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There have been questions about who at PerversionTracker is real, and who is a delirious imagining of THE EVIL FORCES behind PvT, so we've whipped up this handy organizational chart to help you keep track of the executive team, employees, enemies, etc, etc, and on, and on, and so forth, vis a vis "partying naked," and we feel compelled to provide you with an addendum at least mentioning that THIS IS THE SONG THAT NEVER ENDS!
There are some games that are so exciting that they make you stay awake all night, heart palpitating and mouth dry, as you fumble with mouse and keyboard into the wee small hours.
This is not one of those games. This is not worth a stinking drop of sweat on the puckered, hairless scrotum of one of those games.
Being an Australian, I am au fait with any number of diseases of sheep: anthrax, pulpy kidney, blackleg, barber's pole worm, ovine Johnne's disease, and (in New Zealand) syphilis. I strongly suspect that the sheep in this game suffer from all of these, and more. Indeed, Lambs A Leapin' is so egregiously bad that I wonder if it's not a plant from the Beef Marketing Board, to put people off lamb chops for life.
All of the lambs look the same. All of the lambs do exactly the same thing. They are mindless, grinning clones, designed to drive anyone who sees them into a vengeful, limb-rending frenzy among their children's soft toys. ("I'll wipe that friggin' grin off your face, you sickly-sweet fluffy bastard!") Having seen these lambs at their work, I can now confirm that Dolly the Sheep, queen of the clones, did not die of quasi-natural causes -- she committed suicide when she saw version 1 of this mangled blancmange of intestinal offcuts.
Once, in a ghoulishly inspired moment among the very few that I bothered to spend at this tripe, I managed to ever so slightly liven things up by letting a lamb fall through the clouds. I imagined it hitting the ground below, exploding (thwok!) into a rack of ribs and a kilo of loin chops, and then lying still, a mangled bloody carcase with it's eyes bulging from its shattered skull. But even that couldn't raise a smile.
This is the ghastly product of an uninspired developer who should have his testicles placed on a brick and crushed with a splintery mallet. When I visited the Sputnik website, I broke down into tears of enraged mirth when I read the following pack of porkies: "Our games are geared toward the casual gamer that enjoys a challenge or just wants to have some fun." There is no challenge -- unless you're Helen Keller, and even then it would be a greater challenge not to trip over the stuffed kitten on the mantelpiece. And there is most emphatically no fun.
The only possible redemption for this game is its potential in the New Zealand pornography market. Let's see some lipstick and gumboots on those sheep! Let's see a seductive wiggle of their hips as they leap across the clouds ... For the love of God, let's see any sign of life in this sad, cold, woolly carcase! This is not a review -- it's a veterinary post mortem.
Sputnik, you are aptly named, for like your namesake you should be shot into geostationary orbit, sans spacesuit, so that your eyes pop out and your lungs explode, and you nevermore sully the world of software games. Lambs A Leapin', mutton dressed as lamb, you are hereby awarded a lanoline-soaked 11 and a lit cigar butt in the eye. May packs of dingos rip you limb from limb.
Or should I say, Ultimate SuckZone?
Parrot Interactive, please accept this anodized 10.8 for your "four different slotgames."
Mach Ten Metas claims to be "the easy, quick solution to creating meta tags." In case you ain't from around here, meta tags are HTML tags that are supposed to help search engines index websites. Meta tags are usually ignored nowadays, due to widespread overuse and abuse. For example, here is a small but revealing sample of the keywords we have listed on PvT: "swanky digs, blue-footed boobies, dingo's donger, I'm a Bushie!, regurgitated meow mix, Kissinger's fleshy orbs, pee-pee poo-poo, cherry bomb pie, Ashcroft, scatology, scientology, pentacle, Pentagon, golden showers."
But obviously MTM doesn't work very well, since if it did, you never would have heard of it. Slightly poor software impresses nobody. Laughably disgusting software, however, impresses us greatly. And MTM is very impressive. Either that or we mistook a hot stove for the toilet again.
Although we didn't actually attempt to use MTM per se, as they say, one look was enough to convince us such an activity would be more painful than inserting a fresh onion slice in place of our normal Cottonelle ("Cottony Soft Toilet Paper for you and your family!") Ultra Fluffy Super Puffy Tissue. We have no quibble with bright colors -- in fact, our taste in shower curtains has been described as "What are you, some kind of rainbow child?" -- but this? This is ocular madness.
Our resulting nausea (both physical and existential) was not calmed by the Star Wars-inspired sound effects punctuating our every action and the blurry label text that created the painful illusion that we had just stumbled through a three-day Saharan sandstorm with eyes wide open. The grossly inept pinstripe background brings to mind William Shatner's heartbreaking rendition of "Mr. Tambourine Man" -- indeed, our bodies saw fit to go into cardiac arrest shortly after the experience.
dot sw (a.k.a. Tommy P.), your name has ruined this paragraph. It could have been "Dot sw," or "Dot SW," or even "Dot SuckWare" -- all would have been a better choice. Further demonstrating your feeble grasp of English is the frequent use of the word "Documentry." For this, and many other unspeakables, we are relieved to fling a slightly squishy 11.0 in your direction.
Okay, we admit it -- all these silly social conventions tend to get us down. We simply don't understand why it's such a major freaking deal if we want to walk down the street naked, loudly impugning the maternal lineage of passersby in the guttural accents of western Poland. Why should we not keep an untamed llama in the house? Why should we not drink whiskey sours in the morning, or piping hot cups of Earl Grey tea in a rollercoaster? Why should we not get jiggy wid it? And, more apropos to this review, why should we not pretend to be international spies?
If we happen to enjoy racing about continental Europe in zippy foreign motorcars, having random hot sex with impossibly proportioned humanoids, acting wildly daredevilish and debonair but secretly having a super-genius IQ, all while taking a firm stand against the most recent global menace (we'll call him Bjorg W. Gush) and his hairy legions of shifty-eyed xenophobic puppetmasters -- where the hell is this sentence going?
Oh yes. We like spy games. It's true that we mostly like the part about dressing up in black trenchcoats, merkins, and giant boobs, but we aren't totally shallow. No. We also like the part where we fiercely goose our fishtailing motorcycles across the opening drawbridge just in the nick of time, and we'd love to see John Moltz pull off a wicked stunt like THAT, the big softball-playing wussy.
So anyway, you'd think the PvT staff would glom right onto this squiffy little cloak-and-daggerish bit from Citrus Software (Vitamins for Your Computer!™) since it's intended to render any or all of a computer's folders invisible (just like magic!) to the lurking counter-spies and secret agents and moles and sleepers that haunt our footsteps.
Alas, alack. We regret to confirm that good intentions are not good enough. Eagerly typing in our password ("bob") we disobeyed the read-me's instructions to re-type the same password for confirmation (defiantly now: "fred") expecting, of course, to be rejected as evil impostors. But no. It appears that the "password" is an idea that exists largely, perhaps completely. outside the conceptual sphere of Citrus Software.
It's our woeful duty to inform our readers that CloakIt -- an application so shiny and promising on the surface -- is rotten to its faux-citrus core. When a developer claims that his software will make our folders invisible, in exchange for which he hopes to extract $9.95 (47,536.12 Zambian kwacha) from the international spy community, we feel it's only fair that the software should actually make our folders invisible. But no. It appears that the traditional meaning of the word "invisible" has been rather broadly reinterpreted in certain lemon-fresh circles as something more akin to: "invisible if you are blind."
Citrus Software, you have left us shaken, not stirred. In return for your perfidy, you will receive a mouth-puckering 11.0 in an unmarked parcel by the earliest possible post.
