Bizzare Creations. You son of a bitch.

    Riddle me this, Batdick: When your limey asses were out in Yokohama and Germany and whatever other fucking bassackwards countries taking photos and playing around in the myriad of cars that appear in your game, did the following conversation occur?

    "Hello, Queer McSlimdick! Fine day for some racing in our five billion dollar novelty automobiles, isn't it?"
    "You fucking bet it is. Hey, how about we say to hell with it and just totally fucking scrap these auto junkies' wet dreams?"
    "I do declare Slimdick, you is a smart sumbitch."
    "I became gay because no woman would ever be attracted to my hideous physical attributes."
    "Can you believe I get paid to do this shit?"

    BECAUSE IT NICELY SUMS UP THE EXACT NATURE OF YOUR STUPID FUCKING AI. HOMOSEXUAL AND STUPID.

    About the 9,999,999,999th time I got cock-blocked by a Ford Focus an applause sign went off over my television and I just stood and fucking clapped for two hours, because this asinine effort at creating a digital opponent deserves awards for how badly you fucked it up. Accolades, motherfuckers. A statue of each and every fucking one of you dickheaps even remotely involved in the development of the AI needs to be erected in the fucking Smithsonian, showcased in a special section which I would call "CONTEMPORARY WAR CRIMINALS."

    CONFUSED READER: PERHAPS YOU ARE UNFAMILIAR WITH WHAT EXACTLY HAS EATEN MY GILBERT GRAPES IN THIS INTERPUTER COMWEBSCREEN MESSAGE? AN ELABORATION FOLLOWS.

    In Project Gotham Racing 2, there are a series of challenges called Street Races. The goal? Merely place in the corresponding place as dictated by the difficulty you have chosen prior to starting the race. For example, you need but place in third to earn a lowly steel medal. To earn better medals, simply ramp the difficulty up, the highest being platinum.

    On the lower difficulties, hey, the game's not a problem. The other players are practically civil and quite sane. They stay the fuck out of your way. But once you hit gold difficulty and above, ho ho, here's where the blood vessels in my eyes begin to burst from all the activity my brain's making trying to comprehend the logic behind the AI's abysmal behavior.

    HERE'S WHERE YOU BUCK-TOOTHED DOILY-DICKERS MESS THINGS UP. As one would deduce, the challenge in a street race comes not from the clock or a series of obstacles, but rather your fellow racers' collective abilities. And who are your fellow racers composed of?

    BIZZARE CREATIONS HAS BUILT A TIME MACHINE HEWN FROM THE BONES OF STILLBORNS TO GO BACK IN TIME AND COLLECT EVERY FUCKING RETARDED KID YOU EVER MADE FUN OF IN HIGH SCHOOL. THEY THEN SNUCK INTO YOUR ROOM WHILE YOU SLEPT, STUCK THEIR FLOPPY WEENIES INTO YOUR SLACK JAW, CRAMMED ALL THESE RETARDS INTO YOUR XBOX, AND THEN TOOK PICTURES. I HAVE THIS SHIT ON RECORD, LIMPWRIST.

    And then all the retards clamber into their Enzo Ferraries and Porsche Boxsters and proceed to annoy the everloving fuck out of me. ON PURPOSE.

    On Steel on up to Silver, these drooling simpletons are oblivious as to the function of their transports. They have not yet mastered the art of mashing their mishapened foot/tentacle on the long skinny pedal, much less utilizing the hand-brake to any respectable degree.

    But suddenly on Gold, WATCH OUT. BUZZY YUCKLESMITH HAS JUST BECOME HELL ON WHEELS AND NONE SHALL BE SPARED UNTIL HE GETS HIS ANIMAL COOKIES AND NAP TIME. Now every god damned driver has pulled their collective lumpy heads from their asses and are grade-A numba one GO KICKY FAST OKAY DRIVER MANS. Dale Earnhardt's ghost is bending over these special seeds of God and giving them a shot in the ass.

    Suddenly these drivers are now that much more self-aware. So self-aware, actually, that they will go out of their damn ways to wreck your stupid ass every time you approach a turn of any mitigating degree. Merrily turning along here, and here comes a shitty little Volkswagon to sideswipe you and peel off into the sunset to clumsily rape your girlfriend. It's like a big fucking blue shiny dog nose cramming itself into your crotch at a 120 MPH. HELLO MASTER I WOULD LIKE A SNACK. THE PRICE? YOUR ABSOLUTE AND UTTER FAILURE IN THIS EVENT ONCE AGAIN.

    It's no longer a fucking simple race. It's no longer about your ability to master the subtleties of your car and memorize the optimal turning points on a course. It's a fucking destruction derby of fagnanimous proportions. All the cars except the one in the lead are just there to block your way and nudge your car into brick walls should you dip a mile or two under your car's max speed. It's the cross-eyed fuckwit in the front that's pissing me off the most.

    And who's at the front of the line? Why, it's Captain McShit! He's the three-armed farting psycho boy on the short bus, in case you were wondering. You can tell it's him from his Rainman-esque ability to flawlessly corner, turn, and accelerate his funnycar at every given oppurtunity on any fucking course. YOU CANNOT CATCH ME, FOR I IS MADE OF THE GINGERBREADS. Seriously, this motherfucker just peels at the drop of the flag and you don't see this shitbarn for days. Weeks. He takes a grand fucking tour of china twice before your busted ass begins to see the finish line glint on the horizon.

    Fucking hell, Bizarre. This game works in math, you assholes. I can't fucking compete against math. I still have trouble hitting the toilet when I take a shit; what the hell makes you think I have the manual dexterity to wrestle a goddamn XBox controller to hit a 50 point line on every fucking turn on the Nurburgring? Do you understand you've practically taken the strategy out of racing and replaced it with an exercise in pure frustration? Watch a normal race; you tell me if the men driving their multi-million dollar toys are ramming each other like a bunch of enraged sperm and crashing and then laughing it all off.

    Now the Street Race challenges are about finding a way to ram and crash the lead car before he gets too fucking far ahead. Brilliant! In which case, you should rename the challenge to something more appropriate, such as ANNEURISMS AHOY.

    This problem could have been avoided had you provided the ability to turn collisions off, like you do in online Exhibition games. I've talked to the people who play no-collision-exhibitions online and the reason they do it is because they don't want to deal with the rampant retard factor apparent in the Kudos (read: NORMAL) races.

    SO YOU'VE PROGRAMMED A BUNCH OF FUCKING GRIEFERS INTO THE GAME. CONGRATULATIONS, SHITSPIT, YOU GET TO DRINK FROM THE FIREHOSE.

    Why the fuck are you doing this to me? What gross fucking tragedy have I wrought against you? What train of thought did you follow in order to come to the conclusion that what you did was a good thing? What thicklipped cromagnon looked you right in the eye, unblinking, and said "Yes, this artificial behavior is acceptable and becoming of human behavior itself?" I want to skullfuck the menenges out of his rattling softspots and write the following message on a wall with my bloody cock: STOP MAKING SHITTY AI.