Trump's America: Blizzard to Remove All Support Heroes from Overwatch

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In a press release earlier today Blizzard announced that following the inauguration of Donald Trump as president of the United States of America, the Overwatch Dev team will be forced to remove all support heroes from the game within the month.

"Unfortunately heroes such as Mercy, Zenyatta, Lucio and Ana, though wildly popular and a critical part of overall game balance, can no longer be allowed as playable characters in Overwatch," said a representative "as this is now Trump's America, which means nobody gets health care."

In addition to the removal of support classes, it seems heroes with abilities that provide healing to teammates (such as Soldier 76's 'biotic field') will also have those features removed. Abilities like Roadhog's 'take a breather' and Bastion's 'repair' will be remain in game, however.

"In accordance with the new administration's policies, being able to get healing for yourself is fine," the representative elaborated "but the idea that others might also require life saving health care is out of the question."

When asked to comment on the upcoming changes, Tank hero Reinhardt responded "I guess I'll just die." 

Future updates are rumored to include the removal of recent addition Sombra for being "a little bit too brown" as well as all maps being replaced with the map Volskaya.

Also Winston will be removed. You know why.

 

 

Man Cold Theory

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It's that time of year again.

It's cold and miserable out and Christmas is over, so that thing where the weather seemed charming and festive is done; Now it's just cold and miserable and we're all back to being dead inside. On top of that, cold and flu season is in full swing. Donna at the office blows her nose once and you're like 'Donna, you sniffly bitch. Go home and stay the hell away from the rest of us before we all catch whatever plague you dragged in here'.

One thing also comes around without fail this time of year; an absolute tidal wave of people making that joke about Men vs Women when it comes to being sick. You know the one, I'm sure. "This is how a woman acts with a cold... and THIS is how a MAN acts with a cold!"

If you aren't familiar or need a refresher, it's basically this:

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While I love marginally funny observational humor repeated ad nauseam as much as the next guy, I actually have something of a theory on this matter. 

Generally, being a man involves a lot of acting way more stoic and tough than you really feel.

Tired? Shut your face and go lift that bag of rocks.

Slightly chilly? Hike up your frilly pink ballerina skirt and man up you quivering weenie.

Chopped three of your fingers off with a table saw? Screw you! Rub some dirt in the holes, tape a couple of hot dogs to your finger stumps and finish building that goddamn shelf.

You're sad? What even is sadness? Is that a type of salad dressing? Do you eat it on your tiny baby bunny rabbit salads with a healthy sprinkling of being a little bitch on top? THAT'S WHAT THE HELL I THOUGHT, GO HAMMER SOME STUFF.

There is a lot of pressure put on men to be tough, to be protectors and providers and generally to wall in anything that could be construed as weakness. Men spend their entire lives being conditioned that they are one slightly effeminate display of emotion, overt reaction to pain, or failure to catch an object thrown to them away from being relentlessly mocked, beaten to death or called Susan for the rest of their lives by their peers. It can kind of mess a person up.   

I postulate that the one time a man's subconscious tells him it's acceptable to be weak or powerless is when he's sick. If that is the case, the phenomenon of the man cold can be explained as the swinging of the psychological pendulum from one extreme to the other. Where before all weakness was shut out, now there is nothing left but a completely useless husk of a person. It's kind of like the psyche taking a vacation. 

For whatever reason, being sick is the only time a man feels like he can admit weakness without being judged for it. It's the only time he feels like he's allowed to say "I feel icky and I don't want to do anything and please take care of me and don't ask me to do things and let me lay here and feel bad for myself."

It's not a conscious decision to be a giant sniveling man-baby whenever he doesn't feel good; It's more like a dam breaking that was holding back a massive torrent of water from washing away a village. Once the barrier holding in a lifetime worth of 'toughing shit out' starts to give, things get out of control pretty fast. The mind is a powerful thing, and could easily be responsible for men experiencing illnesses more intensely than their female counterparts. 

Females who, by the way, spend their whole lives being told by society that they are weaker, more fragile and more emotionally delicate than men are. While men are being pressured to be cold, unflappable, meat chewing, punch-a-bear-in-the-goddamn-face badasses, women have their own equally shitty expectations to deal with. They're having emotional over-sensitivity rammed down their face holes from the time they are born; hence, the exact opposite reaction to being sick.

BOOM. Two theories for the price of one. Thus explained irrefutably, why Men devolve into helpless piles of snot and vapor-rub when they get sick while women stuff two kleenex up their nose and go about their business, summoning the strength to function from sheer spite.

I'm sure there is some sort of gripe to be had here where a bunch of words like patriarchy and gender stereotypes would get thrown around, but we're really more about farts and laughing about words like 'dongle' around here so lets leave that part to tumblr.

If you take one thing away from reading this: From one man to the rest of society out there; Maybe lay off your husband or boyfriend next time they're feeling under the weather. Remember, being a dramatic baby is his way of venting like 400,000 times he's hit his elbow and had to play it off like it was fine over the course of his life plus the fact that he was never allowed to cry as a child, even when Shannon D'marcus told him he was an ugly loser that sweat too much in sixth grade gym class and everyone laughed.

He'll get up in the middle of the night and walk around the house with a baseball bat like some sort of underpants vigilante because you 'heard a noise' without complaint because the world trained him that he has to. Even though nobody want's to walk around their dark house at two in the morning wearing boxer shorts and a "Who Farted?" t-shirt with a mustard stain on it to maybe have to fight a man and/or escaped circus bear to death, he'll do it for you. So maybe he gets a pass on staying in bed for a few days with a head cold.

  

 

The Sock Revolution

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It's a sock revolution up in here y'all.

My life feels like it's become a series of annoyances revolving around what should be the simple act of finding two pieces of cloth in which to swaddle my feeties before I stick them into a shoe that a.) match and b.) don't have holes in them so big I could pretty much just pull them up and wear them like a garter belt if I wanted.

I'm taking back control of my life. I'm throwing out every single sock I own and starting over.

Why such a harsh and some might say, completely idiotic, response to a problem?

I'll tell you.

I swear to a talking avocado deity that every time I do laundry I end up in some sort of existential crisis about whether or not I live in an alternate universe where socks share the exact same properties as electrons, thus governed by the Heisenberg uncertainty principle can only be represented as an indistinct cloud rather than individual units as it's only possible to know how fast they are moving or where they are, but not both at the same time.

The fact that I can possibly have so many socks come out of the wash without a match is truly a mystery to which I have no answer. How is it that when I go to fold laundry only a third of the socks have a match and I don't even have the right amount to pair them all up? I'm pretty sure I didn't wear an odd number of socks this week. It's not like I got up in the morning to get dressed at any point and was like "Fuck it, today is one boot and one flip flop day at work". The socks coming out of the laundry should all have a match and there should be an even number of them, but for some reason which eludes all plausible explanation, this is not ever the case.

Not to mention half my socks seem to be generating spontaneous holes each week. What the butts is happening in my dryer that my socks come out missing the entire toe? Did I turn the knob one past permanent press and accidentally activate 'tumble with a fuck bunch of scissors' mode?

And you know what? I'd even take the socks without matches and the holes if it weren't for stranger socks.

On numerous occasions I've come across socks that I am absolutely, without a doubt, one hundred percent positive do not belong to me. Men's socks, women's socks, specialty socks designed for someone with a weird condition where they have hooves for feet, who knows what's coming out of there when I do laundry?

I swear to you on pain of death that I've pulled a children's sock from my laundry before. There are no children that live in my house. There are no children that visit my house. How the actual hell did I end up with a single green and white child size sock in my laundry? Is there somebody out there going around slipping children's socks into people's pocket at the grocery store so they come out in the wash and make them so angry they want to throw a  carpet-bag full of bricks down a flight of stairs?

Listen, universe with your weird sock based form of practical jokes. I have enough problems without having four new unmatched socks that are now in my life forever whenever I do laundry. I'm sick of it.

Of course my tactic of 'get fed up every four to six months and go buy more socks' only makes things worse. It helps in the short term, sure, but inevitably the new socks just end up getting sucked into the hell vortex that apparently is my laundry routine, simply adding to it's power. 

It's gotten to the point where I've decided to take a page out of old testament God's playbook. It's a page I like to call 'Fuck everything and start over'. Since I don't have the ability to purge the planet with a flood or drop an enormous goddamn rock from orbit on my laundry room, I've settled for a less flashy form of smiting. I went through my entire house and gathered up every sock I own, matched or unmatched and put them in one spot. This is what I came up with:

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Now I'm not sure what a normal amount of socks for a single person to own is but I'm fairly certain this counts as too-goddamn-many. I have two feet, enough socks to wear a different pair every day for  over a month and somehow still cant ever find two that match at the same time. Do you see now how dealing with this shit on a constant basis is ruining my life? That laundry basket is full. FULL. A basket that is supposed to have the capacity to hold enough clothing for at least a week (or in my case four weeks until I run out of pants I can no longer pass off as clean enough and have to do wash) is filled just with socks. 

NO MORE.

I went on amazon and purchased ten pairs of high quality wool socks. They came in today, ten pairs, twenty socks, all the same, all new.

Also apparently made in the USA, which I never noticed before, but explains why they were about twice the price of what a pair of socks should cost. 'Murica.

In an event. These ten pairs of socks are henceforth my only form of foot underwear. I will wear these, and only these ten pairs of socks in a rotation, until they wear out from age, I die, or the inevitable heat death of the universe arrives.

I feel like a man reborn.

Oh, and as for my old socks? I threw those fucks in the trash.