Linda Overmyer of Ames, Iowa was named the “Worst Mom Ever” in a unanimous decision by her sons Eric and John last night after her stunning mistake of purchasing Modern Warfare: Reflex for the Nintendo Wii instead of Modern Warfare 2 for the Xbox 360 in a late-night shopping trip to Wal-Mart. The decision, a stunning turnaround from her title of “Coolest Mom in the World” after her decision to buy the game for her children, came amidst a barrage of tears, obscenities, and general chaos in the Overmyer household.

When asked what brought her to this stunning low, Linda told Hardcasual, “I got to the store and there were all these games there with the same names. Call of Duty 4, Call of Duty: Modern Warfare 2, Brothers in Arms, Army of Two – how was I supposed to know what the boys wanted? I knew they wanted the one that just came out, and the young man at the counter just kind of shrugged at a display. And, well, I knew I had heard of the Wii before, so I figured that would be the one they wanted.”

Eric, 14, begged to differ. “I told her like a thousand times. Modern Warfare 2 for the 360. She should know better, she’s always the one telling us to stop playing Xbox. She never has to tell us to stop playing Wii – we haven’t turned that thing on since a week after we made her buy us Super Smash Brothers. It’s like, how can you be an adult and still know absolutely nothing about anything? Everybody at school tomorrow is going to be talking about Modern Warfare 2, and what are we supposed to talk about? How cool our Wii is?”

Linda continued her story, “When I brought the game up to the counter, the young man said, ‘Are you sure you want to buy this one?’ I thought it must just be that he thought it was too violent for me to buy. But I know my boys, and they’re very mature. They can handle a game like this, even if it’s a little violent. Besides, they told me that there was absolutely nothing too violent or controversial about the game, and they wouldn’t lie to me just to get a videogame.”

John, 15, told us, “We made her go by herself because they totally card for M-rated games there, and it would have been so embarrassing if anybody from school saw us having our mom buy us a game. Everyone would have thought we were totally lame that we didn’t, like, have a fake ID or an older brother or some other awesome way to buy M-rated games. But how were we supposed to know she’d screw up like that? God, it’s like she was never a kid who just wanted a videogame.”

“It’s so unfair,” the boys said. “She wouldn’t even go back to exchange it tonight. She said, ‘Well, do you want dinner, or do you want your videogame?’ And we said ‘Duh, we want the videogame,’ and she was all like, ‘Well, I won’t have time to make dinner,’ and we were like, ‘Why don’t you just go get Pizza Hut,’ and she was all angry like, ‘Because Pizza Hut is trash and you’ll need your energy to play your game when I go get it for you tomorrow.’ God, what a b-i-t-c-h.”

“Now I’m not sure if I’ll even get them the game,” said Linda. “After the way they acted, maybe they should learn a lesson about respect. Then again, I’m sure that the realistic military scenario of the game will give them a chance to learn a lot about respecting others and our military’s great discipline and honor.” The boys quietly returned to their room, where they returned to teabagging Nazi zombies in Call of Duty: World at War, and waited for their horrible bitch of a mom to come to her senses and return the game at the 24-hour Super Wal-Mart one county over.

Everyone Else Went Tubing
Spend 50 hours or more playing games in one weekend.

Sausage Test
Have no female friends on Xbox Live.

Spoiler: The Yankees Win
Play a previous season’s sports game.

But Quizno’s Pays Minimum Wage!
Buy three games that your Xbox Live friends have already had for over a month.

Maybe You Should Buy a Wii
Take twice as long to beat three games as a normal XBox gamer.

Who Wants a Body Massage?
Pleasure yourself to climax with XNA vibration app.

Crisis Hotline
Accidentally kill yourself in every game you own.

The Lost and the DebtPurchase The Lost and the Damned or The Ballad of Gay Tony without having finished Grand Theft Auto 4.

Dos!
Celebrate UNO victory and make number two over Xbox Live Vision Cam.

Basement Leech
Pay for over three games with a parent’s credit card.

Sleeping on the Couch Again?
Log a play session between 3 AM and 5 AM.

Friends Are For the Weak
Play a single-player game on a Friday night.

Red Ring of Denial
Log more than five under-two-minute play sessions hoping your Xbox won’t red ring again this time.

Riptor, the genetically engineered velociraptor-human hybrid, prances triumphantly around the reflective blue puddle collected in the middle of the arena. Across the chasm, seated at a long conference table, three Ultratech scientists hurriedly write down the results of the match.

“That was quick,” say Dr. Matters.

“You said it. I certainly didn’t expect the frozen alien to lose to the dinosaur,” Dr. Keilwen says as he chews on his pen cap. “I mean, didn’t the ice age kill those things?”

“No, Stan, a meteor killed them,” says Dr. Pritch. “Read a book.” He rips a page out of his notepad, crumbles it up, and tosses it over his shoulder. It falls into a endless pit. “Do you want to create a meteor creature, too? Would that make you happy?”

Dr. Keilwen glances at his colleague and then down at his hands. “No.”

No one is very happy with the results of this match. Ever since Ultratech decided to have a contest to determine what the ultimate weapon on Earth is, Glacius has been the favorite around the lab; he’s the perfect mix of alien shapeshifting technology and liquid cool, and made a hell of an ice tea, which was very handy for those fights scheduled on the lava flow.

He was much easier to control than Cinder, could be stored in a mason jar, unlike Fulgore, and ate less of their colleagues than Riptor. If he won the Killer Instinct tournament, the head of the company had already decided he was going to renege on his deal to set him free and use him as the ultimate police force for his oppressive corporate regime.

So what happened? Why was Glacius, the best fighter in the competition, so quick to submit to Riptor, the second lowest-ranked fighter on the ladder — behind only TJ Combo? Why didn’t he ruin that ankle-biting piece of shit?

According to the test results coming out of Ultratech labs, there was a third, unseen competitor in the arena that day: global warming.

The next day, the scientists gather in their lab at the base of a spooky mansion to run tests. They’re working harder than they’ve ever worked. They’re working through their grief.

“Holy shit,” Dr. Pritch whispers. He holds the test results in his hand. “Our CO2 levels are through the roof! Why has no one noticed this before?”

Dr. Matters looks up from his daily Fulgore examination. “I guess we were all a little busy building killing machines, weren’t we?” The scientists all grumble and nod.

“Look at this. There’s been a seven degree rise in temperature over the past year alone. No wonder Glacius lost! He was being baked alive by greenhouse gasses,” says Dr. Pritch. “We killed him with our dependence on fossil fuels!”

“Don’t be so dramatic, pal,” says Cinder. “This feels great. It’s like I’m in a warm bath all the time. Plus, if it killed that icy blue prick, it must be good.”

Dr. Keilwen chases Cinder out with a fire extinguisher.

“We have to do something about this,” Dr. Pritch continues. “Ultratech is destroying our fragile ecosystem. It’s up to us to show some corporate responsibility! I mean, think of it this way, what if we enslave another ice-based alien who has crash landed on our planet? Do you really want to go through another heartbreak?”

The other scientists are silent. Finally, Dr. Matters speaks up. “It sounds great, Peter. It really does; but you know how busy we are with getting that ancient mystical warlord out of his dimensional prison. It’s a lot of work. Maybe we can set this global warming thing aside – at least until the competition is over.”

Most of the Ultratech staff shows up for Glacius’s service, at least ten times more than for Chief Thunder’s. A few sniffle when the priest pours the jarful of alien over a small flower bed and says, “Keep breaking those combos, cool guy.”

Dr. Pritch stands in the back, donned in dark sunglasses. He scratches Sabrewolf behind the ears and swears to make a difference in this world, whether Ultratech likes it or not. And, strangely enough, it’s right when he makes that promise to himself that the Ultratech goons show up and toss him in the back of a black van.

Lord Fazzelby is regarded as something of a witch doctor by the townspeople. The impish scientist rarely ventures out into the war-torn streets of his native Ferelden. Instead, he spends his days in the castle tower at Denerim, performing complex experiments on small mice and retarded children.

As a devoted scholar and accomplished alchemist, Fazzelby’s knowledge of science far surpasses that of the ignorant masses. The people of Ferelden are simple people. It’s hard enough for them to keep track of which Prince has poisoned which Duke – and who they owe their taxes- so they’re understandably suspicious of a man who aims to further complicate their lives with matters of “science”.

So when Lord Fazzelby addresses the Royal Court on a cloudy Autumn day with the troubling news that the citizens of his nation are suffering from a rare disease, he is met with much ridicule.

“The reason that so many of us have been spontaneously combusting is not because they have angered the Fade,” Fazzelby says in an irritatingly high voice, “but because we are all suffering from a rare disease of too much blood in the circulatory system.”

The crowd boos and tosses salted meats. Wynne, the spirit healer, leans back in her chair and crosses her arms.

“Lord Fazzelby,” says King Cailan, “methinks you’ve been spending too much time locked away in your laboratory! If the people have too much blood, then it is because they have too much heart! Their hearts beat with pride for God and Crown!”

The crowd huzzahs.

“My liege, forgive me for correcting you, but the people’s hearts have expanded to a dangerous size.” Fazzelby leads a bent old man to the foot of the royal throne. “This old man is juicier than a ripe elderberry. If one were to merely prick his finger, all of the court would be covered in his liquids. Watch!”

Before Fazzelby can demonstrate his thesis, the chambers doors fly open with a explosion of sound that resonates through the hall. The court’s attention turns to the entering party, who display flags of victory and are soaked from helmet to greaves in dried blood. Horns play a triumphant march.

“Hackett’s Field has been taken!” someone shouts. Trogdeet22, a recently conscripted defender of the realm, steps forward and triumphantly raises his sword. “I’ve come to turn in my quest!” he shouts.

The crowd huzzahs.

The court reconvenes on Hackett’s Field, which isn’t so much a field as it is a bloody marsh. Not a blade of grass has gone unstained, not a rock that isn’t covered in brilliant red gore. Fazzelby takes a sample.

King Cailan pats Trogdeet22’s back. “Congradulations! You and your men have slain an entire army of Hurlocks and beat back the Blight! Here is your rew—“

“Hold on. That’s the wrong quest,” Trogdeet says. “You must have me confused with someone else. I’m only level seven. We just killed three human robbers out here.”

The court takes in the grisly scene. “…robbers?”

“I told you, my liege!” Fazzelby shouts. “Something unnatural is occurring! I’d expect this much blood to be drained from a Brood Mother or an Arcane Horror, but not a handful of Antivan Crows! If we don’t find a cure for this disease soon, then this age will be the bloodiest Ferelden has ever witnessed!

“Think of all the mosquitoes!” he whines.

In a fashion fitting to the time, Fazzelby’s argument is met with charges of treason. King Cailan condemns him to death and replaces his laboratory with a Center for Blight Awareness.

A day later, Fazzelby is tied to a post and burned alive at the base of Circle tower. A dozen drunken peons stumble out of their homes to watch the most learned man in the realm sizzle at the stake. When he dies, Fazzleby’s body explodes in a mass of guts and gore that coats the northern half of the Hinterlands.

The crowd huzzahs.

The last thing Shawn remembers from last night is kissing Mr. Boots goodnight and locking his apartment door. That must be when whoever put him in this damp, disgusting bathroom jumped out of the shadows, drugged him, and dragged him to this awful place, where the floor is littered with broken glass and the door handle is scalding hot to the touch.

“Hello?” he says to a large mirror positioned on the wall across from the stalls. “Is anyone in there? Let me out of here! We can talk about this!”

Turn on the TV. A voice crackles through a speaker in the roof.

Shawn didn’t notice the TV. It’s positioned on a rolling table, facing the corner. He limps over to it – his leg feels like it’s been run over a couple times – and turns the television away from the wall. He plugs it into an uncovered electrical socket. Sparks fly out and the television buzzes to life.

Shawn is greeted by a ghastly sight: the face of a ventriloquist’s dummy. It speaks to him as it rides around on a miniature bicycle. It’s all really fucked up.

Hello, Shawn. Welcome. In this room you are going to find two objects: a pistol loaded with one bullet, and a copy of the Saw video game, which came out this week. Both are your tickets to freedom. Which one you choose is up to you.

Shawn reaches into a basket and pulls out the gun and the video game. He checks the chamber. There’s a single bullet. He sets it on top of the television and reads the back of the video game’s box.

“Well, this looks awful,” Shawn thinks. “But it can’t be worse than death. Right?”

He pops the game into an open laptop attached to the television by a dusty AV cord. He positions the television so that he can sit on the toilet seat and play from there. Within minutes, he’s in more agony than he’s ever been in his life – and he’s had kidney stones.

“What the fuck is this?! I wouldn’t wish this on my worst enemies!” he screams and tosses the laptop across the room. It clatters across the drywall-littered tile and lands on its face against the door.

You shouldn’t have done that. You didn’t get to the first save point!

A trap door opens in the ceiling and a few dozen laptops spill out. Shawn leaps out of the wall and scrambles up against the wall. “You’re insane! You bought thirty copies of that abomination? What have you done!? They’ll make a sequel!”

It’s already in the works, because they’re so cheap to make!

There’s a terrible chattering noise. “Oh, God!” Shawn yelps. He bolts across the room and grabs the gun, tearing a ligament in his leg. He places the gun against his forehead and squints his eyes. “See you in hell, you sick fuck!”

I’m proud of you, Shawn.

Shawn opens one eye. “You are?”

Very.

The door creaks open. There’s a glimmer of daylight on the other side. Shawn puts the gun down and limps towards it. “You’re just gonna…let me go?”

Yes, but I want you to think about something before you go. The world you step out into is one in which a film series about a man sadistically torturing random people has made over 650 million dollars worldwide and shows no signs of stopping. These films are badly made and have no artistic credibility whatsoever, but they continue to out-gross films that do. Your grandchildren will be watching Saw 27 instead of visiting you in your hospital room, and then you will die, and Saw will continue to go on, forever and ever, propelling its shittiness into eternity.

Shawn stands in the doorway for a moment, mulling this over. His face turns dark red. “FUCK IT! YOU’RE RIGHT! THIS IS BULLSHIT!” he screams and crosses back towards the television.

Shawn grabs the gun, puts it in his mouth, and blows his brains out over the bathroom mirror. It’s a fantastic display of the kind of sweet, delicious gore that makes the audience hoot and holler without fail.

Boy Tom, you’ve really done it. A nice trip to St. Martin and on the company dime no less. Not a thing between you and the opaque shores of Orient Beach. Now, if this airport security line could get some locomotion, you could focus on that ocean.

How shall I address my paradise to its locals? Like the Dutch: “St. Maarten?” Or like the French: “St. Martin?” As the toponomist says of a nationally partitioned island, “After a few mojitos, who cares!“

Huh?

Take off my belt? But I’m not wearing a belt, sir. Perhaps what’s setting off this curiously out of date metal detector is the loose change in my pocket. No sir, I can remove the change myself. Or then again you can do it, as you’ve evidently deemed necessary.

Boy these airport security guards can be rough.

… rough as the sand between my toes. The ocean’s gentle, foamy lap in time with my paste-slow palpitations. Thump- thump. Thump-thump.

Ow, sir! No need to push! I can step to the side on my own volition.

And no! I mean, no, sir; that bottle is most certainly smaller than 14 fluid ounces. And as you can see, it’s only half full. What is it? Antibiotics.

Yes, mam. It’s a prescription. Atrophic rhinitis. That means I get really bad crusties on the rim of my – oh, I don’t want to bother you with – and beside – right, just harmless antibiotics. I mean, boy, can you believe anyone would take me, Thomas Pembrooke, for a drug dealer?

No, I’m not being smart. No, I’m not carrying this bottle on behalf of someone else. No, I haven’t had sex with a man from Cameroon, Gabon or Niger since 1977. I haven’t had sex with a man ever – not that there’s anything wrong with…

The beach, Tom. Think about the beach. And the kiss of the wind. (The kiss of the masseuse!) Forget these rent-a-cops with their know nothing stares and too small button-ups and weaponless holsters.

Weaponless holsters? That’s strange.

All this effort to slow down Ol’ Tom, and someone could just walk in here with a handful of guns or a grenade stuffed parcel and just level the crag of crud.

Now what fun would that be?

Another hour at the terminal. Seven more in the air. Then St. Mar-whatever, I’m yours. Nothing can stop me now! Hm, I wonder if those well-groomed Russians could spare a stool at the airport bar. I could use a drink.

In Cleveland, Ohio, an idea is brewing. This isn’t the first time – Craig Michaels has been posting innovative dispatches from his blog for months now – but this is an idea that may rock the very foundations of the games industry. Because in a few days, after his work schedule clears up a bit, Mr. Michaels is going to post the article that’s been brewing in his head for weeks now – “When will there be a Mad Men of videogames?”

Mr. Michaels said of the article, “Everybody keeps going on and on about a Citizen Kane of videogames. I say, what’s that? Is there a Banana Republic line of Citizen Kane clothes? Does Citizen Kane make it cool for me to smoke profusely? Did Citizen Kane introduce me to the Manhattan, rocks, one cherry? No. And that’s why we need an article like mine in the gamesblogosphere – to ask the question everyone knows they should be thinking.”

The groundbreaking writer provided us with an exclusive excerpt from the piece: “Everybody is, like, talking about Mad Men. All the time. Like it’s the most important thing that’s happened since… since… well, since as far back as The Wire. But everyone knows there’s a The Wire of videogames (GTA: San Andreas, for its nuanced portrayal of every side of the drug war), so when will games meet this new standard for brilliance in media?”

When asked what inspired him to write the article, Mr. Michaels told us, “Those damn Citizen Kane articles keep getting all these links and hits and shit. I mean, what the fuck is Citizen Kane? I tried to watch it once – but I already knew from Animaniacs that Rosebud was his sleigh. So, like, that’s over with, why do I have to watch a movie about it? Why do we want a Citizen Kane of videogames, if it’s just a movie about a stupid sleigh?”

NYU games studies professor Gertrude Lawler told us, “Mr. Michaels is clearly grappling with a number of media questions we’re all currently working to answer – such as, what is a video game? Why do you need a controller to play them? What would it be like if everyone had to play a video game for one hour at the same time every week? What is the TiVo era’s answer to video games? Why doesn’t anyone ever feel any ill effects from drinking all day on Mad Men?”

The article, scheduled to post “when I get a free couple of days from my job at the restaurant,” has already sent several media professionals into a frenzy. “Oh shit, Mad Men? I’m linking to that,” said Jason Kottke of prominent culture blog kottke.org. “That is a show that I watch, and I have many feelings about. Many of them.” Another prominent cultural figure, Andy Baio of Waxy.org, said, “I just turned my blog over to a RSS spider a few months ago. If he mentions indy games and crowdsourcing in addition to Mad Men, it might just post six or seven times.”

When asked what the lasting cultural impact of his article might be, Mr. Michaels told us, “I’d just like some hits. Maybe some people could click a Google ad… Or maybe I could get a Kotaku link. That would be fuckin’ sweet.”

I, Okami, goddess of the Sun, am here to stop demonic forces from spreading darkness along these beautiful plains.  I, the last hope for preserving nature’s ever-present and gentle force, have now taken the form of the white wolf Amaterasu in order to help put an end to the reawakened 8-headed beast Orochi, whom I fought 100 years ago-

*sniff*

Oh, sorry.  I thought-

Nevermind.

With the help of my spritely artist-friend Issun, we shall use my celestial brush not merely to repaint this landscape as a testament to what it once was, but as a warning that no demonic presence will ever be welcome on Earth’s hallowed ground!

No sitar-playing evil-doer shall escape our sight!  No bongo-wielding polluter will stop us from freeing our kindred animals from the yoke of-

*sniff* Is that…ooooo!  Smells like-

*sniff*  I don’t see anyone cooking anything…

By the might of the constellations, and the blossoming flowers beneath my paws, I shall rid this world of Orochi’s evil, one minion at a time-

*sniff* Oh my GOD, is that…?

*sniffsniffsniff* It IS!  IT’SSSSSSS  BACON! YUMYUMYUMYUM!  Yummy Yum yum!   Bacon!  Bacon! Where’s the bacon?  Only one thing smells like Bacon and that’s BACONNNNN!  GIMME GIMME GIMME GIMME GIMME!

What’s that?  Roll over?  OK.  Then what?  Give you a paw? But you’re an evil spirit, and I…OH MY GOD…That’s YOUR bacon?  I’d LOVE SOME BACON!  I know I was baring my teeth earlier, but it’s just that I was hungry.

PLEASE, PLEASE!!!  I WANT BACON!  I NEED BACON!  Look, I can stand on my hind legs!  I can speak! ‘Woof…Bacon, please.’  Heheh, just kidding, but I would love some bacon.

…Please, gimme what’s in the bag!  Chewy yummy smokey BACON!  I can draw a circle with my brush and make the sun come out!  I can even make a bomb or fix a bridge if you just give me one piece of bacon…What?!

OHBOY,OHBOY,OHBOY,OHBOY!  NUMNUMNUMNUMNUM!  IT’S BACONNNNNN!

Additional reporting from Hardcasual’s own Daniel Wilbur.

Sources close to Rockstar Games have released, exclusively to Hardcasual, a groundbreaking scoop – Rockstar is in the process of considering the creation of a Grand Theft Auto 5. This information has been confirmed by multiple sources, and can be taken as the first suggestion that Rockstar is considering creating another sequel to Grand Theft Auto.

Many in the industry wondered whether Rockstar would attempt to continue creating Grand Theft Auto games after the massive critical and commercial success of GTA IV. Analyst Bernard Novello of the RSP Group told Hardcasual, “Rockstar was clearly sitting on a huge hit with GTA IV – but lightning so rarely strikes twice in this industry. Why would they rehash a product that they had already created, just with the intent of cashing in? I sincerely doubt your sources that a Grand Theft Auto 5 could possibly be in development.”

Several industry observers have suggested that we may see GTA V in the late part of 2010 – but rumors of a release of another Madden title have already begun swirling for that period, and some in the industry have even suggested that the “sequel fever” gripping the industry may also strike the Rock Band and Guitar Hero franchises. If that’s the case, we can certainly look forward to a crowded holiday season in 2010! However, our sources have suggested that Rockstar has probably not begun much of the planning for GTA V up until this point, as the decision seems to have been made quite suddenly and unexpectedly by upper management.

One Rockstar visual artist, speaking under conditions of anonymity, told us, “I never expected to be working on Grand Theft Auto AGAIN. I mean, I get it – we made GTA IV. Aren’t people happy? What, am I just supposed to keep drawing alleys for the rest of my life? I thought when I joined the Rockstar team I’d be doing all sorts of different things. It turns out, we just get stuck on another Grand Theft Auto game. If I had known I’d just be making Grand Theft Auto games the rest of my life, I’d never have taken this job. But how could I have, right?”

Many within the industry are pleased with the decision, though, and have already begun practicing writing the number “10″ as large as possible. Others are looking up ejaculatory adjectives for the inevitable review, performed under 24 hours of duress tentatively scheduled for the day before Thanksgiving 2010.

Still, some wonder whether Rockstar could be doing more with their considerable talents. Said John Douglas of 1up.com, “I expected something different from Rockstar to follow up GTA IV – maybe an Xbox Live Arcade platformer, or a licensed game – there’s Toy Story 3 coming out next year, you know! But I’m sure that GTA V will be fine. Just – not what I expected. Certainly not in this industry.”

The Morning After Shield: When activated, the shield defertilizes recent sexual conquests.