Larry returns from the Caribbean and when he looks in the mirror, he gets the message: "Shape Up or Slip Out." This sixth installment in the series returns to traditional adventure format after the experiments of previous games. It's 1993, the era of 256-color graphics and one of the most shameless yet brazenly funny point-and-click adventures Sierra ever unleashed.

Larry takes along a cross-border companion with a health certificate and heads off to enjoy a wellness resort. You know the goal: rack up affinity with every available woman in a spiral of absurd plots ranging from a fraudulent doctor through aerobics to femme fatales. The game knows what it is, and it doesn't apologize one bit. There's no false confidence here — it's pure second-rate confidence of a caricaturist.
The system combines classic point-and-click with traditional inventory and dialogue. You move through screens, collect items, combine them with other items, talk to characters. The puzzle logic holds true to the series tradition: it's a mix of common sense and complete nonsense. Once you solve it, it makes sense. Until you do, you want to throw your computer out the window. The hand-drawn graphics maintain a decent standard — it's no masterpiece, but character outlines are readable and the color scheme transitions convincingly between exteriors and interiors.
While much of the competition was moving to talented voice acting, Larry remains silent — you read the text, hear audio only in the music. That's not a flaw. It's precisely those written words that let the game stay awkward exactly as it intends. The humor doesn't try to butter you up — it feels more like you're part of a group of disreputable friends laughing at their own jokes.
The game won't surprise you today. Visually it's mid-nineties average, puzzles are sometimes frustrating, and if you're not on the wavelength of slightly stubborn humor, it'll just seem boring. But that's exactly why it's worth playing — if only to understand how guys without qualms entertained themselves on PC in the nineties. It's a piece of PC history that doesn't erase itself or apologize. It's basically proud of it.