Well hey everybuddy, it's your good old pal EmptyHero.
And today, because my patreons hate me almost as much as God hates me for that thing I did
in the alley behind a Fudruckers in 1994, we're going to summarize my latest fifty hour
long slog through babbies first role playing game instead of cutting our losses and spending
a week downloading an elaborate array of horrific japanese porn mods that I'd wind up deleting
immediately after slopping and plopping throbbing hot prostate droppings.
The Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim, also known as Fall Out without guns or a sense of humor,
has everything an entry level blithering idiot who identifies as a gamer rather than developing
a personality based on actual life experiances could ask for, you know, other than spoon
full of soylent and yet another colon full of cum.
You see that mountain kiddo?
You can climb it!
Of course, by 'climb it' I mean you can slowly amble a featureless pass over that mountain
when you could just no clip directly to the top like literally everyone will after their
first eventless trek to High Hrothgar.
Telling a customer they can climb a mountain when they can't even ascend inclines greater
than 35 degrees is like a woman saying you can come over and fuck her right in the pussy,
then after a three hour long drive to a state with more reasonable age of consent laws,
she only lets you drag the grape jelly encrusted tip of your vector for incurable venerial
diseases across her mustache because her children Tyrone, Makwambo, and Chittlinia stayed up
late to watch the street lights come on so they could see what it looks like when an
electricity bill is paid on time, LORETTA, You lyin' fuckin bitch!
I can not help but feel that much of the good will given to Skyrim is due to the low standards
and complete ignorence of the game's target audiance of big bang theory loving casuals,
who, if you asked them for their opinions on Chim, they'd probably think it was some
kind of avacado based anal lubricant.
While the Legend of Zelda Skyward Sword was a complete pile of fermented monkey jizz due
to the developers trying their bests to make it idiot proof by having tutorials pop up
every god damned five seconds, Skyrim took the opposite approach and made campaigns so
dumbed down and guided that you can literally complete the game by slapping the controller
with your dick.
See this near end game fight?
I'm literally just smashing my cock and balls against the keyboard, as if it was foolish
enough to smell a rag I placed over it's face in an alleyway behind a fudruckers.
And sure, while playing Skyrim in this manner destroys the occassional coffee cup, desk,
and relationship with my oldest son; I want to point out that I wasn't even looking at
the screen while flopping my indsutrious chocolate hurricane of love on the keys as I was far
too engrossed in the book of proverbs from the old testament to distract myself with
such banal trivialities at the time.
And honestly, fans of Skyrim simply don't know what they are missing.
While I can understand that Oblivion is uglier than a women's studies major after a long
night of studying painless methods of suicide but chickening out yet again, TIFFANY!
YOU FUCKING COWARD!
If you can't live with what happens in the alley behind a fudruckers at 3 am you should
either get your flabby, delicious ass to bed on time or at the very least learn to sprint
faster than me! and that the gameplay of morrowind, daggerfall, and arena are as outdated as my
opinions on minorities, those elder Elder scrolls games contained a magic now lost to
time, like a glittering fistful of jelly crammed up a woman's ass where it mixes with shit
and becomes irrevicably befouled.
Skyrim's greatest achievemnt, perhaps, is it's metaphorical outpouring of extranious
chromasomes.
Slap a pete rose wig on it's head, a penny in it's mouth, and a strangled cat in it's
peanut butter slathered fingers in hopes of preventing it from masturbaiting in public
because it's handicapable as fuck and that occassionally worked for me as a child, young
adult, and presently.
It's like the developers wanted to cut out half of the game breaking bugs left over from
The Elder Scrolls 4 Oblivion by cutting out half of the things the player could do in
Oblivion, which itself had already cut out half of the things you could do in morrowind.
This is the equivalent of stuffing your dick hole full of straw because you can't quit
stealth nutting on fat ass bitches at the bus stop, rather than just busting a nut at
home and slathering it on the back of their necks with a butterknife like a proper gentleman,
especially when we all know from experiance that four or five pipe cleaners work better
than the straw and can not only be re-used, but also allow one to bend their long john
silverfish into such festive shapes as dodecahedrons and funtional handcuffs.
In a game with flying enemies and unscalable mountains, where the fuck is the levitation
spell?
In such a straight forward, follow the floating dorito over your head to the next plot point
type of game, where is the reward for wandering like my left eye does when the glue vapors
kick in?
While you can literally use a joke item in Morrowind to jump dozens of miles through
the ashclouds to reach the final area of the game, complete the main quest in under five
minutes, then explore the rest of Morrowind with endgame gear; if you utilize exploits
in Skyrim to reach the final showdown at sovengaurd quickly, you'll find that not only do dragons
still spawn in Skyrim unabated, but that you'll find better items in the next random cave
you explore than in the final area since all rewards and loot are scaled to your characters
level.
The land mass of Skyrim is dumbed down as well.
Instead of making spaces seem larger by populating them with unique encounters and set pieces,
Bethesda padded out Skyrim by placing impassable barriers between the dragonborn and their
goals, much like God does when he places an unstrangled prostimatute in a poorly lit alley
behind a fudruckers as I'm walking towards a busstop with a jelly jar full of jizz and
a bent butterknife in hopes of reaching my parole board review on time.
Now, before I dissect Skyrim's main campaign, guilds, and dlc like a woman of ill repute
passed out behind a fudruckers with a butterknife slathered in grape jelly embedded in her womb,
I would also like to address some details so niggling, they may as well about one of
those children I legally refuse to acknowledge.
First and formost, for a game about dragons and some hopped up fuckin special snowflake
called the dragon born, there isn't a single god damned dragon in the entire fucking game.
Dragons have FOUR LEGS, the WYVERNS of Skyrim only have TWO!
You'd think a studio as big as bethesda could have mixed things up by having some traditional-english
non-flying four-legged dragons, hillary clinton without her mask, or some of those slinky
ass chinese dragons that bombed us at pearl harbor and refuse to reproduce at a sustainable
rate in the game, but nope!
The only actual dragons in Skyrim require an extensive managary of animated prostitution
mods in order to enable the player to start draggin their nuts across Lydia's face.
Secondly I can't stress enough how few voice actors were brought on for this game.
You can litterally walk in a straight line through WhiteRun and half of the people you
pass will not only vomit un-solicited personal information onto you as though having a metaphorical
bad reaction to ether mixed with grape jelly in an alley behind a fudruckers, but will
also do so in identical voices.
By the time you finish the main quest you won't be able to hear a bad Arnold Schwatzeneggar
impression in real life without looking around, expecting to see a generic skyrim guard following
you.
Seriously my tender, succulent babes, you'll hear more unique voices coming from Zoeey
Quinns bedroom at night than while playing Skyrim.
Did they not have enough money to hire some voice actors?
Shit, the four people they hired could have at least TRIED to do some different voices.
"Oh hello Douglas, welcome to my store, "Bud's Over-Wares.
Why are my wares called "over wares" you ask, because they're top of the line, VERY EXPENSIVE,
and if they weren't over, they'd be Under Wears, you silly goose.
Now put down that sword and grab my purple halberd, oh wait, bethesda was too lazy to
put any of those in this game, huh ha!"
"Oh dragon born honey, rent you a room in this inn and we can stay up late, swapping
manly stories, and in the morning, I'm making waffles!"
"Uhmm hello Dohva-chu, you're looking mighty sexy there in your glistening purple helmet.
Now that I'm your house carlton, I'm looking forward to the inevitablility of you installing
some of those saucy japanese cannoodaling mods and our sex time together.
My mommmy, I mean, my mother and I can pick you up from the dragon shrine and fast travel
back to BreezeHome.
I know many positions, though since this is a bethesda game my animations are pretty lacking.
Or we could just take it slow, spoon on the couch and watch a little, hm! falmer guy!
falmer guy!"
Now was that so throbbing, and dribbling, and bent at a 45 degree angle over a bag of
rotten hamburger meat, uh, I mean, was that so hard Bethesda?
And thirdly, perhaps most annoyingly is the issue of the DRAUGER.
These basic bitch, generic level scaled mother fuckers are more abundant that pubic crabs,
show up just as often despite all the money I waste on borax and lighter fluid, yet probably
taste about the same when spread on toast with some pitch black jelly scrapped off your
shirt after some thoughtless woman clenched your butter knife so hard with her fallopian
tubes that you had no choice but to thrust her stomach into your fist and it sprayed
that reconstituted schmuckers straight out of her pucker, the fucker!
Listen here bethesda, if i wanted spend hours struggling with some dried out nordic cunts
I'd have fisted Bjyork that time I met her at rehab instead of just stabbing her in the
ass with a butterknife and running off with her wig.
But enough of this hullabaloo and onto dissecting the monument of unadulterated crapulance and
mediocrety that is Skyrim's main campain.
In this, the Elder Scrolls: Ikea edition, you play as a kleptomaniack mass murderer
who runs slower than window 98, has special dragon born blood due to his great grandmother
getting buttfucked by a newt in an alley behind a fudruckers in 1994 as far as she knows thanks
to the hallucinegetic properties of ether when mixed with jelly and a healthy dose of
spooning, and leaves a trail of nude corpses in their wake, much as I do on cold december
nights when the street lights behind a fudruckers burn out, on their epic quest to shout at
a lizard's taint like some sexually confused teenaged girl who's father repeatedly molested
her, but she doesn't know how to express her ephemeral mixture of disgust, self loathing,
and sexual confusion so she just takes it out on everyone else instead.
By the way, thanks for keeping things on the down low LaQueefa, after all those metaphorical
poney rides, I promise I'll buy a real, non grape-jelly-slathered pubic-lice-infested
pony some day.
[I'm not really gonna buy her shit by the way, that girls dumber than a dunmer getting
a hummer in summer] This fanciful foiable begins with you, the choosen one, being sentenced
to death for crossing the border into Skyrim illegally, as all fence jumpers should be.
Furtunately the final boss of the game saves your life despite him knowing exactly who
you are and wanting to kill you, then not killing you for no particular reason.
How convenient!
This sets off a quest to inform Jor-El Balgruuf, the personality devoid leader of white run,
where whites run everything, that if the developers of Skyrim actually had the technical prowess
necessary to render transparent windows, he could have peered out of one of them and seen
a dragon flying around shitting red hot anal ambergreise all over the fucking place like
a dog who ate pan drippings.
After handing a rock to a Hydrocephalus patient in a bath robe, then standing around while
gaurds kill a dragon, you are given a thot, who's name Lydia is short for "Syphilydia"
and sent on an eventless trek towards the "deep throat of the world" where you will
encounter a cloister of identical monks who either spout endless vats of exposition at
you or say nothing because they posses the deadliest voice heard since Mark David Chapman
asked john lennon for an autograph, and noticing Mark was in a bad mood, John suggested that
Yoko Ono sing for the guy instead.
These perverts offer you a blowjob so powerful, that only the true dragon born, the physical
embodiment destiny's cosmic nexus can withstand it, as well as anyone who is traveling with
him apparently; then increase your vocabulary via an arcane, orange jello jiggler infused
version of hooked on phonics.
As events unfold, the player is confronted with such lingering questions as: who, if
not ancient aliens or george soros, is reviving the long dead dragons from their burial grounds?
This uppity cum sleeve suspects the thalmor, and I don't blame her.
These piss elves with their high foreheads, perfect for teabagging, nibblable ears you
could whisper any secret into, and habit of constantly bringing up the holocaust make
me want to puke all over my own buttock cheaks, balls, penis, nipples, taint, colostamy bag,
and wheelchair.
Perhaps this is due to just how rudely every god damned thalmor you encounter behaves.
Or, mayhaps their abhorant qaulities are due to their oddly specific parrallels to a certain
other group of inhuman humanoids?
Stop me if this sounds familiar, but a powerful empire has been infiltrated by a small group
of religious zelots who believe they alone are chosen to rule, leverage their stanglehold
on the media and delicatessans to destroy the local religion, utilize the lower animal
races to destabalize once peaceful cities, and collect the foreskins of infants to use
as wee little carrying cases for their bagels when they're not too busy murdering the son
of our lord and savior; jesus h christ?
FUCKIN MEXICANS!
However, Delphine is a woman, and therefor wrong by default.
The mission she sends you on, which is the second worst mission I've experianced since
that nocturnal e-mission I had as a child that permanantly ruined my otherwise pristine
Saint Vivic blanket set by infecting it with belly magic tainted by ghonorea and also some
literal taint, turns out to be a wild goose chase, but instead of chasing a goose, as
I often do when one wanders into the alley behind a fudruckers with it's supple beak,
and long slender neck, perfect for deep throating a ghonorric dick, you spring an asshole from
his cell, then leave him for dead ten seconds later as a frost troll rips his ass open wider
than jenniffer hepler strapped into in the world's strongest centrifuge.
Perceptive players may also ponder where all the fucking animations have gone.
These star crossed characters, the last two surviving members of the once grand order
of Blades have waited decades to re-unite after a tragic seperation.
Instead of a lingering hug, firm handshake, or playful rimjob, these sufferers of adult
onset aspergers greet by standing toe to toe with their arms at their sides because the
animators were too busy designing pnuematic lifts for Todd Howards baby shoes to craft
more authentic animations.
Hell, if you want to so much as hug you own wife in skyrim you'll need to draw the curtains,
open a private browsing tab, and download at least three mods.
And perhaps, most troubling of all, erudite players may wonder; is it gay to fuck a man
in the belly button?
I mean, so long as you are imagining a girl with a fat hairy ass at the time, there's
nothing wrong it right?
I'm asking for a friend by the way, as my belly button is an empowered nine inch long
outtie and I'll be damned to hell if I slip it inside a man's hairy, gritty, succulent
asshole ever again!
Well, after briefly galancing at some convienantly placed low resolution furry porn you get dispatched
by super mario to retrieve a wall scroll from the black light section of a hot topic, which
will show you EXACTLY what you need to see in order to progress the main campaign, despite
having absolutely no justifiable reason to do so!
I get that the Elder Scroll is connected to the backstory of the dragon conflict, but
was Alduin setting up a webcam for some hot dry scaley sex chat, using the Elder Scroll
as a low tech tablet computer just before the heroes arrived?
And don't tell me it was the will of the scrolls, because it might as well have told the last
group of retarts who used it that their plan wasn't going to work if that was the case.
Shit, it could have at least clarified that whole sex with another man's belly button
issue, lazy fucking scroll.
Needs to get a job, go back to school, and stop hanging around the house all god damned
day talking about it's applying for a job, when we all know it's just looking at fat
japanese women's asses on the internet.
Shit, if that was a job I'd be owed millions of dollars in back due pay.
Them dirty bitches can paint a yellow line on the road with their taints by scooting
around like a mangy old dog with worms, and I loves it!
It's delicious!
Their pussys ain't sideways.
They's just Tokyo drifting!
Well, immidiatly after this thrilling flashback, you kill Alduin, the world eater, the ender
of ages and original model for dragon dildos, by mumbling at him like a passive agressive
mexican with a mouth full of sticky beans, then holding up a dusty post it note.
Unfortunately, the developers realized at the last second that the main quest wasn't
quite long enough, so Alduin immediately gets better and the Dragon Born is forced to end
a civil war by sitting around with his thumb up his ass while idiots discuss their feelings
like a bunch of old ladies who's periods haven't quiet run out.
And to be perfectly honest, I'd rather talk to my grandmother in vivid detail about the
flavor and viscocity of her queefs than replay this section where, once again, Esbern's impassioned
speech is ruined by lazy animators as he stands there awkwardly, when he should be gesticulating
like a deaf italian with parkinsons attempting to teach his daughter how to jack him off.
For the forty five minutes this cease fire lasts before you complete the main campain,
the player must catch a dragon by droping a log on it, like I do to women when I get
catch a whiff of my own rag after swallowing too many pascettios, then fly it valhalla,
which is basically just skyrim with added fog.
You then kill alduin again, for really reals this time, but bascially accomplish nothing.
Dragons still spawn all over the fucking place, and thanks to skyrim's acomplishment system
being as busted as my nut when a fat bitch quiffs through corderoy pants, producing that
nostalgic horking sound that momentarily returns me to my childhood, most npcs won't even realize
you've completed the main quest, which is an issue that becomes especially apparent
in the guild campaigns.
No matter how many boring lectures about magic played out while I took fat ogre shits in
the other room, how many ominous disco balls of doom I poked with a stick in order to prevent
an elf with poor character developement from doing something vaguely threatening with it,
or how many blue raspberry draugers I sprinted past, because frankly, I was tired of their
shit at the time, no one at the mage guild seemed to acknowledge my station.
I could walk right up a rankless initiate while poking my dick through the fanny pack
slot of my arch mage robes like some sort of mage's staff that was only capable of inflicting
negative status effects and occassionally shooting confused ants covered in bacon greese
all over the place, don't ask why, and they'd still shit talk me as if it was my first day
there.
Was it because I walked around carrying my spells at arms length in front of me like
frankenstein holding some pokeballs, or like I do with my own pokable balls on a sultry
summer's day to prevent them from dragging on the ground and attracting ants?
Mayhaps it was retribution for all those times I made innapropriate Mike Pence jokes whilst
electrocuting homosexuals?
I mean, he's right about shocking the gay away.
If you walk in on your teenage son tounging tyrone's turgid tubesteak like he was snake
bitten and the balls contained anti-venom, tossing a toaster at that tosser of salads
during his next brown-water bubble-bath would prevent him from ever gobbling goo again.
Perhaps, I dread, this disavowel by my peers resulted from the other mages sensing that
I was a fraud.
After all, the only spells I was ever REQUIRED to cast before becoming the archmage were
healing hand and mage light.
And shit, those spells are nothing special.
You could achive the same effects of those spells by spending ten dollars on a hand job
and a pack of matches.
Unless of course you already have a lighter, then I'll only charge you five.
But you're going to have to spit on my hand for me as I generally budget the proceeds
from matches towards my bacon greese fund and would hate to run out on a hot summers
day lest my testis drag like a syphillitic shadow behind me, unlubed by the sweetest
swine based ambrosia beheld on this beautiful earth since I discovered certain breeds of
fat whores cultivate cheese between their folds, in addition to their usual crop of
low self esteem and fatherless mullatto children.
On your journey to become a powerless archmage who has absolutely zero authority to affect
policy, send other mages on missions, or force everyone else to walk around backwards, pantless,
with their dicks tucked between their legs so it looks like a bunch of over sized mosquitos
flying through the halls, you'll complete such amazing quests as returning an overdue
library book, staring at a dangly ball in a secret basement like an incredably confused
woman wondering how show could have passed out behind a fudrukers and awoke covered in
dried cum and dead ants, and also witnessing how the previous archmage left all of his
friends for fates worse than death out of cowardice, yet doing nothing to punish him
because the writers prioritized hastily writing that previous arch mage out of the game in
a manner as vague and unsatisfying as the rest of the bullshit associated with this
mess of a quest line.
Next I approached Skyrims bastardization of the Fighter's Guild, the Companions, which
is fittingly an anagram for the phrase "I pos mann com", but we'll get to that in a
minute.
I joined and eventually led this group of unlikable shitheads long after defeating Alduin,
the literal devourer of time and realities, yet everyone treated me like some limp-dick
nobody.
I was sent on such tantalizing trials as: giving this nunny who licks the cunny the
gentlest fisting she's recieved since Frieda, the matron with a heart of gold and fingers
like plump, overcooked sausages, failed to hold onto a staircase bannister with her bacon
grease and womb scrappings covered hand and tragically tumbled towards her demise, escorting
mascara and dogcum afficianado Farkass through generic bandit cave #5832, and reassembling
Wuuthrad, the world cleaving axe of legend that is somehow weaker than the basic shit
you can loot from drauger mobs.
While some may believe the companions guild to be the most remarkable due to their members'
ability to poz your neg hold with the "gift" of dog aids, granting the player temporary
super strength in exchange for an inate weakness to peanut butter, tennis balls, and korean
barbeque sauce, I am exponentially more impressed at the unique animation that plays during
the furrification ceremony.
Taking into conscideration bethesda's disdain for animating their characters in general,
I can only assume the developers accidentally motion captured a gameplay tester slitting
their wrists after sitting through the civil war treaty segment for the third time and
retroactively incorporated the animation into the game as a cost saving manuevre.
Notable events that occur during this quest line include having no one show up to your
graduation party because they all know that you're a degenerate yiffer, putting the fun
in FUNeral after the entire guild of fighters failed to hold off a couple of glittery twilight
vampires, and setting an old man's soul to rest in a glorified beerhall in the middle
of a hazy soccerfield because he's too lazy to kill a couple of Brianna Wu clones and
the physical manifistaion of his own inner demons himself.
After rolling around in enough bacon grease and furious ants to get the dank butthole
stank of my now discarded fursuit off of me, I cautiously approached the thieves guild.
Wherein, the complete lack of alternate solutions to quests began to annoy me almost as much
as that thing growing on my inner thigh, which is either semi-sentient and whispers terrible
things to me at night or is so infected that it's causing me to hallucinate.
[shut up vessel, those mortals need not know of mwoi!]
As a member of the prestigious theives guild, you will embark on such important intreagues
as beating up villigers for their pocketchange, with no nice guy option to pay their debts
for them or allow them suck the dead ants out of your dick as payment instead.
Eventually an actual plot thread emerges from this death march through liquid shit, wherein
a blueberry ape with E.T. fingers and a bulbous progeria head initiates you into a second,
EVEN MORE TOP SECRET-theives guild, which is conviniently located on the other side
of a puddle within the confines of a highly populated town and could easily be found by
any kid looking for his frisbee.
There, you will exchange your eternal soul for some worthless batman footy pajamas in
order to track down a guy who betrayed you to a near certain death so he could more easily
jimmy a rhinestone off a statue.
Your reward for tolerating this puertorican economy simulator is the skeleton key, aka,
the only good guild item in the entire fucking game, which you will immediately throw away
for a glimpse of some barely adequate side boob.
I mean, I was able to get a half rod after flopping it around like an aids infested weasle
of love a couple times, but it wasn't worth sustaining all those ant bites on my hand.
Overall, the thieves guild are some grimy ass mother fuckers and the complete lack of
an option to destroy it was a let down.
Luckily, if the Dark Brotherhood's convoluted recruitment process bothers you as much, you
can wipe them out without having to worry about the mass media reporting on it, much
like the genocide of white farmers occuring in south africa right now!
Thanks Obama!
First you have to randomly overhear a bartender or guard blathering about some kid on the
other side of the continent wanting to murder the school marm who shoved a ruler up his
bunghole sideways, murder granny fudge fingers in front of a crowd of cheering brats who
will no longer have to sleep on their stomachs, recieve the most ominous black hand since
magic johnson sustained a papercut, take a nap, and murder some random shitheads for
the amusement of a slut named Astrid, who's name makes no sense until she reveals to player
how her uncle used to give her the old poop dick behind the tool shed and you suddenly
realize that her codename "Astrid" is short for her uncles favorite brand of personal
lubricant: Astro Glide.
If you don't research the process online you'll likely never figure it out and I've honestly
had less trouble initiating sex while roller blading uphill.
Believe you me, if you think ether makes a woman noodle legged when stationary, try snaking
it up a wobbly bitch to the beat of Thunder in your Heart as her bikeshorts bunch up in
your kneepads.
Once you pass through the painfully obvious skelator door that literally anyone could
find, you will meet such colorful characters as Babette, the pedo-bait half-vampire, lizard
man, who is half-man half-clinton, and Nas, who I'm told is half-man half amazing his
poetrys deep, he never\.
This menagery of murderous mongaloids dispatches the dragonborn on such vital missions as stabbing
a homeless retart while he sleeps in a pile of his own excriment, then some other putz
because he gave an especially vindictive bitch the old pump and dump, imbuing her with the
worst venerial disease of all, unrequited love.
See, I bet most of you were expecting me to say something flippant like pregnancy or outright
disgusting like syphillis.
But honestly, syphillis isn't so bad once you get used to the taste.
After killing more defenseless nordic peoples than sweden's immigration policy, you are
granted the greatest honor of all, a chance to spoon with a girl who's pussy dried up
so hard after finding out that the dragonborn doesn't actually have a job or income, it
turned her entire body into queef jerky.
This livelier looking version of Hillary Clinton dispatches you to murder the Emperor for the
profits of some beady eyed manipulative jew who you will later also murder if you have
any sense of justice within you.
To this end you will either sit through dull scripted events in order to kill your way
towards your ultimate goal or just cast frenzy on everyone like I did instead.
Ha!
Made you kill your wife on your wedding day.
According to Alanis Morissette, this rain of blood is ironic!
Ha, Made you punch me right after you swore not to fight back!
You betrayed the best compainion in the game and got the Anikin Skywalker treatement for
your troubles so I killed you with a healing spell you charcole bricket looking bitch!
Tee hee!
And what is all your reward for inflicting so much suffering upon the world?
Welp, you get to ride a black stallion harder than a fat bitch who hates her dad.
While some non-guild quests remain to be discussed, we don't have all fucking day, so let's just
skip to the downloadable content, save for hearthfire.
That soulless cashgrab adds nothing to the game save for building a couple of houses
and the ability to murder someone and adopt their children like a creepy pedophile.
And honestly, if I wanted to play house with other people's children, I wouldn't have flooded
my secret basement after those pesky police started snooping around.
In Dawnguard, the dragonborn becomes so aroused, that the moment he puts his prick in hand,
a slut named Serana, which is short for: Ser, ANAl sex please?", manifests from a discarded
refridgerator box to suck him dry.
Luckily for this scab breathed nibbler of band aids, she could skip my neck and go directly
to milking my peckah since, following a horrific crocheting accident back in 2003, my spurts
of hurt have blood in them too!
With this thot who saves you money on dinner dates one week out of every month because
she can stand on her head and slurp up her own period blood for sustainance in tow, the
player will gain entry to a castle full of ass eating shit talkers, who will present
the player with the sophies choice of either looking like some half assed second life avatar
or keeping their melanin intact and genociding a bunch of tryhard goths instead.
The terrible vampire designs irked me at first, until I realized that in addition to vampirism,
Serana's dad, Harkon, likely also suffered from adult onset Down syndrome.
Study those triangular neck muscles, sculpted from years of strangling cats and fondling
sonic the hedgehog plushie dolls, and conscider the following points of interest: both vampires
and downers posses super human strength, are kept indoors during the day to avoid scaring
the neighborhood children, are impossible to resist sexually, and like blood, pennies
taste metallic.
If, like me, you aren't openly an edgy creep, you'll keep your ability to eat onions intact
and join a group of worthless idiots who hate Twilight almost as much as I do.
How worthless is the Dawnguard?
Well, nintey percent of them die off screen, and the player is forced to recruit a gay
guy with a fetish for bears and a slut who's delicates were pinched by crabs to replace
them.
Once assembled, this rag tag group will do absolutely fuck-all, leaving it to the player
and his new hot topic clerk of a girlfriend to prevent the vampires from blocking out
the sun like mr burns in that one episode of the simpsons or me sticking my dick out
of a helicopter window halfway.
To this end, the player must run around like a fucking idiot looking for someone special
to read an elder scroll to him, even though they already successfully read one in the
main campaign, killing vampires like Blade, but without the income tax evasion and sickle
cell anemia, reassemble a sun dial in a public area, using pieces within arms length in order
to unlock the secret entrance to the resting place of an elder scroll that no one accidentally
stumbled upon over the course of hundreds of years because I was completely right about
those vampires being retarted, then treking across a less interesting version of New Londo
ruins while fighting soul drauger and soul skeletons in order to better explore Serena's
mommy issues, experiance the thrill of gathering bark without the complications of your hideous
man bun getting caught on the crossbeams of your cuckshed between runs, confronting an
albino elf who set the events of the dlc into motion because he's too stupid to look up
how to cure vampirism on google, and finally, killing Serana's dad with only an eternity
of reconstituted tampon belches in your face first thing in the morning to look forward
to as your reward.
In the Dragon Born DLC, players find that books REALLY are portals to other realities.
In this case, those realities include a library composed entirely of asperagus piss and a
morrowind themed island constructed from assets re-appropriated from the Skywind mod after
Bethesda secretly DMCA'd the developers.
On this two city block long island that you can literally cross by pressing the auto walk
button, then leaving the room to jam your dick down an ant hill, the player will embark
on such epic quests as handing out wine coolers, killing some ashy fucks instead of just spraying
them with coco butter, reigniting an elaborate array of steam engines because you and one
of the most powerful mages in the world are too stupid to smash through a flimsy piece
of glass, and killing mindflayers in imagination land where papers swirl around like shit rags
in a terlet, once in for all proving the saying correct that, once you go black book you never
go back book.
Here on Solthseim, the long thought dead Dragon Born Miraak has utilized the inate mind warping
powers of dragon dildos to force idiots to build a temple for him because even performing
eldritchian incantations from the nether realms is less of a hassel than negotiating payment
and schedules with unionized labor.
Enemies in this expansion include giants from the main game after getting BLACKED, Jeb Bush's
wife and inlaws, flying netches so poorly animated that the developers hid them on the
corners of the map, and ....hmmm, oh boy, MORE DRAUGER.
We're not even in skyrim any more, and there's STILL FUCKING DRAUGER ALL OVER THE FUCKIN
PLACE.
What's the matter bethesda, Todd Howard didn't want to strap on the motion capture gear so
you could properly animate some creepers?
Didn't want to pull out the old cliff racer models because their wings reminded you too
much of Zoee Quin's pussy lips!
You couldn't just borrow some tiddy monster mod girl and spray paint her gold for a quick
and easy golden saint!
YOU LAZY FUCKERS! [translators note, this section is spoken in japanese and roughly
translats to: the pleasure of being cummed inside of] Rounding out this half assed, well,
a half of an ass is the cheek and this is more like the asshole, and a hole in itself
is nothing, so lets call this a vaporous assed DLC, is an epic quest to learn three shouts
from a spaghetti monster that enable the player to force a dragon to suck his dick.
Fortunately, the only one you're forced to use it on is rendered effectively toothless
by the nintendo sixty qaulity textures of it's mouth and knows how to work the shaft
and swallow the gravy.
You then pilot a dragon that flies almosts as poorly as I do in a wind tunnel once my
foreskin unfurls and catches the updraft, to a final showdown against Miraak.
And I almost pity the stupid fuck.
He just wanted to go home and rape everyone shitless while they're too busy swinging a
hammer to protect their booty hole, and I can understand that.
Well, that's it for today's video.
If you liked it, you can subscribe, tweet about it, check out one of my ebooks, paperbacks,
or audiobooks using the links provided below, toss a nickle at me on patreon so you can
vote on which games I make a video about next, catch my live stream here on youtube each
friday night at 9:30 eastern standard time, or describe your wildest sexual fantasy in
the comment section in the form of a lymaric.
Until we meet again my juicy little morsels of magnanimous magnificence, remember, there
once was a man from youtube, who used bacon grease as a lube.
He lowered his pants, got bit by some ants, then crawled to a fudruckers nude.
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