Ah, the good old days when arguments could be settled by slicing through your foe’s tendons with a two handed great sword. And then out of appreciation all the female spectators would take off their tops. Ancient Rome was so much more civilized.

If you’ve ever dreamed of living the life of a pirate this game will give you a pretty good idea of what it’s like, right down to pooping in a wooden bucket.

Admin: That first zombie game I posted this week was a decoy – Husky used up all his accumulated poop, and now he’s just farting blanks. HA!

Angry Husky: What, I’m not crying from rage and despair. Something fell in my eye.

Hey you… yes, you. Guess what? You’re adopted! BOOM! How’s that for dropping a bomb? Not good enough? I’m pregnant! And it’s not yours! BOOM! BOOM!

Admin: My last line of defense against poop filled shoes is posting zombie games that don’t mention the word zombie anywhere.

Angry Husky: It didn’t work.

I have a fever, and the only cure is moar tower defense games. Actually, the only cure is taking my pants off and watching a My Life As Liz weekend marathon.

Mitchell and Webb are back with their take on those polite lies we say to people we care about.

This game requires Flash Player 10. A lot of them do now. Maybe it’s time to update.

Admin: The zombie apocalypse has started, and -

Angry Husky: Look, I’m kinda ready to serve you a poopocalypse. This is the second zombie game in a week, so I just ate a tub of Metamucil and now I’m gonna repave your kitchen husky-style *poops*

TopMonkey loves to crush his enemies, see them driven before him, and to hear the lamentations of their women.

As flagship website for The Littlegrey Network, Dig Your Own Grave is required by law to post any game referencing aliens with pointy heads. Incidentally, the same rule also applies to puppies and He-Man.

Steam Birds. Steamed birds? Perhaps a delicious steamed quail. Yes, I could go for that right now. Steamed quail and a Burgundian Pinot Noir to start the weekend off right! Jeeves!

(Jeeves is my butler)

I love the smell of napalm in the morning. You know, one time we had a hill bombed for 12 hours. When it was all over, I walked up. We didn’t find one of ‘em, not one stinkin’ penguin body. The smell, you know that gasoline smell? The whole hill… smelled like… victory.

Pillage the Village was a good kid. He went to an Ivy League school, made captain of the swim team in his senior year, and graduated Magna Cum Laude with a bachelors in psychology. On the flipside, his older brother Destroy the Village stayed at home and smoked a lot of pot.

This game reminds me of a dream I had when I was 14. It involved me developing the ability to fly, Eddie Van Halen giving me his guitar, winning the lottery, and my Samantha Fox poster coming to life.

Nob War…. really? Should I go there?

Nah, better not.

Years ago I discovered a simple mathematical formula that demonstrates a basic relationship between myself and insects:

(number of legs * size) + ground speed = pitch of my voice when I scream

Not so fun when the shoe’s on the other foot, is it jerks?

British comedy duo Mitchell & Webb ask the question at least some SS soldiers must have been wondering.

I’ve got a fever, and the only prescription is:

a) coated 200 mg Advil tablets.
b) more cowbell.
c) raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens.