BEER ONE: Xtreme Pro Wrestling, the wrasslin’ that everybody loves to hate, and understandably so. Rob Black is not a decent guy – he’s a high end pornographer, and brings those glossy, sleazy production values to the World of wrestling, which I’m sure was an easy transition. I mean, I’m with you – fuck Rob Black. But how can people run around masturbating all over their Smackdown-laden fantasy booking for Wrestlemania XV4B, and then condemn XPW. Rob Black and Vince McMahon are very much alike, very much. One’s just an admitted pornographer, and the other’s a supposed genius businessman. Both take people with low self-esteem, drop them into a social shark tank of surgical body manipulations, drug abuse, and Bacchanalian sexual dysfunction deemed self-exploration. Both leave those they exploit of all worth on the side of life’s shitty pop culture road, half-broke monetarily and completely broke psychically, lusting for the limelight they’re no longer in. Both repackage wrestlers so that they can own the gimmick, and both stress production values that put a layer of shine on whatever shit they might be throwing at the wall, giving it a little more stick for all us fuckin’ fickle dumbasses out here waiting to watch something, anything, to take our minds off…well, our minds. Tits? Black and McMahon got ‘em for you, as real as the Grandma pictured on any frozen food entrée with Grandma as part of the title. Violence against women and homosexuals? Affirmative on both ends, and always ready to toss out more. Yet everybody, as of late, has loved all over the WWE Smackdown brand because of the worker’s, and most people wouldn’t piss up XPW’s ass if its guts were on fire. I’m not here to defend Rob Black; he’s a slimy fucker. He, in all likelihood, had a dude’s finger lopped off because said dude was boning Black’s former porn whore pussy on the side. He did some webcam where he was gonna feed a baby PCP, then eat it on a big sandwich while his buddies took bonghits, playing Meshuggah real loud. And he’s a modern-day pornographer, abusing women who probably grew up abused already. Don’t get me wrong; I love to get fuckin’ buck naked and hit the sugar walls with as many women as I could. But call me old-fashioned, or a sensitive type, or whatever, but if there’s two, or even three of us there, I want us all to enjoy ourselves. This modern-day pornography of having seventeen dudes fuck one chick in the ass so she screams is kind of weird. First a bunch of guys standing around stroking themselves, waiting for their turn is kinda weird. I wouldn’t stand around with five other guys, all of us naked, and masturbating. So why would I want to stand there with five other guys while one guy does the only chick in the mansion we rented for the day? And the money shot…that is the stupidest degrading shit ever. Ooh, that’s so awesome, he just blasted his sperm all over her face. What’s the message we’re sending here? That the chick shouldn’t have ever made us cum, because we’re just gonna shoot it in her face like an execution style murder? I don’t fuckin’ get it. Even the silicone titties that half of you are brainwashed into thinking are sexy…they take the sensitivity out of it for the women. I mean, that’s a major erogenous zone, and they destroy it to make their tits bigger to be attractive to guys who want to blast them in the face with sticky sperm. What the fuck? Are we that fucked up? And sure, Rob Black has made that his business, but don’t think Vince McMahon wouldn’t do the same. He’s required women to get breast implants to get contracts, even allowing and probably paying for his own daughter to get a tit job. I have a daughter, and if she ever suggested she might want a tit job, I’d probably beat the fuckin’ shit out of her. Of course, I don’t have to worry about that, because we instill our daughter with self-esteem, which will do more to keep her out of that sick cycle of psychological whoring most of us are stuck in half the time anyways. Guys like Rob Black and Vince McMahon prey on that shit, no different than a twisted white guy driving around truck stops in Delaware in his stationwagon looking for hookers to kill. You see, when some chick is a whore in a porn movie, we say, “Well, she made that decision. She put herself into that lifestyle.” Same thing as the predatory killer, hookers are the dregs of the Earth, and no one cares, not until like 34 of them are murdered over a five year span, then some fat cop who jacks off to child porn finally decides to do something with all my goddamned tax dollars he’s wasting, and they start looking for the Truckstop Hooker Murderer or whatever clever name CNN gives the guy. Black and McMahon don’t murder bodies though, they murder souls, and we don’t care. It’s entertainment. Those people are adults, they can choose not to do it. Man, fuck you and fuck them. Profits over people. The profit of the product is more important the people involved. The more you can squeeze out of other humans at as little monetary cost as you can get away, the better a business man you are. Shit, Vince McMahon is in the Forbes 500 now, isn’t he? He had his stupid XFL football on a major television network every week. He is powerful as fuckin’ shit. And all through the exploitation of human souls – the Jake the Snakes doing crack in British hotel rooms, the Dynamite Kids and Drozzes in wheelchairs, the dead-at-a-young age Rikishis and Davey Boys and Rick Rudes and so on. Now, the wrestling industry at large is probably guilty of that, rather than McMahon specifically, but he is the most successful wrestling promoter ever in all the history of the stars and planets, so I gotta think he ain’t afraid to turn a motherfucker out like Don the Magic Juan. That being said, the XPW has seemed pretty stupid, what with Rob Black’s desire to be ECW, going back to when XPW showed up at that one pay-per-view like some alternative rock fraternity jocks, trying to cause a ruckus, and the stereotypical frat fight that ensued. The only thing missing was a pizza joint that had $1 green bottle beers on Tuesday nights being across the road. Well, it seemed for a while everybody wanted to be the new ECW, and everybody was running the ECW Arena. This show I’m about to dig into, Hostile Takeover, is the first show XPW ran at the infamous and over-glorified ECW Arena. Motherfuckers act like the Arena magically makes the wrestling better. You know what? Madison Square Garden is probably the most famous basketball arena the World over, yet the Knicks have usually sucked the last couple years. It’s not the building, it’s the wrestling. And that’s what led me to get XPW involved in this tournament of independents. Let’s see, Rob Black sucks a lot. But Damian & Halloween, Chris Hamrick, Juventud Guerrera, Vic Grimes? That’s good shit. I’m down with all that. If I could go to a fuckin’ indy show that got me half as hyped as that line-up does maybe once in a year, I’d be a happy drunk. And the tape starts with the wrestler I hate the most in all the World – Shane Douglas. The mutants chant “Welcome Back! Welcome Back!” because indy wrestling crowds want more than ever to seem smart and respectful yet edgy and get themselves over as a whole. Fuck the crowd. Lizzy Borden is with Shane, and I think that’s the slut whore who Rob Black is married too, and she’s not the Lizzy Borden who sang “Give ‘em the Axe”, or better yet “Terror Rising”, so fuck her. Shane is like I always remember him, cutting a self-glorifying promo while clutching a title belt he probably pulls Hogan-like backstage shenanigans to keep, all with a cast on his body. Shane is eternally injured in one way or another. Maybe that’s so when he’s finally retired he can blame the continuous shitty matches he had on injury, from 1994 all the way till the end.
BEER TWO: Terry Funk is in the ring cutting a promo, and he’s just not his old self, being cool and crazy. It’s kind of pathetic now, ever since his last run in WCW. I don’t know, maybe he gave up the Coors Light. Funk is talking about “f’nXPW” and “rinsing out your dirty underwear” and all sorts of nonsense that I guess would sound like a great cut-down if I was dressing out for phys ed in the locker room in seventh grade, but being a grown human being who has fought other grown human beings over things as dumb as not calling the rail on sinking the eight ball, well, this seems contrived and idiotic. Good wrestling gets you hyped and makes you stomp your feet. Bad wrestling, which the World is goddamned chock full of nowadays, is like all the guys on the high school football team who couldn’t get college football gigs doing a live improv theater performance with an outline/script put together by some closet homosexual with either money or believable promises of money. Funk’s knee was attacked from behind, and I hope somewhere tonight in this World, Shane Douglas has a Magnum T.A.-like car accident. Lizzy Borden, with her fake tits, leads Shane down the aisle, with his fake talent. I am fake excited. Now, this is what I’m talking about. It’s Psichosis, Tijuana’s millionaire, vs. Super Crazy, bedecked in an IWA Puerto Rico t-shirt. The thing about the former WCW Mexican cruisers who now do the indy thing sometimes, is they don’t seem to give a shit about wrestling in front of non-brown people, only doing it for La Raza, like Frost. They start with the armdrag and missed dropkicks nobody can outdo the other ending in a face-off, center-ring. Standard indy fair that’s been overdone in recent years, but we’ll see where they go with it. Nicho does what Nicho does best, even off a shoulderblock from a running the ropes bit, and that’s flip sideways and land on his head. Nicho will bump like a man with a gym bag full of painkillers and an 18-year-old white girl in his hotel room awaiting. Crazy is the controlling factor right now as Nicho keeps it technical, and Crazy stalks for a baseball slide and a dive, which Nicho pushes him into the guardrail with. You knew the heelish tactics would be necessary to turn the tide. Now Nicho is dropkicking Crazy around the ring. Back in the ring, Crazy is not afraid to nail dastardly dropkicks all about Nicho’s head, who is not afraid to take them. Crazy hits his standard Asai moonsault. Crazy does his ten-punch in the corner thing where the crowd counts in Spanish, and the shitty commentator says, “simulcast in espanol”. Not often to I miss Joel Gertner, in fact, this was probably the first time ever. Nicho turns a top-rope superplex by Crazy into a facebuster, then hits a legdrop from the other top-rope for the pin. Sort of a fast finish, and seemingly odd as Nicho took a beating and then pumped up suddenly for the win, like a face would do, when he was the heel of the match. I hate shit like that; this whole cult of personality no good guys and bad guys shit is stupid. What if movies started pulling that crap, and it was an action flick with like seven guys just all trying to kill the fuck out of each other and you couldn’t really get behind any of them morally, so you just went by how cool their t-shirts were? Man, this is gonna be good – it’s The Sandman vs. Pogo the Clown. Pogo is a guilty pleasure of mine, because he’s a fairly agile fat guy, doing a John Wayne Gacy gimmick. He should wear pointed boots like The Iron Sheik though, to really put over the clown thing, yet hearken back to the history of wrestling. One of the first great things I thunk of when I read about XPW doing a talent deal with IWA Mid South was seeing things like Pogo the Clown vs. Corporal Robinson at the King of the Death Match tourney this year.
BEER THREE: The Sandman seems to be getting some of the beer gut that WCW liposuctioned off of him back, finally. And Pogo stands over The Sandman and drinks a beer, which is blasphemy, I guess. Pogo looks like he could outdrink Jim Fullington, and The Sandman is doing hi same old pulling himself up and falling down thing. God, don’t these fuckers ever try anything different? Shit, The Sandman and Shane Douglas and Sabu and the whole gang should just do an ECW-reunion barnstorming tour and do this same shit they always do and make as much money off of Polaroids with Francine as they can off small-town hicks in the midwest. Sandman’s wife, looking very much like the first frame of a milfhunter movie, comes to his rescue, after Pogo leaves. Aw, she pours beer in his mouth to revive him. That’s so fuckin’ clever. Let’s add Mr. and Mrs. The Sandman to the Magnum T.A. car wreck wishes. The New Black Panthers are in the ring now, Malcolm XL and Smokey Carmichaels, and they’re great as foul-mouthed not-quite-as-funny Ron Killings, who I think used to be involved with them. “So fuck all the bullshit, and bring out some motherfuckin’ Mexicans.” Holy shit, Halloween talks in English, and he talks in cholo drawl about kicking ass, and goddammit, if we did a Top 25 Tag Teams in the World every month on my fuckin’ website, then Halloween & Damian would be my number one pick for the last year and a half. Compton is really a wrestling hotbed when you think about it, as most gangster black tag teams for the last ten years have come from there, as well as the Public Enemy. I’m not sure who’s running the wrestling school down there, but he’s obviously not a very technical fellow, and I can’t see Ernie “The Cat” Ladd’s Republican ass endorsing such promo-cutting styles, but hey, if it puts fat white asses in the seat, who can complain? Halloween and Damian decked out in customized overalls and ominous facepaint is fuckin’ wicked. The only thing that could make them better is if King Diamond was their manager, or if they came out to something off The Ultra-Violence. Even Halloween in reddish-orange, and Damian in black, adds to the evil. And they’re the faces. Evil heroes, proof that Slayer has had an influence on the World. Wow, Malcolm XL doesn’t suck, hitting a backflip over the top rope to the outside on Damian. This is for the XPW tag team titles. Halloween makes it lucha rules and runs in to chop Carmichael into the ring. They trade smacks, then Halloween lets Smokey run into him a few times, and then he just clotheslines the fuck out of him. Outside the ring, Damian has dropped the straps of his overalls, and I expect a fistdrop soon. Carmichael hits a flippy-dippy thing to the outside on Halloween, giving both Panthers a chance to show high-flying moves. Then Mexico’s Most Wanted heads down the aisle, out of there like a five thousand dollar love seat. Once dragged back to the ring, they take over, and Halloween hits El Chairo Con Huevos on him, which is a clever name for a clever move. I’d describe it for you, but that would be really fuckin’ gay of me. You see, these are 12-pack reviews because when shit like that happens, instead of me being a fuckin’ mark and trying to think up some clever line to replace where Joey Styles would say “oh my god”, I just drink beer. Damian does a nice pin break-up, and Malcolm XL is a couple seconds late on the follow-up maneuver. Shit, the Panthers hit simultaneous highspots; they’re not bad at all.
BEER FOUR: Damian has to be a King Diamond fan, as his facepaint is very much like the King’s drippy paint years, where he went beyond his standard style to the weird black-and-white zubaz thing. I gotta think this is because Halloween is fuckin’ crazy, because you gotta think they apply each other’s facepaint so it doesn’t take so long. I can hear Abigail cranking up now, and two muscular insane Mexicans in a shitty locker room in a bingo hall painting each other up for a couple hundred drunks. Halloween’s paint can’t take too long, I mean it’s fuckin’ orange with black eyes. So once “The Family Ghost” gets to going, Halloween is getting serious about the evil of Damian’s facial stylings. By the time they get to the title track, Halloween’s wrapping it up, and they sit there vibing and self-psyching themselves for fuckin’ Godliness through the entire seven minutes of madness of “Black Horsemen”, and they are primed. And I’m sure they have to time this shit. You can’t get that primed, and then sit around for an hour waiting for your match. I couldn’t make my face look that fuckin’ Godly Evil and just walk around casually, like nothing is up. It’d be like LSD, and every time I passed a mirror, it’d fill me with a rush of uncontrollable emotions that I couldn’t stop so I’d just have to ride to wherever it, my sub-conscious, wanted to take me. Mental note to self: GET HIGH AS FUCK TOMORROW AFTERNOON AND SIT IN THE BACKYARD IN THE SNOW LISTENING TO KING DIAMOND. Wait, you have a kid now. Okay, revised mental note to self: GET HIGH AS FUCK TOMORROW NIGHT AFTER THE KID GOES TO BED AND SIT IN THE BACKYARD IN THE SNOW LISTENING TO KING DIAMOND. I should probably burn some things as well. Fire is good; it keeps us in touch with our feral roots. As does sex. As does violence. Damian hits the Mexican Guillotine for a two-count, as Carmichael breaks up the pin. Guys are getting fucked up in this match, and the partner is always there to run in and break up the potential pinfall, like a good tag match should have. Thus, you are telling the crowd that since it’s a tag match, two men have to be beat down, so as to not break-up a pinfall. And as I say that, Halloween powerbombs Carmichael on XL, then they hit Montezuma’s Revenge, one of those clever team-style moves, for the win. Those guys rule, and King Diamond rules, and Mexico rules for having kids to this day into getting fucked up on inhalants and listening to metal. I haven’t done enough inhalants in my life to the point where I have noticeable neurological damage and shared an apartment with two other guys and we had no furniture outside of milk crates and construction site materials and you had to light cigarettes outside, just to be safe, but I’ve done enough to know the joys of killing a mass of brain cells so fast, everything takes on a rhythmic industrial hum and you sort of swim through life for a few minutes. It’s a lot of fun. I never listened to King Diamond on inhalants, but I can tell you Thin Lizzy is fuckin’ great on them. Early Ween, of course, was made for inhalant abuse. The Butthole Surfers, though more of a trippy band, aren’t bad on inhalants, especially that weird double live tape thing with the alien on the cover. Oh fuck, Pussy Galore is the best for inhalants. And acid. The Exile on Main Street cover record is the most absolutely brilliant thing on Earth, of course, because I listened to it like three times in a row one day on five hits of acid while living the dorm-life in Richmond, Virginia. Later, me and my roommate were still tripping, laying there in our beds, and there was a fire alarm, and we couldn’t figure it out, we thought the stereo speakers were doing it. He was looking at them, I was freaking out, saying “Cut them off, man, shit”. People were banging on our door, and we assumed it was because our speakers had turned into a giant alarm clock, waking up the World at four o’clock on a Sunday morning. We stabbed the woofer of one of the speakers with a screwdriver before we finally answered the door and our RA told us we had to go outside and shit. We wandered till we met up with some friends, and nobody had any liquor, so we just stood there in the cold, watching the lights on the cop cars and fire trucks. Ahh, it’s Angel the Hardcore Homo vs. Supreme for the Death Match title. Supreme seems more gay to me than Angel. An effeminate latino is gay, but a good haircutter, and the type of guy who knew chicks to fix you up with since he was friends with them, but not enough to not set them up for a good dicking. Those type of gay guys are the best. Supreme is that fat, white, creepy dark homosexual, upset over the years of closeted homosexuality, and very much into the Anal Birth of Bert type stuff, that he scares the fuck out of me, just because they exist. There’s barbed wire in two corners, and this is a battle of the dark, sado fat white guy fag, and the skinny, peppy, happy-go-lucky humourous fag. These guys are shitty hardcore, and Mad Man Pondo would rape them both, all with that goofy smile on his face. They keep teasing the barbed wire, in new and more closer ways, but nobody has tasted the barbs yet. Well holy fuck, Supreme takes a hurricanrana outside the ring, face first onto some light tubes. That is fuckin’ crazy; then I remember he’s a sadomasochistic fag, and it seems more pathetic than crazy.
BEER FIVE: Angel pulls at him but Supreme tugs away and rolls over, I’m sure to taste the sweet blade. Angel botches a flip and lands on the barbed wire and light bulbs; I can’t tell if it was a work or an accident. Supreme does a shitty Scott Hall release slam over his head and over the top rope onto a table of barbed wire, with Angel barely missing. Then more violence with the bed of barbed wire, and Angel’s pajama bottoms keep coming off. Suplex of Angel onto a bed of light bulbs, and then Supreme carves the hardcore homo’s head with a bulb. The announcer says, “these hardcore fans don’t even wanna look, avoiding the carnage.” Yeah, whatever. You could set Angel on fire and rape his burning body, and they’d chant “X-P-dub! X-P-dub!” Supreme sucks so fuckin’ much. Finally, Angel is allowed to get some violent offense, and his face is bloody and I’m sure he’s pissed at Supreme’s shittiness, so he basically just starts busting tubes over his face, which is great. I am so behind Angel at this point, just because he has some style and Supreme sucks. They go in the women’s bathroom, and Supreme washes the blood off Angel’s face in a toilet. Supreme’s fat ass is able to climb a ladder up to one of the Viking Hall balconies, and Angel follows him. Let’s see, a fat white guy and a skinny Latino…I bet I know who takes the bump. Well, fuckin’ fuck, there’s two tables of barbed wire below the balcony and Angel gets thrown off into it. Of course, the fat faggot gets the pin, and the proud outed homosexual has to do the job, not only by taking the loss but by taking all the gimmick-selling bumps for Supreme’s Chinese buffet-addicted ass. Next up is Chris Chetti, who has always been boring, vs. Juventud Guerrera. The great thing about Juvi is he’s either gonna be motivated and have a great match, or he’s gonna be wasted and be hilarious on the mic like some guy you bullshitted with at a party over by the cooler full of purple passion one time. Were I a booker, I’d have a rule for Juvi. I’d check his eyes real good, and you know what to look for when you’ve been there, Visine removes the red but not the truth, and regardless of the outcome, I’d book fifteen minutes for Juvi. If he seems relatively straight and able to walk without bumping into shit and not asking for a ginger ale when he’s already got one in his hand half-full already, it’s a fifteen minute match. If he’s staggering around and laughing that laugh that only the fucked-up can laugh, where you realize the Sandman’s wife’s wrestling name was Peaches and you look at her chest and you laugh real slow and guttural like Ronnie Dobbs crossed with Vader, well, then it’s twelve minutes of Juvi on the mic, talking whatever shit comes to his twisted little well-traveled Mexican mind, with a three-minute screwjob of a match tacked onto the end.
BEER SIX: You know, sometimes it’s easy to lose sight of the fact that Juventud is a Mexican who was working for an American company when he was arrested in Australia, buck naked, assaulting a police officer. That is fuckin’ special. You realize how comfortable you have to feel to be naked in a hotel, even in a strange city, much less a foreign country? Drugs don’t just make you feel that way, not even good drugs. You have to be in a certain state of mind to start with. Most drug partakers set certain boundaries for themselves before they take drugs each time, except the too-far-gone types like heroin and crack, where your pre-set boundaries are as useless as God on a Friday night. But the rest of us drug users, well, we pre-establish boundaries before we cut ourselves loose, so that we know we’ll only go as far as we want to go. You know, if you’re feeling especially fucked up and about to split a quarter of shrooms and share a bottle of Crown Royal, you tell yourself, “Okay, I’m not leaving the house. Except, to maybe chill in the back yard. But that’s it.” And you try to follow that. When you are a Mexican, with a high-paying job, in Australia, and you are able to take E, and have the boundaries so far-flung that you end up naked in the lobby fighting women cops, well goddamn, that’s amazing to me. Those are the best types to hook up with at Greyhound stations during long lay-overs when you’ve got seven hours to kill in places like Little Rock, Arkansas. “Hey man, you drink?” “Yeah.” “Want some vodka?” “Sure.” “I’ve got a half a fifth over in the woods over there across the street.” And you look worried, because your boundaries aren’t as far-flung as his. So he says, “Tell you what, meet me in that parking lot over there behind that bread truck. I’m gonna go get my bottle of vodka.” And you do. And his first question behind the bread truck is, “You don’t have any weed, do you?” God, humanity is great when we don’t deny our animalistic tendencies too much. That’s the problem with the money shot cum blast – it’s not animalistic, it’s a white man Republican power trip for broke folks. Animalistic is hitting the sugar walls raw and never pulling out. NEVER! What feels better than coming inside a woman? Not much that I’ve found; no drugs or alcohol or wrestling or anything. XPW is kind enough to subtitle Juvi’s commentaries. The crowd does the Steve Austin “what?” thing that was all the rage back then when folks wore onions on their belt, and Juvi plays it off well, going “Fuck You”, then “Fuck You”, then “Fuck You Again”, then “Fuck You Twice”, “You don’t get tired?”, and “So Suck My Dick”. Man oh man, Juvi’s the fuckin’ greatest. He goes all four sides of the ring yelling “FUCK YOU!”
BEER SEVEN: “You want some of this? You want some juicy juicy juicy juice?” Man, if I were a money mark, I can tell you that Steve Corino and Juventud Guerrera would be at the top of my program, with a motherfuckin’ bullet. Chris Chetti comes in. It’s nice to see Chetti stick with the wrestling after losing out on Tough Enough 2. You’d figure most of those kids would’ve just quit. Once the match starts, Juvi hits a nice vicious elbow to the face, and goddamn Chetti’s getting a beer belly. Couldn’t they have booked a Juvi/John Kronus match? That’d be much better. Juventud has the evil-happy-go-lucky eyes of a man who’s great to party with, but you never bring your girl around, or let him know where you live at. Some of my best friends have been guys like that. This match is clipped the fuck up. Juvi pours the juice from the blender he brings in on top of Chetti, and Chetti shakes. I have never, in all my life, ever shaken from liquid. One time, I was all fucked up at this party, and these rednecks said, “You like Beam?” And I said, “Yeah.” And they said, “Come take a shot.” And I went out and they handed me a pint, and you gotta understand where I grew up the schools remained segregated five years after Brown vs. Topeka Board of Education. And there’s rednecks with money who went to the white school, and there rednecks with no money who ended being the 15% of white kids once the schools were “desegregated”. Well, these rednecks were from the rich redneck school, and often times they didn’t like us public school kids, which at that time was probably fifty-fifty percentage wise, coming to their parties and fucking the girls. Well, I went out to take a shot, and they handed me a Jim Beam traveler, and it looked clear to me, but I was fucked up, so I swigged it. It was fucking rubbing alcohol. I was ready to throw up immediately, but wanted to fight first, but luckily my boy Jubb followed me out, seeing the scene develop and knowing a drunk Raven led off by three guys was likely to end in bad news of one sort or another and he came and threw the bottle down and yelled at the dudes and led me back to the general population of the party. I was real fucked up, but this chick Heather took care of me. Being the lovable drunk is great, because even though me and Heather didn’t hook up that night, just because I was so funny and charismatic, even in that complete state of disarray, I was able to hook up with her many times in the following years. Legend weighs heavy in the minds of the sugar walls, and even more so with memories of you being helpless. Juvi hits a Juvidriver, and Chetti sits up for two seconds with a weird look on his face, I guess in some clever selling way, but falls out, and he gets pinned, and he reminds me of Lance Storm at the stage when Storm was first in ECW. This is pitiful in two ways; first off, Chetti has been wrestling for a while and should be better, and secondly, Storm has been mid-card great at best in his career, never top-shelf status. Juvi goes to fuck up Chetti some more, and Julio Dinero comes out, but falls victim to the eye poke. One of my favorite moments as a wrestling fan is being at the lone NWA Virginia show at a bar in Harrisonburg, and being half-drunk, and having Julio Dinero come out to confront me, I don’t know why, and me telling him, “Good job, Mr. Corino” and pissing him off. God, there’s tape of that whole fuckin’ scene somewhere, but nobody will give it to me. Well, since it’s the ECW Arena, we have to have a 3-way Dance. It’s Altar Boy Luke vs. Little Guido vs. Vic Grimes. Grimes and Guido and a shitty Chris Daniels wannabe – this could be good or terrible. Altar Boy hits a nice swan dive on Grimes ringside, but he’s half the guy’s size, so it’s hard to believe. And then a springboard corkscrew plancha on both guys by Altar Boy. It’s great and all, but Altar Boy’s a mini. I’d have put him in a match with Angel, and put Supreme against Grimes. But I’m sure Supreme has a big ego and is Rob Black’s friend because he hooks him up with girls who live under bridges for cheap porn starlets or some shit, so Supreme couldn’t do the job to Grimes, and Grimes wouldn’t job to a fat S&M fag, so we end up with this match, when Guido should’ve been in a 3-way with Super Crazy and Nicho instead.
BEER EIGHT: This would be so much better if Larry Rivera were talking through my videotape-playing machine. The greatest thing is I have a Terry Funk vs. Shane Douglas match still left, FROM 2002! It could only be better if somebody dollied out Bruiser Brody’s body with a rotating chain screwed into his arm. Or The Sheik’s body getting tossed into the ring and somebody blowing fire through a hole in his hand. Guido keeps breaking up the pinfalls Grimes makes on Luke after vicious maneuverings. Luke taps out after some serious body-bending by both Grimes and Guido, which leaves just the two former ECW dudes. Grimes is very sudden and violent, and Guido is continuous and methodical, this is not a very good match-up of styles. But Guido is playing well so far. It’s really fuckin’ gay of me to notice, but John Finnegan is a superior referee. You can see him anticipate things, much like a great worker would, and he moves out of or into the way as necessary. Guido starts the David vs. Goliath mode by hitting a series of weird submission things on Grimes. Grimes hits the win with a Styles Clash thing. Grimes is very much Ian Rotten-like in his ability to get busted up like a blood-letting freak, yet able to tweak it with some actual wrestling. “Little Guido…he’s knows those pizza cutters very well…but in a different fashion.” God, that’s terrible commentating. The XPW TV title is on the line, with Chris Hamrick, in his gay red pleather outfit, challenging for the title against some fuckin’ manager and a hooker and the champion, Kaos. The only person without their hair dyed blonde is the referee. This is a ladder match, and Hamrick hits a loud superkick on Kaos’ manager, G.Q. Money. XPW seems a lot like a group of sadomasochistic gay men, interspersed with some actual wrestlers mostly from Mexico, and some hookers “retiring” from porn, plus a couple of washed-up ECW World champions. But the main focus is the sadomasochistic friends of the owner. Hamrick hits a springboard moonsault to the ringside area on Kaos, who’s holding the ladder. I would be all about Hamrick if he didn’t wear such queer clothing in the ring. Okay, Kaos is in the tree of woe, holding a chair against his forearm, and Hamrick sets a ladder up against the chair, and then climbs the top rope and dropkicks the ladder, which hits the chair, which hits Kaos, and it’s like watching that Oriental chick play billiards, which is fancy talk for shooting pool, on ESPN2, and it’s too much, so fuck it. Motherfuck it. Ladder matches are overrated. Now, we’ve got an “industrial-sized ladder”. Kaos misses a really aesthetically beautiful moonsault from two-thirds of the way up the ladder. Kaos is not too bad, either, kind of a cross between Lenny Lane and Lodi. I expected the XPW-exclusive wrestlers to all suck, but they have not. Chris Hamrick has short hair, dyed blonde, and is wearing shiny red pants. He ain’t from no Bristol, Tennessee, I’ve been at. Turned out, psychologically. I’ll say this for XPW – they have nice fiberglass Werner ladders for their match, four of them so far. Not the cheap metal ones you used to see in Sabu & Van Dam vs. The Eliminators matches that made ladder matches so great. I hate that scream that this Kriss Kloss dude does, or whatever his name is. Kaos wins the match, but falls off the ladder holding the title belt like they always teach you in Ladder Match 101. Danny Doring enters the ring to break up post-match nonsense, and the crowd cheers on violence against Veronica Kaine. So Doring piledrives her, complete with panty shot. Danny Doring talks on the mic for a minute or two, and he’s a bigger fag than I’d ever imagined. The sad thing about pro wrestling is the guys like Doring who start to believe their own promos and think they’re something other than some guy. Speaking of which, time for Shane Douglas. Shane, as a heel, dogs the other Philly promotions and puts over XPW. Funk cuts the promo short by coming to the ring and does the absolute worst chair throwing into the ring that I’ve ever seen. My grandfather has a bad leg and two rebuilt hips, and he could throw a chair into the ring better than Funk just did. I wish I could make all memories of Terry Funk disappear after he won the ECW title on their first PPV, and his legacy was frozen in that. Imagine Michael Jordan playing for another ten years, and not only playing, but forcing himself into a starting role, and bricking free throws against the front of the rim. That’s Terry Funk in 2002. Imagine Mario Lemieux playing for another seven years, at the end, sucking wind halfway through a shift on the ice, and barely able to skate past a defender, much less get a shot on goal. That’s Terry Funk in 2002. Imagine Emmitt Smith refusing to retire and smasing his shitty body along behind a patchwork offensive line without the benefit of the prescription and street drugs of the early ‘90s Cowboy offensive lines. That’s Terry Funk AND Emmitt Smith in 2002. Put Terry Funk and Emmitt Smith in that Magnum T.A. car wreck too, but make Terry the drunk driver who’s loose body goes with the vehicle rolls and comes out with one cut over his left eye. I don’t want to hurt the Funker, because he is the Funker, after all. They’re selling some serious Funk injury to the arm, and I can’t believe it because Funk keeps holding his arm up to show the crowd, in true Funker fashion.
BEER NINE: Finnegan stops the match, and puts a towel on Funk’s arm. But his arm is not hurt enough to not piledrive Lizzy Borden, and then tear off her panties. He’s such a babyface. Shane runs, and Terry Funk sucks up those few cheap cheers that feed his pathetic soul. I drank two sips of that beer, which feeds my pathetic soul.
EPILOGUE: FIRST STAR OF THE TAPE: Put ‘em together and whaddya got? Halloween and Damian 666. It’s hard to take one over the other, which is what a tag team should be about. God Bless the both of them for wrestling, and God Bless seeing them in a quality match to re-inspire me to watch lucha this weekend, though it will probably be a repeat, and it won’t have Fuerza Guerrera. SECOND STAR OF THE TAPE: Juventud Guerrera, by talking alone. If he could’ve somehow done a backstage scene where he date-raped Danny Doring’s stripper fiancé, it might’ve been better, but hey, when you’re a wrestling fan, you take what you’re dealt. THIRD STAR OF THE TAPE: Angel the Hardcore Homo. He’s not bad, and he’s an amusing, lovable homosexual. Were the territorial system still alive, I’m sure he’d be a great Junior Heavyweight member of the House of Humperdink.
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