Ahhh, G-Phoria. The time of year when video games are celebrated and awarded for their greatness in a competition that pits them against one and other in a battle royale, if you will, for G4’s coveted awards. A time of year for video game fans rally around the TV set (and 'net!) to find out which of their favorite games won and will go on to immortality, and which lost and will be relegated to Loser Town. More importantly, G-Phoria is a time of year when we swanky “writers” get to get all sauced up on free whoo-whoo juice, stagger around like maniacs, play video games in a stupor, and call it “work.” Fan-tastic! Count me in.

After my umpteenth Mountain Dew and gasoline cocktail, I cruised over to face my FEAR. No, I wasn’t going to cover myself in insects, or confront my horse-faced ex-girlfriend about that car of hers I crashed before running off, changing my name, and never being heard from again. This was F.E.A.R., the game, which stands for First Encounter Assault Recon. Not FEAR the concept, which stands for Frank’s Ex Acts Revenge. But I digress…

VU Games’ F.E.A.R. is a first-person shooter game that finds you part of a classified strike team out to destroy alien intruders who have taken over a multi-billion-dollar aerospace compound. Or are they really aliens? Maybe they are ghosts? Maybe they are monsters? Quite frankly, I don’t know. I couldn’t get past the front gate of the multi-billion-dollar aerospace compound. But I can tell you that the machine gun action was pretty friggin’ realistic, assuming you have been in a military recon unit and have fired high-tech automatic riles. I have, of course, so I can assure you that the sweet sound of shells dropping reminded me of Nam and my trigger finger started itching, just like the good ol’ days. After combing a few basements and tunnels, shooting at some enemy soldiers (at least, I think they were enemies) and watching the blood fly, I decided this game was taking too long and bolted for the next one.

King Kong. Well, well, well, my arch nemesis has returned. I watched this monkey bastard pummel Fay Wray in the ’30s, then assault Jessica Lang and embarrass Jeff Bridges in the ‘70s, so I damn well wasn’t about to stand by and let him make mincemeat of videogame history here in the year of our Lord, 2005, that’s for damn sure. I stomped on over to this mutant-offspring-game from Ubisoft and Peter Jackson like a bat out of hell (that’s an actual bat, mind you, not that crappy, overblown Meat Loaf album from the ‘70s) to show it who was boss and teach these critters a lesson. Animal kingdom, my ass!

So picture me this: It’s raining. You’re in dense jungle on a grassy mountainside. You’re a big, fat gorilla. Two T. rexs come out of nowhere and dig their jaws into your shoulders, ripping flesh and tearing bone in the process. But no matter: You strike them with your mighty fists and pound them into the ground. One after the other, you grab their jaws in your fists of rage and tear apart their skulls, brain matter, teeth and blood covering your thick, gorgeous coat of fur as you scream at Jane all the while, fogging up the screen with your hot, gory breath.

I never actually made it to the game, by the way. And those two T. rexs turned out to be an intern named Chip and co-worker named Robyn Tunny. There are two separate lawsuits pending, but that’s another story entirely.

Next up, Sega's Full Auto. This high-octane racing game finds you hauling ass around a future-city in a suped-up speed racer armed with gun turrets and rockets. You bullet through town in a high-speed race with other heavily armed vehicles, smashing through buildings, shattering glass and destroying just about everything in sight along the way. Some scenes get replayed via this cool, slow-mo bubble effect. Green arrows lead you on your course as you lap around the metropolis, and there are ramps you can jump and fly through the air. I even jumped through a friggin’ skyscraper, bro! It was pretty sweet. I like blowin’ stuff up and shootin’ things. In fact, I got so into it that I spilled a drink on the guy next to me just to make a statement. You know, take it to the next level.

But then I got bored again. Just as I was about to cop a “This is too lame for a too-cool-for-school dude like me” ‘tude and storm out of the joint to go home and watch The Muppet Show , I saw it: A radiating light, a sultry babe, a six-string weapon of glory. Finally, my moment to shine had arrived and I had found the game of my dreams. There it was, in front of my blood-shot eyes this entire time: Guitar Hero. Now, here is a game made for ME!

I have always fancied myself...well, fancy. And a bit of an axe-shredder to boot. Rock stardom is on my calling card, baby. Literally. So when I spied a game where you get to wield a Gibson SG-like axe, stand on the lip of the stage, and blast out classic tunes to an ecstatic audience of worshippers, I screamed aloud, “Can you hear me, Long Beach!?! Get ready drink some whiskey and rock ‘n’ toll all night long to the sounds of the Gee-tar Hero!!!” This didn’t go over to well with my bosses, who I discovered were standing right behind me discussing Human Resource-related topics. Ouch!

In RedOctane's Guitar Hero, you get to play along to radio favorites such as “Smoke On the Water”, “ I Love Rock ‘n’ Roll”, “Higher Ground”, "More Than A Feeling”, “Thunderkiss 65”, “Iron Man” and others. I played as a hot chick and wailed along to the rockin’ sounds, pressing buttons on the neck of my guitar to correspond to the flying discs whizzing by on the film strip onscreen. Sound impossible? Well, you haven’t been to a Frank Meyer and the Rockers concert, baby! This s**t was KILLER! I sounded AMAZING. In fact, my “57 note streak” even got a write-up in the game's Daily Dose newspaper. “Brilliant set from Judy Nails” read the headline. Damn right. But now it’s time for this lady of rock to retire for the evening.

I stumbled off into the night a champion. I proved to the world, and my co-workers, that I could stand up in front of a stadium full of horn-wielding heshers and rock their nuts off (…or cherries. I don’t wanna be sexist here). I proved I could drink anyone that stepped up to the plate under the table and not throw up... twice. In the same spot. I proved that guacamole can be worn as a hat. And, best of all, I proved to myself that video games really do matter. In this tipsy-topsy world of ours, where nothing is what it seems and dreams are shattered in the blink of eyeball, there is one thing you can count on: that pretending to be a big, fat gorilla and ripping a dinosaur a new one still feels good. Damn good.

Thank you, America.

Thank you.