So basically, I started watching wrestling when I was 12 and I was sure I could work for them and be a head writer. Wait, that happened when I was 21. Anyway, I was certain I could get in there and kick the place into shape, since anyone who's stumbled across my writing knows I'm pretty much the smartest guy on the whole internet. If you need stories about angry repressed lesbians who never seem to have sex, I'm your man, and I figured these skills could easily be applied to the WWF.
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I had lots of great ideas, the first and greatest being that Raven would be a homeless guy.
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"Help me I'm sick"
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It'd be great: He'd get a phone call telling him that his wife (or whoever) had left him, his house was gone, he was bankrupt and somebody had been letting an incontinent dog sleep on his kilt for weeks and had never told him. Pretty soon he'd be hitching rides to shows, sleeping in a box outside the arena and smelling of urine. Hell, somebody could actually urinate on him, before kicking his box and telling him to get inside for his fucking match. His stench would overpower his opponents and he'd win every belt. It was gonna be fantastic.
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"Hey Rhyno, check out this cool shopping cart!
I use it 'cause I'm fucking homeless!"
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The thing with that idea is that everyone on earth had already thought of it. Even people who didn't watch wrestling had abstract dreams about a guy wearing a Sandman shirt getting pissed on and poked with a stick by small children. So once I became aware that my great idea wasn't so great, I decided to come up with another one. After all, I can come up with fifty ideas a minute and they're all gold. So I sat down for 1.2 seconds and came up with my next idea:
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"My real name's Erin."
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Crash Holly would have his name changed... to Little Ruddiger... and he'd do anything... to get out of a beating.
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That was the only idea I had for days, then weeks, then a solid eight months. So maybe writing wasn't my thing anyway. Besides, I didn't want to be behind the scenes, I wanted to be on WWF television, sneaking into HHH's dressing room and stealing a pair of his trunks so I could be hilariously caught wearing them while doing a pose-down in front of a mirror, singing the Uncle Kracker X-Factor theme while doing the occasional DX chop. A dream I knew deep down I'd likely never live to see.
With this realization came an understanding of my true place. I was put on this earth to run quality control over the WWF, a job I could easily do at home in front of my couch. I mean on my couch, in front of my tv. I could watch the show, laugh when it was funny, cry when it was moving and inspirational, emit obnoxious hooting and hollering at all the near-nudity and fall silent when Undertaker told his wife to hold on to his father-in-law's buzzsaw for awhile because he might need it to saw some things later. Like sawing his head from his own body and later having it re-attached in a secret underground lab, where he would become re-animated through the dark arts and mercifully re-align himself with Satan, never to wear a bandana again. He'd have the biggest, most purple necktie you ever saw, and a brimmed hat that would block out the sun in every town he set foot in. Lord Satan would only allow UT's belly to grow with the swelling of a terrible swarm of demon-brood, instead of one too many swigs of moonshine from Undertaker's personal still back at the ranch. (Or at least, that's what Satan would tell people was making UT fat, and we'd fucking well believe him, for Christ's sake.)
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"You bring the butter?"
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Eventually I figured that if I was gonna spend all this time sitting in front of my couch, I might as well make a website. After all, I've got a Nintendo website, a movie review website, a website of my whole neighborhood masturbating onto a broken acoustic guitar and calling it music, a website of my brooding teen-angst, a website of fictional teens brooding since I became too old to do it myself, and a wrestling website. (links pending.)
Everything but a wrestling website, so here it is. I mean, what the hell. It won't matter if I get no hits, 'cause I'll know that the one visitor I had in any given month will have been Vince MacMahon, and when I see Perry Saturn walk down the ramp as a pirate who makes people "walk the plank", I'll know who they stole the idea from.
HOW TO "WALK THE PLANK"
(idea stolen from Dan Eldridge)
I realize this diagram may be a little tough to follow. A lot of times when you spend a lot of time working on something, hours and hours submerged in your own mind where no other man can go, things get a little muddled. You put so much time and effort into quality that when you come out you've got a garbled mess that no one but you can understand. So here's the lo-down:
1) Perry Saturn (with eyepatch, parrot and optional pirate hat) comes to the ring carrying a plank of wood, much like Hacksaw Jim Duggan would carry a 2x4 if he were still alive today.
2) After beating his opponent (in this case, Raven) senseless, Saturn places the plank under the bottom rope so that it protrudes beyond the ring apron, standing on it to keep it securely in place.
3) He then uses his mighty muscles to easily place the dazed Raven on the other end of the plank, on the opposite side of the ring ropes.
4) Saturn then pushes Raven.
Raven has just walked the plank, leaving him bloody and broken on the arena floor. The ref then counts him out, Saturn is proclaimed the winner and any belts Raven holds are retained, thereby making advancement through the ranks impossible for Saturn to accomplish. Arr!
Oct.29/01
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