BEER ONE: If I hear some shit called the Lunatic Wrestling Federation, I want some bonafide lunacy. I’m not one to be a bitch like those complaining that the Memphis Maniax of the XFL sucked because they gave maniacs a bad visual logo for the criminally insane; but if you call yourself lunatic, you better be lunacy-filled. Like this “punk” at this party one time, he has “RAW POWER” tattooed all big on his arm, yet he was gonna leave half his forty behind because they were riding away. A few of us started talking shit because, fuck that, there’s nothing Iggy would approve of in that. Well, the Lunatic Wrestling Federation is based out of Chicago, and the guy on the mic is skinny and white and wearing a baggy purple suit and there’s maybe a hundred if they’re lucky folks in fold-up chairs and I have no idea what’s going on here, which makes it the perfect indy. The guy in the purple suit is holding a stuffed owl, and I’m disturbed highly by that with all my Bohemian Grove fears. Well holy fuck, two hot ass chicks wearing faded jean skirts instead of shiny pleather come out and I fuckin’ smack across the face realize that metal is still out there in this world in it’s pure form. I had been reluctant to start a 12-pack review at almost 1 am on a Sunday night with shitty work hanging over my head like the executioner’s ax on the neck of my soul, but these two sweet little sluts have invigorated me, which is the whole fuckin’ point of having whores involved in wrestling that can’t wrestle. Holy fuckin’ shit, a guy held up a sign drawn on a sheet of notebook paper; that’s the best goddamned and most indy thing I’ve ever seen in my whole fuckin’ pathetic wrestling-soaked life. Opening match is Brandon Bishop, who looks like a cock diesel smaller Chris Hamrick redneck guy in white biker shorts, vs. Havok, who is your face it seems. Both guys have managers, and there’s an announcer on a live mic doing running commentary over the PA, which is so fuckin’ annoying. So far, it’s a quality opener, with good work, yet slow-paced, to not only give the fans quality but keep them calm, so, in essence, the more hyped matches further down the card will seem all that more exciting. The psychology of an entire card is something that most don’t give a thought to, but it’s important. Brandon Bishop’s manager has a bright shiny red suit, and his hair up in one of those on-top of the head ponytails like that fag from Backstreet Boys or whatever. Bishop is good, yet indy, and Havok is about the same. I guess if I followed LWF, I’d know what’s up and care more, but all it is to me is a competent match. Bishop gets the win by reversing a roll-up, then holding the ropes for that all-important extra leverage. Havok is throwing a fit, slapping the mat, very unfacelike of him. They’re in a big gym and it’s still light outside the windows, that’s great. Daytime wrestling frees up quality night time for more debaucherous activities.
BEER TWO: Jason Allen is one skinny-ass prettyboy. He has long, straight, well-conditioned blond hair, and would get made fun of in any locker room, wrestling or not. His opponent is Wagner, who looks like he would’ve enjoyed the fuck out of The Fast and the Furious, probably even bought in on DVD the first weekend just to see if they had some drag racing extras or something. This match is 1989 metal vs. 2001 metal, and I fear the worst, being much more of a 1989 metal type. Yes, the bald-headed tribal-tattooed black-pantsed cock diesel shorty is early dominating the wiry longhair. But the wiry longhair is sneaky. Fuck, the mini-Vin is impervious to kicks and smacks his own face. Allen will have to resort to worse chicanery. Wrestlers need to have longhair because it’s so beautiful and such a nice accessory to things like the bodyslam and sunset flip. Wagner throw the shittiest knife’s edge chops I’ve ever seen; and when Allen reverses him in the corner and throws a few, somebody in the crowd yells “That’s how you do it,” since Allen’s chops actually made a smacking sound.
BEER THREE: I’m not even sure how I drank that beer so fast. ’89 Metal is doing evil to the arm of ’01 Metal, with no concern for the ref’s feeble warnings. That’s how ’89 Metal lives, ya know. ’01 Metal did a weird lift straight up for a suplex, then just let the dude loose to fall on his brain move. It was nice. ’89 Metal did this great thing with a wristlock where he ran up to the top rope like he was gonna do some rope-walking move, but he just dropped to the apron real fast to smack the wrist of ’01 Metal on the top rope; very nice. ’01 Metal gets a quick tilt-a-whirl sidewalk slam for the win, but he’s holding his arm, most properly, and does so even as the ref attempts to raise one of his arms. Nice selling by the winner, and a great way to make ’01 Metal win without making ’89 Metal look weak. My regards to the chef. Now, all three kids in the front row are holding up notebook paper signs at the announcer. God Bless our stupid youth, for they are the future, drug them well and let them lead the way, show them how fucked up they can be inside…because the greatest love of all, is me and some young whore. You should go back to that sentence and pretend Whitney Houston is in your head singing. A guy with green hair called Acid comes out, and as of my viewing so far, Metallica shirts outnumber ICP shirts in the crowd two to one. The type of guy who wears an ICP shirt at an indy wrestling event is a much cooler person than the type of guy who wears a Metallica shirt. People who still wear Metallica shirts have short hair and are young. A bunch of people have come out from the back for one reason or another, and that red-suited fuck with the shitty ponytail gets in the ring to do some talking. All these people must be his stable of wrestlers. Wow, the chick in his stable with the red pants has an extra-fat ass. I would drink beer poured through her pussy if she were stripping at a friend’s bachelor party. Your good guy in the ring grabs red-pants girl when she comes in the ring and feigns oral sex with her before throwing her out like he did everybody else. He’s gyrating in the ring and making fun of the heels outside and just being annoying as fuck. The manager type is teasing who the opponent is gonna be, Ryan Boz, with a fat title belt comes to the ring. They seem to be talking instead of wrestling though. The chick with the red pants has one of those blonde strips in her hair, and I’m pretty sure she wants to spend a weekend in the jacuzzi room at the Comfort Inn in Lynchburg with me. This card is called Out of Control, and all this mic time is definitely living up the billing on the marquee. It’s dusk outside, and I still haven’t had this match start. Goddamn. You can’t have a chick like that lean against the ring apron enough on camera side. All the heels leave the ring, and we’ve yet to have any fuckin’ match. Green-haired boy is still standing there, running his fuckin’ mouth. That set up the main event, and it took a fuckin’ main event’s worth of time to do so. Your next match, hopefully, is for the LWF Hardcore title, and Mini J comes out. He is very small, but more importantly, there are two dope-ass chicks in camera range by the entrace curtain, and one of them always has her legs crossed while wearing cut-off jean shorts to make any man happy. She does that nonchalant pulling the hair behind the ears thing when Mini J comes out. I love pussy. They must be rats, or no, it’s those two chicks from the beginning, because I recognize the blonde’s dumb look. Mini J’s opponent is Mad Man Pondo and his stop sign. Pondo doesn’t sell worth a shit, but he’ll let you staple dollar bills to his face, so he gets booked. YIKES, big fuckin’ stop sign shot to the head of Mini J. Pondo has the strongest short and long ponytail in the history of indy wrestling. A Superman shirt is tied around his waist tonight, breaking from his usual ICP tradition. Nothing says hardcore like a staple gun to the nutsack.
BEER FOUR: The fact a guy could make rent and porn and drug money getting stapled in the face and busted up with light bulbs, I don’t know, it makes me happy to be American, because if ever war broke down into just random guys getting pulled off the street to do battle with each other, I’d feel better on Pondo’s side than any other side. Stupid goes a long ways in this World. Mini J sucks, but he’s bleeding and taking over the match. Wow, I would never do a moonsault off a shaky ring onto Mad Man Pondo. Mini J does just that and lands chest first on concrete. Blind moonsaults are great. Pondo gets his eyes raked along the ringside barrier. A kid with a mohawk is in the back row; you don’t see enough punks at wrestling shows. The two are so similar, DIY to the core, and preaching to the converted. It’s dark outside finally, and Mini J falls out of the tree of woe, so Pondo hooks him in a little better. Mini J tosses a chair from the top rope, Pondo catches it, and holds it, and holds it, and holds it, and BAMM! finally Mini J gets around to kicking it in his face. He tries it again and Pondo cracks him on the skull and DOES A TOP ROPE SUPERPLEX? FOR THE PIN? What the fuck? If you told me Mad Man Pondo was gonna have a wrestling match and win it with a superplex, I’d steal your credit card and buy that chick with the red pants some kamikazes. Someone should make a horror movie starring Pondo; he’s much scarier than a fuckin’ guy in a hockey mask or with razor fingernails. What a great gimmick, they invite the crowd in to pick up the debris for mementos. How come I haven’t seen that done before? “Bang Your Head” means a shitty wrestler is coming out. It’s Bodacious Bil Patrick, yes, with one “l”. Upon first look and immediate reaction, he seems to be a midwestern Otto Schwanz, which ain’t a bad thing to be. Some belt is on the line, and Patrick’s opposition is Melmac, who looks goofy as fuck, but is all full of fire. When two guys wrestle in t-shirts and long trunks, I’m not happy. You’re a fuckin’ pro wrestler – either take the fuckin’ shirt off or dress like The Assassins used to. Patrick is big enough and decent enough, but he’s wearing a t-shirt. For some reason, the ref talks Melmac out of going to the top rope, and I didn’t hear anything about this suddenly being Central States wrestling and that being illegal. Then the ref goes to stop the evil manager, and Melmac executes a rough-looking frogsplash and eventually pretty quickly gets the pin. What the fuck is it about guys wanting to do the frogsplash all the time? Most frogsplashes look like shit. YES! The girls are coming back into the ring. No, they just came ringside, but I could make them come all over the place. At least once. Hopefully. Maybe. Hey, this is for the tag team titles, and your champs are the Obnoxious Frat Boys, Magnificent Mike and Johnny Mac, and just by the frat boy gimmick, I hate them. They didn’t even have to be heels.
BEER FIVE: Your champs are the Styc-It-In Express, Stryc-9 and Superstar Eric Marx, one is small and one is not, and they have a chick with long beautiful hair as their manager. Stryc-9 holds up Magnificent Mike and Marx kicks the old Hart Foundation style clothesline. Little guy does a running start at the bad guys outside the ring, but swerves with the Rey grab the ropes and spin back in thing, then falls so that big guy can do a running somersault senton. Then little guy does a dive after everybody’s up. This is a great tag team match in that both teams have old school children’s books pairs, one with opposites, and the other with alikes. Shit, I zoned out, but I come back to focus to see Stryc-9 feel the pain of a released German suplex. And like any good to great tag match, nobody can win because of kick-outs and saves and the like. Well, fuck, I cursed it, as the Fratboys just got the pinfall. For some reason, they keep fighting. WOW! Stryc-9 sat on the top rope, and Marx got on his shoulders and busted out a somersault legdrop. That was fuckin’ dope as shit. I will drink the fuck out of beer. I think this is a 2 out of 3 falls match, as they keep going. Stryc-9 and Johnny Mac are killing each other in the crowd, and Marx and Mike are in the ring, probably deciding this thing. All sorts of shit is going on and the one camera is struggling to keep up. As much as I hated Eric Marx for being a munchkin when he came out, he has impressed me with his lucha flips and insane carelessness. Ahh, Stryc-9 sets up for another Hart Foundation finish, but one fratboy pulls out Marx’s legs and then clocks 9 in the leg with a 2x4. This must also be a No DQ match, and I don’t mean Dairy Queen brother. Wow, camera turns just in time to witness Marx take a wicked bump against the cinderblock wall. Ankle lock submissions, guys getting impaled ringside, finally Stryc-9 taps out, and it’s over. Not bad; started slow and I didn’t care, but by the end, they had drawn me in. Now, the do bonus damage to Stryc-9’s leg.
BEER SIX: More music plays and out comes two new dudes, who fuck up the fratboys. The new dudes look like what the Road Warriors might have looked like had they grown up being Slipknot fans. The Slipknot Warriors pin the fratboys and win the titles. To combat the negative effects of heavy drinking, late at night, I have busted open the 46 oz. aluminum can of generic V-8, with opposite triangles from the business end of an old school bottle opener. This is the method of for-real lunatics. Hey, lookey there, it’s “Ice Pick” Vic Capri. And he’s accompanied by the chick with the big ass in the red pants, bless her soul. Mimic is the opponent, and Mimic is small, and I, unfortunately, know this won’t be quick being it’s so far along in the card. Capri I’ve seen in Super 8 action, and he won me over, even though he looks like a legit asshole. Capri and Mimic are on different pages here. They’re in the crowd, and I’m more interested in this vegetable juice. Why must those three fat bitches keep chanting “Vic Capri sucks!” He must’ve fucked one of them and then blew them off. Fat bitches stick together better than skinny bitches. Mimic did a nice missile dropkick to Capri’s shoulder; and Capri is not afraid to take some punishment. Wow, Capri just did wrestling things that made me happy. They have a double pin, and I’m zoning pretty bad. Mimic powerbombed the chick with the pants. I’m not sure what’s going on at all. Last match has Ryan Boz and Chuckie Smooth as a team. I’ve heard legend of Chcukei Smooth, but h e looks like some little kid, a very cocksucking evil kid, but just a kid. Chuckie Smooth is all about the sexually suggestive gyrations, and seems to suffer from the short man’s complex. That green-haired kid, Acid comes out, looking all trenchcoat mafiaed out. Acid’s partner is CM Punk, who is straight edge and has Xs marked on his arm tape and siht. In his honor, I’m not drinking anymore during this review; that and I’m about to pass out. It’s been twenty hours since I woke up and made French toast for my daughter last. CM Punk and Acid are the reluctant partners, and I’m the reluctant reviewer, so fuck it. I’d hate for the first time I see CM Punk in action to be tainted by me not giving a shit and just wanting to go to bed for four hours before work. I’ll finish this beer though. (NOTE: my pussy ass left half of it there right by the computer.)
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