The Polygonal Mammary And Its Role In Societal Norms

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Memo to G4: YOU ARE DUMB.

And not just because you let Tommy Tallarico keep saying things. Saying things about Psychonauts. Saying stupid, pointless, Tommy Tallarico things about Psychonauts. If you're going to keep paying him to say things, you should at least have the common decency to make him get an "I AM WRONG ABOUT EVERYTHING" tattoo on his forehead. If I hear Tallarico say that Pac-Man eats dots, I'm instantly compelled to fire up an emulator and double-check it for myself. He's that consistently wrong about video games.

Oh, and also not just because of that commercial. You know the one. The two guys in the office, "tightening up the graphics" and "just finishing with level three" who have to hurry up because their boss "needs to get another game designed". You would think, if Devry wants to sell a correspondence course on game programming, they wouldn't film their ads in the offices of Bizarro Ubisoft.

No, you're dumb because of Videogame Vixens. Now, normally, I try not to deliberately expose myself to cultural horror just to get a column out of it. I don't watch Blue Collar TV, or sit through Revenge of the Sith, or play video games Tommy Tallarico loves. But every once in a while, my sense of altruism overrides my common sense, and it was only half an hour.

Videogame Vixens is billed as "television's first virtual beauty pageant". In other words, all the half-naked, overboobed chicks throughout video game hisotry get paraded around in a four-week event that should, once and for all, cement video games as an art form alongside Penthouse letters, the music of 2 Live Crew, and Larry Flynt's interpretive dance choreography in cultural respectability.

Yes, I said "four-week event". This is one of those interesting facts you learn after you decide to write the column, work up three paragraphs of intro, then hear Hal Sparks utter fateful words 45 seconds into the program. Much like the "and it's not yours" after "I'm pregnant", it throws a bit of a monkey wrench into the proceedings, but not an insurmountable one. Speaking of insurmountable challenges, how tough could it have been to find judges for this shit? The final panel they assembled could easily have been replaced by three homeless people scooped off the street and paid in convenience store sandwiches.

We have Joy Giovanni, who none of you know, except the ones who do, and you damn well better be as embarrassed as I am. Joy's claim to fame was not winning a contest to see which untalented aspiring actressslashmodel would get to be a WWE Diva. As a result of not winning, she, um, got to be a WWE Diva, because Vince McMahon is many things, none of which are "picky". Joy is joined by two guys. Seanbaby, who is famous for writing shit on the web and thus probably really needed the sandwiches, and some Screech/Horshack love child from Road Rules.

The rest of the show consists of the usual array of sub-MTV-Movie-Awards wacky categories, Hal Sparks uncomfortably ad-libbing over badly-assembled and ENTIRELY UNIRONIC footage of the industry's most shameful fanservice, and then the panel talks over each other, except for Joy. I assume the things coming out of her mouth are supposed to mimic human speech, but my trained ear can tell the difference.

There's also a DJ in the background pretending to mix and scratch while wearing what appears to be a DS9 later-season uniform. He is intently studying the turntables, as if he desperately wanted to be somewhere, anywhere, else. I might be projecting here, of course.

Breaking up the monotony is a fashionbitch from US Weekly, who sprays out pre-written Z-grade snark and a Tekken joke she obviously had to learn phonetically. Oh, and the Vixen Hunter.

All I can say about the Vixen Hunter segment is this. If their goal was to create the nerd version of Amos 'N' Andy, then their ultradork who searches out real-life videogame vixens (and ends up trading the worst innuendo in the universe with a female boxer) actually overshoots the mark by approximately 87%. It was the worst thing I've ever seen on G4, a sentiment that has the people without digital cable saying "Huh?" and the people with digital cable choking on their own eyeballs in horror.

I bet Tommy Tallarico thought it was great.