RAVEN MACK is a mystic poet-philosopher-artist of the Greater Appalachian unorthodox tradition. He does have an amazing PATREON, but also *normal* ARTIST WEBSITE too.

Thursday, March 13

12-Pack Review: ECWA 02/26/00

BEER 1: Ahh yes. Two sweet delicious items on the menu tonight. A cooler full of a mixture of Old Milwaukees and Budweisers is a red and white canned alcohol treat during this Holiday season. And in the VCR is the Super 8 tournament, version 2000, brought to us by those fine Delawarians of the East Coast Wrestling Association. This junior tournament, all in one night, is modeled after the ultimately awesome Japanese spectacular called the Super-J Cup. The Super 8 is All-American and all indy, meaning young, hungry guys not yet exploited by the professional wrestling industry into men-hoes full of steroids and growth hormones and experimental painkillers smuggled over from Mexico. These are guys full of passion for the art of professional wrestling, not the gimmick of sports entertainment. They actually still care about giving the fans their money and time’s worth when they step out under those obnoxious lights in weird outfits, whether it’s 1000 people in wrestling t-shirts or 34 mountain retards with dogshit all over their boots. Young and passionate light-weighted men bouncing across a ring in Delaware, risking brain-smashings and compressed vertebrates just to say they kicked ass in the legendary Super 8 Tournament, which in the past has been won by Richmond’s own former bartender/baseball player Lance Diamond, who had a gimmick enhancement operation in ECW so you may know him as the comedic Simon Diamond instead of as the serious old school technically proficient heel grappler he was born to be. The videotape starts up with all 8 combatants in this jank wearing their yellow Super 8 t-shirt posing in the ring with the not-as-over-the-top as I’d expect. I’ll pretend I didn’t hear the racial remarks made towards Scoot Andrews as he’s the only black guy in the tourney, saying he should have a noose around his neck or a chicken leg in his mouth. ECWA does a nice job of showing highlight clips from past events on a wall screen, nice touch for an indy promotion. Bad modern metal music blares and little girls scream over Jeff Peterson and Trent Acid. Wrestling nerds mark out for Christopher Daniels. MTV-style production in a high school gymnasium, all for grown men fake fighting. America truly is a great place. Out comes a guy in a suit with the trophy, then it’s all the guys. Chad Collyer, a Dean Malenko-trained old school technico from Florida with those gay-looking shiny leather trunks. “The Black Nature Boy” Scoot Andrews, my personal fave in this thing, he’s the black Nature Boy for God’s sake. Jet Jaguar, who looks to be very much a white guy. Sharkboy, with the retarded shark mask and a penchant for biting suckas in the corner, but he’s a good guy from the Midwest, little midget fucker, if he’d only take steroids he’d already be in WCW. Vic Capri, who I’ve never seen before, but he’s supposed to rule, though he looks like your standard asshole with long greasy hair clocking all the chicks you wanted to get with. Trent Acid, a Marilyn Manson type kid from insane Jersey garbage wrestling scene, he’s taken part in a couple of tours of Big Japan wrestling and I’m sure it helped him get better having guys dive off balconies onto him. Jeff Peterson, the wholesome local white boy whom all the girls in the crowd love. “The Fallen Angel” Christopher Daniels, whom all the wrestling nerds in the crowd love, Daniels rules completely, excepting his stupid looking hairstyle. So all the guys are in the ring and they play the national anthem, some non-Hendrix acid rock version, sounds like it could be Yngwie Malmsteen or Joe Satriani or one of those schmucks. Great, everybody gets the fuck out the ring and now we wrassle. First up is Scoot, logical progression from Buddy Rogers to Ric Flair, down the side tangent of Buddy Landell, onto the next generation of wrestler, into the form of Scoot Andrews, that’s the Nature Boy lineage. Makes perfect sense to me. His opponent is Trent Acid, wearing way too much shiny clothing, getting hugs from hoodrats in the front row, coming out to the Backstreet Boys. Surprisingly, Scoot is your bad guy, trying to calm the crowd, and the homoerotic Acid is your fan favorite. BEER SLAMMED for insane backwards suplex off the apron onto floor that drops Scoot on his back and Acid on his neck. MORE BEER SLAMMED as Trent Acid shows he’s a high school dropout doing it all for the potential statutory rape cases in the crowd as he incredibly mindlessly moonsaults off the top rope outside the ring onto the waiting Scoot. In a matter of five minutes, Trent Acid has already established a place in my heart as someone like me; reckless, stupid, and motivated by pussy. And then he goes right back up to the top, only to have Scoot shove him off to the outside ring barrier. Seven minutes and 3 half-retarded bumps by Trent Acid. Scoot monkeyflips out onto him in very un-Nature Boy-like fashion, then jawjacks with some sap in a cowboy hat. Beer 1 finished in honor of double chicken wing suplex.

BEER 2: Trent Acid is a spot machine, getting our first 2 count of the night. Crotched on the second rope, then dropped on the back of his skull by a vicious Scoot, who displays a nice array of suplexes. He locks the chinlock onto the pretty boy to work the crowd into a hatred for a rest minute. The crowd chants “Scoot! There it is!” How come when I see indy shows, I never get anything close to a Scoot Andrews/Trent Acid encounter? The best I remember getting is watching Christian York compress his spinal cord attempting an out of the ring moonsault on Julio Dinero nee Fantastico nee Sanchez the Freakin’ Puerto Rican at the Chesterfield County Fair. Sitdown power bomb by Scoot, both men groggy for the late match double count by the ref signaling the crowd to understand these guys are wore out. Superplex by Scoot gets turned into a top rope gourdbuster by Acid. Scoot catches Acid, flips him around for a fuck-you piledriver that leaves Acid in the ring selling the injury and contemplating the pain he feels and how much he’s a rock star after only one match. Beer drunk to Trent Acid. Out comes Sharkboy. I don’t like Sharkboy, simply because I’ve seen him on MTV. Any wrestler I’ve ever seen on MTV I don’t like. Even that cool-ass Hungarian Barbarian guy on that weird So You Wanna Be A WWF Superstar special last year. El Hijo del Dean Malenko aka Chad Collyer will be Sharkboy’s competition. Seems the motions of this bout are really good, but they lack emotion, everything sort of routine. Speaking of routines, Sharkboy just bit the ass of Collyer. I imagine the Sharkboy mask fitting in better in a Michinoku 6-man match, that is if Sharkboy had the adrenaline rush to work such a match. In the last six years, I’ve probably watched over 2000 hurricanranas from wrestling characters of varying ability. I would not cry at all if I didn’t see another one for the rest of my life. While I was busy thinking how played hurricanranas are, Collyer creaked out a victory, and now he celebrates to AC/DC music. Out comes Jet Jaguar, he looks like a marine, I hope he gets paralyzed. His opponent is the all-around good kid Jeff Peterson, dabbed up in his American flag outfit. I think this kid’s got cancer now and quit wrestling. So I’ve got a bad guy marine looking fuck called Jet Jaguar battling a paperboy in an American flag. I will be drinking beer simply out of boredom. Wait, nice slap by the paperboy. Roly poly back and forth running lucha libre spots going on. Delaware’s nice and all, what with all the casinos and truck stops and methed-out hookers you can murder and leave in riverbeds, but why don’t we have a super junior tourney like this in North Carolina? The South rules everything. Throw Cham Pain and Shannon Moore and Shane Helms and Reckless Youth and some of these newer guys I’ve never heard of floating around the Carolina indies together in an armory one Saturday night and see what happens. Sell beer too. Damn, Peterson just attempts suicide off the top rope onto Jet Faguar. You know it’s scary when the ref runs out to ask the guys if they’re still able to move all limbs. The chumpy patriotic outfit misled me, Jeff Peterson is not afraid to do stupid dives and be a Confederate Mack.

BEER 3: Holy shit, Jet Faguar is using the claw, as immortalized by Blackjack Mulligan and Baron Von Raschke. You know how you can tell Jake the Snake Roberts ruled? By how many Gen-X wrestlers use the DDT. Top rope superplex by Faguar leads to a kick-out. Thought that would’ve done it. I’m guessing Peterson will win now that he kicked out of that monster move. Yep, bouncy pouncy lucha style neckbreaker followed by a gigantic frogsplash leads to, damn another kickout. Wait, wasn’t looking and Jet Faguar scores the victory. Damn, he sucks. I’ll drink beer to the cancer boy in the American flag trying to crack his skull on the ring barrier though. Out comes Vic Capri, hobnobbing it with the chumps in the first row. He is matched up against independent main eventer Christopher Daniels, the Fallen Angel, complete with priest get-up and badly died blonde hair on top. Daniels is one of those rare wrestling specimens, he’s actually creative with it all. Not just in the moves he does, but in how he does them. He busts through the normal spots and tweaks them a little here and there to give it flair. Tells Wolverton, Delaware, he is “God’s gift to professional wrestling.” He cuts a promo that has wrestling nerds marking as he makes reference to his Japanese masked character Curry Man. Damn, I’ve never actually heard a Daniels promo, but he rules at that too. He’s got the crowd planning on getting on their knees and thanking the Lord, he’s got opponents saying their prayers, even the little “the year of our Lord 2000” comment refers back to his Fallen Angel gimmick, holy shit. How come this guy is not on my Monday night television yet? Instead I get the new guys in WCW, all interchangeable and sucky in a Memphis 1980s type of way. Or the WWF and it’s pre-packaged processed superstars, the microwave meal to grandma’s Sunday dinner southern regional wrestling of the late ‘70/early ‘80s. Capri’s not bad, he just dropped Daniels on his neck and then dove out the ring on top of him. I’m not exposed to as much puroresu Japanese crap as I should probably be, but I’m into this “hey, we’re fake fighting wrestling in front of these people, but I’m gonna drop you on your brain just to see how tough you are, and goddamnit, I’m tough enough if you do the shit to me in return, I’m gonna jump up and crack your rib with a stiff kick cuz I’m a fuckin’ bad ass and last night I was drinking whiskey with 3 hot-ass 16-year-olds in a Jacuzzi, you bitch!” See, what I complained about in the Collyer/Sharkboy match, no enthusiasm, is the opposite with Daniels here. Instead of just jumping up with his foot sticking out for the other guy to run into, Daniels jumps up, feet extended too high into the air, then he whips one leg down into the running Capri’s forehead. Not only does it look better when you see it, it feels better energy-wise, Daniels exerting his Chi throughout the gym like a Tai-chi master touching a student and making them flip backwards. Jake Roberts was great at this as well. Crack addiction or not, there should be a place for Jake the Snake Roberts in today’s money-market wrestling industry.

BEER 4: Cocky attitude by Daniels, technical belly-to-belly suplex, this guy is wrestling personified. And as good as he is, he risks it all with an Asai moonsault outside the ring. Non-wrestling fans just don’t know how dangerous a move that is. Capri hasn’t really had a chance to shine in this match, basically a Mulkey brothers squash by Daniels so far. Beautiful tease turn of tide right there: Capri hulks up out of headlock, runs into ropes, ducks the Daniels clothesline, comes back with his own like expected, but Daniels ducks too, and grabs Capri in a German suplex manner, methinks “no comeback, it’s all over”, but Capri flips over the top of Daniels and grabs him from behind, methinks “oh shit, his own suplex”, but then Capri spins Daniels around in the air and sitdown powerbombs him. Beer must be slammed for that retarded arts display. HOLY SHIT! Okay, Capri is doing the never letting go triple suplex thing that Chris Benoit does, but Daniels, in normal creative fashion, reaches his right leg back and blocks the second one, then follows up with elbows to the face hoping for the release. Capri catches him under the arm and suplexes him backwards in one of those release moves that has you thinking “well, the guy looked like he landed on his head but somehow ended up on his face” and I don’t mean on his head like arms down and all, I mean on his head with nothing else there like Michael Irvin’s last football game. It’s over you think, but Daniels does the barely mobile foot on the bottom rope after the 2 count thing. Capri hits a nasty big moonsault. And then Daniels hits some shit. We’ve got the build-up to the climax rapid-fire 2-count parade going on. Double chicken wing suplex? No, Daniels instead drops Capri on his forehead hard on plywood with a pretty piece of tarheel blue fabric pulled across it. It couldn’t’ve felt good. And they top that with the best 20 seconds of wrestling I’ve ever seen: Daniels goes for another one of those knoggin-knocker moves just like that, hooking both arms, but Capri spins around his legs, twists behind Daniels in an abdominal stretch position, pulls Daniels left arm between his legs for that crazy-style suplex, Daniels flips over behind him with monentum however, pops him in the back of the neck, bounces back into the ropes, comes back with momentum for the DDT, but Capri swings him around, Daniels ends up behind him holding him in a Dragon sleeper position, and drops the Last Rites on him, which is a mutant spinning suplex DDT thing that fucks you up. Daniels wins! Daniels wins! And he rules, good lord almighty he rules. BEER MUST BE FINISHED IN THE NAME OF GOD’S GIFT TO WRESTLING.

BEER 5: Slammed in the name of God’s Gift to Wrestling.

BEER 6: In between rounds match. Why is Kevin Kelly involved in this card? Why would any indy promotion want to shit on their genuine wrestling extravaganza by having a crappy WWF second-team announcer get involved? I love crappy wrestling belts, they always look so stupid when you see them up close. None of them will ever compare to the NWA World title belt with the flags and round bolts and shit that Harley Race and Terry Funk and Dusty Rhodes and Ric Flair wore. Backstage nonsense going on widescreen gymnasium style on the wall, explaining the whole promoter good guy vs. evil WWF Kevin Kelly angle. Fuck all that sports entertainment nonsense. Give me Scoot and the Fallen Angel. It’s later, I’m drunker. I can forgive Christopher Daniels his dumb hair just because he’s such a bad-ass. It’s the semi-finals, the crowd is cheering for him even though he’s a heel, and he’s cutting a promo. Jet Faguar got injured last round, so he can’t compete. Daniels calls the ring announcer “Mr. Microphone Stand”, that’s a nice one. Shit, Ace Darling is back out, he’s the suit guy from the beginning. He’s saying this is a shoot and Jet Faguar has got an ice pack on his self. So now we got Ace Darling, northeast indy Hulk Hogan, vs. Christopher Daniels. Darling’s in a Super 8 t-shirt and some Rock striped interview workout pants, giving him that “didn’t know I was gonna wrestle even though I’ve somehow managed to wrestle in every Super 8 tournament so far” look. Christopher Daniels is superstar of the future wrestling the way it oughta be personified. Ace Darling is WWF Shotgun Saturday Night jobber in the main event week after week wrestling personified. Hey, Daniels was wearing his blue-trimmed trunks the first round, now he’s wearing his fuchsia trimmed trunks. See the attention to little details like that. What other wrestler feels that much concern for his career? What other wrestler tweaks it in such odd manners? Christopher Daniels is your hero. Ace Darling suffers from the same boredeom I described earlier, no adrenaline or enthusiasm for what he’s doing that particular night. Luckily, Daniels Last Rites his ass and it’s over. DRINK BEER IN THANKS TO CHRISTOPHER DANIELS FOR ENDING IT QUICK.

BEER 7: It’s the Black Nature Boy Scoot Andrews! And it’s El Hijo del Dean Malenko! Both from Florida, both wrestling in Delaware in front of 126 people. Hey, Scoot is wearing different trunks for the second round as well, a nice touch. Perhaps he is destined to meet Daniels in the indy superstar finals. You can tell these two guys have been through one match already tonight, as everything is a little looser than their respective first matches. Damn, I zoned out on the whole nonsense, and Scoot Andrews wins. That means him versus Christopher Daniels in the finals. And to be honest with you, I’ve seen that match before on Wrestling Power on public access television, so I know it’s good. So that means I’ll drink mad beer whilst I watch it. Scoot Andrews was just a Florida indy guy until this tourney, now he’s a heralded indy star. Then we get a little video thing telling us Kevin Kelly is destroying ECWA from within. A fat black man is clapping his hands and coming out to the ring to a Muddy Waters song. I am expecting his opponent to be some form of Mike Shaw aka Norman the Lunatic aka Bastion Booger. A bald black man in sweatpants does not belong on a Super 8 card. But to the ECWA’s benefit, his opponent is a tag team at odds, and they come out to GNR’s “Welcome to the Jungle”, very nice. The Cheetah Master, Lance Diamond’s bitch, and JJ the Ring-Crew Guy. Fat black man is shaking JJ’s hand. Maybe he’s the guest referee or something. ECWA wrestling is not without it’s screaming teenybopper fans. I’m expecting their opponents to be the Rock-n-Roll Express or the Fantastics. Long young-girl-in-the-crowd-appealing intro posedown by Cheetah, lasting well past the breakdown bridge part of “Welcome to the Jungle”, all the way to the very end “HAANH!” by Axl Rose. Their opponents are The Inferno Kid, one of those non-descript okay but looks like 17 other guys indy wrestlers, and J.R. Ryder, who came in second on that MTV thing that time, which means I hate him. All four guys fight on the floor and fat bald black ref in bad sweatpants is still in the ring looking around at them all. JJ the Ring-Crew Guy wrestles in tight jeans and a blue bandana, that’s style.

BEER 8: You know what’s fucked up to me? There’s people out there in this world that make wrestling rings. And the first one they make is real messed up and broken. So they throw it away or scrap the good parts off it and make another. Eventually they get to the point they make a good ring. And they sell it. For like a thousand dollars. Then they make one that’s tight, goes together just right. And they decide to rent that one. Which means they travel from shitty town to shitty town on weekends throughout the Tennessee/West Virginia/Kentucky/North Carolina mountain region making whatever bucks they can. And they eventually make a newer one, without the wear and tear. So they sell the old one to some money mark. And they’ve got a new ring with fresh black tape around the ring ropes and it’s not all kinked up and plywood lays fairly flat in the corners and it’s got a nice bounce to it. And that’s what they do. And they smoke blunts while wearing hockey jerseys and Scooby-Doo boxer shorts after breaking the damn thing down after a shitty indy card in Pikeville, Kentucky, on their way home in a half-broke Rider truck they bought at an auction. Kevin Kelly gets his team disqualified and the losing good guys get 5 minutes in the ring with KK some how, and fat black ref throws him in the ring, and well-built long-haired fan favorite tag team beats up on the overweight chumpcutted WWF announcer in a white turtleneck. Fat black ref in bad sweatpants clotheslines both good guys. There’s a certain bad attitude towards the black man purveyed here in the ECWA, proof positive that non-southern bastard white trash states like Delaware are the true homes to racism, not my beloved South. Shit, there was a fake Roadkill in the ring for a second. Refs are getting chokeslammed and front row rednecks are getting spit on. The bell rings constantly. Chaos has ensued. Beer must be drunk for chaos, that’s all I really want out of life is chaos, nonsense and unpredictability. Now we got Christopher Daniels versus Scoot Andrews in a super-drunk Raven Super 8 finale. Two good underpaid indy wrasslin retards going at it for underground propers. Scoot Andrews goes back to trunks from the first match against Trent Acid for this finale. Daniels has his first round trunks back on, too. Perhaps a lesson for the future, if a guy switches trunks in the second round he’s gonna win. Daniels and Andrews did the old school test of strength jank, with the shaking finger and all.

BEER 9: You know, I would’ve watched the end of this tape, but my wife finished up a roll of Christmas wrapping paper and me and my daughter took the empty tube and made monkey sounds through it at each other. And cat meows.

BEER 10/11: Didn’t take long for her to tucker out after a day of Christmas shopping with Mumma Mack, so back to wrasslin and alcohol for Pops. I’ve busted out my trusty gigantic Olympia beer glass bought from crazy rural New York man with loads of junk for sale out of his garage, it fits perfectly 2 beers and a dab of generic Giant food store V8 which makes my head hurt less. For this new jam, we’ve got the the super-produced yellow and black motif OMEGA (Organization of Modern Extreme Grappling Arts!), where the Hardy Boyz and 3 Count and Matthews & York and seventeen other guys who haven’t gotten to the big time got their start. A pack of kids who used to flip each other off of trampolines. This shit took place the first week of December, so it’s not that far removed from reality. Nice duct-taped ring, and nice pack of rednecks and wrestling nerds in the crowd. I wonder who the money man behind this shit is? Ah yes, the hotbed of professional wrestling that is known as Southern Pines, North Carolina. With oscillating fans in the corners. Redneck commissioner says “If you want good professional wrestling, and you see the name OMEGA, then you can come on down.” At the risk of sounding homosexual, I must admit that Cham Pain rules my world. Longhaired redneck wrassler with the gimmick of being a male stripper in a see-through shirt and Sabu pants. He’s your OMEGA champ and he’s cutting a fan friendly promo. Surprise number one, as Cham Pain announces there’s gonna be a tourney to take him on for the OMEGA title tonight, Steve Corino struts out with the ECW belt around his waste. Steve Corino is an armory superstar. Though Corino is the heel and talks shit about everything, he has the indy respect to wear yellow sweatbands to go with his black trunks, repeating the color motif of the reborn OMEGA. Nice touch, Mr. Old School. “You come out here with your gay male exotic dancer gear” says Steve Corino, this guy is great. Cham Pain not good at the heated response. Line of the night and I haven’t even watched the whole tape, Corino tells Cham Pain “I know you like to look pretty for all your boyfriends.” As Cham Pain walks off, I notice he has beautiful hair. First match is some kid named Damian Drake versus Tanner Martin. Drake looks un-indy like enough, he seems to have the potential look to be a superstar. Very European looking. Tanner Martin comes out to Limp Bizkit, so he gets paralyzed tonight. A tiny guy with glossy pants, looks to be still in high school. Nice multi-camera production with constant commentary on this Highspots tape. Tanner Martin doesn’t look too bad for a new guy, good array of moves, certain pizzazz to how he does them. This match is almost a wrestling school graduation program, each guy running through what he knows best. “Nice lateral sooo-play,” that’s how Gordon Solie would’ve called that last move. Guys wearing big shiny wrestler pants should not be wrestling in Nikes, that’s just my opinion. Damnit, the bigger less enthusiastic Drake takes out high school Tanner Martin. Not a great match, but nothing wrong with it either, a lot better than most indy offerings. Next match-up features Dewey Cheatum, a Carolina indy regular, one of these young guys who cuts the cheap heat promo about ugly inbred crowds. His opposition is original OMEGA gangster, Black Skull, a super-skinny kid in a retarded mask. North Carolina’s La Parka and Dewey Cheatum will go at it and hopefully threaten to splash brain all over the ringside area. Black Skull is not afraid to be dumb, diving all over the place like a fool. Announcer says “Black Skull drops ‘roids first on the top turnbuckle.” What a tool.

BEER 12/13: I’ve got that drunken haze going on now, where my brain remembers that I’m not stupid, but it can only think stupid things. It’s raining like a bitch outside, the alternator’s broke on my car, we ain’t got no Christmas tree up yet, and Black Skull sucks. Your referee’s name is Boom Winslow. Dewey Cheatum wins as I don’t pay attention. Mike Gunner, a strong looking kid, comes out and calls anybody at all back in the locker room area to come out and take him on. Out comes Scab, your standard Gen-X grunge loser wrestler. Special referee will be Virginia’s indy women star in leopard print shirts Lexie Fyfe. I like the girl referee angle, causing the guys to take the ref lightly, only to have her kick ass and enforce rules like no one else. Lexie says she only refs 3-way matches, and they call out a third opponent, Lazarus. HOLY SHIT! I don’t know what to say. My wife is in the kitchen making Christmas cookies with her friend. Lazarus’ entrance was so bizarre that I had to take the tape into the other room to make them both watch what I’d just seen to make sure I wasn’t tripping. Lazarus comes out to “Crazy” by Britney Spears, with his hair up in pigtails, wearing velvet red pants that are as tight as New York Dolls outfits, he lapdances with the security guards, and for some reason has weird white and silver face make-up. Imagine Sting’s younger brother being overtly gay and running away to North Carolina to wrestle and win the respect of his older wrestling brother. That’s Lazarus. If you are one of my retarded friends I trade retarded videotapes with, you can rest assured you’ll be seeing this bizarreness by springtime. Lazarus Lazarus Lazarus. Nothing I can write right now will explain this phenomenom to you. HE IS FUCKIN’ LIP-SYNCHING BRITNEY SPEARS AND LAP-DANCING ON SECURITY GUARDS! IN FRONT OF LITTLE CHILDREN! AND HE’S THE GOOD GUY! He is Exotic Adrian Street for the year 2000. And if he’s wearing underwear, it’s a g-string, cuz his tight red velvet pants are up his ass. Beer must be slammed. Too bizarre. Shit, the announcer just stole my Adrian Street comparison. So far, OMEGA reborn has shown some good young wrestlers, perhaps they’ll run regular cards and rule once again. Basically, this is your standard fare 3 way match where 2 guys are teaming up against the 1 obviously homosexual guy who has the female referee looking out for him during the match. I’ve seen it a million times. Botched retarded ending equals a victory for the Rainbow Flag. Britney music cranks up and we get victory lapdances for the rednecks in the front row. Next up is a redneck clown in face paint and ripped clothes named Tim something or other. His opponent is High Octane, shooting cap guns wearing a really glittery terrible mask, clapping his hands to Gary Glitter theme music. Him and Lazarus should team up. Someone with money behind the OMEGA rebirth obviously has some tingly feelings for his own sex. Perhaps Pat Patterson is behind the whole thing. Bad move: both wrestlers are wearing black pants and red shirts. That sucks. Just like the Chiefs and Redskins wearing red shirts and white pants in the same game. Slow wrestling makes alcohol-hazed brain lull into inactivity. Time to go in other room and watch Univision. They’ve got the most awesome girls on there. And lots of glitter. And midgets.

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