A battle.net Resource site with a focus on Diablo III and Starcraft II

It’s been some time since my last diary, but the past few weeks have been so lazy, so blazy, so all-around hazy, that this morning is the first chance I’ve had to record the chaos of my recent past. Some quick updates: I have (finally) found a job and moved out of my uncle’s house, leaving behind three pairs of socks and a lingering weed stench in the upstairs bathroom. I have also been formally invited to the Starcraft II Beta, and I’ve subsequently received an additional beta key to pass along to a friend. This week’s stories will feature my friend J-Feath and I as we play on the two accounts, respectively named VERYPHENIS and NOTGHEY.

L33t strats bro, l33t strats

If you’ve read any of my earlier posts, you’ll know that I strongly recommend a heavy dose of THC for any variation of Starcraft. Luckily for me, J-Feath is a world-renowned spliff roller. He spent two years in Switzerland studying the craft; watching him break up his weed, pepper it with tobacco and roll the entire thing into a clean, crisp cylinder is like watching a fine ballet. Smoking it like, it’s like… well, it’s like getting high as shit.

We usually play 2-3 games between spliffs, and the transition is usually smooth, unless I get it into my head to play a quick 1v1 while J-Feath rolls one up. The problem? J is just too damn fast, and not every game can be won in four minutes. Most recently, I had a match start just as J was putting the finishing touches on a spliff, and I knew that I could try his patience for roughly two minutes before he would spark the joint and I would miss out. So, I immediately began talking loads of shit to my opponent. “I got l33t strats,” I told him. “You gonna get FUCKED.” I then took all of my probes, rushed his probes, and lost. “Damn,” I said. “Good fucking game!” Needless to say, I successfully Fitz-rushed the spliff.

Sendin’ out a scout

The problem with smoking spliffs compared to bowls is the incredible tobacco high that can accompany them. I have a bad habit of hitting spliffs like they were going out of style, inhaling far more of the head-spinning tabacco than I usually care to indulge in. The result is that, after getting a little too excited on the spliff, I begin a match with my head spinning like a bowling ball on ice.

A couple days ago, I was suffering from this wacky-tabacky syndrome. I was puttering along just fine in my base, building everything I needed to (though a few seconds slower than normal), and as per my usual plan, I sent a drone to scout the opposing team.

Then the spins came on, heavy and fast, and I had to squeeze my eyelids closed to shake the feeling. I realized I sent my probe in the wrong direction, and I rerouted it to the closest enemy’s base.

“What noobs,” I told J, who played on the computer directly next to me (yes, we have two computers set up side by side. We are nerds). “This bitch doesn’t even have a Spawning Pool up yet.”

I massed a few Zerglings for an early rush and then sent them to the location of my probe. Instead of running out of my base, though, they ran to the very back end of it. “Man this path-finding is broken or something,” I said, choking out a belch.

“Uh,” J said, and his tone was enough. I double-checked the location of my probe and realized that, yes, I had sent my probe back into my own base. The bitch without a Spawning Pool? Yep, that was me. J-Feath and I laughed our asses off, lost, and smoked yet another spliff.

You win some, you lose like, 30

In all honesty, J-Feath and I make a pretty terrible team. It is possible to be over-blazed for serious 2v2 Starcraft, and I think we manage to cross that line every time we hang out. Still, we gain some victories, and they feel fan-fucking-tastic.

While winning as Random has a certain pizazz to it (it’s like having a large cock and wearing really tight pants), we tend to fair better when we play several matches as consistent races. Most recently, I played Terran while J-Feath went Protoss. Void Rays, an early Protoss air unit, are extremely overpowered at this point in the game, so J-Feath usually goes for those. On my end, I opt for about 1,000 upgraded Vikings, which can pretty much toast anything as long as you mass them before the enemy rolls out Battlecruisers, or a similar third-tier unit.

Most often, though, we’ve been wailing as our defeat comes rolling in, some 100-odd units deep, tearing our blazily constructed bases to pieces. There are various cries of defeat, all of them ridiculous, but the shrillest seems to be one that we’ve been saying over and over during crushing defeats: “Ohhhhhh, Honey! Stop! My pussy hurts!”

Rfitz out.

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