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.

Tuesday, May 6

12-Pack Review: IWA-MS 07/13/02

BEER ONE: Time to dip back into this madness, and drink some beer to approve or disapprove of the insanity of the wrestling inside my little 13-inch Orion TV set. Just got the dope hook-up on both nights of the IWA’s King of the Death Match tournament from this year, with the added bonus of having half the tape be Sid & Marty Krofft kids’ shows, plus a second bonus tape of all Krofft kids’ shows. That’s the type of tape trading this world needs more of. Motherfuckers get all hung up on getting their tape in two days time and having match listings and all sorts of dumb shit like that. If I have to wait and get some tripped out early ‘70s Saturday morning TV programming like Sigmund the Sea Monster, then fuck it, I can wait. To the guy who sent me this shit, I ain’t giving no shout-outs, but you’re a good weird fucker. Sorry I never send shit in return. I’m a lazy weird fucker. What can I say? There’s just too much porn to look at on the internet. By the way, I started clicking on fat women links on the bookmark sites I frequent, and you know what? Most of them aren’t fat. They look like the type of women you could actually pick up at a bar, with a beer belly and bad tattoos on their back right shoulder. It’s great. Masturbation hasn’t been this reinvigorated in my life since I first found out about Big Naturals. Anyways, I’m gonna watch and drink to night two of the Death Match tourney, because it promises lobsters. I’ve never in my life actually eaten any lobster, not even when I was in Maine working on a blueberry farm and they actually had McLobster sandwiches at the McDonalds (no shit, that’s true). So, me being the masochistic type I am, want to see grown men beat each other with something really expensive that I’ve never been high class enough to eat, not even at a McDonalds. Smart Mark Video is the greatest. I don’t actually buy things from them, but every tape I’ve gotten sent to me from them has been great. Wow, first thing is a chick in a pink bikini, acting sort of regular. I love America; I really do. You don’t see no bitches walking around in bikinis right before two dudes beat the shit out of each other in a halfway staged bloodfest in Kazakhstan. Dysfunction comes out, led by Carmine DeSpirito, who looks a shitload like my boy Boomer. There’s glass on his fist already, meaning Taipei nonsense is about to ensue. CM Punk is on commentary. Corporal Robinson is the opponent, and let me tell you, the one thing I learned from seeing IWA live is Corp has some serious Abdullah the Butcher style forehead scar grooves going on. It looks like knuckles trying to bust out his head like a mid-‘80s thrash metal album cover. “If there’s any vegans out there watching, I apologize,” says CM Punk. That right there is why it’s good to have punks in wrestling; you just don’t have enough vegan references in the pro wrestling. The crowd is bringing the Milwaukee hate, as Dysfunction, who is fourteen, and his manager DeSpirito are from the Cheese State. If Corporal Robinson is an actual corporal and still enlisted with the National Guard, I do not fear any fuckin’ terrorists. CM Punk is great on commentary, snide, smarmy, yet intelligent. Rollin’ Hard is in the booth, which means at the table, as well right now. Thumbtack whiffle ball bat to the top of Dysfunction’s head, and Carmine hits Robinson with something. Holy fuck, I can’t believe how much that Carmine guy looks like Boomer. I would’ve felt more comfortable if that time Boomer was yelling at an alley full of crackheads while me and him were on sugarcubes of acid he had actually been as big as Carmine DeSpirito. Luckily, those crackheads were on crack, and didn’t want to fight to beer bellied acidheads at four in the morning in a Richmond alley. The Boulevard is a major thoroughfare in Richmond if you’re staying there. If you ever happen to drive it, I can guarantee you that no matter what time of day it is, within five blocks of your car when you’re sitting at a light, there are people shooting up, smoking up, forcing women to fellate them, and wearing guns inside the waistband of their pants, at all times. It’s great. “I don’t care how much pot you smoke, you’re not gonna pin somebody with a cover like that.” CM Punk, against his own personal philosophy, is causing me to drink with his quick-witted condescension.

BEER TWO: Carmine won’t quit interfering during pinning predicaments, so finally Corporal goes off and puts the Taipei fist to his head, then carves a little ditty on the fake Boomer’s forehead with a piece of glass. Dysfunction pulls something out his trunks and knocks out Robinson for the victory. That’s great. A hardcore death match ends with some old school Alabama style chicanery. I think more so than any human being on Earth, Corporal Robinson scares me. And I mean that. Really. Hey, there’s a chick bringing out light bulb shits to plug in, and it’s the same chick I was ogling at the IWA Sweet Science 16 tournament. That night, she was wearing jeans that had that deal where it looks like the top of them got torn off, so it was frayed, and low cut, and made you want to have sex. I love that look. Electrified light tubes. 2 Tuff Tony…Ian Rotten…madness. What I love about IWA the most is how most all these guys look like the folks I used to end up getting high and drunk with down at Eugene’s shop in Cumberland County, before he died. It was at a crossroads, a major backroads crossroads, meaning folks avoiding the cops always went that way, and folks would stop and go regularly. Three hours down there and I’d bump into the guy I first smoked weed with who lived down the road on disability and watched Soap Operas all day, the guy who used to date my youngest sister, and some kid I sold his first hit of acid to. It was great. IWA often makes me think if, say Balls Mahoney or somebody moved down to the end of Duker Road and started a wrestling school down in Cumberland, we’d end up being IWA. It’s fuckin’ simple and beautiful and perfect and hard to understand, but fuck you. A thousand years of analysis can’t equal one hour of experience. I guess that’s why actual wrestlers always say dudes who don’t wrestle can’t make a list of the best wrestlers, which is a bullshit thing to say, but there’s some truth to it.

BEER THREE: I think folks who love the wrestling and dedicate all their free time to enjoying it deserve respect for voicing their opinion, but at the same time, it’s like letting drunks decide the best winemakers. Or something. Then again, I think folks who bitch at people who take the time to make such a list are even lower on the social ladder than the guys who aren’t workers who make the initial list. This drunken tangent was brought to you by the Death Valley Driver Video Review. Ian Rotten is putting his actual belt on in the ring, not the title belt, but the belt that holds his jeans up. Ian’s smiling during the intros, having a good time, hamming it up. This’ll be great, I’m sure. I’ve got three beers open, awaiting the nonsense. Ian’s doing a little comedy to start with, and 2 Tuff plays along. Hey, Tony wears a bandana because he’s balding early. And he gave his bandana to a retard. Fuck! The weird guy who was sitting in front of me at the Sweet Science tourney just gave Tony a dollar bill. That guy was fuckin’ scary, wearing some wackass Penguins jersey the second night.

BEER FOUR: They’ve actually wrapped barbed wire around the electrified light tube things. Ian does a Kentuckian legsweep on Tony and they both hit the light fixture. Nice close-up of Tony carving Ian’s head. Thank you again, Smart Mark. Wow, he carved a gusher on Ian, and blood is rolling heavy and quickly. THERE’S A BARBED WIRE BASKETBALL! Yes, ladies and gentlemen, 2 Tuff Tony is actually bouncing a basketball wrapped in barbed wire as he makes his way over to Ian Rotten to do damage. And now they’re using a plastic toy schoolbus just like the one I bought for my daughter from Big Lots. I never noticed Ian Rotten’s Grinch in a Santa suit tattoo before. Ian gets suplexed onto another electrified barbed wire light fixture. 2 Tuff Tony has a pair of leather pants with his own name going down one leg, so he automatically wins, style-wise. I can’t tell you how much I need a pair of leather pants with RAVEN down one side and MACK down the other. Powerslam of Tony into yet another light fixture. Tony drops Ian right on his fuckin’ head onto the last electrified light fixture, and holds his legs for the pin. That was sick. I dig Ian and Tony hugging, showing the mad crazy love for being mad crazy fuckers. Ian is about to preach, so shut up. Ahh, he puts over the younger guys in IWA. Mean Mitch Page is like Ian Rottens’ evil twin, same hidden singlet, same tattooed arm, same wifebeater shirt, same frosted surfer hair. I love the IWA Arena door with no doorknob entrance spot. Necro Butcher comes out to Quiet Riot, and fuckin’ Necro, at the time this happened, was only a month removed from an injury that had hospital doctors threatening to amputate his arm. Rollin’ Hard is ringside for this match, holding the barbed wire basketball. I bet Rollin’ loves Nappy Roots. “Those Caribbeans and their spider webs,” says CM Punk. Again, this straight edge fuck is making me drink.

BEER FIVE: CM Punk is killing me with the commentary. Killing the idea of a tarantula death match because he wouldn’t want to see the cute little things die, an urban legend death match where you find the guy with the hook hand…fuck. Sobriety can make you funny sometimes, I guess. Necro gives Page a pass with the basketball to the mid-section. Necro’s a bloody mess, with plasma dripping from his beard. So, you see, Carmine DeSpirito is managing Mean Mitch Page. So Necro Butcher takes a FUCK CARMINE sign from the crowd, and a staple gun, being this a fans-bring-the-weapons match, and staples the sign to Page’s back. Necro just gets backdropped onto a row of chairs, in one of those haphazard ways that makes for great TV. Necro is taped to the ropes, and gets a light tube and then a barbed wire bat to his left arm. I appreciate the way they work the arm a guy doesn’t have tattoos on and most likely doesn’t write with. You look back at old Pro Wrestling Illustrateds and there’s Dusty Rhodes, with a big, fat, scarred left arm, and a spotless right arm. Necro is bloodier than fuck. The Rollin’ Hard/Mean Mitch Page tag split is teased, as Rollin’ almost hits Page with his Kill Whitey sign. Mean Mitch Page loses to a sleeperhold? Page and Hard do some talking and teasing and angle shit for a while, but I can’t care because I have to piss off the porch in the rain. My mother-in-law, who’s an uptight British lady, no shit, a schoolteacher to boot, she’s sleeping on our couch, which sucks because it means we have to run the baseboard heat in there all night long, which is gonna run the light bill right the fuck up, and she thinks me liking wrestling means her buying me a plush Kevin Nash doll at Big Lots is cool, anyways, she’s in there. And we don’t have any working light bulb in the hallway, so I’d have to bump into the door to open it, since, like the IWA entrance door, it doesn’t have a knob, you reach in the hole and lift up and pull out, and it creaks. I don’t want to wake her Mary Poppins ass up, so I have to piss off the porch. I don’t have the baseboard heat going in here, so I’m cold, and I left my boots on the porch since I was tromping through septic mud today and they stink, so I have to walk out in my socks and piss off the porch. Top that off with the fact the stupid ass people across the road seemed to have gone to sleep with their floodlights still on, and I’m pissing into the rain and a bright light. What was I talking about? Oh yeah, Nate Webb. He’s great. A skinny, young kid who’s been Pondo’s sidekick for a while, going up against him now in a death match. Pondo is expecting Nate Webb to lay down and lose. Webb’s wearing a BEER CITY shirt. “I am a death match hardcore king,” says Pondo. Webb says he’s not laying down and wants to wrestle. This is awesome; this is stand-upnish; this is fuck you Mr. Bully. Nate lays down, and Pondo puts the hand down, but Nate kicks out at 2, and nails Pondo with Pondo’s own signature stop sign. Pondo on a barbed wire table. Webb does a flippetty legdrop. Nate gets clipped with some hedgeclippers, then tossed into the second row of chairs. Nate Webb is the Mulkey Brothers of hardcore wrestling; he flips in a selling manner better than anybody. Pondo, being the genius he is, puts a log cabin of light tubes onto four chairs, rips off Webb’s BEER CITY shirt, and chokes him with it. Barebacked superplex into the stack of gimmicks. I cannot explain the beauty of CM Punk’s commentary regarding Pondo throwing a trash can into the ring. So Pondo takes two chairs, bridges a steel chair across it, stands a trash can on top of the chair, and puts four foot light tubes into the trash can.

BEER SIX: Pondo’s arm is bleeding nicely. Webb is looking up the wall and Pondo is bleeding from everything. He’s wearing a crimson armband. Webb has a table that’s covered in barbed wire beside a table covered in light tubes, and he takes Professor Pondo over and lays him out. Ahh, it comes together. Pondo on barbed wire table, stacked on top of light tube table with the help of people strong enough to lift a table covered in Pondo, and Webb lives up to his Spyder nickname and climbs the fuckin’ wall, no shit, to an exposed metal beam, and, well fuck, he climbs to the next beam up, HOLY FUCKIN’ FUCK! Nate Webb wins, and Nate Webb is king. You know what I said about Corporal Robinson? Fuck that. Mad Man Pondo is way scarier than Robinson, with his ape-like eyebrows and evil Samson-like mullet rattail. Excellent slow motion replay of the dive from multiple angles. Dysfunction is in the ring, and Nate Webb staggers out for his second match in a row. This is a barbed wire canvas match, where barbed wire is strung across the canvas. Nate Webb is the fuckin’ king of bumping. It’s been raining forever outside my house. Nothing like a match where you need wirecutters. Nate does his moonsault Van Terminator into barbed wire shit, you know, the regular shit, and wins.

BEER SEVEN: They clip the wire off of Nate and he’s your winner, and into the finals. Log cabins of glass match, 2 Tuff Tony’s in the ring, and Necro Butcher is coming out, still bloody from the last match, the shit’s all crusted up. “He’s wearing his crimson mask with pride,” says CM Punk. To 2 Tuff’s credit, he never took the thumbtacks out his head from his previous match tonight. Tony writes his name on the wall with Necro’s blood. And there’s a barbed wire tennis racket brought into play. CM Punk talks shit about the ECW fans-throwing-chairs-in-the-ring thing, and then fans start throwing chairs in the ring. “Wherever I go, riots follow,” says Punk.

BEER EIGHT: Butcher gets the sleeperhold win again. Maybe he did; to be honest, I was looking at a copy of Hustler’s Hometown Girls while the match ended. North Carolina seems like a great place. “Longhaired Country Boy” is Tracy Smothers’ theme music. At one point in my life, I had a hip hop group where we played that live at one show with a guy called Boxhead. Our DJ had two copies of that record because we used to scratch “a drunkard wants another drink of wine” during one song. It was the best moment of my life, legit. I watched Boxhead dive through the back windshield of a car one time to try and kill a guy at a party while we were all tripping. I ain’t never seen no hardcore wrestler do that shit. I hate Colt Cabana, for real. He is everything that the Confederate Mack is not. Kick his ass, Tracy. Nidia Nyce is good enough to get her drunk. Three-way dance elimination match for the title that Chris Hero wore to the ring, god bless quality three-way dances. Tracy Smothers is fast passing Tommy Rich as my favorite fucked up dude in wrestling. I imagine Tracy has a lot of skeletons in his closets. You know why Tracy is the greatest? He cusses out the crowd and give them the finger, then makes them clap for the death match participants, then goes right back to making fun of the crowd. Everybody gets their shot on the mic, but Smothers is the best. He ain’t wearing no pussy-ass t-shirt and he ain’t cutting no shorts on the micro either. The match is going and I’m not commenting on everything, but Hero is great in the weird little transition shit he does. I love how post-ECW’s FBI, Tracy always does little hip gyration things to heel himself up during a match. Hero hits Hero’s Welcome on Cabana, but Smothers pulls him out the ring to get the pin on Classic Colt. So, now it’s Chris Hero and Tracy Smothers and Old Milwaukee. Another Hero’s Welcome and Smothers loses. Smothers takes the mic and talks about how he’s old and how IWA is the best ever he’s ever seen. Well, the main event is up with Nate Webb vs. Necro Butcher, with all sorts of shit going on in the ring, light tubes, light bulbs, barbed wire, glass, everything.

BEER NINE: I am drunk. Yep. There’s a live lobster bath on one side, but I know Necro told me the water got changed on that shit, so the lobsters were long dead by this match starting. Ian Rotten does the introductions for the main event, which is a nice touch. Necro hits a backbreaker, and the thing about him is he can actually wrestle. I mean, the guy was trained by Black Bart, one of the best scientific wrestlers from Texas who wrestled in Florida through the ‘80s. The lobsters are dead, but Necro gets one out the cooler, and slaps Nate in the head with one of them. Necro puts a lobster up Nate’s shirt, smashes it with a chair, Nate selling the lobster’s aliveness. Then Necro picks up another lobster and bites it. That’s good shit. This is probably the third match, but this ain’t like getting pussy in the woods behind the school during second lunch. Well, fuck, I can go to bed finally. After I finish this beer right quicklike.

EPILOGUE: It’s the next day and I’m not entirely sure what the fuck I was talking about there at the end. I do know I had a good, healthy drunk going though. FIRST STAR OF THE TAPE: Spyder Nate Webb. That motherfucker is insane, and looks an awful lot like my sister’s old boyfriend, Stephan. The Spyder got booked for that WWA tour of Europe I read, which is good. I’m all for young, crazy motherfuckers getting to travel on somebody else’s credit card. Maybe he’ll get to get high with Sabu. SECOND STAR OF THE TAPE: CM Punk. You know, a lot of times when guys work as announcers, ever since Jesse Ventura, the guys try to be funny. 99 times out of 100, they’re just stupid. CM Punk had me cracking up all night. I mentioned a few on here, but he had so many funny-ass things I didn’t even bother to mention. Like threatening to give a fan a fractured skull. And apologizing to the vegans out there. THIRD STAR OF THE TAPE: Necro Butcher. He’s just a weird fucker, biting a dead lobster like that. You can’t teach a mind to be twisted, life just makes it that way. Like I said before in the beginning about all that analysis and experience shit. Yeah.

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