BEER ONE: Mid-American Wrestling has a few things going for it, and I try not to be a homer, but hey, I’m being honest with you. First off, my pal Thee Honourable Reverend Axl Future has been involved with these guys over the years; that’s great. Secondly, Necro Butcher is booked in this particular Hardcore Cup tourney I’m about to delve into; which is also great. And thirdly, Carmine DeSpirito, aka The Hustler, which is a great nickname to have, was the one promoter who actually contacted me about being involved in this thing. Of course, he never sent a tape, but somebody else did completely unrelated, and the fact he wanted to be in on this stupid shit made me know he’s good peeps. I don’t dig hardcore for hardcore’s sake, but fuck, it’s Labor Day, or the morning after, and I’m going back to shitty work tomorrow. The closest thing I’ve heard to union in the last week was a baseball work stoppage because motherfuckers make too much money and forget their roots of being broke-asses hitting a ball with a stick. Rich white motherfuckers in suits will always be rich white motherfuckers in suits, and being a Southerner, I was raised to think unions just insure a few extra rich white motherfuckers in suits, while the regular Joes take it on the chin, not being able to afford a new car or even taking his wife and three kids to see a new-release movie because of fuckin’ unions and they’re outrageous demands. Protecting a motherfucker from dying or working 16 hours a day is one thing; demanding a guy with a union card run a drop cord is another. And it’s hilarious to hear wrestlers like Bret Hart or Roddy Piper talk about unions. You give somebody a taste of money, like superstars have gotten in the last 20 years, and they go crazy once they’re star has faded. They start talking all sorts of shit. Fuck Bret Hart and Fuck Work and Motherfuck any rich white motherfucker in a suit. Bring me the pain, Mid-American Wrestling. It can’t be half as bad as any pseudo-ECW style crap from New Jersey. Ahh, Smart Mark Video, the sign of indy quality. I forgot to say Fuck Rob Feinstein up there. Anything from Philly is too close to Jersey to be worth a shit. “Hitman” Thomas Hearns’ younger brother is the ref of this first match, between a shootfighting looking Adrian Serrano, complete with hokey Tapout gear and black gloves, and Barfly Mike. Great touch, as a band is set up playing music for entrances on a stage behind the ring. Serrano’s in pretty good shape, and doesn’t look to be 16 like most indy curtain jerkers. Fuck the northeast as well; as the further along I get into this tournament of independents, it becomes perfectly obvious that the best indy wrestling going on nowadays is in the midwest. Barfly Mike has a shirt with a beer bottle on the back, and he’s holding a cup of beer. He looks like a normal drunk, and not a Sandman over-the-top drunk, which is a plus. We’ve got a shootfighter, a Thomas Hearns look-alike, and a barfly in street clothes in the first match; I am already primed. BEER IN THE FACE OF SHOOTFIGHTER, FOLLOWED BY A SUCKER PUNCH, TAKES DOWN THE SUBMISSION DORK! God Bless Wrestling, for making my dreams come true. This rocks, as they’re doing a shootfight style match, and the drunk in street clothes is scoring some nice bos to the head of the knucklehead who rolls around on the floor in homoerotic positions with his buddies to learn how to choke somebody with their own arms. The ring canvas has tape all over it, the one guy is forearming the other right in the fuckin’ eyebrows, and there are beers in the hands of people in the crowd. The drunk taps out to the fujiwara armbar, and I am disappointed with the bookers. Shootfighting heels should never beat crowd-friendly drunks in opening matches; absolutely never, especially not at a bar with a live band. Serrano wants to keep fighting, but Hearns’ brother holds him back. The ref is tall and lanky and awkward; I imagine him to be enrolled in the MAW school right now, which I’m sure has some sort of extreme name.
BEER TWO: Well, Serrano is still beating the drunk guy up, and the ref has disappeared, and his little shootfighter sidekick comes in, and they spray paints SWO on the drunks back, for Shoot World Order. Man, that angle is so fuckin’ played out, but hey, how can you argue with something like your announcer saying, “It says Shoot World Order on the shirt, as a chant of ‘Fuck you, pussy’ goes up amongst the crowd.” God Bless not giving a Fuck. Serrano is talking shit on the band’s stage now, and some tall Amazon chick comes out. Here comes Mad Man Pondo, with “his trusty stop sign in hand”. Twenty years ago, Mad Man Pondo would’ve been a minor league hockey player. Of course, Pondo portends to be friendly, and ends up smashing a stop sign on Serrano’s head to usher in the hardcore. Well, if the drunk couldn’t beat the stupid MMAer, I’m glad Pondo saved the day. Ahh yes, the sweet loving destruction promised by the thumbtack bat; plus the ring boy, who is fat and degenerate Jason Dukes, dumps a box full of thumbtacks in the middle of the ring. The reverse duct tape on a whiffle ball bat covered with thumbtacks – nobody can beat America, motherfuckers. Mean Mitch Page looks like he’d hit you with a chunk of wood from the back of his truck. I love how all these midwestern hardcore guys are out of shape wiggers; I’d love to throw a big cookout with them all in attendance. We’d probably have to get an extra keg, though. Dino Bambino is taking on Page, and Bambino has no shirt on, but more importantly, he has a valet called Holly Wood, with big fake tits. But even more importantly, there’s some hot ass chick in the crowd wearing what looks to be a bra top only on her upper torso, and she’s got bigger tits than the big tits of the happy-faced valet, which suggests she hasn’t been stripping for too long yet. Goddamn, if big tit bitches are hanging out in the crowd, how can you complain? I’d trade seventeen of my wrestling nerd friends full of clever quips at an indy show for one bitch with big tits wearing almost nothing sitting in the row in front of me. And maybe Rocky Reynolds will be there, too, so I can ogle his skinny mountain girlfriend as well. Hopefully she won’t have a black eye this time. Bambino is a hundred pounds lighter and is not wearing a shirt, and there he goes, powerbomb into the thumbtacks. In great hardcore showmanship, Page lifts him in a choke, bloody back exposed, and turns him for the crowd on all four sides to see, followed by another powerbomb, then raking the ol’ pretty face in the tacks. Bambino’s back has fuckin’ got clusters of thumbtacks in it; and you can’t beat psychologically driven hardcore wrestling featuring men built like Dick Murdoch if he was a Gen-Xer and grew up with video game machines instead of organized football. Bambino, playing the part of David, is determined to bodyslam Page, and makes the attempt multiple times. On like the third try, he gets knocked down and is the recipient of the bareback thumbtack whiffle ball smash. Bambino is up, and goes for it again, and HE GETS HIM UP, but they fall. Page is too heavy, folks. (I’m in Bob Caudill mode there.) Dino is bloody and yelling “FUCK!” as he gets the bat rubbed against his skull. The fact he’s got thumbtacks stuck in his back and he’s still flexing to move his body is one of the more impressive things about these matches; because it’s not too hard to fall into thumbtacks or light bulbs; I think we’ve all done that a time or two to see how tough we are. But you’ve taken it to another level if you continue to fly around and function as a wrestler with two dozen thumbtacks embedded in your shoulders. And then as he sells a move and falls from the second rope to the mat, there is no escape the thumbtacks everywhere. Yikes, Page raked the back of Bambino and made thumbtacks fly out, and I’m sure that sucked. BAMBINO GETS THE BODYSLAM OF PAGE, CENTER RING, INTO THE THUMBTACKS! We have a momentum change, and yes, there’s thumbtacks being poked into the forehead of Page. Okay, Page is on his stomach on thumbtacks, and Bambino hits a springboard twisting senton, then a springboard moonsault, and I am proud of the dumb fuckin’ kid. Then he pours thumbtacks in Page’s mouth, hits a jawbreaker, which causes Page to spew thumbtacks into the air like Triple H’s pussy ass spits deionized water during one of his over-blown strobe light-laden entrances. Kick takes Page down, as he is in full-on Goliath mode, and Bambino only gets a two-count. I love how Bambino goes into full-on freak-out mode and will lay a rapid series of punches into the girth of Mean Mitch Page, all while yelling like the little kid getting comeuppance on the school bully. Page hits a clothesline to turn the tide, and does some beating down to get a Vader bomb. Holly Wood is on Pages back, and she has a nice fat ass in those great new jeans that are faded so as to look like highlights that accentuate the sexualization of bitches. Once again, you can’t beat America. She gets backed into a corner, but no thumbtack bump by the sweet nubile whore with the still partially-innocent smile.
BEER THREE: Two matches and two beers – this bodes well for my orneriness at work tomorrow. Bambino, being all man, even with thumbtacks stuck all over his body, lifts his wounded lover/valet, and carries her backstage for mutual oral sex in the showers. Hey, there’s electrified light bulbs and barbed wire, and some hot bitch with small tits walking around the ring. 2 Tuff Tony comes out, the psychedelic-tinged metal band doing entrance music busts out greatness. Another sighting of the big-tittied bitch in the crowd, and her boyfriend looks to be a fuckin’ pussy. 2 Tuff Tony adjust the electrified light bulb pieces of plywood to his satisfaction; and the announcer introduces Ian Rotten. Of all the fucks trying to emulate ECW in this shitty world of wrestling, it seems Ian Rotten’s goofy ass was the only one who actually paid attention and has brought that style of cult appeal and quality violence on a regular basis. Ian Rotten, I know you’re not reading this, but I fuckin’ drink this Old Milwaukee to you, you fat crazy fucker. You should really get Hellhammer’s Apocalyptic Raids EP; I think you’d dig it. “Triumph of Death” is waiting to be used as very slow entrance music. They are doing the build-up counter to Irish whips, teasing the bulb breakage. Then Ian’s fat ass busts a fuckin’ monkeyflip on 2 Tuff Tony, and barbed wire and glass is in his back. Ian has two arms, the one with bad tattoos, and the one terribly scarred. 2 Tuff Tony is stabbing him in the scar arm with a broken light tube. Of course, Ian being Ian, turns the tides and uses said light bulb to carve up Tony’s head. Yes Ian, pull that lit up board of tubes to center ring. Yes Ian, headbutt the man silly. Okay, why is Ian the King? Well, 2 Tuff Tony has him backwards, head down, and drops the back of Ian’s brain on the electrified table of bulbs. Ian puts his legendary status on the line every time, and he will come with something fucked up and self-destructive to keep himself a legend, every fuckin’ time. “If you ain’t hardcore, you ain’t shit” says Tony’s shirt. “Till death do us part” says Ian’s. Hardcore wrestling, at least the quality small abandoned factory town style Ian and believers bring out yonder, it is the new metal. Fuck guys in Adidas suits with short hair saying they are metal. Rotten and Corporal Robinson and Necro Butcher and their like are the rightful heirs to Overkill and Kreator and Slayer before they sucked. Tom G. Warrior would have more in common with Rollin’ Hard than he ever would with Slipknot. 2 Tuff Tony breaks union rules and plugs in one of the bulb pieces of plywood on his own. He’s going for that same brain destroying move again, but Ian shakes his way out, and can’t get Tony up and over. The match continues, and Ian saves up energy to hit the finisher. GOOOOOAAAAAAAALLLLLLLLL! He basically picks Tony up and throws him a few feet so the guy’s back of his head kills the power in the light bulbs by busting them open. That looked very ugly, and them being warriors, they hold each other’s arms up while the house band busts out some serious speed metal. I’d rather die like a bad ass than live like a punk ass.
BEER FOUR: Ian is on the mic and talking gospel to his believers. Well, this next one is a Lucky 21 Staple Gun match, with twenty-one dollar bills in the ring, and whoever gets more of them stapled to their body loses. NECRO BUTCHER – who channels the spirit of Bruiser Brody through Cactus Jack’s Ouija board and delivers it with a balding pattern and ultra-swank minimalist CHOOSE DEATH t-shirt, in true modern samurai mode. Always choose death, it increases the enjoyment of life. Live safe and die a pussy. Hardcore Craig is the opponent, and he is already bloodied. Necro Butcher, ringside, picks up Craig and bodyslams him with a chair held behind his back, in post-modern Anderson Brother mode, following that up by going up 1 to nothing on the dollar bill stapling. Craig gets a wicked chairshot in, and evens it up one to one. Hey, he adds a stapled dollar to the back of one of Necro Butcher’s arms, and goes up two to one. Apparently, they don’t have to stay in forever, but Hardcore Craig is getting over by fighting this match with a bill stuck to the top of his head. Craig gets another in his head, and one in his shoulder, and in the process, Necro Butcher shoots a few staples off at the kids in the front row, just to lend credibility to the proceedings. Necro gets one stuck to his chest, then one on his cheek, and the ref is basically there to hand dollar bills to the wrestlers to staple to each other. Nec does a nice freak-out with the guard rail, just shaking it back and forth against Craig’s head. When dudes get suplexed onto chairs that are set up, and their kidneys flatten the chair, I grimace, as my kidneys hurt every morning, and I know that those types of activities can’t help, and I bet these guys probably drink half as much as me. Okay, Necro loses it and is just stapling Craig with no concern for the dollar bill stip, and then he does a senton onto an upright chair. The announcer said it was six to three, Necro Butcher, so Craig brings it back to five, then scores the tying sixth by stapling a dollar bill to Necro Butcher’s nose right in front of the camera. Craig scores a Michinoku driver, then staples a dollar bill to Necro Butcher’s throat. Craig has a dollar bill stuck in his head, and Necro had one in his nose, till he finally just ripped it out. I’m sure it was blocking his vision. Hey, there’s a dollar bill stuck to Craig’s ear. I think this is the sickest match I’ve ever seen. Necro is on the tree of woe to the outside of the ring ropes, and he takes a nice chair shot upside his brain. The color guy is putting Craig over as a guy who went to the site of the World Trade Center thang, to help clean up. Craig puts dollar bill number ten to Necro’s nutsack, and he’s up ten to seven. But fuck dollar bills; Necro gets Craig down and goes for the lighter fluid instead. He douses his leg and goes for the FLAMING LEGDROP, but not after squirting lighter fluid at the fans as well. Craig moves, and Butcher almost catches the ring on fire with his leg that is on fire, they pour water on his leg, Craig catches him in a spinning neckbreaker, and staples the lucky number eleven to NECRO BUTCHER’S TONGUE! Necro, I know you’re not reading this, but I’m drinking this fuckin’ Old Milwaukee to you, you stupid insane motherfucker.
BEER FIVE: Part of this one, too. “Too Phat” Jason Dukes is out to pour a pile of salt into center ring. See, the Universe spins in perfect order. I complain about the Salt of the Earth getting jobbed by the suit and tie guys, and here comes Jason Dukes to drop salt all over the ring. Big goofy Pondo comes out, with his partner and my newest favorite wrestler, Spyder Nate Webb, in tow as a second. His opponent is Corporal Robinson, who looks like a family of brothers I came up with back home. One is a postal worker/white rapper, another is MIA somewhere or another, and the third works at the family glass shop back in Farmville, and last time I saw him was at the Hitchin’ Post, my favorite bar back in my home county, and he introduced me to his fiancé, and she told me, “I know you, you were my baseball coach when I was eight,” and I felt old and ordered a shot with my next Budweiser. The Hitchin’ Post is the type of place that gives you shots in big clear plastic cups, not because they’re cheap, but because nobody can use it as a weapon. If they serve shots in glasses at your favorite watering hole, your favorite watering hole is not as violent as you might think it is. Pondo is talking to the crowd, but he is not Ian, and his gospel is not as strong, though more fan-friendly. Robinson goes into the crowd, as does Pondo, and they meet on the backside. A fat guy has a shirt that says THE BIG DON, and that makes me happy. Pondo has the most powerful dangerous short and long hair on Earth. Pondo unleashes some scissors, and directs the cameraman to the proper spot, and then gives the camera a nice slicing, front and center. Robinson is nuts, and for the first time I notice there’s a painter’s dropcloth over the regular ring canvas. I don’t think it was there last match. Oh, it must be because of that giant pile of salt in the middle of the ring. And hey, a barbed wire baseball bat to the face of Pondo. In a great hardcore spot, Pondo takes the nutshot while laying with the barbed wire bat; the bat, of course, sticks to his loose pants, so he climbs to his feet with the barbed wire baseball bat stuck to his crotch, and Robinson delivers the field goal kick. I am looking for Spyder Nate Webb to get involved. Robinson hits a hardcurricanrana onto a chair. Pondo hits a super DDT from the top rope, putting Robinson’s head through a barbed wire piece of plywood. However, Pondo gets stuk more, and ends up having to shed his jersey because it’s stuck to shit. Robinson goes into the tree of woe position, and takes a tough signshot to the brain, then Spyder Nate Webb does a flipping dropkick Van Terminator thing that has to hurt like fuckin’ fuck. Pondo is setting up a barbed wire table, and he’s a hefty motherfucker, and he’s looking up at the balcony. Pondo sets up Robinson on the table, and heads for the rafters. THE FUCKIN’ BEAUTY OF IT ALL! Pondo goes to the balcony, and doesn’t seem entirely sure himself. He waves his arms to get the crowd to get hyped, he squats for the plunge, but stands again back to safe mode, waves his arms again, he squats as the crowd is more hyper than before, he’s squatting for his obviously feared plunge, he drops one arm, looks around and does the Hogan ear cupping thing, asks the people right there on the floor what they think, and works the whole fuckin’ crowd into believing this will be the greatest thing ever, this is the one fuckin’ thing they want to see more than anything on FUCKIN’ EARTH, and then he plunges ten feet (I’m figuring, since the announcer said twenty feet, and the rule is they double the heighth, which is not an actual word, but most people say it like heighth instead of height, as it usually rolls off the tongue that way in relation to the real-word width anyways) into Robinson.
BEER SIX: The ref and Webb do the double lean-in by the ears, where they go, “Are you okay?” and the two nuts macho and masochistically struggle to say “shit yeah”. Pondo also has the scarred arm/tattooed arm paradigm that Ian sported, and both scar their left arm, which leads me to believe they are right-handed. Pondo holds a chair in front of Robinson as Webb goes to the top rope to do a dropkick, the Corporal ducks, Pondo is out, and Robinson hits his Boot Camp finisher, and Webb sells it with a great sit-up funny face then falls forward. Robinson sets up two nice ballroom chairs over top of Pondo, then puts a barbed wire board face down on top of them, and brings the top rope legdrop and pins the plywood for the three-count. Beautiful match, absolutely beautiful. I am proud to be a Roman enjoying this, and I will gladly let another man suck my dick and spiral this country into destruction. Pondo and Robinson hug each other in a violent fraternal salute, and Nate Webb cleans the salt off his ICP hockey jersey. Pondo hugs his stop sign, and he’s straight. A kid in the crowd is wearing an old school Jason-style hockey mask. Ian Rotten is there to hug, wait, never mind. Pondo is drawing pictures on the g-stringed ass of some girl. You see, you can hate Pondo, but he’s got hotter girls letting him draw bad skull pictures on their ass than you can look at in porn mags. WOW! Carmine DeSpirito, I probably emailed you about this review, so maybe you are actually reading it, and that goddamned cocoa-complected chick with the GIANT ASS fuckin’ rules it. You also look my buddy Boomer, but with a jheri curl instead of greasy unwashed hair. “The Mauler” Jerry Maywald looks to be somebody’s father, or a local legend, one or the other. Maywald is no-selling all of Carmine’s offense. I love the heel headbutt to the face, where the face no sells, and the heel holds his own head. That is one of the great spots in pro wrestling. The Hustler is poking the old guy with a fork, and this is not part of the Hardcore Cup. The old guy is bloody as fuckin’ fuck, and like all good crazy old guys, he is completely bald but has a grey goatee and moustache. Fuck, this guy is juiced like fuckin’ crazy, in a way that would make Terry Funk worry. Wherever he falls, blood stains the ring. The bloody Mauler hits a chokeslam, and the ref counts, but Dysfunction, who is ringside, breaks up the count. Ian, paying homage to his hardcore midwestern predecessors, runs out to even the sides, and does a slow drawn out tap on the shoulder DDT of Carmine, puts the arms of the Mauler over the Hustler, and the old bloody guy is now the Commissioner of MAW. Shit, if sports entertainment was always like this AND HAD A HOUSE BAND BUST OUT SPEED METAL IMMEDIATELY! I’d be the fuck down with sports entertainment like I am down with licking a girl’s ass while in the sweet submission move of 69. I love the submission vs. submission 69 battle, where you go till somebody taps out or comes. I have never lost one of those; never. Though I’ve never battled men in one of those, and women are the weaker sex. Hey, there’s log cabins of light tubes, and there’s Mean Mitch Page. The great thing about Mean Mitch Page is he looks EXACTLY like Ian Rotten from three years ago, and Ian being his opponent makes this a Time Machine Death Match Against Recent Self battle. I tiptoe quietly through the house this time of night, because I work tomorrow morning, and waking my wife to come down here and find the log cabin of death of empty beer cans to the left of the computer monitor, all from tonight, will cause maternal-like preaching that CHOOSE DEATH samurai workingman like myself cares not to hear, any time of life, but much less at three in the morning, while half-drunk.
BEER SEVEN: I alternate between pissing off the front porch and pissing in the bathroom proper, because usually, I have to piss every beer and half, which coincides with my master plan of bringing three beers at a time from the kitchen fridge, which is along the hike to the bathroom through the dark belly of my late night house. This time, however, there were only four beers in the 12-pack container, so I brought the entire container in, what we call a Carolina Cooler here in Piedmont Virginia, so that we can pretend people from North Carolina are more hickish than us. Which they are. But if I lived in a state where Richard Petty ran for office and Ric Flair is gonna run for office, I’d be proud. Ian brings a box of extra light tubes to the ring, and his left arm is fucked. “Jesus H. Christ in a chicken basket,” says the color man, trying too hard. Both Ian and Page take off the wifebeaters and pull the straps down on their underneath shirts, again a battle against previous self. The color guy says he’s been driving demolition derbies for seven years, and I love this even more. The fall demo derby at Eastside Speedway in Waynesboro is coming up fast. Page has bad tattoos on both arms, so he gets carved on the forehead. Ian nails the headbutt to the light tube held to the other guy’s head perfectly. Page elbows a tube to Ian, then punches a tube to Ian, then scrapes a tube to Ian. In a brief moment of delirium, turning towards the crowd, bad tattoos on weird parts of his body, and Mean Mitch Page looked perfectly like a G.G. Allin band member. This rocks so fuckin’ much, white trash buddhas, bodies marked with India ink and scars done to bring glory to a self-defeating mind, battling to be the toughest, but following a game plan that has nothing to do with that battle at all, and people excited, FUCKIN’ GEEKED to watch the whole thing unfold. With kids who grow up with Ian’s and Mitch’s as crazy uncles joining the armed forces, and us having the military industry influence on our bought leaders, no wonder we kick the rest of the World’s fuckin’ ass and take pictures of naked Afghani bitches who had their clothes burned off by our bombs. Ian 2002 threw Ian 1999 aka Mitch headfirst into a stack of bulbs. They are both fucked, and they’ve yet to hit the log cabin of tubes. That dust is bad for you, and it’s floating threw the air like smoke in a stereotypical jazz bar. They are back in the ring, and that despicable log cabin of glass is there for the teasing. Ian teases the piledriver, but gets backdropped into the tower of glass, and Mitch Page covers him for the pin. Ian lays there, arms outstretched, wondering how to get out without fucking himself up worse. There is no way, Ian. Mitch Page has a Jun Kasai style back right now. The Hustler and Dysfunction come out to point Page back to the ring to finish Ian off, and Carmine DeSpirito looks more like Boomer than I am comfortable with. Ahh, they come in so that Dysfunction can pin Ian to get the pin. Page has blood leaking from his back, and he’s smiling and giving dudes high fives. Ian is a bloody mess, and I don’t mean that in a British way. Well good goddamn, some girl showed her tits. Then the girl with the fat ass who let Mad Man Pondo draw on her ass showed her tits, too. And this was all on the other side of the ring barricade, in the crowd. I said it a few times, you can’t fuck with America. Fuck Commie Unions and Alien Governments. Americans are led by Ian Rotten and titties in their mouth are more overpowering than dangling carrots from sticks. The common man always wins, whether you know it or not. Maybe you make his music your meal ticket, then all your kids want poor babies, like the current obsession with black dick, which I encourage, because the rich man should have his daughters polluted with our poverty. Ian Rotten knows this, but he chooses to ignore it and carve, literally, out a legacy for himself. He is a fuckin’ countercultural force, and motherfuckers need to step the fuck back and recognize. Hardcore Craig comes out.
BEER EIGHT: He gets called onto the band stage, to get rubber cement spread on his forearms and hands. Then they rub that in a tub of broken glass. It’s Taipei Death Match time, fucks. Craig does both forearms, but neither fist. He’s a pussy. Corporal Robinson is his opponent, and I’m betting before seeing, that Robinson won’t front on the fist glass as well. Jason Dukes is applying the cement. Robinson, to his credit, has not cleaned the blood off his body or face from the last match. I wonder if these dudes hold onto the t-shirts they wore as mementos? And I wonder if they’ll end up selling them on ebay like Don Larsen’s perfect game glove and shit? “Take the glass to the ring, too, dude, afterwards.” 100 monkeys on 100 typewriters couldn’t think that. Robinson, after glassing himself, goes back for more cement to put more glass on his arms. Hardcore Craig, being the babyface, dumps the glass out the bucket onto the canvas and throws the bucket into the crowd. Punches, chops, glass, violence. Man, this is the best independent announcing team going, no shit. I couldn’t tell you either guys’ name, because neither has made a big deal of it, and in good indy fashion, there was no parking lot interviews where the announcer makes himself known. They just do a good job and stay out the way, like announcers were meant to do. If I was a hardcore wrestler, I’d come out to “Morning Dew” by the Dead, just because it goes against popular reasoning. Having glass rubbed in your face goes against popular reasoning as well, so psychologically, it makes sense to do the same entrance music-wise. Craig is juiced better than that Mauler old dude. If Steve Austin taught us anything, it’s that a baldhead makes for a much more impressive bloody blade job, especially if you lay on the mat right afterwards. Hey, I was touching my dick as it hung out the side of my shorts and missed the ending. Corporal Robinson won though, and he’s bloodier than fuck, and he meets Mean Mitch Page in the finals of this tourney of self-mutilation. We’ve got sports entertainmentey nonsense going on; but Dysfunction is polishing his own belt like a good young heel should. Fat Frankie “The Thumper” DeFalco is talking shit, accusing DeSpirito of being a molester and swallower and other things. Dysfunction, the young skinny guy, is talking shit to challenge Frankie DeFalco, the older thick teacher. It’s student vs. teacher, and it’s what was probably the highlight of the strip mall training academy for a few months. Both of these guys are proud to be here. Think about Larry Zbysko, and how his big match was against Bruno Sammartino. Think about the flippity Puerto Ricans and how they up the ante when Mikey Whipwreck jumps in the ring again. Think about Johnny Valentine chopping the shit out of Ric Flair. Think about the Sheik stabbing Sabu with a knife. It’s the classic wrestling tale. This weird back part of my brain is hurting, throbbing from the inside. I should pour more beer on it, again from the inside. I just saw Carmine ringside testing a lighter, so I am ANTICIPATING THE FIREBALL! Or he’ll smoke weed from a crimped beer can with holes poked in it. Ref bump. Carmine is back in his pocket ringside, to check his gimmicks. We’ve got a leglock on Dysfunction by DeFalco, and The Hustler steps to the apron with the flash paper fireball. I love wrestling. Jheri curl Boomer threw fire in the face of the Pizza Shop Owner to help the Kid From Installing Your Stolen Car Stereo win.
BEER NINE: Mean Mitch Page, looking very G.G.-like, versus Corporal Robinson, still bleeding. They’ve got all sorts of fucked-up shit around, with a barbed wire ladder even. Tubes are taped to the ropes all over. Robinson has not cleaned up at all, and the shit’s all dried and congealed across his face. He is King. Well, Page has not shirt on, so Robinson tries to take his off, to be a man, but Page attacks. Corp turns the tide and knocks down the man, and grabs a tube, Page returns the tide, and kicks three tubes into Corp’s chest. Robinson is taking the beatdown right now. Mean Mitch Page stacks bulbs in the barbed wire in some plywood, and he is my new Buddha Figure. But reverse, and Page is back first into pain. Dueling light bulbs. Bleeding from the back. This is ultra-violence. “There are very few places on the planet where you can see things like this,” says the color guy. God Bless America. They’ve got the Hardcore Cup tied to the rafters with barbed wire, and that’s how you win this thing, climbing the ladder to unbarbed wire the trophy. That rocks. Sometimes, I feel dirty for drinking and watching this shit. At one point in my life, I had to be a normal kid, whatever the fuck that means. How did I end up being The Confederate Mack, doing this website? Who fucking knows? We come to choices that are right or left and each one, like a Choose Your Own Adventure, changes the outcomes, and you keep going. I got here honestly, but fuck, sometimes I wonder if there’s something wrong with me. And of course there is, because I still wonder about it. Media manipulation tries to make people like me question ourselves to kill our own momentum. It’s how they keep the underclass underneath. I bet Ian Rotten and his disciples Mean Mitch Page and Corporal Robinson don’t question themselves. Or if they do, they don’t show it to us. Fuck showing weakness; I’d rather show my Hawkwind records to hot punk rock chicks with tattoos on their forearms. Robinson is about to win, but Dysfunction comes out and drops him through a cactus plant, and Page climbs the ladder to take the trophy, and the shit is over. We’ve got post-match riots about to break out left and right, we’ve got a fake Boomer, we’ve got Ian in the ring to be the King, and most importantly, we’ve got heels almost having to fight their way backstage. That is the true sign of success. Mean Mitch Page is fat and is onstage to talk shit and take his glory. Slam slam slam, beer empty. By the way, in case you forgot, it’s the morning after Labor Day, so fuck work. Not just my work, but your work, too. Fuck it.
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