We’re rerunning Richard Cobbett’s classic Crapshoot column, in which he rolled the dice and took a chance on obscure games—both good and bad.
From 2010 to 2014 Richard Cobbett wrote Crapshoot, a column about rolling the dice to bring random games back into the light. This week… we knew I’d get around to a game called Toilet Tycoon eventually, didn’t we? Let’s dive in! Or, better yet, let’s not do that.
As far back as I can remember, I always wanted to own a toilet empire. To me, that was better than being a Level 90 Paladin in World of Warcraft. To be a Toilet Tycoon was to own the world. It’s like they say: if you want to be rich, find something no one can live without and you find a way to put a price-tag on it.
Sure, it may not be so glamorous, but from the poorest Joe to the highest King, when they really gotta go, they’ll pay damn near anything to get that load off. Unless there’s a wall nearby. Then, not so much. Any other time, though! Any other time, you get a person by their bladder, you grip ’em by that quivering organ, and there ‘aint no limit to how hard you can squeeze. Not literally, mind. Not if you’re smart. Definit’ly not if you’re wearing new shoes.
Now I’m not saying my rise to Toilet Tycoon was easy, not even a little. I had to do all sorts just to get started, like trying to set up an empire in no fewer than three virtual machines—one that reckoned it couldn’t find a mouse, one what figured jumping around like a crack-addled crazeball in need of a mighty piss was the best way to handle a cursor, and then one more that required so much poking and prodding to get Virtualbox working that I half reckoned it was time to switch careers and show off my Flightmare skills. Sadly, I then realised I’d rather stab my eyes out with a fork than try and take out motorbikes from two camera angles one more time, so here we are. But seriously, it was close.
So insteads, I found myself here in my office, scoping out my competition in the crap-handling industry. See, the Toilet Tycoon biz ‘aint all shit and roses. Mostly, it ‘aint even roses. There’s competition for the porcelain throne, and not just a little! Just ask my arch-rivals, Butt Rogers and Flush Gordon, or maybe Mr. Methane, who forgot to bring a joke name to the party but never mind. Could’ve had John Carter. Just sitting there for the taking. Doctor Poo. Snake Pisskin. RoboCrap. ‘Aint no shortage of names. But no, Mr. Methane it is, stinking up the joint like always.
Of course, all of them had to go down. They were rivals. Enemies. The kind of jerks that want to send you round the bend right when you figure you’re flush with success. You know the kind. Assholes. And not the kind what spits out profits for Yours Truly.
Now, you might be wondering, what’s a Toilet Tycoon when it’s at home? And that’s a good question, with many possible answers, from a guy what owns a crapper in every town district to one who turns enough shit into gold to make a cool million Euros.
