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.

Sunday, May 18

12-Pack Review: ECWA 05/04/02

BEER ONE: The East Coast Wrestling Association – which I never heard of till like seven years ago, but according to smart fan legend, Jim Kettner has been promoting matches since George Hackenschmidt was challenging all comers at carnivals. ECWA first popped into my consciousness when I was early on in my family stages, settling down to have a regular job and a decent house for my wife and impending kid, and I’d watch the Wrestling Power on the ol’ public access in Richmond, Virginia. Tim Noel always did a fine job with that show, and I taped the fuck out of it, and shit, he even held a copy of my zine up on his call-in show one week, which, a shitty zine like mine and public access, that’s two things that deserve each other. Early on in seeing ECWA, I was impressed, because it was indy, and at that point the World of wrestling hadn’t been flab-armed by internet geeks with show reports and tape reviews that fed the twisted, fragile souls of chant-happy crowds of comic book dorks. Indy wrestling was an alternative, and I don’t pretend to be a smart fan, though I’m probably smarter than most wrestling fans who poke around online, and back then I loved the indy shit on public access. I have never liked the WWF product, ever, as it is too glossy and high production, and for me, wrestling should be slightly dirty enough to make it seem real enough to justify wasting your goddamned Friday night at the Richmond Coliseum (back then) or your Saturday night at the Blackwell Community Center (now) to watch grown men fight, but not really fight. And WCW, back when the cruiserweight shit was in full bloom and there were seven star matches on WCW Saturday Night every week, well, back then I could give a shit about WCW. It was strictly cornball shit, and I’m not sitting there for two hours of NWO recaps just to see Mr. JL vs. Eddie Guerrero go four and a half minutes, in between Lee Marshall trying to get me to make collect phone calls against my better judgment. ECWA, on the strength of it’s Super 8 shows, grew into a major indy trendsetter, by yearly exploiting/displaying the talents of some unheard of dudes, plus guys on loan from the WWF developmental department, looking for some exposure and credibility before they become wrestling video game addicts or sky surfers or whatever the fuck those jack-ass writers think is the New Thang. And I dug a lot of ECWA over the years, and always vibe on the Super 8 and get the tape, but I can’t help but sort of detest the whole smart mark effect that ECWA, and even more so, Ring of Honor, are a part of. The smarts make the yearly mecca to Super 8 for mask trading and tape tossing festivities, and that’s all fine and dandy and to each his own, but I guess I’m on the outside looking in when I wonder where the fuck the danger is anymore? Where the fuck is the wrestling where somebody is actually getting booed? How the fuck can I hear that some crowd full of people who are full of themselves chant, out loud, “Who booked this! Who booked this!”, but I don’t hear about fans being genuinely hateful of a guy. Unless they don’t like his workrate. Motherfuck a workrate. Sabu needs to throw fire, not fake flash paper fire, but real gasoline soaked rag fire, into the eyes of your average smart crowd. I mean, sure, their moms will be mega-pissed when they have to go come get them all from the hospital, but maybe they’d shut the fuck up next time. I don’t want to hear polite applause at a goddamned wrestling match; go to a spelling bee if you want to do that shit. I mean, sure, if two dudes bust their ass and have a great match, I can dig on giving them a rousing ovation at the end, but one of them motherfuckers should utilize that moment where the crowd is weak to call us all a bunch of faggots, not to shake hands and hug the guy he had just been trying to murder for the last half hour. I don’t get it at all. But here I am, about to dip into an ECWA card, and see what entails. I’m sure there’ll be shitty indy nonsense, which ECWA is known for, and I’m sure there’ll be overhyped indy fanboy wet dream superstars, which they’re also known for. But I hope it’s good, and that’s all I hope for from any wrestling. Motivate me to care. Reckless Youth did it every time I saw him on Wrestling Power. Shit, even Cheetah Master got me fired up, mostly because of the screaming teenage girls in the audience. A wrestling show that doesn’t have screaming teenage girls and some old drunk guy trying to fight a heel at some point, that ain’t the type of wrestling show I care to see. This is billed as ECWA’s Night of Unusual Matches, and double awesome for the fact this is an RF Video tape, that I got from some dude with shaky handwriting that insinuates he’s either an alcoholic, a heavy video gamer, or he’s a closet homosexual. Indy wrestling shouldn’t have giant screens to recap shit; it doesn’t make them look more professional or well-produced, it takes longer for me to see a wrestling match. Get a public access show for this shit, and make the matches good enough that the fuckers sitting there to see LIVE PEOPLE WRESTLE will tune into channel 47 at 7:30 on a Tuesday night to see your program. Well, apparently according to the giant mini-tron, The Hat Guy, yeah, that guy from the ECW crowd, is gonna wrestle. That’s the smart fan epitomized right there, wearing a distinguishable fuckin’ thing at wrestling shows to get himself over, and now he’s gonna be in a fuckin’ ring. Fuck smart fans. I hope SARS hits Philly. Billy Bax is in the ring, and he’s heeling it up. The crowd sounds hot, though they’re chanting “BORING!” so they may just be hoping their chants will hurry up to get an Amazing Red vs. Dick Togo match started.

BEER TWO: Mike Kruel is Billy Bax’s opponent, and he’s called the Modern Day Warrior by the ring announcer, yet he comes out to “Kashmir” by Zeppelin instead of “Tom Sawyer” by Rush. I have re-entered the glamorous world of housepainting, so I can tell you what an error that was. Even the most liberal of housepainting crews listen to shitty classic rock radio on the jobsite; I can’t figure it out. THE BEST CLASSIC ROCK…AND TODAY’S NEW ROCK…every station, across the country says that. Clone radio. Clearchannel. Whatever happened to John Boy and Billy’s PBR wrestling thing? That shit was great, shitty wrestling and shitty beer, in one place. All indy wrestling should be sponsored by beer. Mike Kruel and Billy Bax are more than capable so far, but again, as with a lot of indy shit, I have a hard time believing two dudes that are so tiny are really all that bad ass. The immense money a guy can make in the NFL, or even in Arena League or Europe or CFL, has really ruined how many good big guys there are in wrestling. If chop blocks were still legal, we’d have all sorts of big lugs with bad knees who could come in and rule shit. But no, everybody’s gotta be a pussy about every goddamned thing on Earth and not let anything violent that’s not just special effects violence actually happen. No wonder kids are so fucked up; they can carjack the President and rape his wife on a video game, but if they point their finger like a gun while playing cops and robbers at school, they get suspended for a week, which of course leaves them at home to carjack the President more often. A self-perpetuating cycle. The stipulation on this here match is the winner gets a valet. Now, Mike Kruel has the more sexy body in need of a weak-willed large-breasted woman to rub her hands on his swollen pecs, but Billy Bax fits the mold of a Tully Blanchard little cocksucker with a woman role better. Kruel has submission thing going on, but Bax has yet to submit, even though a couple of times Kruel has clamped on something and made terrible faces and yelled about how he’s gonna break something, like a Big Lots version of Ken Shamrock. If you’re not gonna unplug your dinky ass jumbo screen, at least put on some nice rave hippie-dippy spiral indigo images. Kruel does a hurricanrana, and I’m of the belief that your rana doing legs should be around the rana receiver all the way to the mat, or else your just flopping over backwards while some dude flips himself over. There are slight differences that make moves look lethal instead of some hokey shit, and there’s a reason these guys are in the first match of an indy card. Billy Bax wins, holding the ropes, and will get a whore now. Well, they got some old lady out of the crowd to be his valet, and from the cheers, she must be an old school ECWA fan. I hope she doesn’t give birth to a hand. Hey, this is in Delaware, the Truck Stop State. That means everybody there is a tax evader and murders lot lizards. So we have an elimination match with Xero, Abunai, & Mozart Fontaine vs. Ryan Wing, Inferno, & Roughhouse Rivera. The second team has some homoerotic shit going on, and I fear that Inferno is the same Inferno that tormented me from my earliest ECWA viewing days on public access. He is the indy equivalent of Chris Chetti; that is to say, he is completely devoid of any charisma and manageably competent in the ring. So one dude who I think might be Inferno puts some fuzzy dice around his neck before doing fake battle with some other dude who I think might be Xero. I might have all these wrong, but fuck it. This masked dude has to be Abunai, because you don’t run around with some dope get-up like that and not have some fucked up name like Abunai. He also has a cross tattoo on his back, which suggests a Hispanic heritage. Or he’s goth. Wait, this dude has long hair and glittery trunks, so I bet he’s Xero, and that big, bald guy was Mozart Fontaine. The guy I assume is Inferno has his ass hanging out now, and he’s getting outsmarted by faces as his own partners elbowdrop in that old F.B.I. bit. Then Abunai gets pinned and eliminated. Nope, glitter trunks guy was Mozart Fontaine, because he just got eliminated and I heard that guy on the mic say his name. So that leaves Xero, the budget Bam Bam Bigelow, against all three homoerotic heels. Ryan Wing is crushed into non-contention. And then Inferno feels the mighty crush of Xero, leaving just the big man and Roughhouse Rivera, looking like Apolo Dantes’ younger cousin. You know, they should have a shitty wrestling book of the month club, because every time I turn around, some jackass has a book about wrestling. You know who should have a book about wrestling? Nobody. Enough crap’s been written about it in the last few years. Xero wins the match, and I’m sure he’s more than excited to finish early so he can get back to Roddy Piper’s book in the locker room. What the fuck? How much inside shit do you have to know about wrestling? Shoot interviews, books, internet reviewers full of shit over themselves…it’s ridiculous. IT’S FUCKIN’ WRESTLING! I guess it’s the whole religious fanaticism angle, and with any religion, you have to believe or you’re not correct, which in internet wrestling dork terms means you’re a stupid mark, or a rube, because every internet wrestling fan has read B. Brian Blair’s book and speak carney like an alcoholic midget from 1934 nowadays. And the workrate crowd is the scientific opposite of the general wrestling mark, thus the workrate crowd over-analyzes and has like 3000 tapes and two review sites and does a column for a website like 23 people read and takes himself so seriously that when one of those 23 people question his all-important opinion (it being important because it’s on the internet for the possibility of millions of people to see), they get dismissed with whatever form of wise-crack is appropriate for that particular reviewing smart mark wrestling nerd. My problem is this, I don’t like people telling me how to think, and most religious groups, including smart marks, tell everyone how to think, and it files down the ranks. A year ago, you couldn’t get people to give half a shit about an IWA Mid South match; and now, after a few well-placed props being doled out by wrestling nerds extraordinaire, there’s fuckin’ bus trips from NYC to an IWA event later this year.

BEER THREE: And on one hand, that’s great, you want good shit to be able to make a dime by being good shit. But on the other hand, there’s another instance of the old drunk who wants to fight the heels having his seat sold beforehand to some mark who’s apt to chant “Who Booked This! Who Booked This!” if American Dragon isn’t declared Supreme Overlord of Earth. And what’s really fuckin’ gay is I’m bitching about this shit; I don’t hang out with those fuckers. I’m a man of the people, not the 0s and 1s. I get drunk with dudes I meet at bus stations (that’s perfect for inserting some homosexual wisecrack, so insert it here, smart ass wrestling fan), I don’t bitch about how A.J. Styles should’ve gone over Sick Nick Mondo in the second round of the Indy Super-Cup Round Robin in Jim Thorpe, Pennsylvania, last month. I could play Extreme Warfare Revenge for seven days straight, cross check my results with TNM7, and then make the fuckin’ characters on WWF Warzone and let the PS2 simulate the matches, but it ain’t gonna make it where I could sell a five dollar ticket to a pack of actual human beings who would also blow another five bucks on hot dogs and potato chips at the concession stand, now would it? Of course not. Smart fans are the biggest stupid fuckin’ marks of all. At least a fuckin’ mark, when confronted with it being fake, will just get quiet and try to change the subject, embarrassed at getting called on the fact he wasted time watching grown men in homoerotic outfits physically tussle with each other in pre-determined matches. The smart fan will go into some goddamned diatribe about the athletic prowess involved, or how great the stiff shit is. Your average Joe Blow bumming a cigarette at the gas station who remarks at your Four Horseman shirt could A) give a shit less about any sentence anybody has ever said on this planet involving the words “Misawa” and “Kobashi”, and B) could probably make Low-Ki look like a bitch. I don’t care how much karate that mother fucker knows. In all my life, I’ve seen plenty of fights, real fights, and never has karate played an integral role in somebody winning or losing. Never. Not once. And most kicking I’ve ever seen happen occurs after one dude has hit the floor and the other guy is still standing. And I don’t remember Miyagi teaching Daniel-san the ol’ boot to the gut, not even in Karate Kid Part III. Anyways, wrestling is a religion, and smart marks are a bizarre obsessive workrate fanatical cult that I can’t put my love into because they’re too goddamned oppressive about their commandments being met. If Low-Ki started throwing powder into people’s eyes, then kicking them one time right smart-like while they rubbed their eyes in pain, then he’d rule. But oh well, I digress, as usual. Quiet Storm is taking on Chris Devine, where the winner gets a highly profitable once a month gig in ECWA. Devine is a tiny, pudgy, rat bastard of a northeastern indy worker. I will be forced to root for Quiet Storm, who just missed a dropkick by half a foot. How can guys do corkscrew moonsaults but not actually put boots to face in a fuckin’ dropkick? Right here is where I’d be one of those jack-asses chanting “BORING! BORING!” if somebody else started it. Sure, they’ve got moves going on, but there’s no passion, and I’ve seen this a thousand times over. Give me something to motherfuckin’ care about. Devine tosses his pudgy ass off the ringpost in a plancha to the outside. Devine does a nice roll-up submission thingy, and he gets some polite applause, and I regret that the Sheik is dead. Devine is doing a lot of rollie pollie olie shit in there. I guess that means he’s great. Quiet Storm does a dropkick from the top that touches, then a tope to the outside. I’m more concerned with how he got that name. I hope it’s because he hung at the park where dudes all wash their cars on Sunday afternoons, listening to the oldies quiet storm show on the local urban contemporary station. That’s where I get my fix of “Belle” by Al Green. One time, I went riding after getting drunk with this punk rock chick with no hair, and we laid in a field and kissed and clutched, and we went back to her house and she showed me her shotgun under the bed, then I tried to mack, but she wasn’t having it, but we went to sleep naked so I assumed that meant morning love action; and when I woke up she was out the bed, but I heard Al Green playing real fuckin’ loud, and I went downstairs and she was hooking up some potatoes and some eggs and looked absolutely beautiful and I fell in love. I tried to get her to go camping with me after that, but it never happened, which is probably for the best, because never are things as great as that point where you fall in love, just because of some stupid shit. I’m glad that I allow my mind to be open enough to let those unexplainable emotions in. I’m also pretty glad I’m not you. Nothing against you, but I sort of dig on me.

BEER FOUR: Chris Devine yells out “STAR! CRADLE! DRIVER!” perhaps not realizing he’s like five foot four, and then he does his stupid move that looks like it’d be easy to crack somebody’s neck with, which I guess makes him great, again, according to The Smart Commandments. SMART COMMANDMENT #1: Little dudes are better than big dudes, unless they’re Japanese. SMART COMMANDMENT #2: Ring psychology is so fuckin’ important, yet dudes ought to hug each other afterwards, because that shit’s all gladiatorially honorable. Wait, no, gladiators killed each other. SMART COMMANDMENT #3: Snowflakes on match ratings equals good; snowflakes on TV screen while I watch your videotape equals bad, because if I’m gonna watch obscure, tiny, indy superstars kick each other in the face with no insurance coverage, I want it to be crystal clear. SMART COMMANDMENT #4: You send first, because I don’t know if you’re as smart as me. SMART COMMANDMENT #5: ahh never mind. You get the drift. I could make fun of that shit all night, but it doesn’t mean nothing if I don’t stab anybody I hear talking about Triple H who calls him “Trips” next time that shit happens in real life. Wait, that doesn’t happen in real life. In real life, I’m quiet about the pro wrestling, because if you tell people you like it they think Hulk Hogan and shit like that. Oddly enough, the average person has never even heard of Chris Benoit, much less puroresu. So when dealing with the average person, I find it beneficial to know about regular shit, so that we have something to talk about. “That Amy Wynn on Trading Spaces, man, wouldn’t you like to fuck the shit out of her? Paige? No way man, Amy Wynn is way hotter. Yeah, that Genevieve chick is hot, in an older chick who works at the library sort of way. But Amy Wynn is the best. Oh, she knows it; I mean, she’s building shit with miter boxes and shit, but she still wears shorts and tank tops. She knows what’s up.” Now, the ECWA jumbo screen has been overtaken by bad dance music and it’s retrospecting all the guys who’ve jumped from being ECWA stars to being WWF mid-carders. Wait, there’s an ECWA fan celebration in the ring from 1981, proving that they did exist back then. They must’ve really sucked for me not to even read about them in Ringside Superstars magazine when I was a kid. Backstage, Xavier talks on a phone, then gets his ass kicked. You do not need backstage angles when there’s like 100 people in your crowd, on a good night. The Japanese Pool Boy comes out, to Joan Jett & the Blackhearts, and he’s homoerotic and masked, and taking on Johnny Maxx. Why is every other fuckin’ wrestler in the northeast portraying a gay guy? I mean, I know it’s grown men barely clothes pretending to fight, but are that many wrestling fans really closeted gays? Japanese Pool Boy is great comedy fodder, which in the context of a one-on-one wrestling match, means he’s worth a fuck for about a minute and a half. By the way, this is a coal miner’s glove match, hearkening back to Wilmington, Delaware’s turn of the century coal mines that helped build the Truck Stop state into the glorious four-lane piece of shit that it is.

BEER FIVE: Pool Boy finally gets the glove, but then gets dropped on his head, so it’s on. Johnny Maxx wins with one coal miner’s glove, which I think came from the flea market, and he gets his arms raised, looking like seven thousand other non-descript longhaired indy wrestlers with long tights. We’ve got Tony Kozina in the ring, who doesn’t suck, and he’s going against A.J. Styles, who I try to hate as much as possible for being a little Wal-Mart engaged to marry his childhood sweetheart southern good kid who does no wrong, but damn it, Styles always tries and wins me over, that fucker. I hope he chokes to death on Taco Bell while listening to Kenny Chesney’s new CD in his pick-up. Their opponent is The Amazing Red, who is still small as fuck. Ahh…the unintelligible beginning of a three-way dance, leading to the impending spotfest. A.J. Styles could benefit from some travel time with Jake Roberts, or at least Bill Alphonso. Red does a dive and lands on his head, and Styles threatens a Styles Clash slamming of the child on the hard concrete ringside, but Kozina breaks it all up with a dope “Shit, I’m supposed to break this shit up” style dive through the ropes onto the other dudes. If I was Red, I wouldn’t watch Styles run by me, jump on the second rope, and then backflip on me. You see, that makes everybody look stupid, and the fan feel stupid, because it’s fake like the regular dudes they work with make fun of them about at lunchtime. Hulk Hogan foam fingers. Kozina does this nice thing where Red’s little ass is gonna do a hurricanrana, but Kozina turns it into a figure-four where Red is hanging and Kozina is leaning back over the ringpost. Styles does a Styles Clash with Red onto Kozina, and Red gets the win. What a fuckjob ending; I was just starting to enjoy the match, too. But that’s okay, because I’m immediately treated to Mr. Ooh La La, who is so French I bet he hates freedom. Mr. Ooh La La’s ring introductions, complete with the Rick Rude strip tease, but boggled with him stumbling through the roes, it’s good stuff. That’s right, Ooh La La, the ref made you stumble, kick his ass. The Hat Guy. The fuckin’ Hat Guy. A guy who sits in the crowd in a goofy hat and a Hawaiian shirt is having a match. To The Hat Guy’s credit, he looks a little like a drunk Dick Murdoch coming out for a match in Hawaii, and he’s accompanied by a bunch of old dudes in Hawaiian shirts as well. To his discredit, Jimmy Buffett is playing. There is nothing good about Jimmy Buffett. I like a lot of bad music, but there’s nothing good about Jimmy Buffett.

BEER SIX: I can dig on some Mr. Ooh La La because he’s very Playboy Buddy Rose-ish in his girthy overly confident bad guyness. He should ride around in a limo with escorts and do video taped promos that way, having a champagne jam and caviar daydreams. If it wasn’t for Ooh La La’s innate evilness, this match would be completely unwatchable. Why the fuck hasn’t Mr. Ooh La La been in a Super 8? I mean, that shithead Ace Darling was in like seven straight, but no Ooh La La? Fuck Jim Kettner and his prejudices. The Hat Guy is terrible, absolutely terrible. Again, SARS can’t hit Philadelphia indy wrestling crowds fast enough for my pleasure. Okay…let me barely explain the screwjob nonsense of the ending…Ooh La La roll-up, Fontaine distracts ref, old guys in Hawaiian shirts roll Hat Guy on top, ref chases off old guys, Fontaine turns and rolls Ooh La La on top, match ends. What the fuck? Some white guy who looks like a snapping turtle is explaining how he was the mastermind behind this all on the jumbo screen. Fuck explaining backstage; give me fireballs. Some dudes beat up Low-Ki now, but not until Low-Ki talks all deep-voiced, in pretendence he’s not a midget. PRINCE NANA!

BEER SEVEN: If Reckless Youth used to wear a shirt that said KING OF DELAWARE, then is Prince Nana heir to his throne? I’d take a hundred Prince Nana matches over seven smart indy fanboys’ wet dream superstar three-way iron man sixty minute overtime submission star matches anyday. The crowd is doing the Steve Austin “what? what?” think, and Nana is internationally frustrated. In Ghana, wrestling fans don’t all have columns on websites that 23 people read, and they don’t mock the combatants like this. I love when Nana disrobes, because he always makes me think of Yaphet Kotto. Nana is taking on Scoot Andrews, for the Truck Stop State Title. You can tell a true native African like Nana by their hair, because even if they cut their hair yesterday, it looks like a tiny little afro. My wife studies dance in Senegal, and sometimes we meet Senegalese people, and she can talk to them in Wolof, and it amazes me how I’ve been able to not only recognize native Africans now, but what part of the continent they’re from. When our daughter was a baby, we ran into these people from Ezibu Muntu or something or other from Richmond, an African dance troupe, and my wife was one of the only white people they let dance with them, but she couldn’t perform because they refused to let white people perform. Well, anyways, we are talking to these folks, and our baby cries, and the chick is like, “You should take her around more black people, so she doesn’t cry,” in broken English, and it pissed me off because my best friend at the time was a black guy who was always at the house, and I said, “Well, she usually cries around new faces, no matter what they identify themselves as.” I’m not one to believe in that reverse racism shit when it comes to jobs or colleges, because if a job or college doesn’t want you, forcing them to take you ain’t gonna make things right. But when a motherfucker tries to insinuate I’m not letting my fuckin’ baby around black people, then fuck them. I’ve known shithead white people and shithead black people, and good whiteys and good negroes, and the shitheads far outnumber the good folks. I hate where I live because there’s hardly any black people on my road; that shit makes me nervous. I don’t trust living around nothing but white people; they make you cut your lawn by community decree and won’t let you leave boats laying on the ground and don’t like your idea that old apple juice barrels make for good recycling bins and shit. I root for Nana because he represents everything the smart fan hates; I think he even got run off from Ring of Honor. Scoot has been, though I dno’t think he still is, the smart fan’s black man of choice. That goddamned copyright RF thing has been on the screen the whole time. SHIT! RF! TAZZPLEX316@YAHOO.COM IS RIPPING YOU OFF! Scoot Andrews’ hair is really weird; it sort of tufts up on both sides of his head like that eagle who looked like Richard Mulligan on the Muppets show. I always used to notice Richard Mulligan’s name because I wondered if he was related to Blackjack. By the same measure, I wonder if Prince Nana is related to Lil Kim’s vagina?

BEER EIGHT: I love the strap/chain match touching all four corners at once angle; it’s not done nearly enough nowadays. Scoot just hit three, then got reeled in by wrestling royalty. Then a ref bump and Scoot hits all four, but it’s not official. So Nana slaps on the figure-four, on the black Nature Boy; how ironic. And the ref comes to as Scoot passes out. NANA WINS! NANA WINS! And Nana’s streak of never losing a Ghanaian strap match continues. JUMBO TV SCREEN RECAP OF AMERICAN DRAGON VS. LOW-KI ECWA FEUD! So exciting. Low-Ki and Xavier are your tag champs coming in, which is the combo of smart mark jesus and smart mark judas, as they all hate Xavier because he’s not flashy or Japanese or Super 8ish or highspotness enough. So they defend against Stryker & Buck Wylde, who I don’t know. Also, The SAT, who are like a tag team Super Crazy, which is like the Headhunters are a tag team Abdullah the Butcher. You know how big Abby was, worldwide? That’s why the Headhunters get booked to this day. You know how big Super Crazy was worldwide? Yeah, not a lot, but some. That’s why the SAT is already passé. And also, they defend against the J-Team, who is J.R. Ryder and J.J. Johnston, two guys bound for the WWF because they suck and get bigger by the year due to the “nutritional supplements” they ingest, or inject. Low-Ki and Xavier come out, both with taped ribs, and I wonder why wrestling doesn’t get better doctors because wrestling doctors always tape ribs around the abdomen.

BEER NINE: This is a tables, ladders, and chairs match, which makes me wonder and remembrance, has Perry Saturn reunited with John Kronus yet? Probably not. Fuckin’ Saturn, bailing out on his boy like that. My favorite gig is where some dude will set up the ladder then start climbing up the wrong side, the weak side, because the other dude is supposed to go up the reinforced side. Those guys who do that in a match just don’t realize how many housepainters are wrestling fans. We see right through that crap. SCHOLASTIC APTITUDE TEST HIGHSPOT! Xavier sort of clocked the shit out of either Stryker or Buck Wylde with the ladder, in a really uncomfortable looking way.

BEER TEN: Xavier is on top of some shit, and throws one dude off, and then does an 840 degree supersault through some other guy on a piece of a plywood. It was bombastic. Of the dudes in the J-Team, I can’t tell them apart, but from their physiques I know they both love strip clubs and steroids, because they are cut, yet have beer bellies. It is the shape of a true superstar in this goddamned beezlebubbian industry. The S.A.T. win the belts and I got a 1300 on my SATs, and the one dude who scored just above me in my high school, he’s a professor at a midwestern college. The dude just below me, he’s a lawyer with some big firm in Richmond now. I bet neither of them have wrestling, or organic herb spirals in their yard, so that when they’re making some spaghetti sauce, they can go out and cut some fresh basil and sage and oregano for the shit, because they’re pussies. They were smart, or so they thought. Money, or the accolades of people you’ll never meet, or any of that keeping up with the Joneses shit, that shit don’t make you smart. But fuck it; I’m sure you think you know better than me. Especially since I only took one sip of this beer before the tape ended.

EPILOGUE: FIRST STAR OF THE TAPE: Mr. Ooh La La; that guy rules. Give me a modern day Buddy Rose over a modern day Denny Brown anyday. Did old school junior heavyweights suck more than today’s cruiserweights, other than Alabama juniors, or is shit just too spotty festive now? SECOND STAR OF THE TAPE: Prince Nana; as long as Prince Nana is wrestling, I’ll verbally support him. I know people hate him, but I also know people think the American military liberated Iraq, so people know what they’re told, and I can’t accept their anti-Nanaisms as gospel nerd truthfulness. THIRD STAR OF THE TAPE: Xavier; he’s not half as bad as fuckers make him out to be. I’ve always enjoyed Xavier. Sure, he’s not the gay sex cockfest that Am Drag vs. Low-Ki could be, but fuck it. Haha, get it? Buttfuck it. I love sex.

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