Game of the Year 2009: Uncle Crispy's Woodshed Awards
A couple of these Crispy Gamer hornswogglers made it up to my estate last weekend, if only because my good-for-nothin'; watchdog Rover fell asleep at his shotgun post. Turns out Rover was dead, but that's no excuse, fact is he let these dadgum paper-pushers into my Appalachian villa.
They said, "Mr. Uncle Crispy" -- that's the beady-eyed one talking; 'course they were all beady-eyed -- "Mr. Uncle Crispy, it's the end of the year, and we thought you might like to say a few words to our readers. Perhaps you could give out some awards?"
I hadn't the slightest idea what the bo-dickety he was jabberin' about, but after a little bit, I gathered that the gizzard-'n'-fixin's restaurant chain that I thought I'd started with my coffee-can funds was actually a computer-game magazine. Why, if I ever see that two-timing Wall Street "venture capital" type again, I'll gut him but good.
The Crispy Gamer folks just about gave up on me then and there, which was their second mistake, their first one being takin' their boots off when there's chiggers about. Fact is, I play a lot of games. There's not much else to do in these parts, and that's the way Uncle Crispy likes it. "Night-life," dancing, indoor plumbing, that's the devil's work right there. So's videogames, but dang, a man's gotta have his vices. Anyhow, I told 'em I'd take a few games out behind the woodshed and if they want to call it an awards show, I suppose that suits you huckleberries just fine.
Worst Button: The X Button. I have had it with this button. I played that game with the codpiece-wearing, boomerang-throwing fancy boy [Editor's Note: Batman: Arkham Asylum, we think], and every time I had to pull a grate off the wall -- which was a lot, on account of the damn things kept growin' right back as soon as I left the room -- I had to hit "X" nigh on a hundred times. Made my thumb hurt like a slick-tailed possum, and I need that thumb, it's my trout-gougin' thumb. Now see here, X button, when I tell you to do something, I only expect to tell you once, so you'd best fall in line or it's out to the bramble pit with you. Mighty brambly out there, I hear.
Most Obvious Monkeyshines: Modern Warfare 2's "No Russian" Scene. Now that I know what this Crispy Gamer boondoggle really is, it figures I always get free games in the monthly mail wagon, but at the time, I couldn't reckon why anyone would send me this game. I played it, but I got to this one part at the local landing strip where you have to help a bunch of Commies kill some regular joes and their missuses to boot, and I turned the thing right off. I know when someone's pulling monkeyshines on me, "trolling" as you young'uns say. Those Modern Warfare people were tryin' to get my goat. Not too clever about it, either.
But it looks as if you so-called game journalists ain't so smart as Uncle Crispy, seein' as how you took the bait, writing your columns about your emotions and thoughts. And all the while the fatcats at the videogame company are laughing like two old prospectors milking a fresh claim. Made me wish I lived next a game-writer type, because if my pet bear Mamie drops her scat on a game journalist's lawn, he won't get after me with a rusty hacksaw like the folk around these parts. He'll just write a 5,000-word column about how it made him feel.
Uncle Crispy's Darkest Moment: Listening to Boring Scribblenauts Stories. Just because Uncle Crispy picks a life of solitude doesn't mean he don't need a little contact with his fellow man once in a while. Lucky for me, the county seat considers me a shut-in, and as such they send some wet-behind-the-ears do-gooder up this way from time to time. Well, in October they sent a kid who wouldn't quit runnin' his mouth about the scribbling game where he made a dinosaur eat a xylophone or some such hogwash.
This little toad-licker had a million scribble stories, and damn if he wasn't gonna make me hear every last one of 'em. The pussycat and the bicycle. The tractor and the sandwich. Now, I can't say I'm proud of this, but when a man is driven to such extreme boredom, he has strange thoughts, and I started to wonder how deep a hole I'd need to keep the coyotes from diggin' up a fresh-sliced college boy. About that same time, the kid gets real fidgety and turns tail for home, but listen here, that's a lesson to the rest of you. Your scribble stories ain't half as interesting as you reckon, and Uncle Crispy always keeps a shovel in the cupboard.
Biggest Reason Uncle Crispy Won't Be Canceling His Subscription to The Ladies of Field & Stream: The Boobs in The Saboteur. I got no truck with people who're against naked women in games, 'cause I take what I can get where I can get it. But the nudie-club girls in this Saboteur game could use some overalls. I may have only one eye since the rickets, but those sad bosoms didn't bear one lick of resemblance to a beautiful woman's shapely chest. To my eye, they looked more like old nylons you found down by the crick and filled with pine cones and chewed acorns until they looked like Martha McIntyre from the turnip stand where you grew up. And I already got a pair of those.
Superhero That Makes Uncle Crispy Reminisce Most Wistfully for Dwight Eisenhower: Spider-Man in Marvel Ultimate Alliance 2. The "superheroes" that make you lily-britches swoon these days, why, they couldn't tan the hide off a wet potato. That jaw-jacking Spider-Man is the worst of the lot. Ike didn't need jokes and jipes to win a war, by crack, and he never wore a cute red suit, either. Or if he ever did, he earned it. Dadgummit, I'm so hot about this, I've got a mind to take old Rover, Jr. here down to that Mar-Vel establishment and let him at this spider. The hound's got a taste for bugs, after all. Mostly bedbugs, but he won't turn his nose up at a couple extra legs.
Take It Out Back Behind the Woodshed Game of the Year: Noby Noby Boy. Seems every time I plug in the shiny black game box, it's bellyachin' about the Sony servers and all the updates it needs, like it up and forgot how to play games all of the sudden. Trouble is, the only telephone line to Uncle Crispy's estate was installed before the science types figured out insulation, so when it's sunny, it goes slow, and when it rains, it don't go. I figured this Noby Noby Boy would be worth the wait, though, 'cause it was colorful, and after a couple swigs of backyard bourbon, I only make out bright shapes anyhow.
New moon comes around, and the black box is finally finished remembering how to work, so I give 'er a whirl. Well, the noby boy is just a tube who eats things to get longer. If I wanted to see that, I'd feed some hard-boiled eggs to the rattlers over by the old linoleum mill. Say, that reminds me of the one thing the shiny black box turned out to be good for: crushin' rattlers.
Uncle Crispy is the chairman emeritus of Crispy Gamer.
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