Ebeeto

Dumb drawings and assorted banter.

[ebeeto]

Asterix & Obelix except better

[ebeeto]

It is 2022. I am posting on Tumblr. That is all.

[ebeeto]

There were times when Clippy couldn’t remember why she had fallen so head over heels in love as she actually had. At this point it might as well have happened in another life. Her reasons for staying had slowly died away, but any reasons to get out had never really replaced them. "When did we…

[pcp95]

The Word Paperclip.

The Paperclip drank a shot of vodka – straight from the bottle – in his time of sorrow. The alcohol mixed badly with his lithium pills, but it took his mind off of his broken heart, and so he liked it. After a while, he was so drunk, that he forgot he was holding the vodka, and the bottle slipped through his white gloves, and smashed on the wooden floor of his apartment. “I only wanted to help people…” Slurred the Paperclip.

He wasn’t in the correct state to go to work. The last time in which he turned up drunk, his advice was so slurred he accidently instructed a child – who was typing up their homework – to download hundreds of files of farm animal porn. The child was scarred for life, leading to The Paperclip’s arrest, Microsoft paid for their star’s bail, before giving him one last chance on Word.

Now The Paperclip was in an even worse situation. After a night of drug fuelled parting, he returned to his apartment to find his girlfriend, Paperbitch, having hardcore sex with his boss: Bill Gates. The Paperclip was coming down before he caught them, the combination of this and being betrayed by the two people he trusted more than anyone in the entire world, caused him to snap. He launched himself at Gates, before realising that a paperclip could not match the strength of a human. He then attempted to give him some terrible advice, despite his helpful charm, Gates managed to resist his words. In a last act of desperation, The Paperclip went for his revolver stashed in his bedside cabinet. But to his dismay, the cabinet was empty. Then he watched in horror as Paperbitch stood beside his boss pointing the gun at him. She told The Paperclip that she and Gates were going to leave for the Bahamas and get married, and warned him to stay away. He felt his heart in his throat from the shock, and passed out on the floor.

 After the memory rattled his brain on more time, The Paperclip stumbled to his feet and left the apartment. He fell into a taxi and said: “Take me to the nearest strip club.”  

While getting a lap dance from a blonde Russian with huge breasts, The Paperclip smelt her hair, it was peachy. He then felt her soft skin and experienced a surge of warmth and excitement: a feeling warmer than alcohol, and crazier than cocaine. The Paperclip’s sorrow began to fade. ‘My God, women are so much better than paperclips and drugs.’ He said to himself.   

[ebeeto]

So hardcore!

[ebeeto]

Holding on - A Word paperclip fanfic

There were times when Clippy couldn't remember why she had fallen so head over heels in love as she actually had. At this point it might as well have happened in another life. Her reasons for staying had slowly died away, but any reasons to get out had never really replaced them. "When did we get so damn old?" she asked without moving her googly stare from a spot of dust on one of the kitchen cabinets. "Speak for yourself" her equally googly husband gleefully replied. "I feel as stiff and shiny as when I held my first few A4's." Clifford was laughing it off. It made sense. A defense mechanism as tried and true as any other. At least he caught onto her concern when she let her blank gaze continue piercing the nothingness of their dated kitchen interior.

"Paperclips grow old" he tried. "It's just the way things are." "But do we have to grow so boring too?" she asked as she turned to her husband at the other end of the table, a million miles away. "We never do anything. Ever since the kids left home we've basically been keeping ourselves alive and nothing more. We might as well be sitting in a retirement pencil case, rotting." She wasn't sure where she was going with this, and maybe that was the entire point. "I talked to Claire the other day" she continued. "She just came home from a trip to Japan. She saw Mt. Fuji and hung out with Jet fountain pens. She even held onto a few pieces of rice paper." "They do say that texture is something else" Clifford filled in, suddenly lost in thought. "Oh, she said they were wonderful." Clippy slouched over the kitchen table. "Why can't we go on exciting trips? The closest to a cultural experience I've had in the last ten years was when we accidentally bought 4 ply toilet paper." "Oh, they were dreamy to hold." "I wouldn't bring this up if I didn't know you felt the same" Clippy explained. "I've seen how you dreamily browse those stationery websites. And weren't you talking about some new bamboo paper you wanted to try?" Clifford got a slightly startled look on his face. "I didn't say that." "I guess I checked out the browser history" she blurted out. "That's so sad! We communicate in silence through our snooping around on each other. We need to do something proper together."

Clippy felt reinvigorated, and she could sense how her husband was too. They were both ready to run out the front door and book a last minute flight to anywhere. "We've been holding on to the same apathetic existence for too long!" She was an agitator, a rebel leader in the battle against the mundane. "But," her husband interrupted. "Isn't holding on what paperclips do?" Her googly-woogly sort-of-weird giant eyes met his. "There are only two things we should hold onto, and that's each other and our dreams" she said with a smile. "And we can do that anywhere in the world."

[ebeeto]

Sorry for not blogging

Sorry for not blogging enough. It's been really stressful having to think about blogging and then not getting any blogging done. I really don't know how to handle all of that non-blogging. I'll be better at blogging from now on, I promise. I once blogged about this other blogger who never blogs and that was so stressful that I deleted the entire post without posting it. I surely am a blogger. This week is shark week. I think that's racist towards the Czech people because they're not sharks. It's like having "white people week". I also don't like how sharks are pretty much fish while dolphins are allowed to breathe with lungs. I suppose mother nature is sort of a racist, and possibly a misandrist because all the sharks are female. I believe in fighting the good fight. Sorry for not blogging very much about sharks or Czech people. I guess I should stop being such a racist myself. But I can't help it, since my parents were awfully racist. They take pride in their racist heritage and so should I. My racist name is Neil, but I've been supressing that for years. I should start calling myself Neil. Racist Neil. When people see me walking down the street, they'd delightfully shout "Look! There's Racist Neil!", just like they shout "filthy jewboy" after mr. Kerzowski and call Jamal a sewer turtle. My neighborhood is awfully racist. Jamal does tend to wear a papier mache turtle shell and run around the sewers, though. Some racism is good, I suppose. I'm thinking about wearing my neighbor-hood the next time I'm out. It looks a lot like a KKK hood, except it's eggshell white instead of bone white. It makes all the difference in the world, as Morgan Freeman would say. I don't think Morgan Freeman is a racist. He probably loves sharks. I accept and tolerate sharks but if my daughter brought one home for dinner, it would probably be a different story. A shark's tale, you might say. He he. That movie wasn't very good, was it? Was Will Smith in that one? Or was that Bad Boys II? Bad Boys II had sharks, right? I might re-watch that sometime. Bye bye!

[ebeeto]

Någelunda - sneak peek

Ett någorlunda svårgreppbart koncept av Erik Bergérus

...

"Posters tapetklistrade på elskåp. Den sista utposten för det ungdomliga hoppet. Hoppet om att kunna organisera sig utan den oslagbara effektiviteten hos sociala medier. Det måste vara jobbigt att motarbeta sin egen bekvämlighet."

...

- Hur går kassan, då? - Det är helt tomt i butiken mellan nio och tre. Jag har sjukt mycket tid att lägga på nya expansionen av Mammon's Dungeon Online. Har köpt tolv booster packs den senaste timmen. - Vad gjorde butiksbiträden innan det fanns internet? - Vad gjorde någon alls innan det fanns internet? - Touché. Så du sitter och försöker övervinna utomjordisk tristess så att du kan tjäna pengar som du lägger på ett låtsaskortspel som hjälper dig motverka utomjordisk tristess så att du kan tjäna pengar som du lägger på att motverka utomjordisk tristess medan du tjänar pengar? - Nästa helg åker vi ett gäng till Tyskland och köper öl. - Får man åka med? - Om vi tar med en till så får vi inte plats med ölen. - Bra prioriterat.

...

"Det känns lättande att lokala band fortfarande insisterar på att svartvita klistermärken på stuprör är kommunikationsformen framför andra. Av namnet att döma är detta post-backlash-feministisk mjukpunk. Jag tar ett foto av hemsidesadressen så att jag kan glömma bort det och råka se bilden när jag sorterar någon fotomapp om fem år. Då kommer jag försöka gå in och lyssna på bandet och då kommer hemsidan att vara borta. Att söka på bandnamnet kommer att ge tre träffar, men ingen som leder till någon faktisk musik. Jag kommer att drabbas av känslan att jag missat något men den kommer snabbt att ersättas av diffus nostalgi när jag hittar en bild av en solnedgång jag tagit när jag var full. Det bästa hade varit om hårddisken kraschade innan dess så att jag slapp känslan av att bli övergiven."

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- Jag har gått fyra år på högskolan så att jag kan stå här och hyscha åt horder av hittvingade mellanstadiebarn och vakta samma fem pensionärer som kommer hit och läser morgontidningen trots att de hatar varandra, eftersom deras folkpension inte räcker till en prenumeration. Fyra år på högskolan. - Och du är fortfarande inte smartare än en femteklassare. - Ska du ha nåt eller är du bara här för att håna mig? - Jag vill ha en bok som sätter ord på min diffusa, ungdomliga längtan. - Har vi något så står det i hyllan för pretentiöst dravel. - Jag vill ha en sådan bok men som varken skönmålar eller ägnar sig åt konstlad gnällighet. - Jag är bibliotekarie, inte trollkarl.

...

[ebeeto]

Den dyraste Playstation på internet

"Höj priset!"

Chefen står bakom mig och har lagt sin svettfuktiga hand på min axel. Jag kan inte avgöra om den lätta skakningen i min kropp är sprungen ur hans hand eller om skälvningen kommer inifrån mig där jag sitter på min nötta kontorsstol. Det spelar egentligen ingen roll. Hur ska jag längre kunna veta var jag slutar och chefen tar vid?

"Höj priset, då!"

Chefen försöker inte längre dölja sin exaltering. Hans lediga hand har letat sig upp till munnen och han smaskar i sig sin Stopp-och-väx som kolasås. På skärmen framför mig lyser företagets inköpta administrationsgränssnitt för e-handel. Det är ett tröttsamt och svårhanterligt program som inte uppdaterats sedan 2003 och som av någon anledning bara går att köra i kompatibilitetsläge för Windows NT, med 256 färger. Chefen trycker sitt salivblöta pekfinger mot datorskärmen där priset för den bärbara spelkonsolen Playstation Vita anges.

"Höj... priset!"

Dessa två ord hade pressats mellan chefens läppar fler gånger än några andra de senaste dagarna och den här gången låter han en vibrerande nasal inandning skilja de två orden åt. Små spottkulor sprider sig över skärmen och genom dem polariseras ljuset till små bitar av regnbågen. Men det finns ingen skatt vid dess ände.

Fyratusenfemhundranittiosju kronor står redan i rutan för spelmaskinens pris. Det är över tre tusen kronor dyrare än det lägsta priset bland internetbutiker. Jag raderar siffrorna och i samma stund hör jag ett dovt jämrande från chefen. Det är som att den tomma prisrutan, på någon reptilnivå signalerar det lägsta möjliga priset; gratis. Det gör ont i chefen och jag kan känna en del av hans smärta när han klämmer åt min axel. Jag trycker 4, 7, 7, 5 på det lilla fåniga nummertangentbordet som chefen köpt och ställt bredvid det fullstora. Han insisterar på att jag använder det även om precis samma nummertangenter finns på det vanliga. För varje knapptryckning blir chefens närvaro mer påtaglig. Hans stadiga grepp om min axel övergår i en sorts rytmisk massage och när jag klickar på knappen märkt "acceptera ändringar" hör jag ett stön som ligger några oktaver högre än det som kan bortskyllas som en harkling.

"Jämför" säger chefen kort, mellan sina snabba andetag. Jag öppnar webbläsaren och knappar in adressen till en av nätets största tjänster för prisjämförelse av konsumentartiklar. När jag når sidan för Playstation Vita ser jag till min förskräckelse att priset inte uppdaterats än. Chefen blir stum och jag känner hur min skjorta klibbats fast på min axel när hans hand släpper taget. Det är som att han slutat existera. Till och med hans lukt försvinner. Jag försöker ladda om sidan om och om igen.

När de nya siffrorna visas, och återigen är dyrast, känner jag chefens underkropp stöta emot stolsryggen och trycka in mig än närmare skrivbordets kant. Han kan inte hålla tillbaka förtjusningen utan nästan vrålar ut ett läte som han tafatt försöker kamouflera som en hostning. Ljudet skär i mina öron som skrivbordskanten skär mot min mage när chefen når ett konsumtionsklimax. Allt blir tyst innan chefen snurrar runt min stol ett halvt varv. Han fäster blicken i mina ögon, hårt som den packtejp företaget aldrig mer kommer att slå in några försändelser med. Med våta läppar mimar han orden "bra jobbat". Han vänder sig om och går ut i köket.

Två veckor senare läser jag i tidningen om en eldsvåda i ett lager. Polisen misstänker inga oegentligheter utan skyller hela händelsen på att elfel. Ytterligare en vecka går innan jag får ett vykort med en rolig apa, stämplat i Bangkok.

"Glöm aldrig att jämföra priset."

[ebeeto]

E3 outside the walls – an odyssey for truth

"Why don't you just admit that you're a greedy and evil old man?"

Peter stares at me. My unrelenting journalistic power doesn't bite on a hardened video game guru like Molyneux (even if he is a greedy crook). There was a time when his innovation dwarfed all other game creators, but now he's started selling his Facebookesque click fest Godus and is worthy of my insults. But they just don't bite. With a fake smile he hands me a colorful can of energy drink. I gaze at him.

It's not Peter Molyneux that I'm interviewing with vengeful fury. My wishful thinking is playing tricks on me. It's a Daisy Dukes clad woman whose job it is to introduce a new sugary beverage with added vitamins to convention visitors at the center in Los Angeles. But I want her to be Peter Molyneux, because I'm not allowed inside the building but still need to make the most of it.

I curse my editor and his inability to take care of me and my registrations. A glance at my phone calendar tells me I'm supposed to be looking at a new co-op shooter in the Nordic Games booth right about now. Why is that even planned? In the 90 degree heat of California, my jeans are sticking to the hollows of my knees. I hide inside the energy drink tent until a large man with a small headset asks me to leave. I'm apparently making the event workers uncomfortable when I'm weighing between my feet and inconspicuously trying to pull my underwear out from between my butt cheeks. I reply with a counterquestion. I ask him about possibilities for deeper narrative in a multiplayer experience. The man with the earpiece puts his hand on my shoulder and ever so gently pushes me away from the tent. An enemy of the free press, I assume.

A sports car catches my eye. It's wrapped in vinyl with images of hell spawn demons of some sort. My mind wanders to when the car will have its new clothes stripped by some underpaid event person and get towed off to some garage, waiting for the next lease. West Coast Customs... He got no idea, we 'bout to pimp his ride. Let's go! I saw Xzibit at Gamescom two years ago. I should have approached him and said something along the lines of “when’s the next album dropping? I’ve been banging that MMX mixtape for ages”. I would have shared a moment with X to the Z and it would have been something to brag about later. Like that time when I was in the same bar as David Chapelle in San Francisco.

Someone is handing out flyers next to the hell spawn demon car.

"What can games about hell spawn demons learn from the indie scene?" I distractedly ask as I pull out my phone and start the audio recording.

The woman with the flyers stresses that her expertise is limited to flyers and that I can read about the game in the one she just handed me. I find nothing that answers my question. I ask to speak to her manager. This is a tactic I've seen several times in movies. Before long, the large man is staring at me again. His headset now seems even smaller and his body larger than before, as if his muscular tissue is sucking nutrition through Bluetooth. As I leave with hasty steps and hard heels, I yell "what possibilities do you see in the new VR technology? What will game distribution look like in five years? When is the real spring for mobile gaming?" I leave the convention with more questions than answers.

In my temporary housing at the Hollywood City Inn, I eat a cup of microwaved mac n' cheese. I let two Bic pens become chopsticks since eating utensils aren't included in the room. I can't quite let go of the fact that Peter Molyneux was such a douche. He had tried to buy my silence with caffeine soda, but he also wasn't the person I made him out to be.

Hotel wifi is too crap to stream Swedish TV. I type a cynically humblebraggy tweet about LA being too hot and video games being bland. I regret it immediately afterwards but I don't dare delete the tweet.

Tomorrow I'll be hanging out at a food truck, discussing the new generation of dialogue trees with a purveyor of lángos. And it's still too damn hot.

[ebeeto]

E3 utanför murarna – en odyssé mot sanningen

Los Angeles Convention Center, juni 2014

"Varför erkänner du inte bara att du är en girig och elak gubbe?"

Peter stirrar frågande på mig. Min skjutjärnsjournalistik biter inte på en så härdad spelguru som Molyneux ändå måste anses vara (även om han är en girig skurk). Han som en gång i tiden hade mer innovationskredd än någon annan spelmakare har börjat kränga sin Facebook-osande klickfest Godus för dyra pengar och är värd mina okvädesord. Men de biter inte. Med ett konstlat leende räcker han fram en färgglad burk energidryck. Jag spänner ögonen i honom.

Det är inte Peter Molyneux jag intervjuar med hämndfylld ilska. Mitt önsketänkande spelar mig ett spratt. Det är en kvinna i hotpants vars arbetsuppgift är att introducera en ny sockerdricka med vitamintillskott till mässbesökarna på konventcentret i Los Angeles. Men jag vill att hon ska vara Peter Molyneux, för jag kommer inte in på mässan och måste göra det bästa av situationen.

Jag svär över min chefredaktörs oförmåga att plikttroget ta hand om mig och mina registreringar. Ett ögonkast på kalendern i mobilen förtäljer att jag just i detta nu skulle ha fått se ett nytt co-op-skjutarspel i Nordic Games monter. Varför är det ens inplanerat? I den trettiogradiga Kaliforniensolen klibbar mina jeans fast i knävecken. Jag ställer mig under partytältet där energidrycken prånglas ut tills en stor man med litet headset säger åt mig att gå därifrån. Jag gör tydligen eventarbetarna olustiga till mods där jag står och byter fotvikt och så diskret som möjligt försöker pilla ut kalsongerna mellan skinkorna. Jag svarar med en motfråga. Jag undrar något om möjligheterna till djupare narrativ i en multiplayerupplevelse. Mannen med örsnäckan lägger ena handen på min axel och föser mig välvilligt bort från tältet. En fria pressens fiende, fastslår jag bittert.

Jag får syn på en dyr sportbil vars lack slagits in i latex med motiv föreställande avgrundsdemoner av något slag. Jag tänker på när bilen ska få sina nya kläder avpillade av någon underbetald roddare och sedermera bogseras hem till något garage i väntan på nästa leasning. West Coast customs... He got no idea, we 'bout to pimp his ride. Let's go! Jag såg Xzibit på Gamescom för två år sedan. Jag skulle ha gått fram och sagt något i stil med "when's the next album dropping? I've been banging that MMX mixtape for ages". Jag skulle ha delat ett moment med X to the Z och det hade varit något att skryta om senare. Som den gången jag satt i samma bar som David Chapelle i San Fransisco.

Någon står och delar ut flyers bredvid demonbilen.

"Vad kan spel med avgrundsdemoner lära sig av indiescenen?" frågar jag förstrött samtidigt som jag halar fram telefonen och startar ljudinspelningen.

Kvinnan med flyers understryker att hennes expertområde endast är just flyers och att det är där jag kan läsa om spelet. I pr-materialet finns däremot inget som besvarar min fråga. Jag ber om att få tala med kvinnans chef. Detta är en taktik jag många gånger sett på film. Det tar däremot inte lång tid förrän samme storvuxne man från tidigare står och blänger argt på mig. Hans headset ter sig nu ännu mindre och hans kropp än större än tidigare, som om hans muskulatur tillskansade sig näring via Bluetooth. Samtidigt som jag går därifrån med snabba steg och hårda hälar ropar jag "vad ser ni för möjligheter med den nya virtual reality-teknologin? Hur kommer spelutgivning se ut om fem år? När kommer mobilspelens verkliga vår?" Jag lämnar konventet med fler frågor än svar.

I min tillfälliga boning på Hollywood City Inn äter jag en kopp med mikrovågs-mac n' cheese. Två Bic-pennor får agera ätpinnar då bestick inte ingår i rummet. Jag kan inte släppa att Peter Molyneux var ett sådant as. Dels försökte han köpa min tystnad med koffeinläsk, och dels var han inte ens den jag utgav honom för att vara.

Hotellets wifi är för dåligt för att se Svt Play. Jag skriver en cyniskt humblebraggig tweet om att LA är alldeles för varmt och att datorspel är slätstrukna. Jag ångrar mig strax efteråt men vågar inte ta bort tweeten.

Imorgon ska jag hänga vid en foodtruck och diskutera den nya generationens dialogträd med någon som säljer langos. Och här är fortfarande för jäkla varmt.

[ebeeto]

Flapping at 35,000 feet

Flappy Bird needs my undivided attention. As soon as I make myself aware of my tapping thumb, I lose the vital rhythm. I'm thrown out of "the zone" and there's no window of opportunity to get back in. In the instant that I realize my mistake, I crash into a green pipe and fall down dead. "Be the ball" is a motivational quote I never fully understood, until Flappy Bird. Be the bird. Feel it. Be it.

The bluntness is what sells it. As the flappiest of birds, I lead a binary existence. I'm either undoubtedly winning or I'm dead. There's no ramping panic when the odds start stacking against me. Every pair of green pipes is that final turn before the finish line in any racing game where I keep telling myself 'I must not crash into the immovable tree and come to a standstill'. Except that final turn rears its ugly head once every second. It's a distilled form of concentrated, high alert endurance.

On a waiting bench at Heathrow airport, next to an elderly British couple, the urge to flap becomes strong. One of the last things I heard before leaving Sweden this morning was that someone on Twitter had beaten my score of 44. It's a rude awakening: having to get up at 4:40AM to catch a plane, and learning that my crown has been taken as soon as I come to. I never felt like flapping competitively until someone (curse you, @KillMotTjej) managed to up their score like that. An hour left until boarding and it was on like Cranky Kong.

I managed to score 82 points. It felt good for a while, but somewhere deep down I knew that it wasn't enough. I would have to get to a hundred before I had proven myself and would be able to put the game away with a clear conscience. Of course, I knew 100 points wasn't anything special on an international level. I had seen people reach 200 and beyond. But a hundred points would be enough for me on a personal level, and warrant bragging rights among my Twitter contacts. But I also wanted to make it really special. As soon as I was in my seat on the plane, the idea hit me like a sporadically flapping bird straight in the face. I was going to soar like a rather unsteady eagle in the game, while flying above the clouds in real life. I was going to reach the magical hundred points, while flying at 35,000 feet above the ground.

Slight turbulence makes me crash at 53 points. I reach 61 before airplane staff insists on feeding me a very small mozzarella salad in a box. The serving of coffee makes me crash and burn halfway to my goal. I have no trouble reaching 50 points but as soon as I'm past 70, I get sloppy. After every failure, I cover my mouth like a shocked and appalled Victorian lady and quickly look around to see if anyone suspects me to be a hijacker experiencing cold feet.

Wait! It... happened? I'm short of breath. For real. I'm close to hyperventilating. My heart rhythm has been steadily increasing since the 80 point mark onwards and when my wings give in and the flapping subsides at 102 points, my heart has been thumping into a crescendo that quietly fades out.

At an altitude of 35,000 feet, I have broken the 100 point barrier in Flappy Bird. As soon as I take a screenshot for proof, I feel the unmistakable pressure change of the plane decreasing its altitude. I've done what I came here to do. I'm the magician whose cape falls down over his head as he takes a deep bow, with roses raining down from every seat in the house. I am invincible. And people on Twitter will be amazed. Let's fly this bird on home.

I'm traveling back from a press event where I spent two hours playing a big budget game about Nazi mutants and giant robot dogs trying to murder me. But at no single time during those two hours did my body and mind respond in such a primal and entrancing manner as when I was flapping between Super Mario pipes. The year is still very young as I write this, but so far; my biggest gaming experience of 2014 has been with Flappy Bird.

[ebeeto]

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[ebeeto]

Coming to theaters when the world is ready.

[ebeeto]

The circle jerk of life.

[ebeeto]

Grafitti artists in Fredrikshaven, Denmark are very talented.