Celebrate Valentine’s Day With ‘Bubble Bath Babes,’ a Bizarre Attempt at Sexy Tetris. Or, Don’t. Really, REALLY Don’t

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bill-swift - February 15, 2013

We're all familiar, gentlemen, with the old adage stating that men think about sex every determined-by-bullshittery-and-lies quantity of seconds. How this is remotely plausible for even the randiest of dudes (our good friend and compatriot Hobo Joe, the horniest hobo in the U.S, and his blue balls for instance) remains undisclosed.

There are, after all, those frequent moments in the everyday dirge of life when Mr. Massive Erection takes a vacation. In the aftermath of a questionable seafood binge, when you were dropping the kind of massive dumps that would endanger ships in the vicinity when they finally make it to the ocean, was it Horn ‘o' Clock? It was not. Your mind was diverted somewhat by your fervent wishes that you'd emerge from the bathroom in under a week, without losing a few feet of small intestine and half a kidney through your asshole.

Which was not, as we've surely established, very sexy at all. It's probably safe to venture that Tetris isn't the sort of caper that would set your genitalia alight in a resplendent display of pure, unadulterated tentpoling arousal either. Not that the mad, mad bastards at video game publisher Panesian haven't tried. Meet 1991‘s ‘erotic' ‘classic,' Bubble Bath Babes.


You need some kind of chutzpah to successfully shoehorn the smut-tacular into a genre as innocuous as the puzzler, so kudos is in order for the terribly-drawn ginger woman with her boobs out that obscures much of the lower portion of the screen at all times. There may be a semi-competent bubble-matching title here, but no shits are given about such superfluous concerns when, as one review attests, " you do well, the game shows you screenshots of slutty women surrounded by flowers and screaming about bubble baths." ( We'll concede, the early nineties were sparse times indeed for enterprising digital onanists, but that doesn't excuse these piss-poor attempts at titillation. Shit-ilation is a more apt term.

Sure, a dim-witted, myopic Neanderthal cave-painter could have fashioned more arousing erotica on a mammoth's ballsack. Still, piss-takery where piss-takery is due: it's the appalling scripting that really brings forth copious quantities of fury-bile from the depths of our digestive systems. The aforementioned crude images are accompanied by puerile puns such as, "Bubbling Bunny wants you to pop my bubble now! I bet I can make your's burst!"

Did we mention that the bubbles arrive on the screen from below, as though via Mrs. Ginger's flatulence?

Make what burst? The vein in our collective forehead, in our eternal chagrin at your grammatical incompetence? Mission accomplished. If you're referring to a genitalia-centric mardi gras, then very much not.

In summation, then, whatever mommy and daddy time plans you may have for today, don't include a libido-galvanising playthrough of Bubble Bath Babes in your itinerary. You'd derive more sexual enjoyment from slathering your gonads in dog food for the local strays to consume. Check that they're rabid/carrying some ghastly death in your actual face plague first, like those bastard rats in Europe in the Dark Ages.

As a dick-shriveling denouement, what you don't want at this juncture is a little gameplay video. Still, we've suffered through this ballache, so you must too:

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