Let's face it - Native Americans have gotten the shaft as long as white men have been stamping across the Americas. As soon as the Mayflower landed at Plymouth Rock, we've been taking advantage of the Indians' generous hospitality, learning how to better cultivate this strange new land, gaining extensive knowledge of the flora and fauna that inhabited our new home, and we totally fucking ripped off the name “maize” when the first colonial strippers came up with their stage names. And it's not like they can move to Britain, because everyone just gets assimilated into their gay, PAL-based, crumpet-chewing culture. And I have never seen an Indian who is willing to use a PAL VCR. They didn't hike across the Bering Strait for fifty fuckin' hertz. T. Hawk, Street Fighter's token Native American, is no exception to the rule that our aboriginal people get fucked over bad. In fact, he's always going around the world fighting in these Street Fighter competitions, and never has time to hook up with that special someone. The singles bar scene really doesn't do it for ol' T. Hawk. Can you blame him? Where's the romance? The adventure? It's lost in a haze of bourbon and cheap, domestic beer. And whores are out of the question! This lovable studmuffin is a total gent, the pinnacle of chivalry, appreciating both a woman's body as well as her mind! Kind of. He keeps on trying to convince me that escorts don't count as whores, because you're paying for the date, not the sex. That, my friends, is a debate for another day.

Next time they're handing out awards at “The Oldest Virgin Alive” contest, Gen is sure to take first place. Several factors come into play when we examine why it is exactly that Gen can't ever get a taste of the ol' bald taco, but it all boils down to his status as the worst dresser in the entire Street Fighter series. Sorry guys, but a purple gi with red booties? Call the fashion hazmat, we have a biohazard on our hands here! Oh, and talk about being a little late on trends? Sorry to say this bud, but fictional characters without pupils, retinas, or irises were never cool. And this pathetic little comeback he's trying to make isn't helping at all. So the original Street Fighter came out in like, what? 1987? Then he retires, and waits ten years or so until Street Fighter Alpha 2 to get his game on again. My friend, you're trying way too hard. Let me tell you a little secret: the bearded clam shall elude you eternally if you act this desperate. Play it down a little, man. Take it easy. Seriously, you weren't that popular in the original Street Fighter. You weren't even a fucking playable character, so I have no idea why you wasted your time on this useless comeback. Just hit a few bars, keep it low key, and don't mention anything about your involvement in the Street Fighter series. Believe me, unless you're Ken, these bitches don't fucking care. And would it kill you to visit The Gap? Buy yourself something nice, but not over-the-top. Stay cool, Gen. Stay cool. Whew. Is he finally gone? Jesus. That guy is hopeless.

When it comes to Sodom, I don't even think a paragraph is necessary. Here's the facts: He's an American citizen obsessed with Japanese culture. A goddamn otaku. Using the words “pussy” and “otaku” in the same sentence is like trying to get The Kid and Morris from Purple Rain to stop arguing over who's going to get down Apollonia's pants first: it ain't gonna happen (exception to the rule: “You fucking pussy-ass bitch otaku.”). He's obviously extremely sexually frustrated. He wears these big football shoulder pads underneath his shirt to make himself looked ripped, yet his lower torso reveals that he has the muscle tone of Sid Vicious on a heroin binge. I wouldn't be suprised if he uses the “You know where the gym is?” line all the time. He's not all that bright, either. Let's face it, anyone who joins a gang called the “MAD GEAR” is obviously pretty fucking retarded. You've got guys like Bloods, Crips, Latin Kings and such, and then you've got MAD GEAR all sounding like a straight-to-video sci-fi shitfest all starring Dolph Lundgren. Finally, when it comes right down to it, the motherfucker is just plain ugly. There's a reason why he wears that damn mask, and it's not because of any ancient Kabuki tradition, or even because of some horrible katana accident from which he was forced to hide his face in shame forever. He's got a big honkin' schnoz, still feeling the ravages of a bad case of acne, and has a lazy eye. One is reminded of Lenny from George Steinbeck's classic novel Of Mice and Men. Minus the charm, wit, and realistic dialogue.

I'm saving the best for last. Or is it the worst? OR DOES IT REALLY MATTER BECAUSE ALL OF YOU FUCKERS KNOW IT'S ROLENTO? Rolento started off as a legitimate actor, earning minor roles in off-Broadway productions likr Baby Commando Studios' rendition of “Two Gentlemen of Verona”, and Guts Man Stage Production Incorporated's “A Midsummer's Night Dream”. But when you're in the big city (Trenton, New Jersey), those kind of roles can't pay the bills, baby. The big bucks are in the porno trade, yo! Sadly, Trenton's scene isn't too big with the vanilla guy-on-girl scene, and the only production Rolento could find work in was a local gonzo beastiality production. It payed. Sweet Jesus, it payed. Still, he had to think about it for a while. His morals. His values. What this could possibly mean for the rest of his career? And then finally decided it was worth the $800. Rolento showed up on the set, and in two days, finished what was arguably the greatest man-on-dog performance ever filmed. The film's popularity started to rise, and was eventually even shown in mainstream theatres across the United States. However, not only was Rolento not entitled to receive any royalty cheques from Mark Stone (director, “Bow Wow YOOOOO-JESUS I'M CUMMING”), but his career immediately nosedived. The only company these days who would hire a guy who got sucked off by a dog on camera would be Miramax and, let's face it, poochie-porn pays more than those assholes do. Slowly, Rolento began to lose grip on his sanity. He just couldn't get his shit together. So he did the only thing a man could do when driven into a corner as he was: Dress up like a Post-Traumatic Stress Syndrome-mad commando and declare yourself Supreme Revolutionary Commander of the Free Italian Army, despite being of Irish-German descent. Needless to say, getting some is the least of Rolento's worries. I mean, come on, the dude has an imaginary army to worry about! Give the guy a break.

Ladies and gentlemen, I hope you enjoyed the article, and I wish you all a pleasant evening! If this was a film of some sort, and I was narrating, I'd throw a smoke bomb down and disappear into the night, not to be seen for years, and when you finally do see me again, I would have aged terribly, yet would have gained the knowledge and wisdom of the cosmos themselves! But since it's not, here's a picture of Mysterio from the Marvel Comics series, Spider-Man!

THE MOON AND THE STARS AND THE SUN!



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