The Crispy's 2005: Part Two
May 09 '05
The Bottom Line It's not my fault it's not worth the wait.
New instalment, same shit. Expect swearing and typo’s by the dozen. What you shouldn’t expect are links yet. They’ll come with time, and a minor miracle. Missed the first part? Find it on my profile page. Simple
If there’s one (nice) thing you could say about Crispy, it’s that the man isn’t afraid of confrontation. Here he sits behind his desk, calmly rolling a cigarette and sorting though his notes, as an extremely pissed off character hurls a volley of profanities at him. If it weren’t for the fact that he repeatedly grimaced from time to time, you would almost assume that the guy just wasn’t listening to a word that was being said.
“Dammit, Crispy you shitbrained anal spatula, enough is enough. I’ve been a good sport about this for the past two years. I’ve put up with the shit you’ve flung at me in public. I’ve patiently sat through the idiotic mess of an awards show you’ve put up, I’ve even been relatively complimentary about the whole thing. But now you’ve taken it too far”
Crispy sighs, and looks up from his prompt cards, at his verbal assailant.
“Look, I’d love to help you. But for the last time I don’t have any say so in the auditions. If you want to apply, you’ll need to join the queue outside and wait your turn”
“I’m not here to audition for anything you cretin. I’m Mobiprof, and I want you to stop whoring my name out to get cheap publicity, and even cheaper laughs, for your piss poor show”
“Yes, yes, I’m sure you are. You’re very good, you sound just like him too. But like I said I can’t make any decisions. If you want the job, you’ll...”
The figure thumps the desk with such ferocity, the whole room feels like it shakes. Although given that we’re in a garden shed flimsier than Michael Jackson’s numerous alibi’s, that’s nowhere near as impressive as it sounds.
“Crispy, I’m not asking you, I’m warning you. I’m not going to stand for this any longer. I’ve had enough of you and your shit and you’re going to rue this day”
Crispy rolls his eyes, stands and takes a drag on his cigarette, walks toward the door and taps his watch impatiently.
“Okay, I promise that I’ll have a word with a few people, pull a few strings and see if I can get you the gig. I can’t promise anything, but I can’t say any fairer than that”
I recall hearing what seemed to be an extremely sinister threat emitting from this ‘Mobi’ impersonators mouth as he walked past Crispy and though the door, but nothing that I would ever have thought twice about. Thus the idea of telling Crispy about it never really crossed my mind. In hindsight, this was just the first of a number of mistakes I was about to make...
As I took my seat in the theatre, I made the first of these mistakes by choosing to position myself next to what looked like a sweet enough soccer mom. No sooner had I sat down did I suddenly notice how cold the place was. Damn air conditioning. I turn to my seat partner and am about to comment on the chill factor, but stop instantly when I notice her staring at the glass of soda I had recently acquired from the bar. She smirks at me “You know, they don’t refrigerate that stuff very well at these events. It’ll be flatter than kippers piss in a few minutes” I glimpse at the glass and shrug, unsure where this is leading. She smiles again, a knowing but content smirk.
“Do you mind?” she chuckles as she reaches over and takes the drink from my grasp. Expecting some sort of bizarre magic trick, while also wary of her slipping some Rohypnol in there, I sit patiently, my palms sweating slightly out of anticipation. But she does nothing. She merely sits there, glass in hand for nothing more than a matter of seconds, before she casually hands it back to me. “Should be much better now, hun” she whispers.
JESUS! I react in shock as the now frozen glass sends my nerve endings into a spasm. A searing pain stabs into my hand, as I attempt to throw the glass onto the floor. I say ‘attempt’ because the bloody thing has stuck to my palm. I glance up at this… this Ice Queen, an obvious look of panic plastered all over my face as I half-expect her to finish me off. Instead I am met by a look of concern, as she reaches over me and pries the glass from my now frost-bitten appendage, taking a small layer of my skin with it. By now, my shrieks of pain have become so high-pitched that only a dog could hear me.
“Bugger. Did I overdo it a little bit? Sorry babe, sometimes I don’t know my own strength”. She studies the icy glass and grimaces. “Needs defrosting, a wee bit of hot air should sort that out”
She turns to a guy sat directly next to her “Jack, tell me about the girl you knocked boots with the other day”. As this Jack characters starts to talk (in the name of decency, I won’t quote exactly what was said, but suffice to say, it was objectifying in the extreme) the Ice Queen whips the glass in front of his mouth for a matter of seconds, and swiftly hands it back to me. Without thinking, I instinctively grab it, and am stunned with the result; not only is the glass now ice free, but my soda has only completely evaporated. I stare in awe as the Ice Queen shrugs at me and flashes an awkward smile.
“Sorry. My bad. Can I get you another one?”
My only thought was to laugh nervously. It was either that or scream.
Mercifully, by this stage the awards show is well underway again, and Crispy is heading onto the third award of the night, although how anyone can claim there’s any prestige to it is beyond me, being as it as for the category of
MOST LONG-WINDED REVIEWER
Caffienatedyak
darkofnight
Howard_Creech
Mobiprof
sadgit
Apparently, rambling on about anything and everything for long periods of time is enough to get you an award these days. Only in the eyes of Crispy could waffling be considered an art form. Still, waffle they may, but these guys can seriously write.
The winner, a popular choice, turns out to be sadgit, the first ever English recipient of an award at the Crispy’s. Whether or not the fact that he also happens to live in pretty much the same area as where Crispy himself was raised is an avenue that I think better of exploring, or even caring about. Even so, sadgit seems extremely reluctant to accept this rather back-handed award, but takes his place at the podium nevertheless.
“Erm, thanks for this” he coughs “Ever since the day I penned my first review... did you read that one Crispy? It was about Dr Who. The new series is a bit shit though, I mean the Dalek’s have got emotions now, and can levitate. What’s that all about? Anyway, it’s been a busy year, and I’ve been a busy bee. Have you read my review on Batman, by the way? I think you’d like that one Crispy. You still haven’t really read my Betty Blue review though”
Suddenly, and without warning, he begins to sob uncontrollably
“Why do you do this to me Crispy, why? Why don’t you ever read my reviews anymore? *sob* Why are you never on MSN Messenger anymore, do you hate me or something? Why do you treat me like this? How can you just cast me off like you do? Do my reviews mean nothing to you anymore?”
In a second, his mind snaps, and he kicks over the podium, sending it flying into the front row, and pulls out a handgun, aiming it at Crispy – who soils himself in record time - and screaming like a banshee with its nutsack caught in a mousetrap.
“Get on your knees and tell me what you think of my Eurhythmics review, bitch. Tell me now, motherfucker. TELL ME HOW GOOD IT IS OR I’LL FILL YOU WITH SO MUCH LEAD I’LL BE USING YOU AS A PENCIL”
Although the incident is over in a second, it was still a rather nerve-wracking experience. It didn’t matter that sadgit suddenly snapped by into sanity almost as quick as he snapped out of it, and returns calmly to his seat, or that the gun he was holding was quite clearly made out of cardboard and elastoplast. For a brief second you couldn’t help but feel sorry for Crispy. Only for a second, mind.
The laugh that emits from the Ice Queen sat next to me suggests that everyone found that whole thing rather amusing.
“I wish I’d have thought of that” she smirks. "I would have used a real gun though, and pointed it at Mike and made him admit that he was my bitch, and that I am soooooooooo better a reviewer than him. I’d have been all like ‘Now who’s been put in their place, mofo?’ She mimes the sound of a gunshot, the look in her eyes suggesting that she is in a far-away, happy place right now. I decide against pushing the matter any further.
Luckily, and rather disgustingly considering the stench that is arising from his excrement-stained undergarments, Crispy pushes on into the next award. A little more of an acclaimed award this, the one for…
BEST NEWCOMER
doctornocturna
dpjohansen
Janteloven
Metalluk
pyfr
Like the child actors Hayley Joel Osment, Dakato Fanning and Macaulay Culkin, some reviewers on the site have launched themselves into limelight in spectacular fashion, earning accolades and admirers by the truckload. Of course, whether or not they build on their potential and actually go onto fulfil the promise, or if they throw away their talent on drugs, fast cars and loose women – or by just plain turning out to be crap, just like Osment, Fanning and Culkin - is a different story. But, as is now customary for these awards, one barely has time to think before a scuffle on the stage breaks your concentration and draws you back into reality. Turns out that ‘best newcomer’ sounds a lot like ‘kris-kochanski’, for the lady herself has taken to the stage and is delivering a heartfelt acceptance speech.
"Thank you! Thank you! I never expected this all those years I spent talking to myself in a mirror telling myself I wouldn't expect this! I'd like to mention now that it's an honour to win this penis-like statue, only the horse tranquilizers just kicked in and there's a dancing elephant in the way of the teleprompter. And I'd like to mention I have a very long list of people to thank, only before the horse tranquilizers kicked in, I ate the list... to quiet my nerves.
”You know when they first told me I wasn't blonde enough, I just had to take an epidural and laugh about how generous my thighs have been. I guess it only goes to show that you can never have enough shoes, hats and gloves in life.
”Now, if I can get a little teary eyed and serious, I want to thank Gilgamesh, for being such a powerful force in my loins. And to my grammy, bless her heart, who always told me that I should have studied dentistry. And finally, to all the little people, please, I beg of you, stop stealing my socks after I have just done the laundry.
“If you even think of playing music right now, I will ram this charming statuette up your-
”Wait, I wasn't done yet, you silicon tramp! Give me back my arm! Get away from me! Help! I'm being kidnapped by Ving Rhames and Vanna White! Call the police! Call the police!!!"
She collapses into a heap, the aforementioned tranquilizers having the inevitable effects, where she lays, snoring in a very unladylike manner, while Crispy does his best to keep the whole thing together. Or at least limit the damage that has already been caused. The noise of the snoring is so intense that Crispy has to announce the winner of the award no less than three times. Metal truck? Met a lock? No, that’d be Metalluk
It shows how desensitised to the criminally insane I have now become at this moment in time when I don’t even flinch as Metalluk takes the stage with a cork wedged between his arse cheeks. Nor does his speech, which lasts an incredible 27 minutes, in which he devotes his victory to his ‘incredible facial hair’, seem in any way out of the ordinary. I knew then that I needed to get another drink, almost blocking out the list of nominee’s for the next award, that of
MOST SPORADIC CONTRIBUTOR
Artbyjude
d_fienberg
Katybrighteyes
Psychovant
Stockholder
We’ll come back to that one later.
As I waited to be served at the bar, which is unusually quiet, I think back to the what happened the last time I acquired a drink, wincing at the still evident pain in my hand. What was it that Ice Queen had said? ‘They don’t refrigerate that stuff very well at these events. It’ll be flatter than kippers piss in a few minutes’. I ponder this as the barmaid approaches me.
I request a vodka and coke, stipulating that I would like some coke that’s been refrigerated this time. The barmaid scowls at me.
“ALL of our soda’s are refrigerated” she snaps back
No they aren't I argue, because the last one I got was almost as warm as a cup of coffee.
“Look, I’m not going to argue with you. I’m too exhausted and underpaid to start with any of that”
I apologise, but reiterate my point that the last beverage I purchased from the exact same bar was a million miles away from being chilled. She tuts at me.
“Do you want to see for yourself? Go ahead, if it’ll make you happy” She walks over to the side of the bar and opens up the parting “Be my guest if you want to go into the cellar and check it out for yourself”
I hesitate for a second, but what the hell. If making me happy is what will make the irate wench happy, then why not?
I stumble into the cellar, half-expecting the grouchy barmaid to follow me, but she couldn’t seem care to less, she’s just happy to rest her feet for a while. As I reach the bottom of the steps I fumble for a light switch, but find nothing. I try to negotiate my way through the cellar, my eyes adjusting as the light from upstairs reflects off a array of barrels and machinery. A warm sensation hits me as I make my way to what must be the boiler.
As I stumble toward it, I notice a barrel labelled ‘soft drinks’, right next to the boiler. I place my hand on it and, for the second time tonight, scorch my hand. The thing is red hot. “All of our soda’s are refrigerated” my arse. Contemplating my ‘ner-ner I told you so” speech to the barmaid, I turn to make my way back to the stairs, but as I do so something in the corner of the room catches my eye. Three large paper bags, too small and oddly out-of-place, sit half-concealed behind an empty beer keg. Curiosity, and a natural journalistic instinct to stick my nose into other people’s business, urges me over to investigate. Squinting, I try to make out the labels, but the lack of light makes this all-but-impossible. I tip over the first container, and a tiny pile of white grains spill out onto the floor. Cocaine? Hardly. Just salt. I search the next two containers and find small remains of sugar and some form of soft, fat-like liquid.
Puzzled, I search round, my eyes now adjusted to a semi-nocturnal state, and I see what looks like a trail of all three ingredients snaking its way across the floor and up the side of one of the barrels. I follow the trail with my hands, only to find that it comes to a stop halfway across the top of the barrel. I claim up onto the top, straddling it as I use my hands as a guide. It doesn’t take long before I discover that a crude hole has been etched into the surface. Realisation hits me: someone has been pouring these things into the drinks. I don’t even have time to ask myself why before I hear the distant sound of muffled conversation. Someone is coming!
I quickly flatten myself against the barrel, hoping that the lack of light will be sufficient to render me invisible to the naked eye. As I watch on, my nerve-endings tingling with adrenalin, a silhouetted figure appears in the doorway and walks over the adjacent wall. He flips a switch and suddenly the lights fire into life. Panic races through me, but the illumination in the room lasts barely a second before a bulb bursts and darkness falls once again. Suddenly, Crispy soiling himself earlier didn’t seem so funny.
The figure sighs heavily and gingerly paces down the room, heading in my direction. Did he see me? No, he’s heading for the trio of containers I discovered mere seconds ago, scooping them up. He allows himself a low chuckle as he throws open the boiler door and discards the bags into the furnace that lies within. He then confidently strides to the doorway and bounds upstairs, the sound of a muffled conversation echoing round the cellar.
After a cautionary few minutes, I climb down from my hiding place and finally let out an exasperated gasp. A number of questions race through my mind, amid a mild amount of panic. When the lights had been switched on, whoever was in the cellar may not have seen me, but I sure as hell saw them. So what exactly, I asked myself, is Mobiprof up to?
TO BE CONTINUED
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Epinions.com ID:
Simply_Crispy
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 - Top 1000 |
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Location: Peterborough, UK
Reviews written: 210
Trusted by: 158 members
About Me:
Aiming for the top 500.
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