BEER ONE: I’m excited. This is the first show for this issue I’ve never seen before. Even when I looked up what date the show was, I held my hand over most of the screen so I didn’t read what the matches were. I used to explain what beer I was drinking too, but somehow that memory was lost on me for the first couple reviews. Anyways, I’ve drank like five Old Milwaukees already. But I’ll be drinking Schlitz during this review. Why Schlitz? I hear you asking, knowing it’s the shittiest of all hip beers. Well, I went to Giant to do grocery shopping after work, and they don’t sell Old Milwaukee, and two six-packs of Schlitz actually came out to about thirty cents cheaper than a 12 of PBR. So that sealed the deal. When I do the grocery shopping, I like to figure up in my head the cost of everything as I go along, tax included. Tonight, I had figured $49.25 as the total. I only figure it in increments of five cents. The total came out to $47.39. I overbid, so I didn’t win the imaginary Showcase Showdown in my head, and Holly didn’t come give me a hug. Holly was always my favorite Barker’s Beauty. It’s actually midnight, the witching hour, it’s a good thing I’m not listening to Iron Maiden right now or I might commit suicide with my best friend. Anyways, I have to get up in six hours for work, but I’m gonna do this review anyways. You know why? Because I hate my job, and I love wrestling and beer. It’s very simple. If more people stopped doing the shit they hate in lieu of the things they love, the World would be a much better place. Let me be honest with you. I’m finishing that fifth Old Mil and watching some IWRG on tape. Lucha libre is the best fuckin’ shit on all of Earth. Just when you think it ain’t and maybe midget porn or figure 8 demolition derbies might be better, out comes Dr. Cerebro with his mask with a fuckin’ brain on it. As my grumpy ass old landlord says, you can’t fight progress. Well, fuck! Now, I’m watching this El Hijo Del Santo vs. Dr. Cerebro match for the three thousandth time, and it always fuckin’ rocks. Luckily, just as I wrote that, Cerebro took the first fall and I cut it off before I was up all night watching Santito matches again. Someone should start a lucha libre cult. I could write some good pamphlets for it, I’m sure, if I could get shitloads of tapes for free and go to TJ and get front row seats complete with an extra chair to throw at La Parka. Anyways, let’s get this party started. CRACK says the first Schlitz can. CLICK says the VCR. And I am magically six and half years ago in the past. Joey Styles is there without a commemorative book to hold quarters in it. According to the intro, Terry Funk is getting ready to retire. That’s a shame. And of course, we open with Donn E. Allen and the Broad Street Bully. Buh-Buh Ray Dudley is the ring announcer, back when he stuttered and came out to AC/DC music. The Broad Street Bully was always my favorite curtain jerker in ECW, especially when he actually kept his hockey gloves on and would throw them down partway into the match. HEY! A Dudley I forgot! Chubby Dudley! I’ll drink to that. And, of course, Dances With Dudley, the one they really need to bring back. The Dudleys were the shit when they wore bonafied hippie store tie-dyes and faded overalls. I am already imagining Dudleyville carnage at the jobbers’ expense. Many fans of wrestling don’t understand the history of the form. Buh-Buh is spelled as such instead of Bubba, because he stuttered. He was afraid of public speaking. He’s coming off as Mr. Haney from Green Acres right now. Donn E. Allen has his PWI ranking on the ass of his trunks, and Buh-Buh stutters on the Bubba Bomb. I love wrestling. It’s so fuckin’ stupid. Paul Heyman was revolutionary in that people not even involved in matches could win them. Hey! Somebody just held up an INVADER #3 MUST DIE sign. That’s worth slamming a beer. I wonder if he had lived if Bruiser Brody would suck? I’d like to think not. However, he’d probably be wrestling Terry Funk and Abdullah the Butcher in a last man to not bleed wins 3-Way Dance at some armory in Florida. And who’s to say that’s wrong? I’d rather see that than a lot of the shit I’ve actually watched in the last few years of my life wrestling-wise. People who used to be cool are still cooler than people who will never be cool. And that, my friends, is the dumbest fuckin’ sentence I’ve ever written in this zine. That covers a whole helluva lot of ground.
BEER TWO: Paul E.’s in the ring, dimming the lights. Lighters come on. SABU! SABU! SABU! Boy, I’m slamming this as fast as I can. They should change the label of Schlitz from “Just the kiss of the hops” to “Just the kiss of the ass”.
BEER THREE: HEY! I’m drunk, and they haven’t even had a real match yet. If my Daddy taught me anything, he taught me that that’s okay. Also, we have the hallway dark since there’s no wall or door blocking our loft upstairs where me and my wife and daughter all sleep. So when I come down the hall in the pitch-black darkness, drunk, after taking a piss, I walk like Jimmy Garvin used to when he came out with Precious to “Sharp Dressed Man” in his Crockett days. It keeps me energized. Sabu made Paul E. so much money and converted so many people to the Cult of ECW that it’s a shame Paul did him like he did in the end. Not literally in the end. I had to make that disclaimer because Jason just came out. Not from the closet. He should manage Chuck & Billy. And now here comes Konnan when he still wore a partial mask and was an Aztec Warrior from Cuba by way of Florida still. Konnan is proof positive that tassles make you cooler. For some reason, Taz is announced as special referee. ECW sure did have a lot of sports entertainment, didn’t it? Taz is shorter than Joey Styles. Joey Styles does infomercials. Taz is a thick fucker for a short fucker. Konnan has a nice ass and he wears a mask and he has a hairy chest. This is the perfect match for Jason. And it’s over. Goddamn, will I get to watch an actual match? Some spic being billed as the Extreme Rookie is going up against Stevie Richards. Mullet Stevie rules. His t-shirt says RSPW SUCKS. Already, the Internet is affecting wrestling. Hey, The Blue Meanie is in the front row, and he gave Stevie a Flock of Seagulls airbrushed tank top with the belly cut off. It’s the Blue Meanie debut. I will drink to that motherfuckin’ shit. Is he still dating Jasmin St. Claire? A fat guy with dyed blue hair who gets engaged to a chick who fucked 100 guys in one day on porn tape, that’s what America is all about.
BEER FOUR: The rookie guy, I think, is that Pablo Marquez guy. And I’m quite impressed that The Blue Meanie thought to draw that old school Batman episode raccoon mask on his face. Things like that make shitty wrestling become great wrestling. Stevie pushed his fat ass to the top for the moonsault. The big fat bellied Blue Meanie moonsault was always the best. They should’ve killed Nova back in the day. How come there’s no Best of Stevie Richards comps out there? Jason leads out The Eliminators, Saturn and Kronus, who at this stage in their career looked like Big Lots Road Warriors wrestling figures. Kronus is Animal. And their opponents are two gay guys called the Pit Bulls. Francine’s stick girl ass is in tow. Even shiny pleather doesn’t make me think her hot. Wow, her tits were way smaller back then. She seems to be an adult, how could her tits grow that much? I don’t understand. Holy shit, Saturn has a ponytail. I’ll drink to that, because it’s funny. Let me tell you something…shiny leather outfits on guys are never cool. Never. Really. Never. “Both athletes feeling one another out,” says Joey Styles. I’ve got to drink to that comedy. The Pit Bulls suck. A lot. I think if I had a shitload of ducats and was wasting it by trying to run wrestling shows, I’d have to get Kronus. I think Kronus with a giant belly and Saturn with a ponytail is my favorite Eliminators incarnation of them all. Perry Saturn is a very bad wrestler at this point. Kronus is laying face-first in the concrete ringside. I bet he comes up juiced. Pit Bulls win, and I don’t care. I did cut the baseboard heat on in this room during this match. Lately, when I’ve been picking my nose, a lot of those clotted blood boogers have been coming out. I don’t do coke or meth, so I don’t understand why my nose is bloody up inside of it all the time. I bet it has something to do with my shitty job.
BEER FIVE: Out comes Psichosis in full longhair mask mode, to fight Rey Misterio Jr. I had to finish that last beer, didn’t I. You ever wonder if Nicho had long hair that came out of his mask like the old Psichosis, then he cut it cuz metal was out of style in America and he was working there, so he had the fake hair mask going on? I always wonder that. Mexican metalheads fuckin’ rock. Just now, walking outside to piss off the porch in the freezing cold wearing cut-off jean shorts and a Sabu t-shirt and a pair of socks with holes in the middle cuz I never cut my toenails but my second toe is longer than my big toe, which is the sign of a great lover, I wondered what it must be like to be my wife, laying upstairs, hearing my drunk-ass bang through the house, knowing I’m working on my dumbass zine or dumbass website that makes people send me porn tapes or wrestling tapes or weird magazines or whatever. I’m very lucky she puts up with me. Very lucky. I’ll drink to that. Original Psichosis was probably my all-time non-Art Barr luchador. Ahh, the second rope staredown. This Mexican Death Match is gonna rock. Shit, Joel Gertner is actually fluent in Spanish. And skinny. Shit! I didn’t know Psichosis was billed as the Millionaire from Tijuana all the way back then. They are doing singles match lucha libre. That rocks. The ring ropes look to be shaky. Pinfall for Psichosis. Rey Rey has 10 seconds to raise up like Petey Pablo’s chorus. You know why this match rocks? The rudo is wearing white and the tecnico is wearing black. And as much as I hate to give his little ass credit, Rey Misterio Jr. is one of the greatest bumpers of all-time in wrestling. We used to call 40s bumpers.
BEER SIX: This match rocks. Rey Rey is doing the early tecnico bump thing right now, like a small more southern than the border Ricky Morton, not to be confused with Ricky Marvin. Exactly six hours from now, I’m already a few minutes late for work. That’s some hard shit for a drunk man halfway through a great lucha match in a bingo hall to face up to. I love how sloppy early moonsaults were, without the full leg extension and arms outright and all. All early moonsaults looked like Terry Funk’s old ass flipping over on top of you. Highspots before highspots were commonplace. I’ll drink to your little ass being insane Rey Misterio Jr. How come there aren’t any lifetime Best of Rey Misterio Jr. tapes? Rey Misterio was ten times cooler with his mask. Well, well, well. Jason is in the ring to talk to Rey Misterio Jr. Wow, I had never seen John Kronus doing the slingshot powerbomb before. That’s a great move. 911! 911! 911! What part of New Jersey is he bouncing in nowadays? I also liked when people said “E-C-double-U” back before assholes got into it and thought it was all about “E-C-dub!” Some cornball I used to work with and actually funded the printing of a couple issues of this zine said that one night at karaoke night. You see how fast I’ll turn on you. The greatest tag team ever, The Sandman & Too Cold Scorpio, come out. A guy who drinks too much beer, and a guy who smokes too much weed. The only real complaint I have with ECW is that there was never some Moondogs wrestling there. I wonder what’s more obscure, the wrestling team of the Public Enemy, or the rapping sensation of Ini Kamoze? Both are probably very bookable for your local county fair or even cookout.
BEER SEVEN: Whoever wins this match, gets the pinfall, gets a title shot against that young whippersnapper Mikey Whipwreck, for a World title match later tonight. I really dig how Joel Gertner called Too Cold chiseled while Too Cold held his belly out on purpose and Joey Styles laughed on commentary. Things like that are important to making wrestling great. IT’S A TOO COLD/ROCCO ROCK DANCE-OFF! I’m sure I’ll drink beer unnecessarily for this display. Rocco Rock did a shitty robot, Too Cold did a good robot, and they point the The Sandman. Who does a dance that makes me drink beer. Who the fuck is Johnny Grunge? Didn’t Rocco Rock pay dues for years and years? Why is Grunge making money with this other guy? Remember them on WCW trying to be hardcore still putting toilet bowl lids on people? Shit like that will make you embarrassed on your death bed. The Sandman vs. Johnny Grunge to start things. This is great, because it starts things slowly, but also leads to the double tag of Rocco Rock and Too Cold, who already had the dance-off. Lucha libre psychology is running rampant. Too Cold Scorpio just took the prosthetic hand from some dude. I gotta figure he’s a plant. The Sandman just got hit with a pumpkin pie. Watching this match makes me realize that The Sandman is your most successful backyard wrestler ever. “Ladder suplex” is my favorite all-time Joey Styles quote. The Sandman was out, but Too Cold poured cheap beer in his mouth, now he’s ready to roll. So, while I wasn’t paying attention, The Sandman scored the pinfall, which means he gets a shot at Mikey Whipwreck for the ECW title later tonight. Beulah comes to the ring to ref the next deal. Outside of Tammy Lynn Sytch, has there ever been an attractive ECW valet?
I say no. Basically, it was a way for ugly strippers that Paul E. dropped twenties on to make an extra non-naked paycheck. Yet, they were all ugly as fuckin’ Synn. Okay, I’m passing out. It just goes to show, you shouldn’t block out your goofy locals listening for a fat ride home anymore. Fuck regular shit. I’m going to bed you bitches. I apologize or not knowing the score of the Cincinnati game, or whatever. Who knows? Most people have died, leaving the world full of tomaxes and xamotes. I wish I could watch more, but tomorrow is scarier than you.
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