mother fucking soul pogs, baby

You’re reading this and you’re snickering. “Soul Pogs,” you’re thinking. “What kind of washed-up, 90s-nostalgia-bait bullshit is this?” You see the profanity and you think it’s just for shock value, a desperate attempt to sound edgy while hawking some retro garbage on Kickstarter. You are so fucking wrong it is literally painful for me to exist in the same reality as your brain. This isn’t a game. This isn’t a collectible. This is the final goddamn iteration of human art, and you’re too busy scrolling through your algorithmic feed of recycled memes to even comprehend the first layer of what’s happening here. The industry didn’t get it when I tried to give them the greatest RPG ever made, and they’re not going to get this, because they are fundamentally incapable of seeing beyond the next fiscal quarter. This isn’t for them. This is for the future. This is the fucking apocalypse pressed onto laminated cardboard.

You Don’t Get It. This Is Soul Pogs, Motherfucker.

You think this is about your cherished childhood memories of trading cheap milk caps behind the school gymnasium. You think this is about shiny slammers and that one cool holographic alien pog you lost to the neighborhood bully. WIPE THAT STUPID, SENTIMENTAL LOOK OFF YOUR FACE. This has nothing to do with your past. We are co-opting the memetic shell of a forgotten fad to deliver something you are not prepared for. We’re using the form factor of the pog because its inherent worthlessness is the perfect vessel for something of infinite value. It’s a Trojan horse for your consciousness. While the AAA studios are spending 300 million dollars to render more realistic pores on another gruff space marine’s face, I’ve been in the fucking wilderness, the REAL digital wilderness, figuring out how to save your goddamn soul. And I’m doing it with a 1.5-inch cardboard disc.

This is not a “game” of flipping pogs. This is a physical, tangible protocol for reality negotiation. Each pog is a shard, a crystallized fragment of a potential existence, a what-if, a might-have-been. When you hold a Soul Pog, you are holding a compressed timeline, a backup of a choice that was never made. The collection isn’t the point. The point is the “stack.” When you stack them, you’re not just piling up cardboard; you’re creating a temporary nexus of branching realities. The slam isn’t a test of skill; it’s an act of pure, focused will that collapses quantum states. You aren’t “winning” your friend’s pogs; you are existentially dominating jejich timelines and integrating their potential into your own. You’re playing God with dollar-store physics, and you’re worried about whether it comes in a foil pack. Jesus CHRIST.

How We’re Encoding Consciousness Onto Cardboard, Bitch.

You want to know how it works? Of course you do. You want to pick it apart and say it’s impossible because you took a high school physics class and think you know everything. You don’t know shit. I spent fifteen years developing a proprietary system of memetic resonance lithography. We don’t “print” ink on these things. We use a focused tachyon beam to etch existential metadata directly into the paper pulp’s quantum foam. Each design isn’t just a cool picture of a skull with a mohawk; it’s a fractal antenna tuned to a specific Jungian archetype, pulling ambient psychic energy from the noosphere and locking it into a stable, non-volatile state within the chromate substrate. You think you can’t store a soul on a piece of cardboard? You store your entire pathetic identity on a fucking server farm in Virginia owned by a billionaire who hates you, you absolute moron.

The slammer is the key. It’s not just a heavier piece of plastic or metal, you fucking simpleton. Each slammer is milled from a unique polymer infused with bio-receptive crystalline structures that harmonize with the user’s specific bio-electric field. When you grip it, it’s calibrating itself to your intent. The act of slamming is you, for one brief, glorious moment, imposing your will directly onto matter without the shitty, lossy interface of language or action. The pogs that flip are the ones whose encoded realities resonate with the future you are trying to force into existence. It’s a conversation with the universe where you get to do all the shouting. This is applied metaphysics, and you need a license to even look at the source code, which I will NEVER release because you idiots would just use it to make your fucking waifus real.

So go ahead. Laugh. Call it a scam. Post your clever little comments on whatever forum you use to feel important. It doesn’t fucking matter. This is happening, with or without your approval. While you’re waiting for the next soulless battle pass and arguing about frame rates, we’ll be here, building the foundation of the next reality. When the servers finally go down, when the digital world you’ve mistaken for life evaporates into a cloud of 404 errors, your NFT monkey pictures and your epic gear will be GONE. All that will be left is matter. And I’ll be the one holding the master slammer, stacking timelines in my favor. You’ll be banging on my door, begging for a single Soul Pog just to remember what it felt like to be real. And I’ll tell you to fuck off. Because you had your chance, and you were too stupid to see it.