Welcome to the first update after the successful relocation of the game onto a computer built more with Skyrim in mind! The old computer spec running this show, was the following: Core i5 650, 8GB RAM, and an nVidia GTX 460 @1GB RAM. By itself it was computers within computers, and doing a fine job looking pretty.
We are now up to the following: Core i7 2600, 16GB RAM, and an nVidia GTX 560 Ti @2GB RAM. Remember the old Penny Arcade comic from their early years when Tycho called a computer he built a ‘tiny god’? I get to feel this way for about a year.

The difference it makes in the screenshots you’re going to get from now on in this thread?

Sweet fuck-all! So I’ll just tell you the differences it has made. While this may seem like cruel dick-waving for those of you who have older, slower machines, there is great purpose in sharing with you all the experiences that I go through to just get it to run. You’re along for the tribulations, and you’re along for the triumphs too.
Loading the game has seen no appreciable bump. That is most likely because I’m still playing the game on a good ole eSATA drive. With Thailand emulating an episode of Spongebob Squarepants, like fuck am I paying 2x to 4x markup for an SSD with a pittance of storage.
Some of you who have played this game are familiar with the consequences of alt-tabbing. You can usually tab out of the game just fine, but tabbing back in is almost as lengthy process to return to the game as if you quit out of the game and reopened it. My current machine, tabbing back in is about as quick as turning on a TV.
Scrolling out the camera view to birds-eye city view is usually where the game will solidly kick a game right in the bobo and jimmies. There’s essentially a butter-smooth transition now. I used FRAPS to overlay a framerate measurement- with the taxi picture given earlier, the framerates were ~120/sec average. Scrolling out, dropped them to a *gasp* 109/s at its lowest, and 115 on average.
Space-bar switching around between characters as the camera shoots around town gets a bit of HDD thrashing and a little slow-down, but overall the transitions happen quick and very tolerable.

Okay! Enough of this technobibblebabble. There’s a show to put on.

Faggot is asleep (awww so precious), while the music box appears to be left open from Buck’s quite unmasculine moment of whimsy with it earlier.

While you are sleeping…

I will take your skiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiinnnnnn

Chester’s making the scene at what looks like a mid-90′s warehouse rave. Either Maxis is hilariously out of touch, with designers desperate to grip on to their drug-addled memories of a mediocre college career, or things haven’t changed much in the past 10 to 15 years and kids can just fuck off if they think that grown-ups ‘just don’t understand.’

Hey! It’s Swingset Gangsta, and he’s giving an autograph to a groupie for 4 Non-Blondes.
WAOWT’S GOWIN AOWN

Chester idles for a bit waiting for Jeremy Piven Taxi to drop Buck off.

Buck arrives, and is simultaneously having a big happy memory about visiting a dance club, and is ‘holy shit celebrity!’ reacting to MC Swingset.

Alright, boys, you’re both on-scene and on the clock. What do you do?

Buck moves in to talk to 4 Non Blondes… she’s actually named Miranda, and a piddly 1-star celebrity.

Looks like his initial greeting was not up to her royal fucking highness’ standards, and now Buck is on task to ‘impress’ her. That is some obnoxious shit.
Fine. We’ll play your game, you horrid socialite jerk.

‘Charisma’ is one of his strongest qualities- it’s at 4 of 10 pips. So is ‘Athletics’, also at 4/10, but charisma just feels like a better bet since it plays to his trait strengths.
This is all probably back-ended by a series of bullshit numbers that are completely irrelevant to my carefully thought out strategies, but fuck it, we can all pretend this is a sophisticated game of personality intrigues and important decisions that affect a vast branching plot that can either save or damn humanity as we know it.

He pulls it off!

We’ll have Buck give impressing with Athletics a shot next, since the only thing he’s able to do right now is ‘Impress’. He sure as hell doesn’t have wealth or any kind of job to brag about.

Meanwhile, Chester…

…can’t help but to be Chester.

Buck’s second effort to impress, succeeds as well.

Can I get a hell yes? The rumors of Baron von Sicklecell’s demise have been greatly exaggerated!

All-too-typical, the paparazzi Chester razzed for a greeting, reacts by engaging in some polite chat.

What in the fuck just happened? Well, whatever the case, I think it’s just cute how Thom Yorke’s vampire twin, a one-star celebrity himself, is taking a camera photo of Sir Swingsalot.

Okay, apparently he sufficiently impressed Miranda, and much like given any cast member on the show ‘Entourage,’ you have no fucking idea how he got famous.
Except Jeremy Piven.
I love you, Jeremy Piven.

_{(Not gay.)}

Completely incidental and not worth a screenshot since you’ve seen it before- Buck has the ‘Hunted’ icon. Looks like our pasty antihero has a sweet tooth for our own Gaston facsimile.

Buck is quite preoccupied with Miranda- impressing her has opened up normal social discourse, and Buck, well, dawg will hunt. Chester meanwhile looks like he’s squaring off with Swingy.

Fucking LOL

Are you even serious?
Spotting vampires has become the new pillowfight.

Whether or not this is one of those ‘says a thousand words’ pictures or not, it needs a little explanation. To begin- the blonde is the neurotic middle-aged lady from the very first update, the one that’s terrified of doctors and got taunted by Frau Torpedochest the evil barmaid. She is mocking the ROTC cadet vampire, who is probably not within dress code… for a fucking warehouse rave club. The army brat vampire is saddened by this, which I can tell because Chester has the +10 moodlet for witnessing the suffering of others.

Folks, as of this point it has only been one Sim-hour. Sometimes it’s astonishing how dense Sim-time can get, in contrast to the long stretches where barely a damn thing happens.

Chester heads into the club. Buck meanwhile seems to prefer industrialized parking areas to pour on his charms.

Check it out, guys, Buck’s really a celebrity now!

Chester’s never one to pass up on mob-mentality-driven ostracism!

I am failing to see what the hell is hanging people up in this hellhole about attire.

Ho-lee shit. Seriously.

IT PUTS THE ERASURE ON THE IPOD OR IT GETS THE TRILL, SHRIEKING PUBLIC COMPLAINING AGAIN

Uh oh.

EEEEAUUUGH, what the sam hill?

Good god, it’s like Fran Drescher recovered from a stroke.

Holy socks, Chester asked her to dance. I swear, I did not instigate this.

Ok, she got slightly less frightening-looking, but she’s still all sorts of ugly.

Buck bombs a flirt. He’s still in pretty fine standing though.

Meanwhile…

Oh shit!

Wow, Robot Chicken must not be pulling in very good revenue, if Seth Green has to turn to robbing houses.

The alarm system meanwhile is freaking out like Aquaman on amphetamines. We can only hope if the police show up, it’s a couple bottlenose dolphins and an orca. That’d fucking rule.

Oh no! Seth Green fails his saving throw vs. Aquaman alarm systems and is momentarily stunned! ‘But a thief doesn’t NEED constitution, all the best modifiers are in a high dex!’ WELL LOOK AT YOU NOW SETH, you min-maxing jackass.

He prances around like the stove caught fire for a few minutes.

The commotion rouses the house’s only defensible member.

Faggot prepares to tackle the situation like a man.

A MAN MAN MAN MAN MAN.

“Now if I stand here and concentrate real hard on believing there is nothing weird, dangerous, awry or otherwise out of the ordinary occurring behind me, I will just bet every single scary thing behind me will be gone by the time I turn around.”

“Nope. Not gonna look.”

“OK… I looked.”

“What the fuck did I LOOK for?!”

Meanwhile, while Faggot is enduring mentally scarring torments that are very likely to induce years of post traumatic stress disorder to sort out…

…this club is turning it the fuck out!

I do not know what the fuck this guy’s deal is, but he’s a horrifying psycho every time I pause the game.

This is all quite a considerable amount of stimulus for Faggot.

He picks himself out a nice spot…

…and passes the nuts out.

About the only logical thing to happen tonight thus far, the cop and the robber develop a powerful dislike of eachother.

Sorry, Seth. Maybe you should screen for better actors and writers for your little toy time adventures instead of trying to farm out parts to your Joss Whedon alumni buddies as if anybody’s doing anyone else favors.
For the record, I really like Robot Chicken.
I love you, Jeremy Piven.

I enjoy how these two are radiating relationship deterioration with every individual interaction.

Soon as the officer and the criminal exit the house, Faggot recovers, staggers over to the couch and screams in rage for a couple minutes.

Okay…

Faggot passes out again.

Officer Nice just lets himself back in.

He inspects the worst bathroom ever beheld. In all my years of doing this, I do believe this is the worst bathroom to date. It may not have a pure, full-on Death Toilet, but just the raw aggregate of things wrong in here, create a sum worth more than its parts.

The officer continues his survey, apathetic to the distressed, unconscious resident supine on the kitchen floor.

What he’s seen, can’t be unseen. That shower stall will chase him, sweating and helpless, stumbling and sprinting with the leadened limbs of pure terror through his unending nightmares.

“Later, citizen.”

The criminal has very politely just stood about, waiting for the cop to bumblefuck around inside the house and gawk at septic bathroom conditions.
Regarding that icecream truck, that’s actually been stationary out here since I had applied the huge 800mb patch, two weeks prior to the Pets expansion release.

Then, without any further animation, the rabbithole effect engages. Both the cop and the criminal teleport into the cruiser, and the cruiser itself winks out of existence.

Faggot bleeds off a little stress by doing the white-guy shuffle to some sim-rockabilly.

We turn our attention back to the bar.

These are the only people left in the bar. It’s ten till four, and the bar closes in 10 minutes.

As it turns out, this incredible piece of seething, bottled rage is the bartender.

Ok, that’s about enough of that, I think the lights are coming up to indicate the party’s concluded for the night.

Yeah you think? Go the fuck home before Andore Jr. there finds the knife he’s digging around for and makes a lampshade out of you, girthapottamus.

Buck hops on the Bat-Cycle, and Chester jumps into the Bat-Taxi. Boy wonder and Fat-man, away!

I love you, Jeremy Piven.

We have many eyes.
We always see.

Chester is so evil, he even delights in the suffering of a damaged computer.

Our boys hit the rack. It’s been a big night, surprisingly enough for everybody, even the limp dick that stayed home.

At a very Saturday-friendly 10:30am, Faggot is first to rise. Testament to his character, he is stressed before he even gets out of bed.

Just the sight of Chester further drives Faggot into anxiety.

Finally, someone uses the swanky and most importantly clean upstairs shower.

In a surprising defiance of expectations, Faggot is not getting a plate of rotten carbonara. It looks like he’s going to give cooking something a shot.

I wasn’t exaggerating about the ‘rotten’ part.

Looks like he’s making pancakes. The fire alarm watches intently, sensing blood in the water.

Well isn’t this a morning for surprises! Faggot makes the pancakes without re-igniting the range!
The stove got instantly filthy, though. All I think ‘Unlucky’ is good for, is rapidly deteriorating living conditions everywhere he goes.

He’s done eating. It’s time for another cleaning montage! Because there’s never enough reinforcement that Snow White here’s never going to make it to the ball while his evil step-brohams remain apathetic to his plight.

Chester can always be relied on to break the curve. I was just hovering around Faggot to journalize his assault on the depravity of this bathroom, and Chester just spontaneously wanders in and hits the floor with a mop.

Total Sims moment here. We have one Sim having a momentary lapse of intuition at how to cope with another Sim that got in its way, so it resorts to bitching for the nearest passing god to figure the situation out for them.
Plus, Chester’s hand is totally clipping through the drop light, and it is kind of obscuring the emote that could help tell us what the problem is.

And just like that, without any help from me, the Sims in question just figure it the fuck out for themselves, completely invalidating any time spent whining a moment earlier.

Unclogging a toilet proved to be a memorable experience for Faggot. Not that Facebook is getting advised about it, the functionality has been giving me an error for 3 days now. EA quality!

Diligent as ever, he proceeds to tending his garden.

Chester prepares the meal of goon champions, waffles. Again. Nobody said goonlyfe was easy.

Buck is working out, he’s nearly hit level 5. That’s a good thing, the better his athletics, the easier it is for him to use that to impress celebrities he’s intending to fu…uuuintroduce himself to.

Nothing else to see here.

Except maybe…

The new family ride. This is a custom mesh of a 75 Volkswagen Golf. I could’ve left it with the default eggshell white crappy paint just to reinforce the decrepit, used nature of the car, but I’m not good at leaving well enough alone.

The interior only accepted one color modification overall. So I gold-plated the whole fucking thing.

RIMZZZZ

GRILLZZZZ

Alright, that’s enough of that shit.

The next few hours pass with absolutely menial tasks. Faggot tends his garden and takes a piss. Chester finishes his waffles, leaves the dirty plate but cleans off the kitchen counter and takes out the trash. Buck works out, because he’s Buck.

BEEFCAAAAKE

This is Hannah’s busted TV, from the previous day’s issued challenge.

Chester incidentally brought Gąbkabob Kwadratowychkomputer (incidentally a naturalized Canadian Polish colleague of mine said this looks so wrong and terrible it’d be quaint not to change it) back from the dead.

Looks like Chester had a successful troll, for once. He has a couple positive moodlets for being entertained and delighting in the suffering of others, which I assume is a consequence of his skillfully struck nerve.

Faggot completes the TV repair, and gets a bump in his repair skill, to 4!

He celebrates with just the thing his fragile nerves need- a cup of coffee.

And to top off this moment of relative calm, Faggot spontaneously seeks something fun to do because for once, there are no pressing obligations, and he hasn’t been driven to seek fun to avoid death as a result of a completely empty ‘fun’ meter.

This is the closest I think we’ve ever had all three of them, without some bullshit going on like a fire, or someone leaving for work.

Because this day hasn’t been filled with enough unexpected events, Faggot engages Buck in some conversation.

This all happens for no reason I can determine, because they were kind of standing around twitching like each was in the other’s way, and couldn’t figure out how the hell to walk around the traffic jam.

Buck and Faggot continue to chat, while Chester dawdles off to play a computer game. Life imitates art as everyone reading this on the SA forums recognizes this scene from any given goon meet.

Happy midnight everybody, from the gooniest house on earth!

Goodnight, Jeremy Piven.

Wherever you are.

Faggot dreams of golden jellyfish (what)

Chester has a dream on behalf of Buck.

And Buck has a dream on behalf of Buck, too.

Faggot wakes like one of those ‘morning people’ at 4:30am, and has himself a fit of terror over silver-era rockets.

I think this has everything to do with his little spasm of fear.

The ‘shy’ mood compounds his already depressed state to push him further into anxiety. Now, he begins his morning routine in THIS apocalyptic landscape. He just might fall over and die like a proper Victorian lady who has just become aware her ankles are visible.

Chester wakes, and bellows about something. He does a lot of guttural raging for no discernible motivation. He has no angry or upset type moodlets to indicate what he’s annoyed with.
It could be he’s just mad for waking up. I get that too.

Now Faggot‘s mood is very toppled. The bathroom is in ‘disgusting’ condition. He would, of course, refuse to clean because it’s too dirty.

Chester didn’t finish that ‘Wizard’ book I guesss, it looks like he’s got only a couple more seconds till he’s through with it.
I’m looking at this scene and wondering how many pasty, lumpy fantasy genre fans identify this specific ‘reading a book in my briefs on top of my bed’ moment as their setup for an artificial-accident ‘sexy’ scenario?

I wonder how many are going to try it. *shudder*

Believe it or not those chairs are considered ‘comfy’. Either that or Faggot is developing an affinity for ascetic masochism. He ought to. It’s real compatible with his circumstances.

Figures.

Faggot finishes breakfast, and throws himself immediately at repairing the sink. You know, before the squalor that largely resulted from the sink being broken can depress him so bad that he refuses to fix it.

He pulls it off!

Faggot soldiers forward with house responsibilities.

Whether it would’ve happened on its own, or Faggot‘s bad luck field encompasses the house I don’t know, but the computer just broke on Chester.

Chester makes some nervous noises then scratches at his chest like a homeless junkie that is realizing he has no idea when his next cap will come, if ever.

The good son gets mopping. This is a big task, and the worst thing about it, is that he still has work today. I have a real-world sympathy for this situation.

Buck and Chester meanwhile convene by the mailbox, so Buck can tell Chester ‘a story.’ I do not know what the fuck either, folks, and I can’t decide if these would be the best neighbors on earth or the worst, right now.

It works out for them, though.

Chester, however, can’t help being Chester, and launches into a ‘criticize Buck’s family’ moment.

A big social backslide is the result.

Buck reacts to the moment diplomatically, part of the hard-wiring of his gregarious traits.

Chester reacts by discussing a ‘mastermind plot’ with Buck. Buck’s expression, could either be perceived as attentive concern, or ‘fuck you say?‘

Looks like it was, ‘wut?’ after all.

Faggot tends to his garden while the study in failures of civil discourse move inside to eat, and dismantle the careful feng-shui of Faggot‘s house cleaning efforts.

The carbonara leftovers are ancient even by real-world standards at this point, but these two don’t appear to mind. Waste not want not.

Faggot harvests from his first fruit-bearing plant.

After a bit, they’re all suddenly in the garage together. Buck is pumping iron (and incidentally hitting athleticism rank 4), and Chester and Faggot are playing darts together.
Outside of incidents featuring Chester questioning the other mens’ parentage individually, this is the first actual group activity he’s had with a household member.

I turned my head away for a moment figuring darts and weightlifting would be low-interest-yield activities. I turned back, to see that Faggot had disappeared from the from the group. Where did he get off to?

Really? This is like an advertisement for antidepressants. Faggot goes back to bed after being overwhelmed by too much social contact, and then we’ll hear a budget version of Morgan Freeman itinerizing every possible health risk known to man, up to and including MORE depression for taking whatever glib-positivism pleasantly-named fresh-from-FDA-approval drug it is they’re peddling.

Faggot wakes up about 20 minutes ahead of his carpool, and squanders that time by cleaning the front yard of expired newspapers.

He then rejoins Chester like he never left the game, despite the carpool coming.

His carpool arrives before he even got a chance for a throw.

After I don’t know how many hours on that thing, Buck finally works himself out until he was ‘fatigued.’

Interesting that this carries no mood consequence…

Interesting also that this carries no mood consequence, either. Though I suspect that’s probably because of Buck’s ‘slob’ trait.

There is a perfectly clean and incidentally more upscale bathroom in the house, but naw, Buck totally prefers the squalid, bacteria-caked nasty one.

Chester’s solo darts game has been interrupted by an inbound interaction from Buck. While Buck makes his way to Chester, he cackles maniacally about something. Or perhaps nothing. With Chester’s bulk and occasionally peculiar resemblance to the long-dead despot, I can’t help but imagine that this was how Henry VIII killed idle moments between wives and naval engineering feats.
As of point here, this is where the big fat 825MB patch had been fed to the game. This resulted in:

Faggot, ejected from work early.

Chester warped out and reappeared in the corner in a half-assed Blair witch tribute.

Buck just stopped mid-stride.

While everything was slightly sort of fucked up, I took the opportunity to partially cope with the broken computer issue. Foremost, I don’t want to get rid of Gąbkabob Kwadratowychkomputer (Polish national and expatriate alike, I apologize for that). It’s a piece of this thread’s history. So:

We got this obtuse piece of conspicuous consumer electronics.

NICE HIGH QUALITY TEXTURE, YOU FUCKING CHUMPS.

The patch glitch is ironed out swiftly. Chester needs to pee, and Buck wants to check out the latest in pissing away Faggot‘s savings.

In tasking between our two dubious heroes on the homefront, I noticed that Faggot was not, in fact, homeward bound just yet.
Let’s check on him.

He’s behind his work’s premises. Doing what?

Sorry, had to break in the Faggot action because in checking back at the house, this wonderful moment in Buck’s personal history was there, just begging for permanent edification.

Back over to Faggot, who apparently is just walking circles around the building aimlessly.

Buck breaks in the new computer, one of many things he will deflower well before anyone else in the house.

Perhaps dude is going for the roach coach?

Hahaha, he’s going to go SWIMMING in one of the decorative pools!

Here, let’s have a quick look at his astounding swimgear:

Safety goggles! Because safety first! Muscle body silkscreen tshirt! Because insecurities second! Old Navy board shorts that have fallen out of style for at least a decade! Because why the fuck not third!

You know, I say we just let the dude have this moment.

Chester endures the shower self-destructing, again.

God damnit turn our backs for one minute and the decorative water feature devours Faggot like a vicious lab rat on a careless intern’s clumsy fingers.

Psyche. He’s swimming in the fish ladder / sewage treatment plant / 1989 Batman’s stage where Jack Nicholson’s Joker fell into the toxic vat / Mountain Dew’s Extreeeeme Shaun White memorial industrial swimming hole.

There’s a problem.

A small one. Nothing too problematic.

This guy, possibly a thoroughly misguided reenactor of scenes from one of the worst movies of all fucking time Harmony Korine’s Kids, is skinny-dipping.

Faggot is oblivious, meanwhile, submarine patrol is making memories.

Despite the skinnydipping stranger suppressing Faggot‘s demeanor a bit (just for being shy, he has no moodlet relative to observing the nudity), he has a positive memory for taking his first swim.

Chester will NOT be tempted by that… that… WHORE intruding on the territory of his special one and only Gąbkabob Kwadratowychkomputer. He sets about repairing his beloved.

“I am not kidding, there is a TREE growing through the floor of this house.”

Then Faggot has himself another memory:

Are you kidding me? If he gets any thinner, a wind will lift him into the sky and we’ll never see him again.

As a side note, and no matter how many times I have to explain it in the thread or in Facebook, I can just bet the comments on this are largely going to be to the effect of, ‘lol chester got thin wtf lol XD’. Oh, Internet.

Chester completes the repair.

So, let’s push the envelope.

And here’s Buck in perhaps another moment he’d rather us not be aware of, lost in whimsical reverie while listening to the gnome music box in Faggot‘s room.

Ok, I was under the impression this was some kind of sciency forestry fish-o-environmentalist type professional environment. It’s starting to look like a freaking water park now.

Wait a moment…

Guys, that’s Hannah.

Then we get this. What the fuck? Stupid patch.

Faggot hits the roach coach and uh… his plumbob says he’s part of a group.

Hannah does a quick impersonation of Laura Palmer, and we can see the group plumbob indicator.

This is the roach coach menu.
‘Plasma Fruit Chowder.’ Really? You could’ve had a ‘Blood-rito’. Or a ‘Plasma Dog.’ Or ‘Red Taco’.
Ok… maybe not a ‘red taco.’ That sounds hell of wrong.

Let’s put this moment into perspective. The current patch evicted Faggot from his shift, which later registered as him pulling a no-show-no-call even though he was definitely there. So, instead of going home, he starts swimming in the decorative water features, and his teenage girl friend shows up to join him in this. Now, he’s enjoying a mission style foil wrapped burrito in the parking lot while she dogpaddles around in a decorative fountain. In front of his job.
This is The Sims.

Chester fucked up the overclocking, and re-broke the computer.

He then handles the disappointment with the standard aplomb of a true goon.

Faggot and Hannah swap reports about their days. I can’t help but imagine Faggot‘s colleage back there thoroughly wondering, ‘what the hell is going on?’

Breaking News! Pets is now installed. The most remarkable thing of note, is that there is nothing remarkable of note. Everyone was in the exact same position and performing the same activities they were prior to update, and the subsequent horror stories I related about getting custom content reinstalled.
Everyone’s moods are right where they were left instead of completely reset, and broken objects, such as the extremely unfortunate Gąbkabob Kwadratowychkomputer remains defective.

This guy in the labcoat is having some apparently agitated conversation with nobody else. It’s either that, or perhaps he’s throwing taunts at Faggot‘s back. If he is, it’s not breaking Faggot‘s concentration any.

This labcoat budget Kahn Souphanousinphone has been stuck there, hurling catcalls and jeers for a Sim-hour.

Faggot doesn’t care.

Just in case you were worried you weren’t playing a video game, just in case you maybe thought I was taking pictures of one of those swanky CW dramas and just adding my own captions in some desperate bid to fill the empty gap of underachievement in my tortured soul as I roleplay that I’m some respected and highly paid Jewish comedy writer… in case you thought any of those things… Snarks McLabcoat materializes a drumset out of thin air and jams. Very, very poorly. Out in front of his job, which is the most irrational venue for such an activity. Because Faggot wasn’t acknowledging his rainforest-canopy monkey screeching.

Faggot‘s phone rings in his pocket and…

Hannah, who is right in front of him, is calling him with the POWER OF HER MIND to challenge him with repairing her tv.
Absolutely ridiculous but yeah sure what the hell.

Then, he breaks into tears because he is a bare shred from passing out from exhaustion.

Fuck the group. Faggot heads home.

Looks like the boys are getting prepped for their big (democratically designated) Friday night out.

Garbage in, garbage out.

Off they go, with the ubiquitous, balding Jeremy Piven who drives every fucking convoy you can imagine.

In some kind of extreme clusterfuck, Buck leaps out of the taxi and just runs in an arbitrary direction, with ‘Meet up’ as the only clue what his PCP-fit AI is up to.

Ok, apparently I think he’s going to run the whole way to the dance club…

…while Chester’s taxi sits stock-still in the exact place that Buck leapt out of it, to ‘meet up.’

Then, suddenly:

Are you fucking serious? Chester essentially teleported to the dance club. Meanwhile Buck ran four miles.

At the stroke of midnight, Buck summons a taxi in plain sight of the club, but not before nearly completely exhausting his energy meter.

They are going to have a great night I will tell you what.

At about midnight and 15, Chester is now completely alone, but doesn’t care. He is still ‘having a blast’, in his mood.

Anala’s still working her way out of the house. Buck is looking pretty smug and satisfied, while Anala’s looking like one of those shampoo commercials where the shampoo seems to work a bit too good.

Buck just cuts a fart, rolls over and goes to sleep. The lady shows herself out.

Chester migrates from the swings to an oh-so comfortable granite slab picnic table (what trendy, impractical shit won’t this game shovel at us to give its customers some bullshit utopia sitcom reality) to resume reading the fantasy novel he brought along.
He’s not really reading it for enjoyment of course. He’s just studying it so he can post a long-winded rant about how the author is clearly some kind of sexist monster, with a transparent agenda to set gender relations backward 500 years. He will then let the forum he posts it on devour itself as he fucks off to a video game, his work there complete.

Slightly interesting thing about the night sky, is that you can watch the stars roll by, like a slightly sped up time-elapsed recording. It gave me this creepy feeling that my real-world time was passing by that quickly, so I stopped looking at it.

I notice off in the distance, there’s some kind of shit going down in Chester’s distant periphiary.

A vampire is panhandling with an expensive synthesizer, and oh hey look it’s Woody Allen disguised as Billy Crystal again.
That’s pretty fuckin normal.

Everybody’s tired. And they do nothing further of interest or note with each other beyond the absurd juxtaposition I pointed out earlier. This game is filled with such moments.

Woody then goes to town on the swingset. As opposed to say, sitting around for four hours brooding, surrounded by one of every kind of person imaginable, yet a social isolate pondering the lyrics of some Simon and Garfunkel song or another.
Oddly enough I can just imagine this moment narrated by Woody, his voice-over itinerizing how fucked up his life is, but sometimes you just have to bring it back to basics, be a kid again, go to a park with a piano-playing vampire and a book-reading sociopath at 3am and just… swing.

Amidst the chaos and absurdity, Chester finishes the book.

Please tell me you’re cruising to knock Woody off his swing…

No. He’s practicing vagrancy.

Without a moment’s lapse where every household member could be sleeping at the same time, Faggot awakes. His delicate senses are affronted on his way to a lovely breakfast, of…

…cold, day-old fettucini. Can you imagine that crap sitting in your gut like a greasy rock, first thing in the morning? Ugh.

Faggot stops cleaning, because according to the game, ‘his mood is too low.’

The biggest ding to his mood, the filthy surroundings. How ironic. He won’t clean, because it’s too dirty.

I let Faggot decide what he’s going to do about it.

He turns on the radio, which instantly improves his mood.

Den dis nigga? He get down.

SHAKE dat ass, little white man.

We just might be witnessing the happiest moment of his entire life.
Enjoy this. With his odds, this may be the last time he smiles before he dies.

Also of note, the hilarious clipping issues with the apple trees, that were predicted earlier.

Buck’s up. I thought he might have been disturbed by the music, but it turns out, he was just getting up on time.

Buck parked right in front of Faggot to take a phone call, because in front of a blaring stereo is the absolute best place to be on a cell phone. Faggot in turn appears to be content enough to resume cleaning.

For not picking the neurotic trait, Faggot can be a pretty neurotic guy.

Betty White be proud, looks like the old gray cougar gave Buck a ring.

Looks like the gang’s all here.

Truly a house of goons. Chester whining about being hungry, Buck discussing the merits of a bran diet to club granny, and Faggot looking like he’s trying to evade them all in the bathroom.
Incidentally, Chester is at the same level of energy as he was when he took that bench nap. However,

he clearly had a ‘nice nap.’

“Maybe at some point in the future science will put lasers in our butt to eliminate poop at a molecular level! I hope I live as long!”

I’m not sure what biases are at play here, but when I see Chester eat leftover fettucini for breakfast, I just think, ‘eh, he’s a big boy, he can handle it.’

Chester’s about 50/50 with his tidyness.

I could youtube link or throw out lyrics to “You’re the best,” except that shit’s run into the ground and not funny any more. And I only thought of it because the Regular Show Death Kwon Do episode was on in my background.

Faggot tends to his beautiful front yard garden.

All those hours I spent in Harvest Moon are finally paying off.

Living the dream of many a goon, Chester hits the rack at 8:30a.

In a tragically ‘art imitates life’ parallel, the fucking mailman only ever shows up to drop off bills.

Wow, damn, beefcake junior there is just ripping along.

Holy shit. This is the result of having a tv and a radio going at any given time… sheesh.

Faggot gets to work on his dish cleaning challenge, but he elects to do it in the filthiest room in the house, because really, why the hell on earth would you want to remain in a good mood while doing menial taskwork?

Predictably, Faggot breaks the dish cleaning progress in order to start cleaning the bathroom. But, before he gets too far, Buck shoo’s him out, to use the toilet. Forget that there’s two in the house. He wants to deuce in the nearest, filthiest, clogged one.

On the upshot however, Faggot resumes his plate cleaning challenge in a significantly distraction-reduced environment.

This is my reward, for opening my fucking mouth.

There won’t be time for him to deal with this before work, either.

Faggot resumes cleaning the last plate in the ‘vile conditions’ bathroom. Buck has a wry grin which is particularly hilarious because Faggot accidentally walked in on him, while he was just stepping out of the shower…

…which gives our poor, beleaguered Faggot this moodlet.

Buck has it too incidentally, except he’s swimming in so many positive moods coming out of the date last night and the workout, he could probably sing ‘whistle while you work’ while changing bedpans in a children’s terminal cancer ward.

He finishes his dish challenge, but he is at the lowest mood you can get, being in that bathroom.

The first time he danced, it was endearing. Now, it just seems… desperate.

Alas, the bluecollar peon of the house is off to work, and steeped a bit in misery for it.

Buck makes a deceptively health-conscious salad. But don’t let it fool you. A guy who licks random plates off the dinner table can’t be too uptight about the garbage in, garbage out concept.

Faggot‘s efforts at getting those dishes washed, finishes up on a positive note.

Looks like the flooding from the kitchen sink is really travelling.

Buck doesn’t give a damn in the world about it, though.

“Hey babe, I just feel like getting out of the house, no particular reason, want to do something?”

Kind of hard to get ‘Stayin’ Alive’ going in your head when the player in the Cuban heels is heading off for his date on a rusted, shitty 10-speed.

He of Many Eyes watches. Waits. Slumbers, but is ever vigilant.

Where the hell did he say to meet her? An empty car park? You dirty bird…

He runs into a cul-de-sac and kind of, stands around, clusterfucked.

He un-fucks up. It was rather pointedly lacking in drama.

Then, he finds himeself in a fenced alley.

“Yeah, standing here is pretty cool. I’ll just do that.”

Oh hey it’s Anala, apparently having no problem with the idea of a back-alley hook-up.

“Do you think we’ll get radiation poisoning from that barrel back there?”

So classy.

Chester, proto-goon, on the computer first thing in the morning above all other things.

A massage in an industrially cluttered alley, how romantic!

This right here, is probably allegory for the remainder of Buck’s romantic carreer, pegged right on the second date.

You’d think they snapped and suddenly developed some self-awareness.

This place, again.

And what would Eugi’s lobby be, without some incredibly tacky Sim just eyesore’ing up the lobby. He’s not a celebrity or a vampire at least, so I suppose we should count our blessings.

Oh how quaint. They have hazing in this game. He’s still got 30mins on the clock down in the rabbit hole, so we don’t get to see just yet what exactly this looks like. If it even looks like anything at all.

What the hell is he going off, about?

It is an elevator of intriguing glances. And if that thought bubble looks like what it is, incompatible ambitions too.

Wait a minute…

*wump*, as the doors slide shut.

Ok… the door is shaking back and forth, and there are all sorts of sounds of… excitement emitting from it.

Fez here, doesn’t pay any attention to it.

Hooray, Buck popped his cherry!

This moodlet is the most god damn hilarious one I’ve seen to date.

Yes, this is exactly what it looks like. Buck is strutting. It’s the slut-strut. He’s totally roostering it up.

Do not fret about any operational doublestandars however! Here comes Anala, doing the slut-strut too.

Oh, really? Let’s see what this hazing notification thing looks like.

Uh. Nothing. It’s a rabbithole in a rabbithole.

Anala has been strutting behind Buck three times longer than he was going at it. She must’ve had way more fun.

When Buck surrepetitious ends the date, she struts on out of the picture with the cat-ate-canary expression on her face, the whole way.

‘Go far?’ I don’t think that’s part of Buck’s long term logistics.

Imagine coming home to this, after the kind of day you know Faggot just had. We just need Charles Grodin to start yelling at a St. Bernard, to round out the hijinks.

Faggot is demoralized, and rapidly losing more of his nerve, but he tries to man up and tackle the sink problem.

Buck celebrates his conquest with some post coital nachos.
I wonder at what they’re looking at, and…

Is it a Sergeant Pepper Lonely Hearts Club cosplayer? Is it Hitler? Is it Liberace?
We shall call him…

Hitleracci.

Faggot is so tired, he gets to about 50% of the repair, and then it cancels out so he can complain about being tired.
That must mean we have to keep telling him to do it, until the fix goes through.

FUCK.

I leave him alone, and he elects to stalk off to bed, all elbow-akimbo, sniveling and eye-wiping.

We gotta find something for Chester to do.

Crash a hobo lookin dude’s party!

Chester gets into his ‘casual’ dress. And incidentally, chuckling apparently at how fucked up and trashed the place is.

Dude, nothing says he’s ready to crash that party, like that stylish disembodied head representing him.

Oh, yes. He’s ready.

Woah, instead of riding Schroedinger’s bike, he’s catching a taxi.

Buck’s looking to chase his nachos with a drink, and we get notified that this bar’s apparently dead. Maybe the game resents us for coming here for the third time.

Hitleracci, you apparently fucking suck.

Chester’s made the scene. Now we’ll see if his special brand of charisma, can get him in.

Ugh, this is going to be one of those high-altitude things that will make the camera shit to control.

No venue can be too dead, if there’s a girl there for Buck to meet. ‘Eyes on the prize,’ indeed…

Chester meets a butler or something.

They have uncharacteristically civil conversation.

Meanwhile, Buck is having one of the most characteristic conversations of the game franchise.

Chester finally achieves crash status with the party.

Aw, man.

Chester flees! He drops 23 dignity pieces behind him.

His ‘Go Out’ dialogue can’t be cancelled unfortunately, and it’s taking him onto the elevator.

Once he reaches the ground floor, the elevator strikes!

Chester apparently got jammed in the elevator, just to add to his indignity.

Chester responds to the rejection like any mature adult would.

This is the Chester way.

Chester has other more pressing concerns however.

He refuses to do anything other than complain how bad he has to piss.

He heads home at a walking pace, which makes me wonder if he’s going to piss himself, enroute.
You’d think the evil and inappropriate traits would allow him to make the world his toilet.

Buck heads home, as well, but his excuse is that he’s drop dead tired.

Chester makes it home, but is he in time? His bladder-meter is pegged out.

Can you possibly imagine a worse scene to walk in on, about a hair’s breadth from pissing your own pants?

He makes it, nick of time.

Buck makes it home shortly afterward, and other than disdainfully observing that the sink is still broken, pays none of it any mind as he heads off to bed.

Chester maintains the same homekeeping ethic as Buck.

Sleep tight, you terrible goons.

Faggot starts our day out with a nice bowl of de-mallowed Lucky Charms. And enough ambient filth that my mom called me out of the blue on a primal instinct to ask me if I was cleaning up after myself.

Our responsible lad tends to his garden, first thing after breakfast.
Also I guess those apple ‘plants’ are really trees. I suspect their development will be to some extent stunted due to how close I was allowed to plant them together. Either that or we’re going to see some serious clipping issues.

Those are his grape plants, which are going to do just great I imagine without a trellis to climb on. As for what the hell Faggot is up to, clipping into a tree in a Jesus Christ posture-

-he took a call.

It’s his high schooler acquaintance, apparently checking in on him.

Congratulations, Faggot has his first official friend!

Faggot, once again the glue that holds the place together.

Just as quickly as we can praise his role as an effective house steward, he breaks the toilet.

Klonk klonk klonk! Back to this shit again. Hopefully he’s got enough time to finish what he starts this time.

Well, there’s one positive side effect to this endeavor. Faggot‘s hit the 3rd tier of handiness. This is probably the most important skill for him to have with how shit just shatters, breaks and gains 50 years of wear and tear every time he enters a room.

He’s been at it for three hours, when:

Ah great, here we go again, maybe we didn’t have enough time…

Once again, no good.

Buck’s first activity of the day, is hopping on a computer for a game. This has no impact at all, on Chester’s sleep. Even the obnoxious looping sounds of a computer game are considered not noisy enough to affect sleep.

Chester awakens and starts his day by entreating his uncaring, capricious deity to do something about his first-world starvation problem.

Chester’s giving the goopy carbonara a second round. Ideally, he should have better odds at getting this batch done without Faggot‘s hex, making things break the hell up.

This happens the moment he gets started cooking.

Surfaces just can’t get merely dirty in this game. They have to get mossy and vile in the blink of an eye.

Are you serious? Some asshole is sending Faggot home with a pile of dishes in his pocket to wash? This sounds absurdly easy.

He finishes! And it manages to look pretty good.

Sims in this game eat so fast. Buck started heading downstairs the moment that Chester set the plate of food on the counter. But, by the time Buck got downstairs, Chester had already inhaled the food and began clearing his plate off.

“Yes… YES my minion… eat of my evil sustenance!”

Derpy derpy derp derp! Whatever bro!

Chester strikes out alone, unburdened from the adversities of having someone significantly more attractive around stinking up his show.

“Hmm. It appears I am all alone.”

Buck brushes his teeth, sexy as possible.

Anala arrives, with a doorbell ring.

BAM. BAM. The firelady packs some heat! And a bra, as it so happens.

The livingroom could use one quick adjustment though I think.

There we go.

Buck is there to greet her at the door.

They have a nice hug…

…other than Anala’s ‘jeez this reminds me of my cat that died’ face.

Woah dude.

Woah dude… date? We just invited her over, that was it? Eh whatever, this is Buck’s zone anyway.

After a few moments of peculiar silence while they swayed and stared at eachother, Anala initiates things by passing a flirty compliment to Buck.

Buck likey. Even if his expression makes it looks like he’s trying to walk across a beach holding an uncooked egg in his asscheeks without breaking it.

Chester’s made it to a park, and is back in the fantasy novel.

This is a peace not likely to last.

Faggot‘s home-bound carpool passes by the park at the exact moment I was checking up on Chester’s 20.

Everybody’s been here. You get home, dead tired, and you are just barely dragging your spent, used-up ass up the stairs to your room.

Chester’s ‘whining about life’. ‘Evil’ in this game, is apparently a petulant, irritating thing, less than the standard amorality of criminals and politicians.

Another fucking vampire? Are you serious?

Chester goes to play on the swings, and Whoopie Fangberg pulls out one of those blood-fruit things for the ‘vegan humane’ vampire nonsense thing the game has.
Utterly wussified folklore, people. This is the future of storytelling.

This just warranted its own screenshot, because.

This is every sort of screwed up. There’s a little girl in the park alone after sunset, and this vampire’s just innocently chatting away with her. She is definitely not sizing her up like a kindergartener-mcnugget.

Buck has apparently lured Anala into his luxurious pit of romance (or trap, depending on how you perceive his motives), using proven bait from previous interactions.

Buck makes another successful play, cuddling on the couch. Observe how Anala’s rack is so large, Buck’s index finger is clipping into it up to his first knuckle.

Sometimes, this game can get so fricken surreal.

Not only is this first base, this is like, the longest slide into first base I’ve ever seen in the Sims. They’re going at it like a pair of wire terriers fighting over a barbecue-soaked washcloth.

The vampire is incidentally, paparazzi, and thuggin’ swingset 4 lyfe there is a celebrity.

FINALLY. Buck nets a nice memory out of it, and now I brace for a bunch of comments on Facebook where people misinterpret the memory as being specifically Chester’s. Then they complain about third person, fourth-wall breaking explanations.

Dude where the hell are you going, don’t break the game up now!

Oh, great, he’s going to make his bed, giving the quarry an opportunity to distract. Good work, there, slick.

I hope you’re satisfied with yourself, all relaxing on your bed ALONE.

Life in the Naked Park is still weird. Paparazzi vampire’s just sitting there staring at Fiddeen Cent, and some dude in 50′s era spring casual pops out a cheetah-print guitar to join the cellist, trying to beg tips off an extraordinarily disinterested crowd.

Woah wait. Maybe we’ve misjudged Buck’s tactics.

And here, we have a nice ‘puppets draped on a bed’ moment.

Now, a nice ‘puppets draped on eachother’ moment.

Faggot‘s missing everything, sleeping away in his humble, quaint quarters.

Well gosh.

They go back and forth rubbing gums for a ridiculously lengthy time, again.

Back to draped mannequins with chests that don’t have proper collision detection.
I’m slightly amused with the way Buck looks a bit like Hayden Christiansen here.

Chester is almost completely abandoned, but god damn, he just does not want to get off this swing.

What the hell is that mood or thought supposed to be?

Oh, I think I know what’s going on here. Buck made a quite indecent proposal, and Anala’s informing him she’s a decent girl. Somewhat. Relatively speaking.

Oh there you go, just chat about your open loathing of commitment, that’ll smooth that awkward moment right over.

Buck hits Charisma 4 in his adventures.

These are the requirements for his next level. I don’t much see a challenge here for Buck.

This popped up shortly after the charisma notifier…

Their little floaty-hearts date thing is gone, and they’re still cuddling… maybe the date’s not ‘over’, know what i’m sayin’…

God damn you!

Meanwhile, Buck has been relentlessly flirting with the excitable public servant, despite his mood plumetting because he’s really hungry. They’ve progressed at this point to throwing very low-grade flirts back and forth to each other.

BAM look how fast this son of a bitch works.

What the hell is with that posture, he looks like a villain waiting for the poison gas to spew out of the bouquet.

She likes the flowers, as they surrepetitiously vanish from existence, only the relationship improvement icons to mark the passage of their brief life.

Chester done fucked up.

He throws himself right back at repair.

Buck’s hunger finally takes over. He goes to the fridge for a juice, and the firewoman bolts for the exit.
Incidentally, her name’s Anala, and I’m sure that Buck is not finished with her.

What the fuck. Ok she doesn’t bolt for the exit.

This dude is lazy. He wasn’t even 50% tired.

All juiced up and in a much happier state of mind, Buck drops onto the couch to further press his advantage.

All this ‘practice’ on Anala pays off in a new tier of charisma. The way it works in this game, is that a Sim is required to have a minimum number of just pure acquaintences, and then after that a minimum number of better-tier friends to progress.

Buck’s making some kind of move here…

Oh, wow.

Sonic the horndog here is making real good time.

DERP.
Who else is getting a totally Babs vibe out of this one?

Well, it had to happen at some point. Buck did pretty good, for turning over an otherwise garden variety one alarm fire event into a hair’s breadth from first base.

This is Anala’s ‘ride’ home. A fucking stretch limo…

…that apparently is her commute. If she plays drums for a hobby and her best friend who she’s maintained a secret crush on for years looks suspiciously like Matthew Broderick, I’m going to transition what I said about Wes Anderson, to John Hughes.

Buck heads for bed, himself. We may as well take a moment to examine his decadent man-den.

What is more manly and sexy than lit medieval sconce torches flanking your four-poster bed? What reminds you better you in the presence of the ALPHA MALE than a neon shark on the wall?

Good night, ladies WINK WINK WINK

If you’re wondering what’s up with that ceiling, it’s carpeted. That’s so it won’t hurt you so much when he turns your world upside down, baby.

Faggot wakes first, his day already front-loading the stress.

You just know this face just deserved capture from another angle.

He tucks into some cereal. You’d think it’d be because he’d learn to fear and respect the stove after last night’s terror…

…but while the stove is a charred hulk, it doesn’t permit anybody to cook on it.

Yes, the assholes left the TV on all night.

As was remarked on earlier. Life here gets back on the rails.

Faggot gains a point in gardening, while watering his HOA-infuriating crop.

With level 2 gardening, he can now weed. So he weeds. Weeds like the wind!

One of the creepy children from Village of the Damned apparently has their house on her route.

Porco dio!

No really what the dutch

Alright. He’s apparently licking this bowl clean.

The old stove had to be thrown out. So, we installed a fresh one.

Buck gets a call from Anala, who apparently just wants to chat, while Chester’s off to his typical generic activity.

Let’s see what this does! I’m going to guess, either kill him, or catch him on fire. Or, catch him on fire and then kill him.

Faggot whines for Buck to move, because he’s blocking his work zone. Buck saunters off without breaking the flow of his conversation about loathing matrimony.

Looks like he’ll be shaving it close…

This is apparently not a very finesse-dependant process. Faggot comes out with a claw-head hammer and just starts whacking the stove about.

If the stove isn’t improved, the bitch will at least learn to keep its mouth shut.

This is seriously an indelicate process. Constant ‘klonk-klonk-klonk!’ noises, and sparks and shit flying everywhere. How, and what the hell is this supposed to improve?

Firelady doesn’t look that bad. At least, not as a thought-bubble.

Everybody knows, sexy doesn’t just make itself happen. Well, unless you’re completely stinking rich. Or if you’re sitting under a tree with an acoustic guitar (talent completely optional) on the campus of any given state community college.

No, sir. Sexy has a high maintenance fee.

So very high.

Faggot‘s carpool arrives… he’s still wailing away on the stove…

Sadly, he has to quit tinkering just in time to make his carpool.

Buck manages to get a ‘memory’ about getting stronger. Which is going to look awkward on Chester’s facebook, because everything that Faggot and Buck have ‘memories’ for, doesn’t properly attribute them.

Done with his workout, Buck hits the showers. Sorry, sailors, that pixel-shield is up before there’s even the slightest chance to upset Jack Thompson.

Faggot‘s job throws us a wildcard!

We are naturally choosing ‘Yes’ here.

Uh oh. I guess we’ll be seeing what exactly this means when he gets home!

Here we go. This is more familiar.

Chester emerges from his morning shower. It’s 5:30pm, I think these boys need to get up to something.

That shitty dive bar is open, if it was good enough for Chester’s inaugural social activity, so can it be for Buck.

Off we go!

They pile into the taxi, which incidentally is driven by the same business casual bald guy we saw days earlier that really doesn’t seem to belong driving taxis.

Just because you guys love the personification of inanimate objects in this world, BEWARE THE HUNGRYDROME!

The boy’s a good earner. He must be out of the rabbithole, let’s see how he’s doing.

He’s actually looking pretty ok. DAMN I…I mean, good, the poor guy deserves a little relief.

Buck and Chester make the scene.

Buck’s looking a little concerned, though…

Oh, great.

Must be because of Fangbob Gothpants back there.

Buck heads off, while Chester…

…decides that the smartest thing to do is to get introduced with the guy that’s aiming to kill his roommate.

Buck safely arrives at the ground floor, but he’s apparently alert to the threats at this point.

Well, well, well. Look who’s here, tending bar, our old friend Waitress Q. Bazookas! She’s looking… perky as ever.

The only other bar patron at the moment, is this Burning Man attendee badly impersonating Cindi Lauper.

Buck siezes the initiative, and his first ‘order’, is some awkward effort at conversation, while Bazookas just nods idle-like, and stares intently at the rainbow vomit playing darts.

Faggot makes it home, and manages to make it to bed before being terrorized by a kitchen fire.

I was just checking on Chester’s progress with one of Stephenie Meyer’s wet dreams, when I spy something that might be the most absurd thing I’ve seen in this game, to date…

Look out! Here comes Madame Gutterfly.

Mod grandma, comin’ through!

Uh oh! I think that look of concern might just mean Ck:V has targetted her now.

Despite the risk though, it seems Chester’s got this creep pretty well tied up, and the g-milf slips anxiously past.

Conversation with the torpedo bar only manage to get Buck bored.

A new challenger!

Well whatever the hell he said to her, it’s working.

Buck, being a situationally aware and sensitive man, brings Granny a slice of pizza.

Uh oh, we lost our fat man.

Ok, maybe we didn’t.

I have no idea what the hell Buck is doing here.

While everyone of consequence in the household is either fucking off unaccounted for, or otherwise being completely boring, it looks like our Neil Gaiman fetishist has found a tomato to bite.

They explode into a tornado of bats and volumetric lighting effects that would’ve driven the Unreal Tournament 1999 developers insane with jealousy… and nobody cares, or pays attention.

I have no idea what I’m looking at, here.

Oh come on seriously? This improved their relations? That is one kinky chick.

She just engages him in regular ol’ conversation after that. Like, “oh since we’re on the subject you know what I like to eat, fried chicken!” Also of note, is that nobody else in the bar cares at all that viral campaigning for Fright Night is taking place behind them.

Make Buck suffer? Sure, whatever.

Interesting, if stupid bug… Buck’s hand is stuck in this ‘holding pizza’ position now, even though the pizza’s gone.

Chester checks out the arcade game, which is called ‘Darwin’s Revenge.’

This looks way more exciting than it really is… I have no idea what the hell Chester’s player is, but there are what look to be tyrannosaurs being ridden by longur monkeys pacing back and forth and occasionally spitting impotent fireballs, while sharks strapped to SCUBA tanks that appear to have been ignited, zip about the screen.
Not a shabby bunch of details if a cohesive premise could just get battered out.

One bit of attention to real-world detail that we can all appreciate, Maxis has really captured the innate vampire love of table shuffleboard.

Buck at this point has eaten a plate of nachos while maintaining the pizza-hand, and is now continuing conversation with grandma.

Dag, grandma’s a cop.

There’s a couple things going on with this shot here. Foremost, Chester enjoys the pastime of shuffleboard with the vampire, and Rainbow Blight over there doesn’t appear to be feeling too well.

Buck and pizza-hand are getting all excited, there…

…what in the fuck?

Chester’s getting pissy because Fangston’s shoving him out of the game zone apparently… meanwhile Fangston appears to be making some kind of advance on Rainbow Blight.

Oh sheesh.

No bat tornado? Another memory? Ugh, I bet next time we see Rainbow, she’ll belong to the army of the undead.

Chester, apparently fed up with with this woman interfering with his efforts toward getting some man-time in, gets snippy with this ridiculous girl.

She seems quite mollified.

We come back to check on Buck and… uh… it looks like conversation with grandma is… really progressing?

It looks like Waitress Q. here doesn’t like Buck all that much. Well and good, she’s impossible to talk to for anything other than service anyway.

Oh jeez. LOOK at her. He’s openly flirting with her.

Well aren’t they just peas in a pod. Oh, yeah, her name’s Violet. I suppose I could be less demeaning about her age and use her name.

Hungry eyes…

Alas, it’s 3am Sim time, and everyone has to go home.

Chester’s on his bike to head home, but it appears he’s got a potential problem on his hands…

He’s really fucking tired.

Meanwhile… I don’t know what the hell Buck is doing. That’s him tearing off in the wrong direction, while Waitress Q. over there, who has the ‘I enjoy watching people suffer’ mood in her thought bubble, heads off wherever, herself.

Ok, he’s heading for the subway. As opposed to say calling a taxi. AND he still has pizza-hand.

I guess that’s not THAT bad.

Chester’s made it home.

“Hey baby. I see you lookin in my window at me.”

Buck exits the subway, mounts the Epicurean Zephyr… and still has pizza-hand.

Yay! Pizza-hand is cured!
Awwww, pizza hand is cured

All our boys are sleeping away, an… wait.

I think this is exactly what a responsible, employed person that gets up at a reasonable hour on a workday would expect to wake up to, in a house full of goons.

Chester pedals from the scene of his last passive-aggressive outburst.

Oh, look. It’s yet another trendy tiled concrete block with a bunch of windows punched into the walls.

You’re familiar with the drill by this point, I assume.

I noticed something a little weird, by the ringer here.

Now, here, I have the camera set right about a hair above the ‘second floor’ plane of the entire lot.

Watch what happens when I just dip it down.


Was ANYONE involved with development and quality assurance on the Night Life expansion paying attention? Or were they too busy debating ‘realism,’ leaving out alien abductions, while chunking in plagiaristic vampires?

Moving along!

Quarter to 1am Sim time, Chester’s ringing doorbells without even an agenda-laced religious pamphlet to justify himself.

Dammit! Well, I don’t think we expected any different.

Here’s our fair city at 1am at night. There’s no more occupied houses in those richy-rich hills for Chester to try to bother. Trouble is, Chester’s nowhere near tired, and there isn’t 24-hour anything as far as clubs go, that I’m aware of. So, it may take some doing to find our boy something to do.

Oh, hello!

Despite being all the god damn way across town, Chester ignores the subway options and pedals the whole way.

If someone told me this was an early beta screenshot for the next Bioshock game, I’d believe it. The other thing I have to say about this, is that if I had a diner like that near where I lived, I’d eat at that creepy, surreal motherfucker once a week.

Chester arrives at this cool little retro diner- it’s a nice change from the completely phoned in and poorly tested architecture in what’s supposed to be the ‘expensive’ part of town.

And wouldn’t you fucking know it, it’s a god damn rabbit hole.

Chester materializes BEHIND the dinerat the end of his meal, ready to head home.

4a.m. and Faggot wakes and engages in familiar morning rituals.

Chester gets home and powers up his usual preferred distraction. I don’t think I really want to specifically know what the hell that desktop is.

First- Chester’s got an email!

omg what do you think this could mean
probably nothin
disregard.

Chester just goes right back to his happy place.

How about that, you can brush teeth, that’s right.
Took us a week and a half to finally see a Sim practice some oral hygeine. Just try to imagine the quality of Chester’s breath, considering that.

Faggot then set about fixing the EVERYTHING that broke just because he touched it.

If this ability to rot plumbing and appliances can have one possible benefit, Faggot‘s going to potentially become an expert repairman for all the practice.

A long, long, long, long time ago
Before the wind, before the snow
Lived a man, lived a man I know
Lived a freak of nature named Sir Psycho

Sir Psycho Sexy that is me
Sometimes I find, I need to scream

He’s a freak of nature but we love him so

He’s a freak of nature but we let him go

Deep inside the garden of Eden
Standing there with my hard on bleedin’

Theres a devil in my dick and some demons in my semen
Good God, no that would be treason

Ladies and gentlemen… but mostly ladies. I present to you,

Buck Byron, the steak chewing, pop-culture celebrant, sex-minded predator of love.
There is no ‘narcissist’ trait, so instead he’s a slob. The ‘snob’ trait is not everything its cracked up to be, so it didn’t work as such a great substitute in my opinion. Slob seemed good because with all my complaining about how tidy the boys are, the house needs a pig.
Buck is that handsome guy you might find, congregating with the weirdos. Maybe he’s weird. Maybe he’s actually got some depth and sees some quality in society’s misfits and toss-asides. Maybe he’s an insecure prick and straps ugly, socially awkward people to him so that he shines ever brighter to the observer.
How many licks does it take to get to the chewy center of a tootsie pop?

His name is Buck. Because he likes to make references to Kill Bill.

So, one thing I think we’re sure of, is that the house in its current state, is too small. I made a decision what to do, about that.

Brace yourselves.

We built up! It would have been so much easier to relocate them, but the big houses are all out in the sticks, and TOO big for just three guys.
Besides. I like fiddling with the build tool.

Our ground floor is unaltered. Except I sold Faggot‘s bed to finance a few lamps. Faggot won’t get the best sleep on a couch, but he’ll get sleep somehow.

I bet I had you going! Faggot‘s actually got a room now! Some viable space was created by the huge roof gable, so I threw some walls under it so that our boy could get a room of his own. Chester meanwhile gains no privacy and loses a chunk of space to the new stairwell.

Then again this is a man that hacked a high-echelon club venue then went to it in his underwear… he’s not very likely to care at all.

And here’s the third floor. Splurged and set up a shit-hot bathroom, and established a tacky, eccentric sex nest as befits Buck’s proclivities.

Now that we are quite finished with this time-consuming shit, we play through.

Buck arrived totally starved, and heads straight for the pancakes.

_{dat ass…}

Chester’s reaction to the house instantly gaining a floor and a new staircase ramming itself upward through the space of his room behind his back? Bed time.
I probably would have a similar reaction.

Part of the ‘slob’ trait, Buck eats like a slovenly beast.

Without a moment’s hesitation, Buck abandons a plate that’s already gaining stinklines. I think that is because the leftovers were bad, by far. Buck’s such a fucking slob that he actually has a positive mood from eating that shit.
Faggot back there, is preparing waffles. If this goes well for him, I’m going to be flat astonished.

Mirror mirror on the wall, who’s the most fuckable of em all?

He preens a bit here like an idle parrot.

“Like, omigod is that a blackhead?”

It was. He popped it or something and it made him grimace.

Then, this thousand-yard stare. Stock still, for a solid minute. It was incredibly unsettling.

Faggot hasn’t caught fire yet, good on him.

Buck commences practicing speech, which builds his charisma skill. That skill is vital for the kind of squirrel that this version of Ted Nugent prefers to hunt.

Now we are entering a high-risk zone for our boy here.

He attentively minds the food. We know from Chester, that doesn’t always guarantee safety.

And to nobody’s astonishment, he has in fact wrecked his waffles.

Despite the setback of charring the fuck out of them, Faggot manages to retain a positive memory for at least having cooked something.

Hahaha that description is excellent!

Aw, the poor guy was trying to cook for the household too. WHATEVER, EAT YOUR FAILURE, FUCKER.

Budget Adonis over here is still arguing with the mirror over who the fairest of all must be.

Faggot once again reflexively pounding through kitchen filth.

Faggot pops out to the back yard to begin his illustrious tenure as a gardener!

Something doesn’t feel… right though. About doing this in the back yard.

Let’s put it in the front yard!

Well I guess we better fuckin hurry then.

First he trashe… no I mean he recycles the abandoned newspapers in the front yard. Al Gore avoids a heart attack because I mean, come ON can you imagine if he just threw them in the garbage and didn’t actually consider it recycling?!

Johnny Faggotseed gets to work planting the four grape plants, and two apple plants he had seeds for from his gardening class.
Apple plants. That’s right. Welcome to bizarro-HGTV.

With a resounding, “jewana la chogie!” Buck gains his first Charisma point.

Faggot managed to get all his planting done, just in time for the car pool.

Well! That’s mighty depressing.

This is Faggot at his job. It’s the same rabbithole he got gardening training at.

Then suddenly!

Are you kidding me? Chester’s the one in the lead on cooking skill, Faggot oxidized his waffles in contrast, so he’s the household choice for the competition?

Yeah sure, we’ll take it.

The fridge suddenly developed stink fumes.

Chester wakes at a very healthy 2:30pm.

Buck, meanwhile, is going to be a whole world of different from Chester and Faggot.

Imagine David Attenborough narrating: “And now fully roused from his slumber, the Internet male begins his day with his favorite activity. Checking discussion forums for responses to the predatory landmines he buried, the day prior.”

David Attenborough: “Suddenly, misfortune strikes and interrupts this already-problematic predator. The hunt is irrevocably ruined by the self-destruction of Internet male’s primary hunting weapon. Whatever quarry had possibly ensnared on his traps while he slept, will have either gotten away, or become a meal for any other fortunate predator of opportunity that happened by.”
Eh, they’ll just make Faggot fix it when he gets home. He’s got fuck else to do with his life, right?

Chester, what the hell are you doing, man? He’s hungry for certain… but instead of say, grabbing a plate from the char-pile, or maybe just throwing them away for being the offense against every law that governs the culinary arts that they are, he puts them in the fridge that is already emitting phosphene gas from the pancakes put in there nearly a week ago.
Considering Sim days are measured in some exponential version of dog years, those pancakes are something like 10 years old.

Immediately subsequent to depositing the forsaken waffles, Chester removes the offending matter from the fridge.

This in turn becomes an opportunity for us to check out the garbage compactor that was freshly installed, dipping into Buck’s move-in stipend. It even comes, pre-filled with trash! They think of everything!

Talking to yourself in the mirror for five hours is hard work, yo.
I am seriously getting a crick in my neck just looking at him trying to sleep on that horribly small couch.

Chester then pops with this for his next free-will activity.

He did manage to find something to read. Is it maniacal?

Pickins in that bookcase are obviously slim. That’s what Faggot read at the scenic overlook park, a couple days ago.

Chester finishes reading and heads off presumably to tap some of them revolting waffles, Buck is still dozing out on the couch.

No, it looks as though he’s going to be completely impractical, and cook something else.

We haven’t seen whatever this yet, I think.

A nigga get paid.

Chester thoroughly salts the area where the ingredients aren’t, because a salty, delicious cutting board is its own reward.

At least he’s not putting the knife to the onions to make little hamburgers pop out.

Faggot sprints for his carpool home. Which is a good idea, because he’s got about less than a tenth on his ‘Energy’ bar before he passes out where he stands.

He looks just like he’s glimpsed at and acknowledged that the rest of his life is destined to be a droll repetition of this very day.
Alternate caption- if Bill Murray were just in the back seat, you’d think Wes Anderson had another movie on his hands.

Chester does get to the chopping, but this time the particles this time are much more rational.

This all works out to be creamy dogvomit and parsley, or some kind of alfredo dish.

Chester gets cooking, and is about to hit another skill point. He is the goon with a spoon of the house.

The gainfully employed makes it home, weary and unnerved.

Just in time apparently for Chester’s cooking to go very, very wrong.

There’s no flames yet. Chester only cares that he’s still hungry, Buck has his nap disturbed, and Faggot gives no fuck and heads upstairs regardless of the commotion.

THERE’s our fire. Chester continues to bawl that he’s hungry.

Regardless of their state, all three of them earn a bad memory for witnessing Chester’s exploding carbonara. You’d figure that would be an after-eating effect, as opposed to before.

Oh. Thank you so much for that tip. The shrieking alarm, panicking residents, gouts of flame, and the game’s ‘a bad thing happened’ failure music didn’t inform me well enough what was going on.

Chester has an additional bad memory about fire.

This moment is so precious, it just warranted one more shot from another angle.

There’s a job to be done and I’m the one, people make me do it. Now it’s time for your fate and I won’t hesitate to pull you down into this pit.
So come on. Jump in the fire. So come on. Jump in the fire.

Faggot has completely unhinged.

Completely.

Where the hell is he going?

I’m going to presume this is a ‘coward’ thing, taking his freakout outside while the less timid just kind of cope their own way, much closer to the hazard.

Then, he just konks out. It’s probably better this way.

This goes on a very long time. Even the fire alarm has stopped, figuring everybody who needs to know has to know by now. The point to this illustration, is because I’m wondering where the hell the fire department is.

I’ve had a good look through the city. I neither see a fire station, nor a fire engine dispatched enroute anywhere…

This doesn’t look very good.

This goes on for such a long time, that the fire is beginning to spread. It’s creeping out to the floor tile just below the fire alarm.

Finally, the fire department makes the scene!

This absolute sociopath of a firewoman does a fuck-yeah fistpump of joy about the fire.

WILL SHE SAVE THE DAY?

WILL THIS APPLIANCE AT LEAST RATE BLUE-BOOK VALUE AFTER THE FIRES OF HELL HAVE BEEN BLOWN OUT?

WILL THIS EVER NOT JUST GROSS US THE FUCK OUT?

WILL THE PLANTS MAKE IT THROUGH THIS? BECAUSE STRESSED PLANTS DON’T GROW VERY WELL! But I watched a Mythbusters where some plants that were subjected to heavy metal music grew better than plants that were being screamed at, or just left alone without music. But then again their scientific methods are always called into question on the Internet and
We’re forgetting something or someone here with all this aren’t we?

IS IT HOT IN HERE OR IS IT JUST ME WINK WINK WINK

Chester’s sleeping with the lights on again. I could make some quip about him being a pussy, or a baby or whatever, but the truth of the matter is, the lights are programmed to automatically shut off when they’re both in bed like they are right now. They’re not shutting off for the 2nd floor.

Some time around 12:30am Sim-time, 1,200 sim dollars deposited to the household account. This stipend has magically happened on the past on occasion. There’s no pop up note or preamble about it.

Chester rises at an astonishingly early 4am.

The early bird trolls the forums.

And for no reason I can fathom, he’s smashing his face on his keyboard. I can’t tell if he’s mad, or if this is the game designer’s perception of how one accomplishes trolling on a forum.

Chester goes for the leftovers.

Slow down, porky, jeez.

I don’t know why I’m so concerned and irritated that these goons clean up after each other. I didn’t give any of them the ‘neat’ trait.
I think I’m mad that I don’t have something else to get mad about and write expletives for, because of their tendency to clean up. That’s just awful. I’m an awful person.

Well, the dirty toilet is looking pretty burly.

Not worth screenshots, worth mentioning: Chester sings in the shower. Terribly.

This’ll be the rest of his morning. This is what will always happen if I just let Chester run his own day.

Our chinless princess wakes up, and he sure looks downright pissy about being hungry.

Fun fact: if you leave this image on your desktop blown up, everywhere you go, HIS EYES FOLLOW YOU.

Of course, you’d probably be pissy too if you had to go outdoors and cross a driveway every day just to get breakfast. Too bad we don’t have seasons to magnify the insulting conditions that Faggot submits to.

Opie goes for some leftovers, also.

Fed and showered, Faggot checks ‘Weekly Events’ in the newspaper.

Well. If it’s one thing that is not compatible with either an Internet male, nor a socially crippled whipping post, it would be a jock-studded athletic event. At least in the real world, these things are filled with people that feel the most good about themselves when they can ridicule and fuck with the stereotypes our boys here, fulfill.
Another eating contest though. Gee what a variety of events around town. Well, it’s at least during Chester’s prime hours.

Faggot then stares blank from the couch, a physical manifestation of Lou Reed’s muse. We need to find something for him to do, since he’s the only hope for productivity in this house.

Looks good.

So much for any sense of personal property, Faggot just jacks Chester’s bike like no thing.

Faggot arrives to learn gardening at a… fish hatchery? Water treatment plant?

On the back side here, we have an idle roach coach, and while I’m inclined to think this is probably a hatchery or ladder of some sort for fish, the bright green tile makes it look kind of radioactive septic.

Even the bottom of the pool is this obnoxious lime green. If this is meant to be a fish hatchery I can only imagine the fish are EXTREEEEEEEEEEEEEEME.

This ‘vanish into a building for a few hours because the developers can’t put a little effort into animating an event’ phenomenon has been referred to in this thread as the ‘rabbit hole’ effect. Despite Lewis Carol turning in his grave lethargically in association with this pandering, disingenious software, I think it works quite well.

So, with little better to do, we zip back home to see what Chester’s up to…

This prick cleaned the toilet behind our backs, ruining our single-most cherished phenomenon: toilets so filthy and neglected that they radiate green stinklines. Then pretending they have personalities of their own.

THIS is his elected task now. The ‘Internet male’ stereotype I was betting on, is eroding under such unsupervised hygeine and responsibility.

I am torn on which is more wrong. Chester being a clean machine, or me getting mad he’s a clean machine.
I’m not screenshotting it but the cock took out the trash, too.

That was over pretty quick. Either that or watching Chester perform menial tasks consumes quite a bit of time.

We’re going to send Faggot shopping, because I believe we can get some seeds so he can get his ass gardening.

I did this, just because.

Meanwhile back at the barn, Chester is watching TV. I’m frankly surprised it took a week for him to do this.

As Faggot closes in on the market, some fat terrorist is having an argument with his imaginary friend in the rear parking lot, or is perhaps chanting like a savage to whatever sticks and rocks spirit these backward mudfolk type do.

Hey don’t get mad at me, it’s scientific terminology I picked up while listening to Dr. Quest describe a Moroccan to Race Bannon.

Oh hi Khaled welcome to our tolerant, peaceful culture that fully appreciates the contributions to both our history and society that your enlightened, clean and industrious civilization has contributed.

What the fuck is with this game, and llamas?

Poof! another rabbithole.

There’s a lot of stuff in here, but no seed packets. I must have gone to the wrong store. I think we can plant the veggies though, so I’ll just buy a big mess of them and we’ll see what we can stuff in the ground when we get home.

Holy shit look at those prices! I feel like I’m filling out a shopping list for a mid-80′s military contractor.

Pockets stuffed full of fruit and vegetables, Faggot‘s mind drifts away to thoughts of phallic architecture.

Uh oh! Crisis! Faggot just bashfuls up something fierce as this teenage girl tries to initiate some kind of interaction with him.

I hate to say it but,

this is some kind of ‘aw gee shucks’ cute.

She starts off with a ‘friendly introduction.’

Faggot‘s crippling insecurity and social anxiety kick in.

Sandwiches, always a good icebreaker.

“But,” Faggot responds, “macaroni & cheese!” You can take the man out of the goony environment…

They go back and forth a few times, extolling the virtues of the foods they preferred.

This was to a positive gain! I’m so used to Chester making a hopeless fucking mess of every interaction, I am kind of enjoying this really mundane but smooth encounter.
Oh, and there’s that sorta-Woody Allen from the first club Chester went to. He’s much less ‘incognito’ than he usually is in public.

You know. I don’t give a shit what the AI is doing with ‘Woody’ back there, but I’m laughing my ass off at what looks like Woody getting jealous and concerned that someone else is making better time with an ethnic teenager than him.
Incidentally, there’s Sugar, again. You’d think there were only 8 other NPC’s in all of this town, at this rate.

What in the blue fuck?

Maybe my popular culture tie-in joke isn’t too far off the mark?

Twilight vampires aren’t enough. We gotta have some trashy-goth True Blood knock-offs up ins, too.

Right. That’s real fucking subtle.

Pervo Anxietron bails. Titties von Daywalker rabbitholes into the grocery. And the girl, whose name is Hannah, keeps chatting up our nervous, awkward boy.

Vampire and Hooch simultaneously disgorge from the grocery tesseract, and I don’t know why but Motley Crue’s ‘Girls, Girls, Girls’ got going in my head.

Girls, girls, girls,
Long legs and burgundy lips…

I am pretty sure I hate myself for what I just did, right there.

Goodbye, Elvira.

Yes, that thought bubble over Sugar’s head is for our buddy from the library, the cruster that keeps popping up everywhere. That’s him, way the hell in the back, strumming a decrepit acoustic guitar and begging for change. I swear, for every stereotype I invent out of the context of a screenshot, the game matches me by eerily satisfying expectations.

I noticed a new moodlet popped up…

Oh, shit. Looks like Faggot is the pet store feeder mouse to Morrigan’s domesticated boa. Some hunter, though. Looks like she can be warded off by conversations with teenage girls.
Lord knows that would protect you from me.

Let’s see what Chester is up to…

Really? It’s two thirty in the afternoon!

Ha, that’s kind of funny.

His prying apparently continued, or she is very forthcoming about personal details.

Damn, you’d think our boy would be a bumbling mess in conversations, but the next thing he talks about after the bookworm detail pops… is books? I’d daresay that’s astute.

Very astute, considering that this is the first ‘+ +’ friendship gain I’ve seen in the game.

Meanwhile, in the lot behind the grocer…

This apparently is where all the action is at. Creepy middle-aged celebrity playing a Casio like some gelded, hyperthyroid version of Wesley Willis, cruster there is actually rejecting repeated flirts and advances from Sugar (this last relationship demerit was resultant from her trying to give him flowers…), and there’s Khaled, who is still, hours later, yelling at something.

She is just not letting Faggot off the hook. Overall it’s a net gain though. Despite his discomfort, he’s been gaining a lot of relationship status with Hannah.

Oh, boy. Good thing they’re age-incompatible.

‘Wogan Hemlock’? Are you fucking serious? Alien abductions aren’t ‘realistic’ enough to make it into Sims 3, yet we’ve got ‘Wogan Hemlock’? Fuck YOU.

Incidentally, ‘Wogan’ left, without Faggot flagging as ‘hunted’ again.

Oh, shit. This one’s back. I wasn’t quick enough to capture it, but she was sparking and smoking a bit as she emerged from a taxi. I’m going to assume that ‘unhappy memory’ there is about getting baked in the daylight.

Having a lot of Irish and Scottish heritage contributing to a lovely milky, melanoma-prone skin, I can relate, sister.

She starts wobbling about, disoriented. Not a good sign.

Oh, shit.

Oh, how whimsical. Vampires sleep with ‘V’s instead of z’s.

This has caught the attention of our otherwise acquainting pair. Faggot seems to express some genuine concern, while Hannah thinks, ‘meeeee!’

I don’t know if pointing and laughing at the vampire that was stalking you a few hours ago is very smart, buddy.

If Morrigan’s imprudence in daylight activities has accomplished anything, it was to break Hannah’s spell over Faggot, allowing him to retreat home.

Faggot gets home just in time to duck that scary, dreaded ‘darkness’ thing. Meanwhile, Chester has roused from his arduous day’s work of being in bed for most of it.

He gets in on the leftover pancake eating action, but apparently just as he sits down, Chester polishes off his last bite.

They manage to have a bit of dinner conversation despite that.

Then, Chester spontaneously does… that. There’s no activity indicator for it so I don’t know what’s compelling him to sneer at Faggot.

Then, life just reasserts normalcy for this household as Chester bumbles off to go play computer games, while Faggot thanklessly toils.
Yes I am completely ignoring Chester’s earlier contributions to the sanitation needs of the house to try to spin up and sensationalize the otherwise trivial amount of dysfunction these two appear to have.

There’s really no justification, moodlet or any indicator why, Faggot just spontaneously does this awful abloobloo crying as he walks away from the kitchen.

Oh uh. Apparently fridge-tainted leftovers can drive a man to cry.

He handles this trauma like any mature adult should. He goes promptly to bed.

It’s 9pm, Chester’s wide awake, full of piss and vinegar, and speculating at what to do with this fine (eternally) summer night.

Excelsiooooor!

During his excursion, he passes our most thoroughly familiar vampire, von Sicklecell.

We arrive at our destination after a good chunk of the night riding a bicycle- some rich asshole’s house!

Hm. Prospects look grim really, for having shit to actually do with this visit. It’s pushing 11pm after all.

How swanky. We’re not leaving until we figure out how to get up to some kind of mayhem.

How rude.

WEAK.

Chester makes the most of his limited options.

Chester sprints off for the neighbor’s place. And yes, that’s another vampire driving yet another swanky sports car.
I am coming around to the opinion that the developers of the Night Life expansion were beside themselves in terror that the feeble-minded demographic that The Sims 3 appeals to, just wouldn’t get what they were trying to do here with the vampires and the celebrities and the houses and the breasts and the vampires and the celebrities and the vampires, and of course the vampires. They may have over-reacted to this fear.

Ring-a-ding, baby! (Fallout: New Vegas rules, fyi.)

God damn it.

Sic semper quisnam es non domus.
He’s off to the next house.

Enroute, we spy a little blue flecked cat turd.

Yoink.

Chester arrives at the next house, and it looks like something James Bond might have lived in… fifty years ago.

I am recognizing a pattern.

Chester declares douchebaggery upon this household.

Actually forget the emerging pattern… nobody actually lives at this house.

Regardless, that won’t inhibit Chester’s rampage.

The clock strikes Sim-midnight. See you next update!

You’d think perhaps Chester is sleeping with the lights on due to being frightened by the ghost story, but he’s got no negative moodlet over it.

Faggot dreams ambitiously.

Chester’s first to rise, double the astonishment it’s only 7a.m.

Chester sets about with cooking. He likes to cook, quite a bit. Imagine that. He is defying the stereotype we’ve assigned him on that point, as he really ought to just be living off snacks.

This looks different.

Yeah, that’s how it works. You dump milk directly on flour on a cutting board. Did Masaokis script these cooking phases?

Oh yeah then after you spill the milk all over the flour you scrape it up with your hand and throw it in the bowl. Total Cordon Bleu style.

We enjoy perhaps the only rational moment in the entire montage.

Looks like pancakes! Once again, the game makes me hungry for something in the real world.

Everybody just chucked the pancake no problem on their first time, right?

Blam, welcome to IHOP.

Classic Chester style, he sets down the food and stares about a while. The process of cooking seems to briefly disconnect him from the purpose for it.

Faggot eventually rises and gets his pancakes, just as Chester clears off his own plate.

So much for the usual opportunity for socialization during a meal. Chester has important business to conduct in a computer video game.

Oh how I wish my bills would accrue to a mere 67.

All Faggot wanted to do was take a simple piss. The toilet went filthy and broke, resultant to the event.
I do want to point out, this was just after he took a shower. The significance of that, is that he shifted to his everyday outfit afterward, like a normal Sim.

Without hesitation, he leans right into the dirty work.

Chester meanwhile is hooting and screaming away at what appears to be Skate. It has a lovely EA watermark in case you were worried at all that you may not know who published the game IRL. And we discuss this while yet another screenshot successfully shills Poland’s classmates site.

You’d think you’d prefer to forget such a thing.

Faggot is putting away leftovers… and in case you’re seeing it…

…yes, the refridgerator door is clipping through the wall of the house.

What a boyscout.

Was there any other expectation? Chester’s thrall appears to be settling in to his new life of servitude.

Ricky and Lucy here need something better to do with their day.

Just look at this sprawling shitheap. Got to be something else to do.

This park is the highest point in the town, looks like something new and different to do.

We’re doing it.

They pile into a taxi that features a significantly overdressed driver.

Ok, let me just point out here, that this little taxi ride is freaking my poor computer out. This game is an abusive beast on a very competent system. I do have quality settings turned up higher than I’d normally put, just because I love you all so very much and only want you to see the best.
The best, Jerry. The best.

Driving the daisies took such a long time. I think about 2 Sim hours. That’s a lot of god damn time considering how short the lifespan is on these guys.

This Tory-Belleci-if-he-raided-George-Clooney’s-wardrobe looking twat is named ‘Romeo Rake’.
Hey look, wanton yet insecure and shut in housewife demographic! It’s that lusty Mediterrenean rich player you all love from your ‘stories’!

“Oh boy I’ll cherish this memory of visiting a scenic parking lot in the outer reaches of celebrity bumfuck, forever!”
Chester also had the memory, so I just doubletapped it for Facebook.

Chester heads off for a piss, while that little blip by the fence and stairs is Faggot, who ran like a squirrel on its first can of Coke.

Here’s the view, with Faggot. It’s just downright inspirational, isn’t it? Can’t you just smell the fresh, pine-touched sea air, with a slight hint of industry and metropolitan congestive lifestyle pollutant? Doesn’t this just feel like some kind of John Hughes reflective/introspective moment, we should have some deep yet trendy (for its era) 80′s new-wave, maybe Kate Bush, while Faggot stares in deep introspection across the cityscape and says,

“I can see my house!” And, incidentally, his job.

The moment passes as quickly as it was inspired, and Faggot initiates the classic retreat of the nerd in public-

-shutting out all surroundings and retreating into a high fantasy novel.

Chester’s walking a line directly to this fine ethnic fellow, and his potential girlfriend / friend / sister / complete stranger he’s sitting by.
That there is ‘Big Hartley’. Is it a boast? Is it a poor-taste reference to a dead rapper? Is it because he’s black, and black guys are reputed to have very big- hands? Feet?

As for the lady in the hoochiest and most inappropriate garb you could ask, for just reading a book on a park bench at a pretty low budget scenic turn-off, that’s Sugar Bijou. You might remember her from the tattoo parlor.

Chester is whining about life. What IS it with the women in this game, and having miserable bladder control?

Biggy don’t give a fuck.

Biggy’s also… blonde? Either that or he’s absolute shit at dressing himself incognito.

Chester then begins to discuss an evil plot with Big. Something featuring ICBMs, or maybe 50′s silver age concepts of space colonization, or perhaps just raw phallic imagery and

^{_{Dat aaaaaaass}}

What the fuck is wrong with me.

Looks like Big isn’t into sweeping evil plots. Or ICBMs. Or 50′s era cock-rockets.

Chester listens to Big explain some shit about… 17th century penmanship or some shit.

Chester reacts the best way he knows how…

Shit talk.


Awww, babby’s first enemy!

DERP.

Chester’s just not done being mad, apparently.

GOD DAMN

Also, ‘Romeo’ there is still derpin’ out.
I think this right here’s a seminal Sims screengrab if you could ever ask for one.

I can hear some kind of obnoxious George Lopez unintelligible outburst, as Romeo un-derps in astonishment at the exchange he’s witnessing.

This moodlet just popped after slapping Big around.

Big complains about how much he hates the tropics, or sunsets, or sunsets in the tropics. Chester gives the roll-eyes, but what the fuck is Captain Sexay doing?

Derpy there is egging somebody on but frankly I can’t tell who.

And as quickly as he appeared, he discharged his payload of criminal solicitation and left. Derpyderp in the mist.

“Your bitch, dawg?”

“Look at my upper lip. It curls and trembles like a cat smellin a bird from behind a pane of glass. She a fine-ass ho.”

“Nigga can’t argue.”

The truce was never meant to last.

Overdressed Sugar comes back, apparently to resume her book, completely apathetic to the unfolding violence beside her.

“Llamafucker!”

Big must be the Yellow Pages because Chester let his ha
Fuck that terrible pun. I’m sorry.

This is the fourth volley of slaps. Some of you I’m sure are wondering, am I making him do this?
No. I took my hand off the brake somewhere around calling for a taxi. Chester is the callow sociopath you always hoped he would be.

DeeEEeeeEEEEEeeEErP! He’s back!

That right there is Big straight up saying Chester’s uggo. Derps doesn’t look terribly interested in participating at this point.

How’s Faggot doing?

He’s about half way through his book.
Really, that looks like an awesome place to read. I’m kind of jealous of this fake little dude in this fake but pretty and periodically evocative world.

Derpaderp changes his mind and decides to catcall. Looks like he’s picking Big’s side.

If you’re counting, like I am, we’re up to 5.

Big literally trashtalks Chester, and derpatron finally does something he was designed to do- talk to a woman.

Looks like derpydibble’s about as smooth as a sandpaper babywipe.

6! 6 bitchslaps! *kapowie* Ah-ah-aaaaah!

Woah hey a break in the catfight (fatfight?). Wonder what Big’s problem is here.

Hands are still off the controls, honest injun- Chester decides to give Ashy the Vampire a call. Derp and Sugar might be finding common ground. And Big? He’s just got his dick in his hand.

Welp. All the fun’s gone out of this visit.

Oh, for fuck’s sake. Maybe she sees her cross-eyed, swarthy children in his eyes.

What the fuck is this? This is the most overdressed yet erudite scenic viewpoint you could ask for.

Went to check on Faggot‘s reading progress, and observed Chester sprinting hellbent for leather in the background.
‘Hellbent for leather.’ I have no idea at the etymology of that phrase. Probably live longer for not knowing the answer.

Huh, Chester’s going home on his own.

Well fuck him, we’ll hang out with Faggot.

Yeah. This is really turning out to be an exciting decision. Watching Faggot slowly plod through a book, as one by one the park visitors break from relentless flirting and head home.

Our friend, the posturized night time sky, the only witness to Faggot‘s exhilirating, Herculean achievement.

Yep.

Now what

Yep. See you at home, little buddy.

All that time passing? Sun set, Faggot finishing a quarter of his book?
I believe I completely understand the complaints about the ‘pathing’ in this town. It takes a lifetime to get anywhere, if you live out in the rich part of town.

Oh wow, that’s totally the Epicurean Zephyr! I guess it’s composed entirely of tachyons.

Chester bombs straight for bed.

Just in case you were curious at some of the ‘swanky house’ architecture, it’s the kind of pretentious, modern garbage you typically see Bangbros pornos shot at.

Do what now?

Oho, that’s not shabby. As you can see, he rode the Nydus worm canal and it pooped him out pretty close to home.

We just about make it home, when-

Alright, good to know.

This is the moodlet he’s stuck with. It’s not that gripping.

Just like this day, just like this update, his fear of the dark ended soon as he got inside.

He still dreams of it. Touching that stick. And the unspeakable horrors it released.

I think it’s kind of funny that unleashing an eldritch horror that left him looking like a soot-blasted finish to half of Yosimite Sam’s efforts to top Bugs Bunny had less impact on his mood than telling a bartender how to fix a fucking drink.

There are two reactions I have to show this. Firstly, who fucking cares. Second, I wish real life was this diligent telling you about sales.

It’s like managing a giant, digital, hair covered toddler.

Chester settles in for his morning routine…


…but it’s not routine, with the shower breaking.

Whatever, though… the filth is mounting in the kitchen, the bathroom is gradually coming apart, let’s just get breakfast on and hope this day fixes itself.

It’s granola waffles, again.

He repeats this ritual of peeping in on the oven numerous times while it cooks, probably grit and determined not to burn this batch.

Nature knows no mercy however.

I wonder where he’s going to elect to sit.

Chester gained a skillpoint! An ironic contrast to the overlapping stack of failures that’s accentuating this morning.

Well guess what, Chunks. Same thing is going to happen as yesterday. Gonna let you figure out what to do with that.
I think a funny thing about this shot, is that the nasty burnt mac & cheese is still sitting there, unattended.

Oh come on

He is pathetic.

Hello, don’t you know me?

I’m the dirt beneath your feet.

The most important fool you forgot to see.

I’ve seen how you give it,
Now I want you to receive.

I’m sure, for you would do the same for me.

Cause I know I’m headed for the bottom,

I know I’m headed for the bottom

I know I’m headed for the bottom…

Ladies, and gentlemen, I present to you,

Faggot Montecristo. He is another fine collection of standard Internet Male traits.

Now, some of you may be speculating, why is he named ‘Faggot?’
Is he gay? No, truthfully, he’s straight.
Is he one of those really mouthy, histrionic emo types that’s ‘taking it back?’ Nope, he’s a coward. You have to give the ‘histrionic emo types’ that do that dumb shit credit for having a dropped pair, even if they don’t function properly.
A-ha, I get it. He’s skinny. Like a bundle of sticks and he has European parents that don’t understand the conventional slang of our cultu Holy shit shut up no. Christ.

Faggot has been bullied and broken down so mercilessly over his small, young tender life, he’s been called a ‘faggot’ for so long, he doesn’t even bother going by his given name. He’s the consummate whipping boy. You want to know why he’s named, ‘Faggot?’ Because you called him a faggot too back in high school, too afraid to go against the grain, just glad it wasn’t you that got picked for that niche. Your fault.

Looks like he has a lifetime ambition of making a pig fuck a cyborg tomato plant to create a life form that is born a BLT. A mechanical BLT.

Faggot embarks upon his first self-determined activity!


He’s already becoming house-bitch, as Chester looks on. Or channels a demon nearby. Or rolls his eyes in ecstasy at what appears to be the arrival of a hipster butler.

You all get only one guess what Chester’s off to do. Ceremony or fanfare for Faggot’s arrival, and his immediate improvements to the quality of life in the house? Fuck that.

Faggot keeps on with the cleaning, until…


…the sink breaks. First hour in town (hell, in existence for that matter if you want to get meta), and Faggot is already subjugated, demoralized by the filth he’s surrounded in, and what’s more, he has a huge moodlet for feeling awkward around Chester because they’re merely ‘acquaintances’.

Faggot launches straight away into repairs.

What you don’t have the benefit of experiencing, is just how god damn long this is taking.

And what’s Chester doing to help?

Not a god damn thing.

All done! And worth a memory!

I’m just not going to bother offering a justification or rationalization why Faggot’s memories will start showing up on Chester’s Facebook.

Not one to rest on his laurels it appears…

Well damn!

Double damn!

All this big production and build-up I make about goony-goons, and they housewife it up on me.

Faggot finishes fixing the shower, and scores a skillpoint out of it, lightening his mood a bit.

Chester continues on his cleaning rampage, eliminating the old paper and taking out the trash.

Faggot sits down with today’s edition.

Jackpot! We accept it, and congratulations, the household has its first job!

Looks like Faggot gets a nice weekend in before the grind begins. Looks like he’s going to need to learn something about plants, too.

Yeah. He looks absolutely thrilled about it.

Chester uses the opportunity presented by the windfall of Faggot’s savings, to donate some of his money to an evil charity.

Aww, babby’s first din-din.

Salad prep doesn’t look all that irrational, compared to the other prep montages.

Chester examines the bookcase that was just bought, but god damn if he doesn’t look downright resentful about it.

I have to ignore the spore colony on the table, but sometimes the food prep in this game gets me hungry.

Yes, this is exactly what it looks like. Faggot is going to leave that dirty plate there, and head up to the computer while Chester tidies up.
What a tangled, retarded web we weave. Like a drunk, inbred spider got into the Fate’s thread cabinet.

Just in case perspective is required, it’s 8pm, Chester’s been in his underpants the whole day.
I know you’re jealous.

Total, total fuckin goon.

And in other goony happenstance, rather than improve relations and socialize with the person he lives with, Faggot’s first social interaction is… online.

Hallelujah!

Then he just sets it down. Because he’s disabled in some way. He’s got things wrong upstairs.

Then he up and decides he’s going to eat it anyway. Maybe this is some kind of neurotic habit for Chester.

Not worth screenshotting, worth noting. Chester finished his food, then cleared up the dishes. He goons ye, he goons ye not.

Chester decides he’s going to initiate some social conduct with Faggot-

Chester uses Nasty Plot!


It’s not very effective.

Chester hulks off to twist some taffy at the porcelain carnival, so Faggot decides to…

…tell himself a ghost story.

Wow. He’s got a real knack for the vernacular of storytelling.
So! Once upon a time, Morte from Planescape was trying on some purple smoke.
“Does this make my ass look big?”

“I don’t know,” responds the spectral cockroach, “I think this makes my ass look like it has tits.”

But all the sudden! David Blaine’s Mii busts through the haze and he’s angry yet again that the entire Internet thinks he’s a drama-whoring, shallow, goth-pandering no-talent!

People get cr-r-r-razy during the full moon! But David has no excuse, his entire life and career may as well have been under a quarter moon. Bathed in the glow that only poorly manufactured pretense can radiate. And purple smoke.

“AAAAGH! GOD NO! IS THIS TLC?! CHANGE IT I CAN’T TAKE ANOTHER EPISODE OF THIS SHIT!”

“‘Gargoyles’ was a promising, interesting show with an engaging cast, decent premise, and a nice mix-up from the other sloppy, mediocre cartoons it tried to shoulder up with.
Oh NO!
IT WAS CANNNNNNNNCELLLLEEEEED!”


“This is what ha-a-a-a-ppens when you u-u-u-se Tea Tree Ti-i-i-ingle for the first tiiiiiime….”

OH MY GOD SAY IT IS NOT SO

“What self-respecting goon WOULDN’T make this shit up and not involve zooooombieeeees?!”

“There’s ple-e-e-enty of dru-u-ufs!”

The end.

Chester clearly dislikes cliffhangers.

Welp, that’s one tuckered out little faggot.

Dude knows his place in this arrangement


This is a substantially more palatable level of discretion than SOME people we know.

Night night, little Faggot, with your dreams of tampering with the laws of nature.

Good night li… er… Chester, with your dreams of

DEATH

Chester dreamed about money a lot this night. It’s pretty clear he’s a fan of net gains.

I know how piggy feels…
He starves without missing a meal

Chester commits to a morning routine completely unremarkable to take screenshots of-

-except it appears we finally have a little bit of neglectful housekeeping. Judging by Chester’s acknowledgment and concern however, that bowl’s got a short tenure to look forward to as our first filth-radiating decoration.

Hey! That doesn’t look like it’s going to either be pseudo-Chex or effort-mac.

Looks like a wad of… motza? Maybe Chester’s observing a Sim Passover?

Okay, it turned into granola.

YOU MISSED THE FUCKING BOWL WITH THAT EGG YOU FUCKING DONKEY

Then it suddenly becomes FISTBATTER.


It then shitsprays all over a pan from its batter-ass.

Then courtesy of government nanites, or the Gordon Ramsay School of Angry Telekenetic Cooking, waffles congeal.

Butterboy chucks the waffles into the oven in perhaps the singularly worst and most inaccurate depiction of waffle prep you could ever witness.

At least it’s way more plausible that he’d learn a thing or two about cooking, making waffles from scratch using alchemy and the Force.
Incidentally, standing there staring at the wall for 45 sim-minutes while the waffles cook, counts as ‘learning’.

At this point we should just be glad they’re charred squares and that’s the extent of it.

In spite of all that trauma, he topped out with a cooking skill point, which was his first earned skillpoint at anything.

I’m illustrating all these ‘memories’ because they’re a ‘thing’ and they can broadcast to Facebook.

Here’s a look at his ‘scrapbook of memories’. Every time I turn around, there is more bored housewife demographic shit added to this game. Make no mistake, the ability to seduce a hot immigrant nanny / gardener should’ve been your first clue if this is any sort of revelation today.

This big fucking dope whines about being hungry right in front of that plate of waffles.
I’ll tell you what we’re going to do about this.
Nothing.
Fatty Skidbriefs can figure out what the fuck to do about this moment on his own.

He does what any one of us would’ve done. He says, ‘fuck it,’ and tucks into the charcoal disaster.


I’m only displaying these two shots right here to tell you I hovered over my pause button just waiting for him to give some kind of gag-face at eating the ruined pancakes, but he polished them off with all sorts of approving noises.

Huh, maybe his inner slob finally checked in.



Then again, perhaps not.

He repeated the disposal process for the remaining 3 ‘dead’ newspapers, then had a complete screaming growlfit over the outdoor garbage bin having trash in it.

Look at that shit. One of those shitty bigfoot hunter reality shows on Discovery are going to steal this screenshot and apply a nightvision lens Photoshop filter to it and call it their episode.

Shot significance: dirty dishes left out, while Chester heads on up to the computer.

The first order of business, is business itself.

Chester petitions an old friend to room with him. This will serve to further Chester’s fiduciary goals.

Confident of his friend’s acceptance of the invitation, Chester spares no expense in arranging the sleeping quarters.

Chester ‘makes room’ as you know you’ve heard your vile, classless grandfather put it.
A roar of outrage catches my attention, and…

…we’ve apparently got a broken toilet.


Hey I think that’s the stuff for Sims effort-mac & cheese.

Whatever, who’s got the time right?

Huh. Guess he was just making room. And who could fault him for the inspiration on food choice?

I wonder where he’s going to sit down to eat, with this unsat clusterfuck of a mess deck.

Chester’s life is coming apart at the seams today.

He drops the charred mass on the kitchen counter while his contemplation of vampires battles with the learning meter for visual dominance.

Chester, truly settling into the mold of a true goon, abandons the mess for the computer.

Just fucking worthless.
This goes on for a few hours. The sun sets, another uneventful day completely wasted.

8pm rolls around and I decide Chester’s got to do something with his useless ass.

This should be worth a laugh.

Chester makes his way, only a scant couple blocks.

And here we are, beneath a poorly gamma-corrected sky.

Welcome to the Stone Titties Memorial Boneyard, guaranteed unforgettable!

Chester just recklessly plows through the gates. There’s a tint of excessive abuse of red lighting I can detect in the direction he’s running.

He stops, and just lurks in the trees a moment, perhaps getting his bearings.

Chester then sets off, with an activity in mind that seems relative to that incredibly suspicious mausoleum with the hellish lighting.

Y… what?

Not a damn thing suspicious about this, right?

Alright, it’s a graveyard equipped with a full service wetbar and nightcap lounge. I think we had one of those in Northampton when I still lived there.

And here is the intended recipient of Chester’s unsolicited ‘mixology’ advice.

It’s the (quite mortal) offspring of David Duchovny and the lead singer from the Goo Goo Dolls.

Let’s see how well he takes advice from a guy that hasn’t served even himself a drink since the day he was brought into existence.

The conversation pose animation that made its way from Sims 2. I have no rightful idea after all these years of Sims what the hell that’s meant to convey, and ‘murble warf eeeee chiwurwals!’ doesn’t bring any of us closer to the truth.


No impact, whatsoever.
No, wait…

He gets a little sadboner because the bartender, predictably, was unimpressed with his pedantic, transparent bullshit.

Well. That ought to have an effect.

And the bartender’s response?

Some effeminate bibblebabble about new houses and home improvement.

Chester heads outside.

Looks like he’s about to interact with some crap on the ground…

Pulsating, coruscating crap…

Okay, then.

Really?

No. Not entirely true at all.

Much better.
Sorry, Catallus

No. And no ‘defiling’ options? WEAK.

Hey that sounds fun…

In we go!

Chester vaporizes. If this is just like that eating contest let-down…

Fuck. It is. How boring, there isn’t even a progress meter to let us know when this featureless, unimaginative development-corner-cutting activity is finished.

While we wait, some goofy, creepy music starts in.

I sure hope he doesn’t because we sure don’t have shit to go by except that anecdotal exposition box.

This just goes on and on, with creepy music and ever so slightly scary noises intermittently droning on.
I have to say. This was a real opportunity to see something neat I think that was blown.

Oh so the point of catacomb exploration is… graverobbing?
We wait around another Sim-hour. Chester’s mood meters are all decaying except for ‘Fun’, which is pegged out.

Uh. OK. Thank you, game.

Out of nowhere:

This dude comes charging in, all warping reality because he’s so fast.
My god this game is just shamelessly cashing in on every ‘trendy vampire’ thing they can aren’t they?

There is no debate. We’re pushing the stick. If I left it up to you guys to vote on, the one guy that would suggest to ‘Keep Walking’ would get chased off the Games forum.

As I select for Chester to quite potentially make the worst decision of his short-lived Sim career, Queercifur here peals across the front of the catacombs.

I’m going to take a moment here to reflect on something. Remember Sims 2 when bumping into vampires was a rare thing and really felt like a big moment? That’s because it WAS rare. This shit’s getting so commonplace that every time I see a vampire in Chester’s world, I’m starting to feel the same twinge of embarrassment I feel towards the entirety of our Western civilization every time I see a commercial for ‘Vampire Diaries’.

Let’s get a better look at Queercifur.

Oh great, someone threw some fucking sideburns on Zac Efron and now he’s all LORD OF THE NIGHT fuck YOU.

Skinnypants with a grandma’s Victorian wallpaper print. This is a crime. Someone got paid to produce this.

Oh, shit… Maybe?

I don’t believe this is relative to Queercifur. He just done got scared shitless on his own. It’s his own damn fault, who the hell goes bumblefucking around in catacombs without their Pincers of Doom?
I do believe that this is the consequence for pushing that stick though.

Chester emerges! He looks a wee bit banged up.


This almost makes up for how droll it was waiting for him to get finished in there.

But it doesn’t.

We’ve all been here.

Without any provocation from me, he immediately decides he wants to go home. I think we all can find this quite reasonable.

He heads straight for bed and in a complete reversal of fortune to an otherwise excellent end to a useless waste of a day, he does the spinny-clothes change thing and is instantly de-traumatized.
Everybody knows, when you come home looking the way he did a moment ago, you WILL have sheets to burn the next day.