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.

Saturday, May 10

12-Pack Review: MAW 08/31/02

BEER ONE: You know, I’m full of hate. It’s not a fuckin’ online gimmick or any shit like that. I drink a lot, have a shitty job, and watch stupid fuckin’ wrestling all the goddamned time. Well, not really, but oftentimes while I’m wasting time in what I call my studio, which is actually a shitty room with shitty fake wooden trailer-style paneling, no fuckin’ heat, and a giant shred of an American flag that got all ripped up during a punk percussion protest of the Presidential Debate in Richmond, Virginia a few elections back. I hate my fuckin’ job, but I make $12.50 an hour, and nowhere else in this cock-sucking fake-ass closet racist white liberal town of Charlottesville is offering more than goddamn $9 and you have to have a Master’s Degree in some bullshit just for that. I spray weird dangerous cancerous chemicals on polycarbonates and liquid mount fuckin’ giant photographs on them, of great bullshit like prescription drugs or similak or biosolid reactors or crap like that. Trade show exhibits. Fuck trade shows and fuck corporations. Fuck America and fuck war stimulating our economy which is not a proven fact ever since World War II in fact it does the opposite. And fuck wrestling fans. You motherfuckers are goddamned annoying. I wrote a thing a long time ago on Wrestling Sucks about how wrestlers are pussies. And a lot of them nowadays are. But goddamn, who can blame them when they spend all their fuckin’ energy trying to entertain a pack of half-witted “smart” fans who think they know every fuckin’ thing because they’ve read every stupid fuckin’ biography in the wrestling section of the Barnes & Noble superstore? Motherfuckers who sit around and think about wrestling all the fuckin’ time, fantasy booking and compiling lists and thinking somebody cares. Goddamn. You know what? I know nobody gives a shit about this. I’m basically just writing to waste my fuckin’ night so that I can pass out drunk, wake up tomorrow and pretend like I fuckin’ “created” something last night when I’m hating my shitty job. That’s all. And what do I create? Not a fuckin’ thing. Goddamnit, this Mid American Wrestling better be good, because me and beer are tag teaming the fuck out of anything. If I misspell too much shit, sorry, it’s like 2 degrees in this room, and I don’t have any fingerless hobo gloves. I am, however, kicking the crusty hobo style of poking holes for my thumb to go through on the end of the sleeves of my black hoodie. All I need is to safety pin a homemade Misfits patch on it and I’d be cool and get invited to all the high school parties. And then I’d become ever more hateful because some supposed punk rock chick driving her mom’s Benz and wearing a fuckin’ Reese’s peanut butter cup t-shirt from the Goodwill would look down on me for drinking Old Milwaukee. Goddamn you, you fuckin’ whore! WHOA! This rocks, it’s on a baseball field and there’s like twelve people in attendance, the camera is unsteady, and your ring announcer has the same creepy glasses and dark hair look that all older wrestling geeks get, though he covers it up with a bad dye job. To sort of explain it to you, one ringpost of the ring is roughly where second base would be, with the opposite one around the pitcher’s mound. The camera is from the bleachers, which I guess is where all the folks who only felt like paying five bucks have to sit, and two guys are making wisecracks within soundshot of the handheld already. I am feeling the hate ebb and the love of bizarre indyness warms my fingers. Shooter Scott Marciano is out, he’s a shootfighter. His opponent is…The Mean Green Pecker. Yep. Holy shit, it’s a dude walking like a chicken with green feathers all over. Gotta be the baseball team’s mascot. Just like that, the wrestling calmed my hatred, like it should. I feel better, though I’m sure the fat slugs of Old Mil didn’t help. Wait, the Pecker is actually wrestling AND HE FALLS FACE FIRST AND WALLERS LIKE A HURT CHICKEN! And one of the wiseasses yells “HEY, SESAME STREET!” And then a “KFC! KFC!” chant breaks out. MEAN GREEN PECKERRANA but only for a two-count. Pecker is laying in the chops, and two dudes on the baseball field are trying to line up a three-way with some blonde whore. Man, the Pecker rocks; they’re ringside and he’s fuckin’ slammed beak first into the post. They do a suplex on the dirt and both guys are covered in it now. It’s turning into a shootfight style thing, which is great considering one guy is WEARING A GREEN CHICKEN OUTFIT!

BEER TWO: Marciano strangles the Pecker, and of course a “Choke the chicken!” chant breaks out in the bleachers. The Pecker chickens up but he gets caught with a spinkick off the ropes. Fuck, the Mean Green Pecker gets hit with a terribly painful looking top rope backbreaker turned kidney buster, but he kicks out. Tilt-a-whirl into a Russian legsweep by the chicken. You can hear cars driving by real fast. Chicken goes for a reverse neckbreaker, gets elbows to the back of the head instead, Marciano reverses and nails a DDT and throws a submission armbar thing on the guy, and the Mean Green Pecker taps out. I hate shootfighter gimmicks in wrestling. Some big dude with indy wrestler/’80s metaller longhair comes out and raises the chicken’s arm, and since he’s tall, he does a chokeslam on him. His name is Mitch Paradise. He’s cut, and has longhair, and I bet he gets blowjobs galore from Midwestern chicks because heavy metal is still alive out there, and not the fuckin’ frat boyish rap metal shit either. Real metal motherfuckers, the type of shit Lemmy could get drunk on his houseboat to. Yep, Paradise’s opponent has a black leather jacket and stocking hat with Danzig skull imagery all over it. When you wear a leather jacket with a giant skull spray-painted on the back, you are metal. In true metal athletics fashion, he wears cut-off jeans and a black tank top. If you’ve ever played pick-up basketball with athletic metal fans, you know what I mean. That’s their work-out uniform. Hell, I used to wear that shit when I was 15; who am I kidding? Mitch Paradise is big enough to have jobbed on TV multiple times by now; how come I’ve never heard of him? And the other guy, Steve Stone, I bet he loves Stormtroopers of Death. I always used to wonder if “Hey Gordy” was about Terry Gordy. I also used to think it was really gay for Billy Milano to sing “step into the Milano Mosh” like he had his own style pit or some shit. That seemed pretty pretentious. The metal guy has no hair at all, which makes him less metal and more punk to me, and his name is Steve Stone, so he sucks. Crazy baldheads. He’s also really slow and lethargic in the ring. It’s fun watching folks in the front row swat bugs out their faces. Crazy Baldhead goes to the top, and they don’t call it high risk for nothing, as Paradise brings him crashing down to the mat, and Stone loses. Of course, “Paradise City” cranks up, and a tall guy with longhair in a wrestling ring in the middle of a baseball field heels it up and is King. I drink to that, because I can understand.

BEER THREE: Motherfucker, I can understand. The creepy wrestling fan announcer is hyping another card the next night with a cage match. Mr. Announcer, please stop saying “special” and “official” all the goddamned time. This next guy is the Pope of the Midwest, an underwear model, and he puts the ex in sex or some shit. He is Eric Priest, and he is gyrating sexually against the ringpost. HEY! IT’S THE ANNOYING GUY IN THE BRUINS JERSEY FROM MY IWA MID SOUTH ROAD TRIP IN THE FRONT ROW BEING ANNOYING AGAIN! He’s talking shit and putting double middle fingers in the face of Priest because he knows he can get away with it. You see? Wrestlers are pussies. Somebody should kick that guy’s ass one time, just because. HOLY FUCK! Yes, metal is alive. Evil guitar riffage and a hot chick carrying two giant torches leads a guy named Sam Hayne to the ring. Mr. Hayne is wearing a Bam Bam Bigelow style flame outfit, with an extra evil Psichosis style mask, plus he carries a martini glass filled with some sort of red liquid, which I can only assume is blood from the freshly slit throat of a blonde-haired blue-eyed virgin. I can tell you, there is nothing I hope to see more than Sam Hayne setting that annoying guy in the first row on fire after getting the adrenaline rush you get from drinking human blood. When I was a kid, we lived in a place called Rice (small town outside of Farmville in Virginia). We lived on the edge of a farm in a cinderblock house that had a lot of mice. I wasn’t allowed to play in the field because sometimes there’d be big fires down, way down in the field, and it was Satanists. I know I know, there were all sorts of Satanists back in those days, it was a popular scare thing. But these were real people who fancied themselves Satanists. I know because my dad ended up selling weed to them a few times and we went down to their house down the road. Anyways, this one Satanist chick, Margaret, she recovered or escaped or whatever. She ended up being the live-in girlfriend of this drunk perverted redneck Gary who used to run with my dad because they both liked vodka, weed, and playing horseshoes. I remember my dad telling my mom he had a babysitter, they were going out. Margaret showed up, and my mom freaked. “Charles, you can’t leave our kids with a fuckin’ Satanist!” But he did, because she wasn’t no Satanist anymore. Looking back, it was a bad move on my dad’s part. But Margaret was cooler than fuck. She played with my sisters and I was like, probably like 10. She was a great artist and was actually drawing her own set of Tarot cards. She showed me a couple of the cards, and I had listened to Ozzy Osbourne already, I was willing to be hip to what was up. She kept it sort of on the down-low, I guess after the big Mama Mack freaking out over her kids getting left with a known occultist thing going down earlier, but she showed me some of the cooler cards. The thing was, years later, only a few years later, me and my dad were over at Gary’s house, and he was a criminal, been in and out of jail all the time I’ve known him, with more tattoos each time he comes out, but he lived on a farm his mom had. She had cancer and was missing her hair but she’d go out and kill a chicken and tell me I had to stay because she was making chicken, and she’d be wringing the fuckin’ neck right in front of me. No shit, this used to happen. Anyways, one time, my dad and Gary were sneaking out to get high so Gary’s cancerous mom and Margaret the former occultist wouldn’t know because they disapproved of Gary being high all the goddamned time considering he hadn’t had a job outside of stealing firearms in like three years; well, Gary showed us this shed, one of the smaller ones (they had like 17 sheds) and it was fuckin’ full of all these weird twisted ass paintings that Margaret had done but didn’t want to throw away even though she didn’t like them anymore. They were fucked up, shit that Jack Kevorkian would freak out over (have you ever seen some of Kevorkian’s paintings? Man, he’s a fuckin’ psychopath). Anyways, Margaret was awesome, and there’s still a nice waterfall Bob Ross painting she did in the living room at my mom’s house, and she was a hot little Filipino and as I hit puberty I must’ve masturbated thinking about her a shitload of times, what with all the hotness factor combined with the babysitter thing and evil painting skills. To this day, I pass little freaky Filipino chicks and I wonder if it’s Margaret. They are, by far, my favorite of the Pacific Rim flavor of women.

BEER FOUR: Sam Hayne has an inverted cross incorporated to the spelling of Hayne on the back of his outfit. Anda red pentagram on the front. And 666 on his ass. I’ve had 666 on my ass all my life. Wait, that martini glass didn’t hold blood, it held flammable alcohol for him to blow fire with. And good fuckin’ god his evil valet is not your normal shitty skinny beauty but a buxom blonde about to bust her fuckin’ studded leather top. Sam Hayne does some evil thing real quick with his arms outstretched and the match starts. So a big masked Satanist is the babyface here? Sam Hayne does a tope, complete with feet getting caught on the second rope, slowing his impact, and causing the ringpost humper to fall backwards over metal chairs in the basepath of a baseball field. And they’re taking it to the infield. “Light ‘em on fire,” yells somebody in the crowd. Fuck yeah, my man, fuck yeah. I just noticed the Priest part of the heel’s last name, as he caught Sam Hayne with a missile dropkick from the top rope. This is great; this match is tricking people into being evil, much like the Filipino Margaret did with me. Priest hits a chokeslam; and that’s two on the card already. Evil valet has big hot tits and claps her hands and sweetly yells, “C’mon Sam,” taking all the evil out of his character. Hayne gets a reverse chinlock on the Priest guy, and the camera closes ups and you see that Hayne is wearing gloves with finger bone motif on the outside and the fingertips cut off. That’s class, pure class. They do some shit and Eric Priest wins, which sucks beyond suck. How can the Devilish babyfaces keep losing like this? The announcer says, “How about a great hand for Sam Hayne?” as he lays in the ring a loser. They stop by the fence, and set the torches down, and Sam Hayne puts forearm spikes back on, and his valet has giant tits that may or may not be fake but I don’t care because she’s slightly pudgy like Taija Rae the hottest of all porn sluts and I love her – meaning Taija, the evil valet, and Margaret the evil babysitter as well. I used to fuck a chick that worked at the dollar cinema and she had to dress like a flapper for her job because it was an ol’-timey theater, and it rocked because she’d come over to my house dressed like a flapper and smelling like buttered popcorn and we’d have sex. She was loud and sweaty; I like girls that sweat a lot during sex for some reason. Another guy humps the cornerpost, but on the inside against a turnbuckle this time. It’s XXXplicit Content. Their opponents are The Furies, who are in black pants and red t-shirts, rather bland after Sam Hayne and his big-tittied valet. Oh, they’ve got face paint on as well, and an Eagles entrance song, so they’re doing the Baseball Furies thing rather pitifully. They do paper, rocks, and scissors to see who starts. Okay, Furies will be longhaired guy and crewcut guy. Crewcut guy is starting. The XXXplicit gay dudes will be the blonde guy and the black-haired guy. The blonde guy is starting. Wait a second, these weird gimmicks are actually wrestling. Camera pulls away from match to some bald-headed black dude pointing at the ring in a “Bada Boom” t-shirt. The Furies hit a legsweep by the crewcut guy followed by a legdrop to the back of the brain by the big Brian Lee in Alabama haired guy.

BEER FIVE: Evil gay guys with tassles on their trunks keep cheating and making non-tag switches as ref valiantly holds back good guy Brian Lee in Alabama guy in baseball fury face paint. Furies win, and out comes that black dude, aka Skullcrusher and his partner “Too Phat” Jason Dukes. They wreak havoc, along with the gay team. Jason Dukes wears the largest fanny-pack I’ve ever seen, and forms the greatest team ever – a tall muscular black guy and a short fat white dude. Brian Lee in Alabama in Face Paint ON THE FUCKIN’ MIC! He declares he wants a title match against Skull & Dukes tonight, and the annoying guy in the front row jumps up and cheers. I think one time I was riding around with Jason Dukes and Skullcrusher looking for Skullcrusher’s cousin, Cleon, to buy a dovesack from. I was driving actually, but it was Jason’s car. He kept playing shitty Flaming Lips. Nobody really likes that shit, not in real life. Carmine DeSpirito comes out, a big greasy sleazy Italian guy who runs this promotion. He looks as disgusting as you’d expect a wrestling promoter to look, sort of a cross between Boomer and the big half of Penn and Teller. Annoying guy is talking shit to Carmine, and Carmine just watches him talk shit. Some old guy who I can’t remember the name of is the Commissioner, even though it was during the other tape I reviewed. Stupid beer, killing my brain things. Carmine is smoking a cig as the Commish guy talks, and Carmine flashes a devil’s horns at somebody in the crowd. That’s why Evil Guys are Faces. They hype tomorrow night, which sucks, because I’m watching tonight. However, they announce Bull Pain and he comes out and he cusses like he always does and he is El Duce of the Mentors long-lost brother. “Making us pay for our women, making us pay for our rides to the building…SHUT THE FUCK UP!” Ahh yes, nothing is better than Bull Pain on the micro. Some shithead ringside talks shit to Bull Pain, and Bull Pain says, “I’m in the ring, I’m getting paid.” Dude is ready to fight Bull Pain, which is great, but stupid. Annoying Guy talks at Pain, who disses Annoying Guy and crowd in bleachers claps. Bull Pain loves saying the crowd has a third grade education and is retarded. Now, Corporal Robinson comes out with a cigarette and no camouflage. He talks about how he’s been on top of the IWA for four years, and I fear this is more IWA/MAW feudery. Well, I knew it was, but I fear more long monologues on the mic by guys who are better served rolling blunts and cracking skulls than talking out loud on a live microphone.

BEER SIX: Intermission fading, and the announcer shows back up but nobody is in their seats. Seriously, there’s one old chick in camera shot. Chuckie Smooth comes out, and he’s great and he makes people clap and he has a Hardy Boyz beard going on. Weird, I’m used to him lapdancing with guys and wearing fur and looking 12 years old. His opponent is CM Punk, and though Punk is a stupid straight edger, I excite myself towards beer-drinking in this match-up. Punk is talking shit to some young dumbass in a visor and a basketball jersey. Punk should always be heel and wigger kids should always have fights started with them because wrestling show wiggers are the stupidest wiggers of all. They don’t smoke pot and they think wearing a Larry Johnson Charlotte Hornets jersey is killer. Punk makes fun of some guy, he’s sitting by himself, and Smooth calls on chicks to go sit with the dude. “What? You’re gonna call me fat? Look at you, you’re an oval. Hunh? You rotund fucking fat bitch.” Man, I’m all about this type of nonsense, especially when the bleachers break out a “What a whore” chants. Punk and Smooth are tripping the fuck out. But they’re gonna do it “old school style” says Punk. Somebody bangs a hammer on a frying pan and the match starts. Some chick pulls her top up and bounces her tits around in the crowd. God Bless American and it’s Indy Wrasslin’ Mother Fuckers. Of course, the crowd chants “One more time!” and she hugs her boyfriend while smoking a cigarette and he walks off, probably in disgust, so she pulls her top up one more time. Then again for a cameraman, then she walks off. And Chuckie Smooth starts a “Tits! Tits! Tits!” chant. Punk gets ranaed outside, then catches a jumping Smooth, holds him forever and smashes him against opposite ringposts, and then mocks the crowd. Hahaha, he’s a straight edger but he has a Pepsi logo tattooed on his arm. That shit’s funnier than fuck.

BEER SEVEN: Smooth gets pushed into some chairs onto the dirt. They get back in the ring and Punk hooks up what looks to be a Sting leglock thing, but he picks Smooth up and swings him around in that precarious held position. Then Punk drops him, holding that position. Chuckie Smooth tries to rally himself to the ropes by slapping the ring and the ref calls it a tap-out, like the words on Tito Ortiz’ ass. What a shitty ending. The Furies are back, with that Eagles song again. “Somewhere out there on that horizon…” or whatever. I bet that damned Brian Lee in Puerto Rico haired guy picked this song. Their opponents are the Old School Express – Skullcrusher and “Too Phat” Jason Dukes. Man, some skinny dude in a shiny vest leading big tall black Skullcrusher and short fat white Dukes to the ring is like some guy leading folks into a Penthouse Letter. Short fat Jason Dukes is twelve times better than I ever could’ve expected. They double pound the crewcut Fury, and have color-coordinated outfits to boot. Dukes & Skull are great together, oddly enough. Crewcut fury gives the super-hot tag to Brian Lee in SMW wearing Fury-ous Facepaint. He nails all sorts of clotheslines and boots and fists and the tides turn. Chicago’s Brian Lee accidentally clotheslines the ref, and I foresee chicanery of an unbelievable magnitude. You can hear somebody start their motorcycles up behind the bleachers and drive off, real loud, Harleys, and I can only hope Sam Hayne’s valet is driving one of them. Did I tell you how much I love her? I think that chick showing her tits in the crowd is her cousin. Wait, somehow the Furies won, and Annoying Guy is excited as fuck. I bet they lost them back the next night. More motorcycles leave. Some fat dude comes out and they do a real long “we’re-all-getting-ready-to-turn-on-each-other” thing while the fat guy on the mic holds the heel nonsense together. Out with the new, in with the old. Suplex on shitty guy in vest by fat-ass Jason Dukes, followed by big evil frogsplash by black dude. “The NEW Old School Express,” says the new manager in a strange twist of wording. Three-way dance for the MAW title. “Sexy” Ace Steel is first out, intense as always. You know, I’ve never seen a Steel/CM Punk match, but I’d bet anything that Steel trained Punk, because I can see the similarities. Here comes Colt Cabana, with his red visor upside down and backwards. I hate me some Colt Cabana. Carmine leads out Dysfunction. I am drunk. I think I have failed to mention in this review how Carmine DeSpirito looks a lot like Boomer, who has fallen off the face of the Earth. Again. Ace Steel and Carmine are having a great antagonistic confrontation thing where the stupid evil manager says dumb things to get the crowd all riled up like Pavlov’s dogs. Where’d that tit girl go? Annoying Guy is making his front row presence be felt again. I hope Carmine throws a fireball on him. Dysfunction takes a seat on the dirt beside some wigger kid as Steel and Cabana await his entry into this 3-Way Dance, for the Mid-American Title no less. Didn’t Dutch Mantel used to always fight Buddy Landel for that thing? Steel and Cabana are wrestling, while Dys sits ringside being full of tomfoolery. I kind of dig Dysfunction not being in there, because Steel and Cabana can do the great technical shit, yet one can be the good guy and the other can be a dickhead. Dys will just add goofiness to it. Then again he lets them knock the shit out of him center ring for a while, and this kid seems very sadomasochistic, which should carry him far in professional wrestling, if he starts using “enhancements”.

BEER EIGHT: Basically, the match has settled into Cabana & Steel double teaming Dysfunction with an array of scientificalness. I expect this to disintegrate into nastiness any second though. I love how Ace will lick his hand before giving the big fat evil chest-reddening slaps in the corner. I also love how Dysfunction will moaningly groan after moves. It’s like a quality worked snuff film in the foreplay stages. Yep, there goes the disintegration, as Cabana has Dysfunction up and Ace dropkicks Cabana in the leg. Dysfunction is a long fuckin’ word when you’re drunk and cold. The crowd chants “We want blood!” because they have been sitting in a baseball field in Wisconsin for two hours and nobody has bled yet. They’re back to double teaming Dys, and he’s gradually getting more naked, going from t-shirt to singlet and now the straps are down. Ace and Colt, I’m a first-name basis ya know, they push each other off at one-counts on the kid, then start punching each other. I guess this is one of those only one pinfall deals that seem like such a rip-off. Actually, no it’s not, as Ace just pinned Colt Cabana, and it’s down to two guys. Maybe they both just let their egos get the best of them in that heated MAW Heavyweight title moment where Dysfunction would’ve been eliminated. It’s understandable, that’s the most prestigious wrestling belt in the stage of Wisconsin, and maybe Chicago as well. Ref bump, Ace pin where Colt counts. Dys goes to the top, and nails a missile dropkick that sloppily causes Colt to go into the corner. Colt figures it was Ace being a dick with his back turned, so he fucks up Ace, Dys hits a flying legdrop, and the bald ref wakes up. What a screwball ending; but then again it was a two-day thing and this is the first day, so I guess on what I’ll never see, Colt Cabana and Ace Steel have an 8 and three-quarters star match. Steel chases Cabana around the dirt infield now, then into the parking lot out of vision. Hahaha, Colt just did a weird Scooby Doo scared run into the bathroom that served as dressing room. Shit, that’s all she wrote, with half a beer left.

EPILOGUE: FIRST STAR OF THE TAPE: This was a tough decision, but I have to go with Sam Hayne. He had pentagrams, 666, a goblet of flammable liquid, a hot valet with big tits in a leather top, he wore a mask, and he was a babyface. Quality like that is hard to deny. SECOND STAR OF THE TAPE: The tit girl. I know I know, it sucks that when guys like CM Punk and Ace Steel are busting ass, great workers, masters of the professional wrestling and all for meager scraps of money if they’re lucky, why would I choose a drunk whore showing her tits? Because I would much rather meet a drunk whore showing her tits than any of those guys. Magnum T.A. vs. Tully Blanchard in the cage at Starrcade, I-Quit match, is probably my all-time favorite match, and I could be watching that for the first time ever after getting amnesia but remembering that I was a wrestling nerd, and just getting into it where they’ve gone all bloody on each other, and if a drunk whore showed her tits, I’d cut that shit off forever. What I am saying is that real women showing their tits is better than wrestling. Now there’s some confusion in this equation for me. Let me explain further. Highly produced pornography is creepy, siliconish, and as despised by me as the WWF. It’s gross and unnatural and lacks emotion. I would watch a good Ace Steel vs. CM Punk match rather than watch a highly produced porn, which I would rather watch than a WWF program. Well, I might watch the porn, even if highly produced before the Steel/Punk match if I hadn’t masturbated in a few days. But then it would only take me like fifteen minutes, and that’s if I was trying to be romantic with myself, you know, gradually getting the pants off and shit. But an amateur porn would always beat out the indy wrestling. Period. Then again, sometimes not, like if I’ve masturbated three times at work and me and the ol’ lady were trying to have another kid as well. But mostly. THIRD STAR OF THE TAPE: CM Punk. The guy is a great wrestler, but he’s also jaded as shit, which makes him the perfect heel. I think any promoter that makes him try to be a good guy is a fuckin’ idiot, especially considering most indy crowds are drug-addled alcoholics anyways. A straight edge guy is the perfect heel.

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