BEER ONE: It’s a hot Southern night in the part of the South that ain’t Southern anymore, Virginia, nears Charlottesville, where I put my head down every night and have, by one twist or another, put my roots down; I guess ‘cause it’s not so far from the tree my fucked-up little acorn fell off of (all my kinfolk are an hour’s drive away on backroads), and far enough where I’m not gonna have to almost kill myself cleaning my grandpa’s chimney or painting his tin roof every weekend. So I started this Tournament of Independents, hoping to get hipped to all kinds of great shit. One guy, some kid Nate, hit me up and offered Steel Domain Wrestling for the taking. The thing I loved about his deal was he didn’t have two VCRs for dubbing tapes, so he’d mail me the tape, and then I could mail him back his tape and whatever else I felt like mailing him. I love that. Wrestling nerds are a persnickety lot, demanding priority shipping, demanding tracking info, demanding match listings, demanding all sorts of shit that really don’t need to be demanded. I mean, we’re exchanging fuckin’ professional wrestling here, not agricultural secrets for developing nations. Goddamn. Anyways, the young Nate hooked me up mightily, and had that nonchalance of the trade that I look for in a trading partner, not because I abuse his naiveté, but because I’m a simple man. My word is my bond, but sometimes my bond is slow to execute from my word because I’ve got a full-time job that sucks the fuckin’ life out of me, I’ve got a wife and kid at home who deserve and demand my full love and attention, I’ve got lots of side projects going on, the least of which is my website, I’ve got a drinking problem, and on top of all that, when all that is said and done, for those rare moments during the week, not day, with nothing to do, I am lazy as a goddamned hippie in the mountains of east Kentucky. But anyways, Nate hooked me up with Minnesota’s answer to quality independent wrestling – Steel Domain Wrestling. Being from Virginia, where our indys run on public access and have shittier production values than scat flicks, I expected the worst from a TV output (I am watching two episodes of their TV, which was one card they held, featuring motherfuckin’ Jerry Lynn). But good goddamn, I watched the first two episodes not part of the card I’m reviewing, and it was great. They even had Sick Nick Mondo on there. And Curt Hennig. You see, I can respect the mixture of easily recognizable veterans with well-known indy stars with your local talent. That’s how the fuck you get people over. I’ll never understand why indy bookers always book 17 of the same 32 guys on every show, giving people the same fuckin’ shit they’ve seen a hundred times before. I mean, I love a Christopher Daniels vs. Low-Ki match as much as the next guy, but doesn’t it lose some meaning when it gets redone all around the fuckin’ country. People love the indy superstars like Ki and Daniels, deservedly enough, so mix them up with some locals, to push the locals as great, and to give them a fuckin’ in-ring lesson against some guys who are more well-traveled than them. I mean, goddamn, wrestling is so fuckin’ predictable half the time. I loved that time Jim Cornette showed up at the ECW Arena with Jerry Lawler to fuck up Tommy Dreamer, because Cornette cut these promos in front of a WWF backdrop saying, “Remember when you didn’t know what was gonna happen?” And that’s what the fuck it’s all about. Fuck being smart. Fuck knowing the details of backstage power struggles and shenanigans. I want to fuckin’ be swerved, regularly and consistently, to where I can’t wait to see what’s next. That’s the fuckin’ goddamned mark of promoting. Too many “writers” and “commissioners” and “owners” and shit nowadays. Not just on the cable television, but on your local indy. Some scrawny white guy with a weird voice should never be in the ring at a wrestling show, unless he’s about to interview a heel and get intimidated. Period.
BEER TWO: The SDW intro is full of metal music and carnage-laden highlights. So I drink to the glorious mixture of the two things that helped me through adolescence – heavy metal and wrasslin’. The first match is Travis Lee, a former SDW tag champion, and obviously the heel, vs. Matt Burns, who gets attacked as he turns his back during the introductions. Well, holy fuckin’ shit, right off the bat, Matt Burns turns the tables and does a sick bump off the top rope outside the ring. This is the first fuckin’ match? Damn, let me drink Old Milwaukee for Matt Burns, whether anybody ever ends up hearing about him or not. Lee throws Burns into the ringpost, and Burns does a very interesting bump from that. Matt Burns is my new favorite babyface, immediately, in five minutes, no shit. Both of these guys have good physiques and good looks. Obviously, amateur wrestling is alive and well in Minnesota, and those guys end up getting into pro wrestling. Nothing is more indy than wrestling shows with basketball goals folded up into the ceiling visible in the background. And to top that off, Travis Lee sells his hurt nutsack after getting cornered, not only after the move, but later as he takes over and stomps his fallen face opposition, he grabs his groin in pain. Great work guys. You can jerk the curtain anytime, as far as I’m concerned. My one problem is that Travis Lee’s trunks seem to keep finding their way into his ass crack to give the impression he’s wearing a semi-thong. That ain’t cool.
BEER THREE: When a guy is stuck on the top rope, and his opponent goes up, in 2002, I automatically expect the hurricanrana. However, Burns goes with the more old school superplex, followed by a moonsault for the victory. Then Lenny Lane, decked out in black sweats, an odd look from the guy I’ve expected to represent my homophobic nightmares for the last few years, comes out and beats down Burns and talks some shit. Lenny Lane in baggy black sweats looks like a pizza delivery guy waiting to get off work and play some video games while doing nitrous charges and bong hits. Hey, the station this is playing on, a UHF channel, has a banner in the back of the gym. That means they actually support this shit, or that SDW is hooking them up with free advertising at shows. Either way, chicken or egg, it all tastes good fried. Kamikaze Ken Anderson comes out to confront Lenny Lane, and KKA is bigger than Lane, and smooth on the mic as well. The great thing is the crowd hates Lane. There is nothing worse than indy crowds who pop for famous wrestlers, whether heel or face. You should always hate the guy talking shit about you, never befriend a guy making fun of you, ever. He’ll make you drink rubbing alcohol while you’re real fucked-up by telling you it’s vodka. Trust me, I’ve seen it happen too many times. Slick Mick is your commentator, and he calls all girls “lovely”. Adrian Lynch and his “lovely” partner, Rain, are gonna go up against Horace the Psychopath and his lovely accomplice, “Lacey”. When I was in high school, there was this chick Stacey that I could’ve fucked at a dance in a VFW Hall, very much like that scene in Dazed and Confused where the two loser seventh graders break up the making out of the cool seventh grader, but this cat Little John, who’s dad and my dad used to smoke weed and drink Jim Beam and watch the Redskins every Sunday together, he came into the back make-out room and busted up my party. Years later, she was dating my boy Hlad Cess, and they were having problems, and she lived near me and I was giving her a ride home from Hlad’s house, and she was all on my jock in the car, trying to talk me into taking her down to the end of the road where the reservoir was and putting it to her old school style. She was in a hippie phase, wearing those colorful skirts properly contrasted by white t-shirts containing big titties with no bra. That is the best hippie style ever. Fuck backless shirts, white t-shirts are the shit, because it always could rain. Hey, that’s my angle. You see, Stacey got on this hippie kick, and she wanted to be called Rain. I couldn’t dig it, being naturally named Raven. You change your name, you’re running from your destiny. She was destined to be a Stacey, not a Rain, and I was meant to be a Raven, so I didn’t fuck her. I did suck on her titties and get a blowjob though. And now we have the opposition interview with Horace the Psychopath and Lacey. Lacey looks good, but she talks bad. She’s better than anybody on Tough Enough though. Horace the Psychopath, I don’t know, I’m not sure if I like him or not. He’s weird and all, but he seems like he might be a Marilyn Manson fan and not an Alice Cooper fan. That means a lot to me. Alice Cooper did “Caught in a Dream”. Marilyn Manson did Jenna Jameson. I would rather make a song like that than fuck a whore like that. You make a song like that, and the whores follow. You fuck a whore like that, and it doesn’t improve your songwriting whatsoever. Anyways, Horace the Psychopath & Lacey vs. Adrian Lynch & Rain is on like herringbone. The women are outside on one side, the men on the other. Violence abounds. I think I like Horace, goofy face paint aside. He’s no Matt Burns, but he serves his purpose. Guys who wrestle in hospital shirts who are not Morgus the Maniac suck anyhow. Ahh, NATIONAL GUARD is on the wall, meaning this is an armory show. Somebody should do a best of Armories compilation, as the armory is the longtime supporter of wrestling. My dad claims to have seen Abdullah the Butcher splatter Blackjack Mulligan’s blood two rows deep in the Farmville Armory before. I have Tuesdays off now, due to my shitty boss who cut us to four days a week without warning, and I went down to get a weedeater from my dad last Tuesday, and I was hanging out just because, that’s the type of thing that makes sense down there. Anyways, my dad was talking about some dude and described him as looking “like Rip Hawk”. My dad, from his growing up days, is all about Rip Hawk & Swede Hanson. His favorite memory is when he lived behind the Cumberland Diner with my grandma and all her family, he pumped gas at the Cumberland Diner, and one time a Cadillac rolled up and it was Swede Hanson & Rip Hawk and my dad got autographs and they stayed and ate at the diner and all kinds of shit.
BEER FOUR: Mostly it’s been the men, which leads me to believe the women are saving up for a catfight style battle rather than some quality wrasslin’ action. Ahh, here goes the double tag. Lacey has a fat ass, bounces off the ropes will show you that rather quickly. Rain looks a lot better in the ring than she did interviewing. Of course, she’s wearing leather pants. Lynch pulls Lacey’s hair, showing his heelness, and giving Rain the chance to take over the match. Your referee is an Italian stereotype. The thing about the Steel Domain wrestlers is all these guys seem to be full-sized guys. Future superstars, like every indy from here to Shitsville promises you. They have talent and the big bodies that powerful homosexuals like Vince Russo and Pat Patterson love. This bodes well for Steel Domain Wrestling. Horace bit Lynch’s nuts. The women wrestle in the ring while the men set up chairshots outside the ring. Horace and Lacey win while I didn’t pay attention. Lacey, with pink and black skintight outfit that doesn’t shine like spandex but settles like sweatpants, she won my heart. Now Adrian Lynch starts to beat down his woman, to make him more heel than ever. Horace saves Rain, thus fucking up the whole dichotomy of the match we just saw. I hate womanly angles. Next out is Lenny Lane. I’ve always been a big Lenny Lane fan, even before he was mimicking Chris Jericho in a homosexual manner for WCW.
BEER FIVE: Haha. The crowd chants “Y2J” at Lane. I’m very impressed with the professionalism of Steel Domain, from the ring announcer, to the workers, to the commentators, all of it. Stupid ass Ken Anderson, the Kamikaze, the former starting quarterback for the Cincinnati Bengals the last year their helmet had BENGALS on it instead of the tiger-stripes popularized by zubaz and the Ickey Shuffle, stupid ass Ken Anderson turned his back before the bell and got knocked the fuck out. Lenny Lane has been busted open early on. I love a former WCW star wrestling indys not afraid to get red for his high dollar paycheck. I drink to you Mr. Lane. Lenny is getting outsmarted by Anderson, slides in and out of the ring, then a baseball slide into Lane’s back while he jawjacks with fans. This is great. Well fuck, the commentators just mentioned the internet. I hate internet fans. I’m gonna go throw some beer back up. Excellent bump by Anderson into some guy in the first row. Ahh yes, an ad for World’s Wildest Police Videos. That means you are dealing with quality television stations right there. I am a mark for the goddamned hold the guy up in the air for like half a minute suplex. I, however, am not a mark for the unavoidable “all the blood rushing to the head” comment the announcer will automatically make. Another nice touch, Lenny Lane is wearing his hair down, no ponytail or pigtails. Lenny has LANIAC on the ass of his trunks; that would make Jimmy Valiant proud. The font’s kind of gay though. Ow, Ken Anderson just fell head first onto the floor. I’ve seen two sick bumps off cornerpost shots on this tape, and that’s impressive. Mostly, guys just run into it with their hands up, then fall. Wait a second, we have the fall on the ropes up high by the heel. Wack ass hurricanrana is turned into a powerbomb. Lane wins.
BEER SIX: The second TV show from this live card starts up. I’m not sure who Ed Hellier is, but he wears an ugly sleeveless sweater over his button-down shirt. Mortimer Plumtree, a manager in a neck brace, comes out to talk shit. That’s what managers do. He represents Magnus Maximus. Of course, there’s an open contract, and, of course, Jerry Lynn is the opponent for the Steel Domain title. Out of Announcer/Manager/Local Heel/Jerry Lynn – the shortest guy is Lynn. I will drink to the fact that Lynn always comes out of the back, whether ECW or WWF or SDW, with the devil’s horns sign with his hands. Evil rules, especially when evil is the babyface. A sadomasochist homo named Kujo goes up against Mike Mercury. Kujo is basically your small-time Rick Steiner. Ahh, this rocks, because it’s UHF, and the picture fuzzes, and because the heel is from Green Bay, Wisconsin. When football feuds translate to wrestling, I’m happy. Kujo is Rick Steiner mixed with Rhyno mixed with Living In St. Paul Minnesota, with his hair dyed blonde. You ever put a Figure Four on somebody? That shit hurts. And oddly enough, it hurts to roll over as well. I’m talking stupid shit, because I’m drunk, and I’m still typing thoughts out loud. You are a fuckin’ retard to read this shit. BUT LATER! I TYPE STUPID SHIT ABOUT JERRY LYNN! Wow, Kujo spit on his opponent. Thank God, this match is over and Kujo spits on the other guy for the second time this match. This was easily the shittiest match I’ve watched yet.
BEER SEVEN: I did a lot of thinking, and talking with my wife during this match. Talking with women is like doing job interviews, you hate them but they have a nice fat paycheck awaiting you if you do alright and lie correctly. Of course, the type of paycheck a woman drops on you is way better than a boss’ paycheck, but don’t tell my boss, because I’m about one quality shit-talkin’ session away from fucking his wife. There’s a guy called Scotty Zappa, and that’s fine and dandy he’s a wrestler. But he’s wrestling a guy named Sam Hayne. Repeat that – Sam Hayne. I am automatically rooting for him, without seeing his face. Sam Hayne is a big guy with bad tattoos, a modified Psichosis mask, blowing fire, and 666 on the sleeves of his trunks. Therefore, fuck Scotty Zappa. Did I mention the pentagram on Hayne’s chest trunks and his upside down crosses on the legs of his trunks? Your announcer does a great job of imitating more famous announcer vocal inflections.
BEER EIGHT: Sam Hayne choked that fool, so I drank bizeer, biyotch. Sam Hayne with the tope. A guy in a mask with a pentagram on his chest part of wrestling attire is okay by me. Hail Satan motherfuckers. Well glory be, Zappa got a two-count with a fistdrop. Just the fact he did a fistdrop makes me stoked. Did I mention I was drunker than shit? Nothing worse than having to double check the bad spelling of yourself while trying to write some shit. My goddamned alphabet is slurred. The thing is, you probably don’t care and think I’m trying to brag on myself or some shit. Well, fuck you. By the way, Scotty Zappa won. A guy named Sam Hayne should never lose. Now, Zappa is teasing revenge against Mortimer Plumtree, but Sam Hayne cold kicks the green mist. Cold kicks it. The bell is ringing like crazy, Zappa is rubbing his eyes, and the heels kick and DDT their way back to the locker room. Out comes Jerry Lynn for the main event, against Magnus Maximus. Magnus is a big dude, even bigger than P.N. News. Jerry Lynn rocks. I don’t know who will win, but I hope they do it before I pass out on the front porch. There’s no alarm on the front porch. I’m drunk enough to go home to somebody’s house and pretend like nothing happened, even though it all happened, at once and at evil. Who the fuck cares about making the most money? You do what you can to put a smile on your immediate family’s pace. If they can’t smile, then go out as a team with other guys super-scientifically intelligent like myself.
Anyways, some other sucker comes in to interview her boy, and she catches me, asking about the National Honor Society thang. You see, my boy Louis had already bolted. The fifth grade school housed me for two years, it was creepy. The back room downstairs was always nothing, as was the drainage room from the outdoor entry by the bottom back. The Louis dream, he was inside me but he seemed cool so I kept dreaming. He fucked me up. Magnus hits Lynn with the belt, and goes for the count, but Lynn kicks out. God Bless wrestling.
BEER NINE: They did a wack reversal right as I opened that beer. Jerry Lynn throws more devil’s signs than Richard Dawson. Well fuck, that’s the end of the card. And so that’s it. I didn’t drink shit off that beer before the devil changed his tune.
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