An Incensed Review of Rage 3
How dare they!
How dare they.
How dare those artistic derelicts behind Rage 3 encourage us to pay for a product that captures the essence of both their personal identities and shared brand, that brings light to a universally dark time, and that wouldn’t exist without their tens-of-thousands of (US) dollars and hundreds of man-hours invested.
How dare they commodify my preferred form of entertainment, which I can also get for free in countless other places, to the extent that if I started binge-ing the treasure trove of surf-related films on Instagram, Youtube, and Vimeo today and didn’t stop until I was 306, I wouldn’t even see 50% of them, but that doesn’t matter because I want to watch this surf movie and that’s my Millennial prerogative.
How dare they trick me into having a new favorite surfer, that kid Shaun Manners, who lands six-foot (Hawaiian) straight airs, ledge-hops with extreme dexterity and also seems like a nice person.
How dare they.
And really…twenty dollars (AUD)?
So you’re telling me I could either have a surf movie downloaded on my hard drive till the end of time, which will be a guaranteed hit at friends’ parties and provide eternal pre-surf froth, or an overpriced super-smoothie at the local health hut?
Daddy needs his celery juice.
How dare they!
How dare they organically incorporate a female into their squad, not in a popular-culture-demands-this sorta way, but rather that Ms. Vincent is a valuable asset and ripping human to share a beer with.
How dare they work diligently enough at their niche hardgoods company to afford a team trip to the Ments, which speaks to the undeniably core ethos of their brand: being able to surf fun waves in faraway places with their best friends.
How dare they make me want to cover my surfboard in large purple nipples and oversized branding?
How fucking dare they!
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