt, yellow digitigrade legs shuddering to a halt. Maybe a hundred feet from them. The boy looked back.

Then silence. The sound of the dogs listening for them. Muttered electronic croaks that might be a perverse speech.

Shh, he said. Shh. They waited. Then with a lurch the motors whined into life and the clanking mindless beasts pressed on. Read the rest