T.K.: This is it, guys! The next step of our amazing adventure! First, we're going to climb into this great big yellow bag, then we'll be taken to a great new land... this amazing world known as 'opp shop!'
Tugs: I give this yellow bag a thumbs-up.
Skye: You gave that dead puppy we walked past a thumbs-up.
Tugs: It is my gift. It is my curse.
Dracula Don: Well, make yourselves comfy - you may be here for a while. The waiting list is pretty backed up as it is.
Festive White Bear: Fresh meat...
Hollywood Hulk Hogan: WHATCHA GONNA DO, KOOSH LINGS, WHATCHA GONNA DO?
Roaring Lizard: (is incapable of roaring. Strokes his nonexistent beard maliciously)
T.K.: ...This is the worst adventure since Terminator 3.
Rasslin' is a funny thing, really. At it's best, it's a spectacle to behold, as two (or more. Rarely less) combatants put together a beautifully choreographed and wonderfully executed match that tells a story, ebbs and flows naturally yet dramatically, and finishes so epically that the crowd rises to their feet.
At it's worst, and commonly it's conception by non-fans looking in, it's a bunch of burly men in tights pretending to fight, while hurling slander at each other before a massive crowd of rednecks.
Methinks neither of those descriptions will appease pro wrestling enthusiasts. In the former paragraph, I broke kayfabe. In the latter, I generalised fans as rednecks. And tragically, any crowd shot will affirm this as being true. The vast majority of wrestling fans are, truthfully, rednecks. I myself can even attest to this in a live environment, from an event I attended in 2000. Main event was Curt Hennig vs. Dennis Rodman. Wasn't great.
Since the last two-pack entry went so well (I mean, I liked it), I thought I might as well continue that trend, by dishing out some hardcore pain with the WCW/nWo Goldberg vs. Hollywood Hulk Hogan Grip n' Flip figures. That was potentially the longest name for a toy ever.
I can scarcely remember when it was, or where we were going, but I first came upon these muscular friends while my father, sister and I were on a road trip. We were at a department store, and when I first laid eyes upon them, I knew that I most assuredly had to have them. Because like I said in a prior entry, I was a big WCW fan during the turn of the millennium, and Hulk Hogan was my favourite wrestler at the time.
And so, I forked out a sum of money that was somewhere in the realm of $35. I guess it was an allowance for this trip or something, because I distinctly remember it being my money to spend, and to this day, whenever I'm short of cash, I deeply regret spending those $35 that day, when I need that money so much more today.
An odd thought. But one I still can't shake. I need that cash for food and transport, and my wrestling toys have never given me either of these things.
Anyhow. They're very nicely crafted figures (though they've got some weird moulding around their abs that looks like rice), and their claim to fame is their magnetic hands. ...Haha, that sounds like an excuse a molester would use. 'Magnetic hands'.
So you bump their fists together, and then squeeze their left leg to lift their arms, causing them to fling each other about. There's also a magnetic panel on the collapsing chair, allowing it to become a weapon, and on Hogan's back, allowing him to become a blonde projectile.
See it in action!
It got kind of awkward when it transitioned to them riding an invisible see-saw before a majestic skydiving session. Furthermore, I think there's something very wrong with the magnet in Goldberg's left hand. Locking fists with Hogan has made some strange mist emerge that resembles smoke. I have no idea how or why that has happened, but it renders even the friendliest attempt at dap incredibly deadly.
One of the excellent things about these toys was that I always felt okay in throwing them around and treating them like dirt. After all, that's what they're made for, right? Brutal pummeling! Throw them off the tabletop, watch them tumble down the stairs, pit them off against an angry dog... It has the makings of being the cruelest, most bizarre wrestling event in history. Mildly akin to The Running Man.
The additional props these guys come with are pretty good, too. The chair is strictly for melee use, however, because these fellas have knees so stiff it would make Al Gore feel flexible. There's actually only one way to even position them atop the chair, and it's...
...Inappropriate, at best.
The title belt is even better. Because it can be given to any appropriately sized toy, no matter what lore they hail from.
I spent many an enjoyable minute sifting through my legion of plastic contenders, crowning each champion as I so chose. People may have even forked out good money for the pay-per-view event, in which Kermit the Frog narrowly eked out a win against an ultra-competitive Koosh.
In fact, I don't think I'm done yet. If you'll excuse me, I'm going to go back to crowning ridiculous world heavyweight champions!
As is appropriate for a wrestling video game, SmackDown! Just Bring It refuses to go out quietly.
So I thought, as a final farewell, I'd highlight the game's best feature, and one that, for whatever reason, was absent from later editions.
It's an 8-man battle royale! The top superstars of the era (The Rock, Steve Austin, the Undertaker, Triple H, Kane, Kurt Angle, Chris Jericho and Chris Benoit) square off for INAKA bragging rights.
Partly because my overview of top 20 favourite games has reminded me that certain games are poor and need not be in my collection, and partly because selling Madden scored me a cool four-dollar profit, I press on with another gaming sacrifice.
This time, it’s with one of my earliest PS2 games, my third ever if I recall correctly. Upon purchasing it, I thought it was all sorts of splendid and invested lots of time in it. Just one year later, when I picked up its sequel, I was finally able to see just how abysmal it truly was. It was like unmasking the Phantom of the Opera. What once seemed beautiful had now had its scars revealed. Just with less Andrew Lloyd Webber, and more Perry Saturn.
Ladies and gentlemen, now entering the ring… WWF SmackDown! Just Bring It.
Sometime in the late 90s, I became a fan of World Championship Wrestling. I recall with glee my weekly viewing of Monday Nitro, taking in the action of Hollywood Hulk Hogan, Sting, and my bishi Lance Storm. Grand times for all involved; thinking it all to be real, trying to understand the sanity behind a fifteen minute David Flair promo, and listening to a hip hop song by Konnan after each presentation. Battle followed by boogie.
Perhaps it was a series of poor creative choices, or perhaps it was because I just didn’t love it enough, but in 2001, after thirteen years of man-slammin’ mayhem, WCW ceased.
Immediately, my world became deprived of sweaty men hitting each other with foreign objects. It was a tragic event, but fortunately for me, the brand hadn’t folded outright, but rather, had been purchased by the rival World Wrestling Federation. I had been trying without much success to get into the WWF to get my fill of the rasslin, but when I spotted Storm strutting around the mat, I instantly was re-hooked into wrestling. Rear hook suplexed.
So my fandom of WWF was still fairly young when Just Bring It hit the shelves, the third in the SmackDown! series, and the first for the PlayStation 2. I had only owned one other wrestling game prior to this, No Mercy on the N64, so understandably the leap in technology from one generation to the next had me thinking I was looking at something fantastic.
Funnily enough, my dad had seen me playing Dead Or Alive 2 prior to this, and when he saw the blurry pixelated tattoo on the jagged model of the Big Show for the first time, he asked me plainly, ‘are you sure these graphics are okay?’
Indeed, a valid question, papa.
When you first pop JBI into your PS2, you soon realise that it is a ravenous beast that will eat your memory card alive. It commands a whopping 4,173 KB to hold a save file. To put this in perspective, SmackDown vs. RAW, the sixth title in the series, requires only 498 KB. Sometimes I wonder what exactly JBI needed all that extra space for. It’s probably not accurate to assume it must all be for Steve Blackman. It could be, though. He was a powerful man, you see.
The next thing you will learn is that the graphics are atrocious, especially if you’re like me and have your daddy nearby to point this out for you. The character models have low polygon counts and animate like stop motion figures. You’ll likely feel especially cheated if you gained high expectations after watching the opening sequence, which features graphical quality you will never see again, as long as you live.
Kurt Angle doesn’t look much like his real-life counterpart, Kane’s hair animates like a broom, and my created wrestler has a head shaped like a sausage.
The third and final thing you shall discover before turning the PS2 off and crying yourself to sleep is that this game has some of the worst commentary you have heard since Mattel introduced the Intellivoice in 1982.
Tazz and the ever-irritating Michael Cole bring you commentary that ranges from disjointed to downright bizarre. An example of the script will yield such gems…
Cole: Welcome to Raw is War!
Tazz: I’ll be announcing tonight’s event.
Cole: We can’t miss… Raw tonight!
Tazz: That’s dumb.
Cole: Michael Cole and Tazz at ringside.
Tazz: How can you miss that?
Cole: They’re colliding in the ring!
Tazz: Just look!
Those might seem okay on their own, but in actuality that is a segment taken from the opening twenty seconds of a match. Tazz sounds like a cranky toddler. But sitting next to Michael Cole would make me cranky, too. My primary regret throughout the SmackDown! games was never being given the chance to put him through a table.
JBI offers a multitude of match types and a bizarre story mode that involves running around the backstage area looking for friends to team up with and competing for titles you don’t want, followed by curiously worded arguments that border on playful. Actually, it sounds a bit like the premise to a My Little Pony cartoon when you think of it out of context.
As a standalone title, JBI might have been okay. After all, I was big on it at the time, but the fact of the matter is that just one iteration later, everything was improved astronomically. The increase in quality would only ever be in minor increments after that, so the big gaping hole that lies between JBI and #4, Shut Your Mouth, makes the former look like a big silly pink elephant in comparison.
The main thing you must learn is when to press the square button. Once you’ve seen the animations and read the AI enough, you will be able to counter any move at all with the mighty square button. Grapples, strikes, flying leg lariats, the whole gamut. That square button holds such raw power it might be president someday, so better get chummy with it now.
Successfully spamming the counter button is fun. What’s also fun is discovering how far you can progress in the menu after ejecting the disc.
Apparently, the game offered me an opportunity to meet a WWF superstar backstage at a live WWF event in the USA. I never took them up on this chance, though I’m tempted to give it a try now. Even though a live WWF event these days would limit me only to shows about panda preservation and discussions about your favourite type of shrub. …For this is what I assume occurs in the workings of the World Wildlife Fund. It’s no more ignorant an assumption than a KB-hungry Steve Blackman, really.
And if that didn’t confuse you, perhaps this will…
