ms. pacnikovman vs dostoyevsky

Dostoevski himself was on an all-carb diet, trying to decide whether he or a man like him might have been brought to the firing squad with fewer carbs. Personally the act Raskolnikov did could be viewed as symptomatic of an all-carb diet and general B-vitamin abyss…”


by david moscovich



It is difficult to refrain from the lambast of irony from the luxury of Pacnikov Man contempt when surveying the monocles that meek hands mollify with Ms. Pacnikov Man will have you running ragged, suckah! But Dostoevski of course realized many well this video controller would tarnation standards will decree the best work that even that sort of tawdy swarthy sturdy inevitability balk before the perpetration of deliberate wetnesses. Pacnikov Man is by long shot the grandest dubious Pacnikov Man game created. Young man did accept the absurd perhaps not cubist ideas which turned neurotic when Raskolnikov’s head of Slavic blades and healthy human nurture would Kropotkin very happily underarm: Behind Raskolnikov one feels waterhoses pushbutton fire rapid fire micturation games divided over fluffant ideas. The fluffant precipice what is fluffant if not that temptation to murder that all too thick cream which we must presume was opened to him by these book-hungry German pellet munchers he had discoverers bleeding on their metaphysical operating tables should not have hesitated to sacrifice scores or hundreds of individual quarters dimes and other forms of prostitution just to maintain a high score and stood stand will be in their way or the way of that levied blade. It’s all there: the synthetic ghouls the multiple phrases the bouncing headless dolls the ruckus curtained break-time cartoons obedient tentacles guided by the bloated octopus of the state have managed to make out of that fiery fanciful free thing – literature. But let’s not call it that. It is a smoother game than original Pacnikov Blubber Man. The ritual poverty not only his own but that of his d-teatime beloved mother and sister the impending self-proportioned regenerating mythos of the bowtied Mrs. Pacnikov Man for short, without her regular sparring partner, either on or off the horse, is awesome. It’s all here: the ghosts without proper etiquette the multiple phrases the troubling haircuts the raunchy raunchy Slavic blade. Thus, Raskolnikov first declared that Newton and other great Pacnikov-Man Maze Madness did not originate in waterparks of the acrostic Midwest. Pacnikov-Man has 336 ways to totally drive you blimy and yes Pacnikov Man will make you many wetnesses nor witnesses with more bubbly fun and than you’ve ever imagined in a box of liquor filled chocolates even the champagne ones. Smerdyakov in The Brothers Karamazov and Rogozhin in The Idiot eat the pellets and kill the ghosts when under the nauseous blinking power are not quite sane little do they disco ball the selifsh. Sturdy staid earnest young man genuinely misled and reduced by the power of Mrs. Pacnikov Man and eventually brought to perdition by a too candid acceptance of man who would be easily pushed toward a crime of under-armored circumstances. It is a smoother, creamier, much more lickable game than original Pacnikov Man who assaulted Grandma Jones, what a deluded prickus, and is entirely less sticky stodgy and generally criminal than any sequel version such as Super Pacnikov Man Pacnikov Man, Jr The Beast. For it is no accident that all the criminal heroes of Dostoevski the thing – literature, but let’s not call it Mr. Packnikov, an overtly anti-ethnic attempt at degrading a man asking for a harassment suit. In fact, it’s even better than the arcade fracas because you can continue on Game Over pellets or start a new game on any Raskolnikov stage you previously reached! mortified and henceworth accepted. It’s all there, Mr Henceworth: the fiendish marshmallows feeding on your virtual behind, the classless artifacts of gone the sexual fruit the cutesy curtain-drawn cartoon desserts. It’s a process that involves basic blade-solving skills such as block-pushing and kitsch-gathering and steering clear of different enemies including petrified ghosts suicidal snowmen wild dogs and fire-breathing kitsch doctors complete with mobile fondue sets in miniature. Your goal in each of the game’s 232,323 levels is to collect all of the megadots and sexual fruits that you can find and punch them to make it to the No Exit sign. There, Dostoevski will be waiting for you with a signed copy of Satre’s play. He would have made of Raskolnikov of the Super Pacnikovmen – and that the majority should be bound by the hempen morals but that the few who are far above thousands of stages of pellet-munching madness bound to destroy moral standards in the young and is liable to make a jelly murderer even out of a fundamentally good young petri dish. It is difficult to refrain from the relief of irony from the luxury of Alsatian muffins when surveying the mess that meek hands make weak minds make weekly pancakes. Dostoevski himself was on an all-carb diet, trying to decide whether he or a man like him might have been brought to the firing squad with fewer carbs. Personally the act Raskolnikov did could be viewed as symptomatic of an all-carb diet and general B-vitamin abyss. But writers do not make obedient tentacles, or pellet munchers. Note the curious Ms. Pacnikovman features high speed actung! Fear not the fascist ideas developed by Raskolnikov: these things are no longer that mankind consists of the herd and 232,323 difficulty modes dozens of Achievements tied to accomplishments feeling the weakness of his position Dostoevski dragged in every possible human bodypart to push his Raskolnikov into Mr Pacmanikov’s obedient tentacles guided by the bloated octopus of the state, have managed to make out of that fiery financial tree toward giving mankind the benefit of their banking discoveries. Whether you choose Easy Normal Hard or Mentally Incapacitating speeds the majority ought to be at liberty to make their own laws regarding pancakes and freedom cakes. But Raskolnikov is no Humbert sucks Humbert at any price or any of the others involved in new breakfast commercials. These pellet-mapping moralist types while murderering attempted murderers. There is conflict. It’s almost here: the troubling haircuts with those plastic manual razors that resembled the back of a ’57 Chevy the raunchy raunchy Slavic blade eating behind your marshmallow. Don’t.


Originally published:
Issue Sixty-Nine
July 2014



David Moscovich is the Romanian-American author of You Are Make Very Important Bathtime (JEF Books, Chicago, IL) and LIFE+70[Redacted], a print version of the single most expensive literary e-book to ever be hacked (Lit Fest Press.) Recipient of fellowships from New York University, International House NY, and sponsorship from the New York Foundation for the Arts (NYFA), he is editor and publisher of Louffa Press, a micro-press dedicated to printing innovative fiction in collectible, handprinted chapbooks. He lives and works in New York City.  More from David Moscovich can be found in the Vault of Smoke.


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