Thursday, October 27, 2016

Head Bash: Gnardbro's Bodacious Brain Trauma Game

Congratulations on your purchase of Head Bash, the newest most exhilarating board game on the pre-teen market.

Hey kids! Cut from your Pee-Wee football team? Not able to slap on the shoulder pads and break though the paper banner with the squad? Is your unemployed and divorced father fuming because he can't relive his fifth-grade glory days through his one and only son? Good news. Head Bash is the board game for those who aren't on the roster, but still want to experience all the brain trauma and crippling head injuries only the finest prepubescent athlete endures. Head Bash is a full-on blitz amongst players along a treacherous path through fading memories and double vision. First one to Uncle Henry's Hospice wins! So grab your friends and plan a night of Head Bash. We promise an unforgettable night you'll never remember…because of real brain damage.  

Ages: 6-12

Number of Players: 2-6.

Objective: Be the first player to reach Uncle Henry's Hospice.

Six Tokens: Crutches. Ice Pack. Bottle of Percocet. Battered Wife. Body Bag. Junior Seau.

Misc: One oak wood 2x4. One pad of Release Of Liability forms.* One drool cup. One drop seizure helmet.

How Head Bash Is Played: Each player selects one token and places it on the "Start" square—the picture of the happy-go-lucky grade-schooler below the quote "I got my whole life ahead of me,"—located in the bottom left corner of the game board. Players take turns rolling the dice (on their futures) and lumber step-by-excruciating-step along the winding path of NFL logos. But there's a twist! Player movement is determined by the number on the bottom (because that's where life is headed) of the dice. First player to Uncle Henry's Hospice wins. It's that simple!

But beware the Weeping Widow spaces along the path. If a player lands on one of these spaces, he/she draws a black card from atop the pile and follows instructions.


Head Bash (12 cards): The most numerous card, and the crux of Head Bash. If the drawn card has a Head Bash logo, every player takes turns bashing you on the forehead as hard as humanly possible with the included solid-as-fuck 2x4. (Note: If the included 2x4 becomes damaged by excessive gameplay, blunt household items/tools, such as a ballpeen hammer or lawn jockey statue, may be substituted.) You do not have to go back any spaces, but the resulting brain trauma will certainly make it exponentially harder to persevere throughout the game.

Ringing Bell (8 cards): Your bell has been rung. In other words, it’s just a glancing blow—by a blitzing linebacker, a gone berserk left tackle, a drunk father with a closed fist but bad aim, etc. Go back two spaces.

Defenseless Receiver (6 cards): You've just caught a tight spiral after cutting back toward the middle of the field for a significant gain, but the closing cornerback has no regard for life or limb and squarely lambastes you with a head-to-head rocket shot. But huzzah, you hung on to the football! Go ahead five spaces, but lose a turn.

Dark Room (4 cards): Uh-oh! You have sustained an in-game head hit and are led into the dark room via stretcher on a cart for a concussion test. Will you return to the game? Roll a single die.
Roll a 6-immediate return.
Roll a 5-probable return (lose one turn).
Roll a 4-questionable return (lose two turns).
Roll a 3-improbable return (lose three turns).
Roll a 2-out for game (you lose).
Roll a 1-out forever (you shall never play Head Bash, or perform a typically simple task, such as walking a mixed-breed terrier or operating a blender, again).

"Rub A Little Dirt On It" (3 cards): Like the Head Bash card, but you must hit yourself in the head with the included 2x4 as hard as humanly possible. Then, "rub a little dirt on it" and resume play the next turn.

C.T.E. (2 cards): Oh great! You've sustained enough repeated head blows and now you have the brain of a 127 year old. Take the number 127, minus your current age. The resulting number is how many turns you lose. In the meantime, enjoy turkey dinner through a straw while gently weeping over a scrapbook of good times long gone, like when you could pass a sobriety test while sober.

Suicide Note (1 card): The dementia, depression, and tireless longing for even the slightest iota of normalcy is simply too much to bear and you've shot yourself in the chest so doctors can study your brain. Pity! You lose, but your exit is dignified. Better luck next time. 

Murder-Suicide (1 card): Holy fuck!!! You strangled your wife and kids with your constantly trembling bare hands, and then jumped off the nearest turnpike overpass. Like the Suicide Note card, you've reached the bitter end of your rope. However, you've chosen a shameful route to end it all. You lose. Hit the showers until next game, Buster.

*Gnardbro sincerely hopes that Head Bash provides players lifelong fun. However, please be sure that each player signs an included Release Of Liability form and mails it to the address on the bottom of the form ASAP. This ensures that Gnardbro is not responsible for any injuries, from minor to perpetually debilitating, sustained during gameplay. The drool cup and drop seizure helmet are provided for your convenience and well-being. Otherwise, you're on your own. Hope it was all worth it.

Wednesday, October 12, 2016

Behold My Majestic Bejeweled Crotch

Attention Hoboken Medical Supplies Inc. breakroom. Turn to he who stands stoically like the Colossus of Rhodes beside the vending machine. To he is who is mysteriously shrouded in a knee-length smock. I implore you; brace the living fuck out of yourselves. Buckle your about-to-be-utterly-gobsmacked asses to your folding chairs. I, Dale J. Turneur…Dale the "droopy-eyed insomniac from accounts receivable,"…Dale the "he's so damn boring he makes a conference call seem like a keg party,"…Dale the "seriously, don't you think it's at least a little odd that he keeps five Polaroids of his pet wallaby tacked to his corkboard?"…is about to offer you ultimate transcendence. Feast your weary eyes on he who now tosses the smock and unveils the everlasting divine glory of his midsection.

Behold my majestic bejeweled crotch. BOOM-SHAKKA-LAKA!
That's right. I see the shock on your stupefied faces and sense it ricocheting throughout the very cockles of your souls. These brown dress slacks should look vaguely familiar. Yes, these are the same 'ol slacks ho-hum Dale has worn every Monday and Thursday, and some Wednesdays, for the last six plus years. But no longer are they slacks by which one can set one's watch. Be aghast by how festive thy crotch has become. How glistening are thine loins?! How OG is thine crotch bling?! Dale has brought serious pizazz to casual Friday. "Casual" has never been so fucking awesomely bedazzled.

That’s right. Dale’s rockin’ with his cock in!

Behold, Janet. How does the meek psyche of a part-time reception endure the rarified grandeur of Dale's majestic bejeweled crotch? Recall thusly, Janet. Recall how casually you rejected my nonthreatening advances. Quivering and scared witless I suggest a noncommittal lunch at Quaker State & Lube. "Sorry," you say. "I'm behind in processing work orders," you say. Balderdash! You spent your lunch break munching on Hot Pockets and reading Mademoiselle. You squashed my poor heart nearly all the way down to my now brilliantly adorned crotch-eus maximus. But you know what they say about what doesn't kill you…it makes your crotch majestic and bejeweled? Well, how the fuck you like me now, Toots?! That's right! Bathe in the splendor of your rejected lover's majestic bejeweled crotch. HIYO!

Behold, Chad…Mr. Salesman of the Month, three months running. How your incessant petty hijinks have gradually led to mine awe-inspiring crotch transformation. I take a two-day emergency vacation and come back to the clichéd cat litter in the desk. But tell me, Chad. Tell me what is clichéd about the Mardi Gras surrounding my junk? By the way, that so-called "vacation" was to attend the funeral of my sweet grandmother. Oh how she must be smiling down on me right now, and how my majestic bejeweled crotch now gyrates like a child's party favor in your mystified face. Salesman of the month? I got something to sell YOU, my friend. A fuckin' crotch! HUZZAH! And keep the commission. Oh hey, by the way, thanks so much for super gluing my stapler to my desk. And putting my keyboard in the freezer. And making me do the Ice Bucket Challenge before it was a thing. I got a challenge for you, Chad. Good luck ignoring…THIS SWEET-ASS CROTCH! SKA-DOOSH!

Behold, Mr. Ludwig. Ye of middle-management. Let me ask, sir, how tired are you of being castrated by the brutes at the top of the corporate food chain, you pathetic bald nitwit? That's right, Dale J. Turneur, from accounts goddamn receivable, just called YOU a pathetic bald nitwit. Hey! I'm talking to you, boss-man. Quit staring at your Payless loafers. Look up. Look up, I say. Higher…a little higher…a little hiiigher. Too high! There. Now stop! Tell me what you see. Tell me. What's that? Huh? I can't hear you. Say it louder. LOUDER, so everyone in the breakroom can hear you. THAT'S RIGHT! A MAJECTIC BEJEWELED CROTCH, DIPSHIT! Now just stare at it. Let it sink in. Subject your feeble humanity to the crotch whose essence confines you. Hah! I crawl into your dumb little corner office and practically beg for a paltry 75 cent an hour raise? I just wanted to afford rent. Rent, Mr. Ludwig. You tell me, “Your production is stagnant.” Maybe, just maybe, that’s because I’m perpetually at the very fuckin' top of my game. Anyway, I was evicted last week. “Stagnant?” I scoff. Hey, you know what ain’t stagnant? My fucking crotch, that's what. As I swivel my hips before you, I see in your trembling pupils the reflection of the shimmering plastic gemstones pasted about my thighs. It's like the way the wondrous starry heavens reflect in a cesspool. Understand this, the "heavens" is "my crotch" and the "cesspool" is…guess whooo?...YOU. Anyway…BOOYAKA.

Bejeweled crotch commin' at 'cha, Mr. Ludwig! CAN'T FAKE THE FUNK ON THIS NASTY DUNK.

Behold Hoboken Medical Supplies Inc. breakroom. The Dale you once knew is dead. As Lennon sang in Come Together “One and one and one is three…No one rocks a mother fucking crotch like ME…Dale J. Turneur.” So next time you use the Xerox machine it won't be so easy to ignore everyone's favorite "walking snoozefest" cursed with sitting RIGHT. FUCKING. NEXT. to that noisy-ass shitty thing. Believe you me, from now on whenever you make copies of inventory reports or fax order forms it'll be nearly impossible to ignore the gleaming utopia merely inches from the farther reaches of your precious personal space.

Now, it's high time you settle your own pedestrian humdrum crotches back in your cruddy work chairs. But before you do, I reckon you take one final moment to allow every single morsel of your consciousness to be totally submerged in the breathtaking opulence of my majestic…bejeweled…crotch.

Hand me back my smock, Janet. Break time is fucking over.