BEER ONE: It only makes sense that the first review I do is of the first full-length ECW event I ever saw, their first pay-per-view, Barely Legal. I was living at my mom’s house and had hooked up a satellite under the guise of doing something for her for letting me stay there post-college with my slack-ass and sleep on her living room sofa, when in actuality I was down with watching mad wrestling on the boob tube. I figured with a satellite, I’d get 39 different flavors of wrestling. All I got was the normal two and ECW, but that was enough. I got my youngest sister hooked on the shit and we were geeked for the first ever pay-per-view, and the only one they ever did from the ECW Arena. Back then, I didn’t know there was any such thing as people trading and accumulating wrestling tapes, thank God, so taping all the ECW I could get was just so that I could have it later in case I got married, had a stupid zine, and felt like drinking beer a whole lot and reviewing wrestling bullshit for no reason. Your ECW World Tag Champs are D-Von and Buh-Buh Ray Dudley, and the crowd is on them like fratboys on a girl passed out in the coat room. Sign Guy is there, and the only thing I’ve ever felt he was any good for was that snazzy subtle tie-dye suit he wore in that gimmick. Joel Gertner did great as the personal ring announcer for the Dudley Boyz, it just never translated over to anything else. Oh well, that’s wrestling, fuck you fatboy. It’s also odd seeing as the Dudley Boyz are pretty much doing the exact same gimmick, just with a lot nicer merchandise, in the WWF now. I also love that one highlight in the beginning of old ECW where Taz suplexes Mikey Whipwreck on his head and it looks a tooth rolls across the ring. That shit’s tight. Speaking of “tight”, I don’t know if this really happened on the Simpsons, or I imagined it in my flu-caused delirium the other night while sick as a fuckin’ junkie on the living room couch, but I think I watched an episode where Bart is rolling down the hall of a school, and some hip hop dude is by this door, and he says, “Yo! This class in here is tight!” and Bart gets all hyped up and goes in, but some crotchety old English lady says, “Welcome to Etiquette 101.” Bart does the “D’oh, the guy outside said this class was tight.” And the teacher says, “Are you doubting the word of my husband? Don’t make me bust a cap in that ass,” in her uptight English voice. I hope that shit was on a for-real episode, because if it wasn’t, I think I’ve got some issues to work out. Somebody should smack that guy in the front row? Which one? Any of them you might be thinking now. Being the famous guy in the front row is like being a great porn cameraman. And on comes some wack-ass music, and out comes The Eliminators, in outfits that made me question their sexuality as soon as I saw them. Shiny pink trunks? What the fuck. Saturn and Kronus, in their prime, were probably one of my all-time favorite tag teams. It’s funny too because Saturn has like three little tattoos and a somewhat regular looking body back then. Now, with all his fancy-boy WWF money, he’s got shitloads of tribal crap all over him and a roided physique that just won’t think logically. The great thing about ECW was they’d throw their fuckin’ tag title match on first, and your main event wouldn’t even have a title involved, yet somehow, they kept the belts important. Paul E. Dangerously was a great wrestling mind for a balding ponytailed Jew fucker from the New York area. I’ve always imagined Kronus obvious drug-related deterioration over the years has been due to Saturn just bolting on him for the WCW. I’m making the rule right now that I will have to gulp beer whenever that annoying little fuck Joey Styles yells “OH MY GOD!” This insures at least a six beer review for any tape watched. Basically, this match is like a display for The Eliminators on the Dudleys. Kronus attempts to kill himself for the first time. I hate when fuckers do those backflip cartwheel elbowsmashes off the ropes or into the corners, because it’s unnecessary embellishment. In the context of lucha, usually all the dumbass flips at least are supposed to add to the velocity of the move, but these types of things, mostly done by Rob Van Dam, take away velocity, thus decreasing the believability of the onslaught. Kronus is bigger than me, and he does that 450 degree flip thing. I bet he’s killer off the diving board at the water park where you can take coolers full of beer in. Saturn has to be gay, by the way. Total Elimination, and the Eliminators are 3-time tag team champions. Saturn’s doing a good job of pretending to care right now, clutching the fuckin’ belt and shit. Kronus just has a blank look in his eyes.
BEER TWO: Gertner comes in and takes his prerequisite bump and then Saturn gives Kronus a very homoerotic hug center ring. HEY! It’s a The Sandman promo. He’s drinking something in a green bottle rather than his normal Budweiser for the first pay-per-view, I think it’s probably Beck’s. It’s nice to see he went all out for this special event. I’ll drink to that. And he cracks his own head open with a cane. Nice touch. This makes me think I need more easily cracked open scar tissue on my forehead; not Perro Aguayo amounts, but maybe a little more than the odd dents and dings I got now. The World’s Best Cokehead on the Mic Chris Candido has his arm in a sling and is talking shit rapid-fire and delusional again. I love Candido. “I’m allergic to cigarette smoke.” Goddamn, this guy is great, somebody buy him an eightball and have him speak at my funeral. Out comes Lance Storm for the next match, still sporting a blonde rattail even though it’s 1996 and he has a crewcut otherwise. That right there is all you need to know about Storm. I don’t give a fuck how Canadian or how great a wrestler he is, the motherfucker had a rattail in 1996 that was bleached blonde and he wasn’t a lesbian from Tennessee, so fuck him. Rob Van Dam strolls out in his multi-colored trunks with the yin-yangs. RVD gets his wrestling attire from Spenser’s at the mall, doesn’t he? I’m surprised he doesn’t have blacklight trunks yet. Out of the first two matches, and 6 guys involved, 5 of them are now working in the WWF. Very odd. Poor John Kronus, I’m gonna drink some beer in his broke-ass honor while Storm and Van Dam do some of their goofy barely one step ahead of each other thing. RVD’s leaping somersault plancha in the ECW Arena always impressed me because 99 times out of 100 his legs hit the rails outside the ring, which meant he was actually jeopardizing the fuck out of himself. It’s a surprise he didn’t break his leg a few more times than he has. Lance Storm has also always wore the stupidest trunks. I imagine he used to doodle wrestling trunk designs in geometry class cuz he wasn’t paying attention, and that little mental slip has cursed him for life with this penchant for goofy triangles and lines on his dumbass trunks. Watching RVD throw a chair in Storm’s face made me remember when me and my boy Cock Diesel Robby were walking the alleys of Richmond back to Robby’s crib where I was sleeping on his and his ol’ lady’s couch at the time, from a tough night of drinking and playing Spades. I found one of those metal folding chairs like they use in wrestling and church banquet rooms and nowhere else on earth except maybe bingo, and it was too good an opportunity to pass up. I walked over to it without Robby seeing, being it’s dark and late and we’re drunk. I say, “Hey, check this out,” turn and throw him the chair flat, just like RVD would, he catches it, and I straight ahead just kick the shit out of it into his face. I was too drunk and unathletic to do one of those froo-froo spin kicks. This unleashed all sorts of meandering wrestling-related violence on each other, that culminated with me breaking a Miller bottle to feign stabbing him, only to have the thing gouge my index finger, or Pointer in thumbkin terminology, and bleed all over the fuckin’ place. A cop ended up driving by us a few minutes later and I had to put my hand in my pocket, even though it was like 312 degrees outside, because he would’ve probably asked us a few questions if he had seen my hand covered in blood. I passed out on Robby’s couch, and in the morning his wife woke me up real early, all worried, asking me about my hand, which was covered in dried blood and stuck to a cushion. I got up, washed it off, showed her the little rut in my finger, and said it was nothing. I’ve still got that scar today. God Bless America.
BEER THREE: Holy shit, this match predates the annoying ass Thumbkins pointing to himself thing that RVD does like every 12 seconds now. Shit, he just used “cat-like agility” to do a “frogsplash”. There’s a guy in the front row in a Carolina Panthers jersey, that’s funny. There’s also a guy in the background in a Warren Moon Vikings jersey tha tfor the last five minutes, no shit, has been reloading film in his camera. Now he’s talking to the dude next to him. What a fuckin’ dumbass. Just like Joey Styles. Lance Storm just cracked perhaps the weakest chair shot I’ve ever seen in my life. This match is kind of slow, considering who these guys turned out to be in ECW. It lacks the fluidity I would have hoped for. Then again, I oftentimes think that guys early on in a show are asked to keep it kind of slow and not too great so as to not upstage the later parts of the show. But then again again, I’m just a dumbass who watches wrestling and drinks beer and should probably go make a fried egg sandwich and go to bed, not a fuckin’ expert. Van Daminator for the victory. RVD, of course, won’t shake hands in a good-natured acknowledgement of the “great” match they just had, because he’s an egotistical money whore, at least in the character he was portraying at the time. Amazing sometimes how far from reality the character a guy plays in the ring can be from the actual guy. Ya know what might make me scared of wrestling a little more, is if they had separate entrances for the good guys and bad guys. They’ve basically moved back to the heel/face structure, so why couldn’t they do that shit. This crap where guys all come out the same door, it sucks and creates the perfect environment for this cult of personality crap that rules the roost. Now, they’ve imported a 6-man wrestling match for my enjoyment. Out comes the International Blue World Order, otherwise known as TAKA Michinoku and MEN’S Teioh and Dick Togo. They kick ass, even in goofy BWO t-shirts, which by the way, was the second-best NOW rip-off gimmick, right behind the Latino World Order. Their opponents are Great Sasuke, Gran Hamada, and Yakushiji. The fans threw colored streamers, which is the American audience’s way of telling the international superstars, “We are hip, pompous assholes who have watched tapes of Jap shit and want you to think we’re not just the cocksucker Americans we are.” Styles’ commentary how M-Pro started in Japan about the same time as ECW in America, and are parallel in history and future is weird, considering M-Pro still lives, and Joey Styles is on an infomercial somewhere right now. Dick Togo ain’t doing no motherfuckin’ infomercial. The International BWO aka Kaientai have some swank fuckin’ team maneuvers. Not often do trios go to the trouble of having great team maneuvers; it’s what sets groups like these guys and Los Infernales and the like apart from just three guys wrestling together. Terry Boy Teioh has the extended in-air hold before a suplex that makes any crowd clap, just because it looks weird. Gran Hamada’s headbutts make me drink beer. Gran Hamada being an old Jap fucker married to a Mexican honey and living in Mexico City makes me drink beer. I wish Gran Hamada was my adopted uncle. Shit, the fat Jap ref looks sort of like Ralph from the Simpsons. GRAN HAMADA vs. DICK TOGO! Beer.
BEER FOUR: I love the two feet to the back of the head held tight, then the other guy comes and dropkicks the guy in the face thing. That’s a great playground move. Fuck yeah, Sasuke moonsault onto the guardrail and Togo. Taka plancha. Dropkicks everywhere, fuckin’ people flying around like hornets on the back porch. Goddamn. The Swinging DDT, the official move of my fourth beer tonight. Good Fuck, TAKA rips shit. How did not even one good fuckin’ great match on PPV come out of his money-grubbing time in WWFland? Wicked powerbomb by Sasuke, and then a German suplex for the technico victory. Rewatching this match makes me realize, for like the seven thousandth time, I don’t have nearly enough Michinoku Pro shit. And if I have Chris Candido speaking at my funeral, I also wanna leave a list of people I secretly hate but never had the nerve to tell and Gran Hamada will headbutt them at the door of my funeral to keep those assholes out. A Stevie Richards promo. Stevie Richards with longhair and jean shorts is a good Stevie Richards. So Stevie holds his head up, talking about respect, and sits there sternly and stoicly, only to have The Blue Meanie bust in and quietly start talking about the Sandman and Terry Funk. Talk about killing the moment. Goddamn, I’m gonna go piss off the front porch, and hopefully no fuckin’ wolfman will eat me. I was worried about that shit earlier. My daughter talked about a monster in the woods, and it’s all misty and rainy and weird outside. Alright, I’m okay, no monster attacks, but I smudged myself with sage first just to be safe. They’re building a house over in the pasture across the road, and I hate that because those fuckers already have a doorbell with one of those annoying little orange lights lit up, and the fuckin’ house ain’t even done. Now, instead of a field across the road, there’s a goddamn orange light. So I took a wrench and went over and wedged it into the engine of the back-hoe that’s over there to do some damage on the ground. Thank God for the inspiration of Edward Abbey books. Out comes Shane Douglas with Francine and “police” escort. Francine always looked fucked-up, and not even in a “I’d like to do drugs in a cheap hotel and fuck a weird chick” fucked-up way, but in a straight up “ugh” fucked-up way. Somehow, people find her attractive and pay for Polaroids. She doesn’t have an ass either. How come so many white girls with absolutely no ass wear g-strings? There’s a chick at work who does that shit. She’s from Maryland, so she probably doesn’t know any better; but why do they do that shit? And you’ll hear them talk about how they’re getting fat, when they’ve got little boy asses already and are wearing g-strings. It’s gross. Fake tits and a little boy’s ass, that’s the dream girl for mainstream America right there. They can’t drive more airplanes into buildings fast enough for me. Shane Douglas is talking forever, like he’s prone to do, over-emphasizing his own importance, and hyping up his battle with the bald half of the Pitbulls. There was no feud more compelling than the Shane Douglas/Pitbulls feud. I’m not the biggest fan of the tassles on the wrestling attire, but if you’re gonna wear them, please for Satan’s sake, do something other than just put them on the top of your calves. The only thing gayer than that style is me paying attention to it. Fuck. What the fuck is wrong with me. I should be masturbating or something. Shane Douglas has always been decent enough, but I’ve never seen a fuckin’ thing in him to make him a star. He and Mick Foley trained together as naïve youngsters. What I wouldn’t give to have that wrestling school burn down back then and save us the torment of two self-important dumbasses telling us how great they are all the time, each in their own special way. “She’s got herpes.” Yes, my friends, that’s the best chant ever. I don’t think Joey Styles has said “Oh my God!” yet. He must be saving it for the main event. See, Francine has moved to this side of the ring, and she’s wearing a g-string, but you can see the fuckin’ strap go down her asscrack. With a real woman, that strap would be out of view behind some ass. Or more appropriately, a real woman wouldn’t be wearing some dumb shit like a g-string.
BEER FIVE: Gary Wolfe, aka Pitbull I, jumps the rail to attack Douglas, only to have the Philadelphia Police Riot Squad carry him over. Somehow, I don’t think the PPD Riot Squad wears mismatching black leather jackets and black Wranglers. I love when they have a length of guardrail in the ring. Don’t they usually secure that shit together? How do you get one length of it in the ring? And how come you don’t see some spot in the crowd where there’s guardrail missing? Oh yeah, it’s wrestling. On TV, wrestlers’ clothes look normal, but in person, that shit is polyester as fuck. I thought of that as they did a close-up of the ref’s shoulder. It’s funny how much in ECW the crowd chants mean shit towards women and cheers violence against them. I’m convinced that your average hardcore wrestling fan/pornography consumer is secretly being conditioned to be gay as artificial insemination and genetic engineering becomes more acceptable. They’re eliminating people who are Earth worshippers and believe in gardens and man/woman procreation. I’m sitting here in my studio watching this shit, drinking beer and doing this review, and I’m chanting “Boring! Boring!” I’m gonna wake my daughter up and get my wife all pissed at me, that’s how bad this match is. If there is a Hell, and I imagine it would be somewhere in New York City, I’ll have to go there and watch an Iron Man match between Shane Douglas and Rob Van Dam. Hey, Pitbull II just busted out the weakest pumphandle slam ever. I’ll drink to that, out of boredom. Rick Rude is supposed to unmask if Shane won, so the masked guy comes out, and I remember thinking, cool, Rick Rude is gonna unmask. But he kissed Francine, and it’s fuckin’ Brian Lee. Rick Rude is part of the Philadelphia Riot Squad and takes off his helmet and hits Shane in the gut with a billy club. This was great because it started Rude’s great run as a commentator on ECW, which led to him having a couple week gig on WWF as Shawn Michaels’ trainer or something, which led to him getting a cushy gig in WCW as a manager, which led to him dying young of weird natural causes, like all longtime wrestlers do. If you wanna commit suicide but are too pussy to do it, just go enroll in a wrestling school, you’ll die a tragic death eventually. Raven cuts a promo, his old basement tormented soul promos were the greatest. Taz is cutting a promo. I have never liked Taz. He has always been a big, fat piece of shit as far as I’m concerned. I could give a fuck less about mixed martial arts and people choking people out and all that crap. This is wrestling, not a goddamned dojo in a strip mall. Fonzie rocks though, before he got that fuckin’ whistle. Hard to realize sometimes that the same guy who refereed the epic Barry Windham/Ric Flair match from Battle of the Belts is the guy who fuckin’ blows that goddamned whistle all the fuckin’ time. The announcer called Taz vs. Sabu “the grudge match of the century”. Sure, why not. Sabu is the most graceful animal ever, probably my favorite wrestler of all-time. You know, Taz on his armband is the only name he ever put there other than Sabu, I think. But I bet he didn’t put no fuckin’ Devon Storm on his arm tape. Sabu blocked the Tazmission, so I’ll drink some beer to keep kayfabe and tell you nobody has ever blocked that move. Ever, motherfucker.
BEER SIX: Nice crossface punch into the nose of Sabu that made blood come from places don’t get bladed. That rocks. I’ll drink beer. The beauty of shit like that is that it seems real, but it’s not. A guy gets his nose broken, yet has to maintain his professionalism as he’s been brainwashed by the etiquette of professional wrestling, and just do the match as if his nose didn’t just get busted open. It rocks. It’s denial of reality all the way to the point that when shit turns real, you have to deny that too. I love wrestling. It’s way better than the NBA. They’ve gone into the crowd, and bald guys in hockey jerseys are in abundance. If I had money like a mug, I’d hire Sabu and La Fiera to come and I’d be their manager and we’d just tour the country in a late model Chevy Van, probably one with a Spade mirror on the back end, and do shows wherever, missing a lot of shows, because, well, it’d be me and La Fiera and Sabu, it wouldn’t be hard to get sidetracked. It’d be an interesting mix of tapes in the shoebox by the radio though, wouldn’t it? Of course it would, you fucker. Sabu goes through a table. Fonzie is taunting him, the same way he cheers for him today, six years later. Sabu locks Taz’s move on Taz, which is the ultimate in making the crowd think you’re a dumbass for three minutes until you do your move yourself. It’s a carney rule. Taz wins and I wasn’t paying attention because I saw this before like 17 times and knew he was gonna win and didn’t wanna see it happen again. I’m not gonna be like that guy who was watching an old hockey game with his cousin and saw his team losing and tried to throw the TV off the balcony but didn’t let go and fell off too, though. I’m not that fuckin’ stupid, obviously, as I’m watching wrestling and not hockey.
BEER SEVEN: “Taz is a bigger man than we all thought he was.” HAHAHAHA. Then RVD comes out, they do their thing. People always bitch about Sabu missing moves, but watching him get ready to bust a Taz through a table, he does the chair onto the ropes thing, falls off the ropes, which is not hard to do you fat fuckers! Then, he goes back to do the move again, but instead of trying the move again, just sort of flops over the ropes, feet caught in the thing, and smashes shit. It rules. Angry malevolence at its best. Fonzie takes off two shirts to reveal a Sabu t-shirt, thus starting the RVD/Sabu/Fonzie triumvirate of pot. These fuckers, as bad as they could be, were in High Times magazine. Not even Randy Savage can say that.
BEER EIGHT: When my daughter was little as shit, a baby, my wife made me a t-shirt with Sabu pointing up to the sky and my baby daughter sitting by his feet, and it said SPRING STREET TAG TEAM. That’s the best fucking t-shirt ever, too bad I’m too much of a beer-bellied fat ass to wear it proper anymore. Joey Styles looks like the type of guy who paid attention in history class. You know what else, Beulah wasn’t hot. I don’t think there’s ever been a girl involved in wrestling who had a pretty face. We get confused by idealistic bodies, but none have had a pretty face. Well, Baby Doll had a pretty face, but her body was Amazonian and scary, so she was the reverse of the rule. Stevie Richards and the BWO come out, and there’s Nova. Man, he wasn’t cool back then. FUCK YEAH! You know, I hate anything by Metallica after …And Justice For All. But whenever I hear this one song, I think, THE SANDMAN! Sure, he sucks now. But back then, he didn’t, and why would he? He drinks beer and wrestles. Most of you reading this drink beer and watch wrestling, that makes him one step ahead of you, so how can you find fault with him. Contrary to popular belief, The Sandman didn’t start sucking when he went to WCW; he started sucking when he stopped wearing zubaz weightlifter pants. Those things made him cool. There are Jimmy Buffett fans in the front row, and the singer from Deep Purple. Plus some guy wearing a The Phil Zone shirt. That rocks, a hippie kid into wrestling. I hope it’s not Cuervo, cuz I’ll have to edit this issue, and I hate editing shit. There’s some fag in the front row, big arms, black tank top, seemingly cool and tough, but then he’s taking pictures over the shoulder of the Sandman from his seat. Taking pictures is not cool. Remember shit, motherfucker, and if you can’t remember it, it wasn’t worth remembering. That’s what I say. Ahh, “Desperado”, no theme music has brainwashed me more except maybe “Iron Man”. When I hear “Desperado” by the Eagles, to this day, I hope to see an old Terry Funk with black and white leg stripes come out and moonsault on some kid. 3-way Dances usually suck. Tommy Dreamer has been doing commentary, and has said four words so far. The Sandman legit kills a beer. Nice, very nice. Funk/Sandman/Richards worked a good pattern here, everything makes sense at the beginning. It’s the logical progression from two-person into three-person, like sex, where you’re worried somebody will get left out, but they don’t, everybody’s involved. Goddamn you tomk, for ever making that analogy and fucking up my thought processes ever since. The Sandman double crosses Stevie Richards and I drink beer. He disappears like my beer. The Sandman brings a ladder and a beer. I’ve seen this match a thousand times, and still marked out for that. Mark is carney talk for be a dumbass and believe that crap even though you know better, or should know better. Maybe I shouldn’t know better. If I’m smart, what the fuck does that get me? Nothing, that’s what. I don’t get richer, I don’t get less taxes, I don’t get less government intrusion into my personal liberties. So fuck it, WHOOOOOO! THE SANDMAN DRANK ANOTHER BEER AND THREW A LADDER ON TERRY FUNK’S OLD ASS HEAD! The drunk Sandman just bodyslammed Richards neck first onto the ladder and Funk, with his neck hitting the ladder. I bet that’s what physically killed Richards’ career, but he’s too scared to say so. DRINK BEER! DRINK BEER! DRINK BEER! Terry Funk spinning helicopter style with a ladder and hitting people in the head and ending up in the ropes with his own head trapped sideways is beautiful.
BEER NINE: The Sandman brought out a trashcan wrapped in steel, as Tommy Dreamer called it. Double powerbomb by Funk & Sandman and Richards is gone from this contest, folks. In perhaps my favorite scene ever, Funk follows the Sandman around the ring, until he realizes what he’s doing, and walks the other way back into the ring. The Sandman brings barbed wire into the ring from under the ring. Who leaves all this shit under the ring? The Funker whips the Sandman with the barbed wire, and in a spot that I remember Cock Diesel Robby’s wife thinking made her puke or something, it catches Sandman’s skin and holds tight for a split second. Funk pushes a trash can down over Sandman, and Richards kicks him. Errant moonsault, one, two, three, and we’ve got a main event about to happen with shitty Offspring music. Raven hits the ring in full grunge effect. Raven’s wearing a Cult t-shirt. He would’ve been cooler if he’d worn a Zodiac Mindwarp shirt. “Joey, I gotta ask you a favor, I can’t do commentary, I just wanna watch,” says Tommy Dreamer, after saying like 19 words the whole night. Funk blades a nice gusher above the eyebrow, and even does a great forehead first grimace into the camera. This was blood; no pay-per-view I’ve seen since has given the old school blood like Funk did on this night. I’ll drink beer to you, my man, Terry Funk. Just like suckers say wrestling’s fake, I bet there’s some chump who reads this shit and says, “man, he didn’t drink beer watching this shit. I bet he hung out with his buddies and watched that crap. Fuck him.” No, motherfucker. I’m drinking real beer and watching fake fighting. I’ve got a family and a gun, in fact, two of them, on both accounts. I love when wrestlers have those dark concrete stains on their backs. The doctor is checking on Funk, probably legit, to see if his blood pressure is too low, and to make sure he’s not paralyzed. Some big fat chick drops Funk. And Raven’s Nest member, Lupus, is ringside. I never knew if it was meant to be that way, or just coincidental, but I always figured Lupus the dumb Raven sidekick was the grown-up version of the kid who got stuffed in the trash can in the Bad News Bears. I can only hope wrestling was that cross-referential. Big Dick Dudley returns to take a monster bump off the balcony. Tommy Dreamer’s non-talking ass heads ringside. Big DDT, but no pin for Funk. Then the schoolboy roll-up for the win. Funk celebrates, I drink beer, we’re all happy, God Bless Motherfuckin’ America, at least the non-commercial part of it. A bloody as shit Terry Funk hugging people he doesn’t know is my last thought before passing out...
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