chris-littlechild - September 11, 2012
Rumble Roses thrust its copious ‘mams at an appreciative, pants-abulge-yet-rather-abashed PlayStation 2 in 2004. This wrestling title is indubitably a frontrunner for the most gratuitous flesh-fest in the virtual spectrum; sporting an exclusively female pick of perky pugilists, á la the Arcana Heart franchise. The womenfolk of Rumble Roses are imbibed with the wanton chesticle-jiggling Team Ninja are so vehemently zealous about, and outfits of a caliber scarcely seen away from the red light district of Amsterdam. (This is mere conjecture, mark you, as we have never been to such a place. Certainly not for a several hour drunken genitalia-athon, which rendered a dawn raid on the local pharmacy's ball-cream department an urgent priority. That's an absurd accusation.)
Crabs-be-gone ointment is not the pertinent issue, however. This wondrous fighting game/nork ogling nirvana inspired some actual real-life ladyfolk into a spot of skimpy, bosomy and arousal-y costume shenanigans; in a noble endeavor to advertise the game.
(Incidentally, the blurb campaign ran thusly: " Purchase Rumble Roses! Models with excessive bazongas will love you for it! They may insist that you move into their homes immediately, thus curtailing your solitary existance of eating raw baked beans direct from the tin with the curtains drawn, as tears cascade onto your shit-stained futon." We saw these ads some years ago, during a heavy-drinking stage, so that may not be verbatim.)
Continue reading for more on the game, or disdainfully proclaim nuts to that, I want to see some tits and peruse the gallery.
We know whose side we're on.
It's safe to venture that Rumble Roses will not appease the ravening maws of serious sports sim afficionados. (Nor, indeed, will wrestling itself, an ostentatious business wherein huge dudes in their retina-scorchingly-bulgy wrestler underpants flail theatrically on the pretense of striking another. Then, everybody pisses off home to masturbate. As such, any concept of realism is rather a moot point.) Nowhere else in the genre, for instance, will you encounter a supplementary mud-wrestling mode; or ludicrously labored replays to ensure that we've ogled our positively sans-clothing combatants from every conceivable angle. Plus several that aren't. Twice. The game's character models allegedly boast the highest polygon count the console had ever mustered up to this juncture, and they were plainly utilized to create this jiggling jaunt's selling point.
("10,000 polygons, you say? How many of those are in their boobs?"
"Splendid. Consider yourself promoted, good sir.")
The sextacular is a frequent element of video games and the promotion thereof, but it's rarely as inherent as in the case of Rumble Roses. The wrestling nucleus is uninspiring-yet-inoffensive, the very definition of average. There are subtle innovative nuances in such mechanics as an alter ego for each combatant, though we'll concede that whether this manifested itself as anything beyond wearing even less remains unclear; yet we rather think it didn't. Nor was it necessary to. In summation, though, if the game inspired the delectable creatures above to indulge in some cleavy-costuming in its honor, we'll forgive any and all transgressions.