BEER ONE: New England Championship Wrestling I dig, in a way one can only dig on indys. They have a roster of guys who’ve I’ve never seen anywhere else, and those guys are pretty competent. My man Dan in Massachusetts hooked me up with some more goods from Yankeeland, and I’m not supremely stoked, like I would be say I was about to pop in a big IWA Mid South or Wildside tape, but I’m confident that Sheldon Goldberg’s NECW will at least hold my interest. The indytastic intro is full of nu-metal and nicely clipped highlights, and it looks like rather than the art theater the last show I saw was held in, this one’s in an actual gymnasium of some sort. And of course, electricity is running through their logo at the end of the intro. First match is Aaron Morrison vs. Tarzan Taylor. Morrison is pudgy and wearing shootfighter gloves. He has a supremely healthy beer belly; you can tell a beer belly from a regular fat-ass belly because the beer belly is more rock-n-roll solid and doesn’t flab around like regular fat. I just got in a big argument with my wife, well a minor disagreement would be more appropriate, because I’m proud of the beer belly I’ve cultivated, and she thinks that’s absolutely ridiculous. Man, women, they sure do have a pussy, don’t they? Tarzan Taylor is a hair metal God warped into the year 2002. He is Youth Gone Wild and stomps his foot and slings his long straight hair in metalhead power mode to rally the crowd for the opening match, ending his stomping routine in a maniacal double footed bouncing stomp, hair slung back and forth to some inaudible double bass drum super morbid rhythm that only he is privy to. Tall and skinny Taylor vs. short and pudgy Morrison, this is like a children’s book about dogs. I bet one drives a green car and the other a red one. Morrison dropkicks the ol’ knee, and look at that, actually stays on that limb, working it, and making this seem like an actual athletic contest. What the fuck is wrong with him? Shouldn’t a stripper be ringside, or somebody pretending to be an R&B singer interfering with fake sledgehammers or some shit? Tarzan’s metal buddy manager is smacking the ring and rallying up a “Tarzan! Tarzan!” chant, and he appropriately rallies back with a lanky missile dropkick, but only gets the two, which, following the normal old school procedure, allows for Morrison to eye rake his way back into dastardly control. Tarzan bust a move though, must be his finisher, because he got the quick one-two-three. Two good wrestlers, seemingly, but the match lacked any intensity. Justin Powers is a dorky heel nerd athlete type, and his opponent is a shitty MTV-style punk rocker with terrible hair called Tim Fury. Powers is great as the heel who just doesn’t get why the fans hate him, giving the thumbs up, trying to get some cheers, then looking all pissed and confused when they boo. He pulled his hamstring trying to kick the ropes, great heel comedy.
BEER TWO: Tim Fury is way too amped and way too skinny and needs desperately to lose a hair vs. hair match. They start slow, feeling each other out, as a match between two high-speed lightweights should start, to make the later speed seem even more amazingly faster. Man, this Powers kid is a great comedy heel, absolutely great. And the funniest thing is, every time Fury outsmarts the hilariously stupid Powers, he just latches on a headlock again. Nothing is more old school than a fifteen minute time limit draw with lots of headlocks by the face on a heel who just can’t seem to cheat the right way; old school don’t always mean good. Tim Fury is competent enough, but he doesn’t sell his pain well, and doesn’t transition well either. Basically, I hate him, and it’s all because of that stupid hair. When I worked at Kinko’s, this punk rock guy told me what a great flick SLC Punk was, and I watched it and hated it and was that Gary Busey’s stupid son, I can’t remember, anyways, that movie sucked and reminded me of why I hate the so-called punk scene, because it’s three-quarters a bunch of pussy fucks running away from their mommies and daddies and trying to be hard in an urban sense. Fury makes me think of all that. I guess he’s not so bad, it’s just his selling, with his skinny-ass body, seems so exaggerated and stupid, like a high school style Saturday Night Live skit. Powers hit a German suplex, and I think was supposed to roll over to hook the leg with his legs, but went sideways, and the ref was forced to break the pin count. How will they recover from this, me wonders? Hurricanrana from the top rope on Powers by SLC Punk and Powers, in comedy heel mode, does an extra roll-over from the momentum. As Fury closes in for the kill, Powers sweeps his legs, goes for the pinfall and puts his feet on the top rope for super-extra leverage. I love this skinny little fuck Justin Powers. Fuck you SLC Punk, you lost; now go back to running your friends’ zines off during the second shift at Kinkos. Ahh, the evil Brits, Zachary & Evil Trance Springate, are talking crap now. Zach is the true Brit in the team, and he does the standard saying “bloody” a lot and saying America was kicked out of the United Kingdom. Their opponents are the All-Knighters who look like two kids ready to do drink some V-8 Splash and watch a marathon of Jack Samurai on the Toon network. When did all wrestlers get so small and young? Goddamn, I know I turn 30 in a few months, but goddamn. Zachary Springate is perfect both in ringmanship and in his evil British ways; he should be immediately signed as William Regal’s younger brother. Better yet, Regal should get released from the WWE for breaking one of Steph’s fake tits, and then Regal could take bookings on the indy circuit working a team with Zachary Springate. Yeah, fuck indy guys getting signed, I’m all about corporate guys getting dropped. British accents just sound dickish. I mean how many Brit faces have there been, other than Chris Adams in Texas? Sure, the British Bulldogs, but I don’t remember them talking at all except for a few words here or there. Fuck, this was during the “every wrestling crowd does the ‘WHAT?’ thing from the Steve Austin promos of the time” period of indy wrestling. I am completely disturbed by this All-Knighters entrance. Hold on, let me finish this beer, take a piss, rewind and try this again, because I’m kind of confused.
BEER THREE: Yup, they came out, bouncing around like freaks, clapping their hands way over their heads way too enthusiastically, to some gay ass dance music and one guy has a teddy bear strapped to his waist. I think they’re wearing pajama bottoms. Please, lord oh lord, please tell me this is not a tag team with an all-night sleepover gimmick. Please. All Knighters do a bunch of hyping the crowd on all four sides to decide which segment of the crowd gets the teddy bear thrown at them. Fuckin’ weird. Actually, as Kid Trance Springate is outside the ring, I see this is not a gym but some sort of restaurant with group tables or some shit. Or a bingo hall or something. Wow, as bad as their gimmick is, the All Knighters don’t suck. But everybody’s so small. Don’t they have creatine or GNC stores in New England? Drinking a fuckin’ wheat protein shake or some shit. Now, I’m no Vince McMahon expecting you to look like Rick Steiner on steroids (redundant?), but damn, when guys are smaller than the kids watching their mom’s table full of Beanie Babys at the flea market on Saturday mornings in Scottsville, fuckin’ lift some weights or something.
BEER FOUR: The crowd is chanting, “England sucks!” You gotta love a wrestling crowd.
BEER FIVE: Speaking of limey heels, I was listening to the Tony Bruno Show this morning on sports radio, as I love that show. It’s hip, yet user friendly, and not the world of cooler-than-thou fratboy hipsters who were too fuckin’ white to be good at sports that the Jim Rome show is. Anyways, they were making fun of Terrell Owen pulling the Sharpie out his sock in the end zone after that touchdown on Monday Night Football, and Tony Bruno started ragging on the WWF for not having foreign objects, guys would pull out tables and chairs and stop signs “that just so happened to be under the ring” but no more foreign objects. “The old days were classy.” Tony Bruno is great, to be an old bald white guy who’s hip to wrestling history and rap lyrics and porn starlets, great shit. Anyways, the next caller says he had flipped there for like two minutes on Raw (yeah right, and that cock pump is for a friend, right?) and mentions William Regal and how he pulled some brass knucks out his trunks and they called it a foreign object, too. Bruno was glad, and specifically went through the old pulling it out the trunks bit, saying whether it was a roll of pennies or a pencil, they always called it a foreign object. Thank God while I remembered that, the tag match with the kids ended. Now we’ve got Slyk Wagner Brown vs. Bob Evans in a grudge match. Both these guys I enjoyed on the last tape, but Bob Evans is one creepy motherfucker, tall bald and elderly looking. He is Jacey North’s alcoholic uncle. Slyk Wagner Brown tests my stereotyping, as usually I’d rather drink PBRs with college kids while watching a Beverly Hills 90210 marathon than give props to a brother with a blonde-dyed crewcut. But Browns is dope, and I’ve seen in the nerd pages that he’s even been doing shows in England lately. Brown is the type of guy I completely imagine being in ECW as a mid-carder right now had it continued to exist. Some white chick with giant fake tits is Slyk’s second for this match, to watch his back. To her credit, she has a nice ass, but then again, a lot of asses that aren’t that great look great in those thin tight stretch pants. It’s like advertising for sodas, even if you don’t want one, it’s flashing in your face so much, eventually you crave it. There’s a chick at work like that, she doesn’t really have much of an ass, but she’s always wearing shit that’s real tight with a thong (speaking of a thong, fuck that shit, either wear underwear or don’t wear underwear, don’t bring that half-assed shit around me, or is all-assed?) and I’ve looked at it so much, especially with her always finding a reason to bend over to show it to me, that I now would fuck her, except I’m a happily married man. Used to be, even if I was single and drunk, I wouldn’t fuck her, just like Pepsi, I used to never drink that shit. Fuckin’ advertising, man, they flash it in your face and you react like the idiot you are. These guys should have a reverse hair vs. hair match, whether whoever loses couldn’t cut their hair for six months. Bob Evans is a maniacal demon in the ring, not like an evil Sabu or Adbullah the Butcher type, but a regular looking white guy who wants to maim limbs. I can dig on that.
BEER SIX: Slyk has been getting old school heeled out, but he rolls out of the way of a lanky moonsault by Evans, and has flipped into control here, not afraid to pop loud punches on Evans’ face. Fake tit girl jumps up and down and claps after Brown hits a rolling neckbreaker, and her tits do not move at all; that right there is why I hate fake tits. Fluidity, motion, chaos, eternal change – it is the way of the World. Unyielding rigidity is frozen death, and I won’t put my lips, or my five dollar bills, upon it. Wow, she jumped in the ring to take care of Evans’ evil manager, and she has thick thighs that did that whole upper thigh and ass cheek solid wobble that a perfectly crunched fine ass will do. And Slyk executes a full nelson into a sitdown powerbomb for the victory over Mr. Evans. Decent enough match, like most of these, but heat seems to be lacking. Where’s the hatred, the animosity? Where’s the pure violence as told through the semi-legitimate athletic confines of professional wrestling? Not hardcore nonsense or anything like that, but old school wrasslin’. That seems to be what they’re bringing in NECW, but where’s my motherfuckin’ intensity. Hey, it’s Sumie Sakai vs. Mercedes Martinez next. I know absolutely shit about joshi, except it’s women wrestling and I really don’t care. Sure, the Jap ladies knock the shit out of each other, but so what? I can’t understand the announcers. This is to crown the first ever North American Women’s Champ, and let me tell you, Mercedes Martinez is dope in the looks department. Dudes online are always creaming over these Jap chicks, but they’re all too scrawny for me. And they have that weird hipbone shape thing going on, too. The wispy little pubic hairs are cool though. They made up a pretty nice looking belt for this here match, better than most indy title belts. That makes me think it’s a present for the Sakai chick and she’s guaranteed to win. Sumie Sakai comes out first and looks so sweet and innocent and like a normal woman, smiling as she asks which corner is hers. Hard to believe she’s gonna be flipping on another woman and faking punches and shit in a minute. Martinez is hot and needs to make porn with me. Some whore bodybuilder named Lisa Lopes is ringside and comes in with poufy blonde hair and a bustier style leather thing, which is to trick most guys into ignoring the fact she’s a hideous looking muscled freak of a vagina. Works for me, but I am a pervert. And thinking about Mercedes Martinez; what a sweet smile. One thing I do love about the joshi is the ring outfits; they are just so odd and swank. Martinez is a lot bigger than Sakai, but not nearly as fluent in the ring. You gotta think about the differences – Martinez sits around hoping that the local indy will book one woman’s match each show, which is maybe monthly if she’s lucky. Sakai can work regularly and weekly in Japan. It shows. Wow, this is not a good match. But Sakai keeps yelling crazy Japanese talk, and Martinez has a big ass inside of vinyl pants. Ooh, Sakai warmed up and just nailed a missile dropkick to the fuckin’ chin on Martinez off the top rope; very sick. Ref bump, meaning female chicanery is about to go down. Ah, that Lisa Lopes amazon bitch is beating down Sakai ringside. You know there’s a whole subculture of cats who are all about big muscle chicks, and they pay to be carried around by the muscle chicks. Muscle worship it’s called. There’s even flicks where bodybuilder chicks kill guys with leg scissors using those thick steroid masculine legs. Mercedes gets the cheap victory, wins the belt, and is the object of my affection. I think I’ll send her some flowers or something. Maybe some butterscotch candies and a couple of sonnets. Tag team mayhem up next, with those sucker ass Egomaniacs, and the greatest indy tag team in America today – One Night Stand, Ronnie D. Lishus and Edward G. Extacy. Johnny Idol and Mike Steele are the yankee fratboys in the Egomaniacs. I bet they played lacrosse in high school. Both teams are heels, which is confusing.
BEER SEVEN: I’m very bored with this match, and would normally fast forward, but I’m not like that. One, it might bust out good all of a sudden, and two, fuck that, it wouldn’t be fair. All the other tag teams seem to be ringside for some reason, something must have happened while I was daydreaming about Mercedes Martinez. At this point, every time somebody goes for the pin, the other partner breaks it up. Idol and Extacy are chopping the fuck out of each other in the ring, and Lishus and Steele are battling ringside. It is building. High risk tag team maneuver on Extacy, but some longhair jumps on the ring apron, and now tag team chaos has broken out. Everybody was forced away from ringside by a loud voice on a microphone, perhaps Zarathustra, and Idol is gone and One Night Stand is punching beers all over Mike Steele. And he threw a tray of chicken wings at him. No shit, he did. On to the main event, for the NECW Heavyweight title, between Maverick Wild and Alex Arion. Maverick Wild, in front of a brick wall, “I’m feeling more than 50%. I’m feeling better than 100% tonight. I’m feeling 200% strong, I’m feeling 200% skilled, and I’m feeling 200% ability.” That’s the type of thing I would tattoo in small letters on my leg if I had a tattoo gun. Really, it is. Strange booking, as the last match was two heel tag teams against each other, and this is two babyface singles guys going for the title. I think the crowd is lethargic because they are sitting at tables, and that’s what’s hurt this show. Two guys in trunks with boots and knee pads and wrist tape – old school. We’ve got armbar switching, and a fireman’s carry. This is fuckin’ great; I love a good quality technical face vs. technical face beginning. Of course, it will degenerate, if history holds true. Arion comes away with the slight advantages early on, which foreshadows the Maverick Wild heel turn later on. Wild has a full nelson on Arion and lifts him for one of those ass slam things, but Arion kicks his legs sideways and does a weird hiptoss thing without having his feet planted. Arion keeps working the same arm, and Wild sells it by slapping it awake on moments he gets the upperhand. Yup, Maverick Wild wouldn’t make a clean break in the corner, which accelerates the match, as is the standard for face/face matches. Then he gets in the first dirty tactic which leaves Arion laid out ringside. Wild goes out after him, how unsportsmanlike of him. And he slaps his own arm back into life.
BEER EIGHT: Wow, wicked fuckin’ forearm shot by Wild into Arion’s skull. Maverick Wild is now clapping in respect for his own maneuvers, upping his heel quotient. Man, even in this great match, the crowd is despondent at best. Fuck a Somerville, Massachusetts, wrestling crowd. There’s people in camera range talking amonst each other at the tables, not even caring about the match in the ring. Why the fuck did they come? Was it a free show at a buffet? What the fuck? Man, Maverick Wild is not afraid to throw the vicious forearm. He hits this crazy clothesline into the corner where he flies over the top rope and lands in the first row, visually making his lariat all the more wicked, especially combined with Arion’s lifeless thump face first into the canvas. Good wrestling is hard to come by, much less two guys doing it together in the ring in front of a crowd that doesn’t really care. Fuck move by move commentaries; suffice it to say, they are doing some good shit in the ring there, that Maverick Wild and Alex Arion. Including Wild going for the nonchalant lean back across the chest pin attempt, but Arion counters with a vicious leg scissors on the head combined with an ankle hold meant to submit out of nowhere. Wild gets the other foot on the ropes though. Fuckin’ great. Arion finally rolls Wild up and gets the pinfall. That was probably the best match I’ve ever seen where fat Puerto Rican guys sat at tables in the front row and ate food completely oblivious to the fact there was a wrestling ring with wrestling going on in it like five feet from his fat ass. Wild didn’t go heel enough that Alex Arion won’t offer the handshake afterwards, but fuck that displays Maverick Wild. He splits. Card over. Finish beer. Yeah.
EPILOGUE: FIRST STAR OF THE TAPE: Maverick Wild. From the looks of him, I’d hate him, but he was top-notch. Top fuckin’ notch. Better than a hundred Low-Ki vs. American Dragon matches. I get so sick of that same style of shit all the time. Internet fans are a fuckin’ bunch of sheep. And not real wrestling fans at all. SECOND STAR OF THE TAPE: Zachary Springate. William Regal’s longhaired younger brother is so over with me. The only thing he could do to be more over is have an Andy Capp tattoo. THIRD STAR OF THE TAPE: Edward G. Extacy. He’s the fat guy in One Night Stand, and I’d like to put them both here, but I couldn’t do that because of self-imposed standards, so the fat guy is the one. They rule, and should be ruling it all over the World, but no, the World’s got to be all fucked-up and shit instead.
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