Progressive Boink's fourth calendar year mission statement involves entertaining our
fans worldwide. We've undertaken a variety of resolutions including sticking to a more
specific and workable writing schedule (Jon five times a month), earlier updates
(usually), and achieving the expansion of our fan base from local cult status to a
heightened level of consciousness where German street punks spray paint our names onto the
sides of things. Phase one involves 10,000 words on Schnappi das kleine Krokodil. Phase
two involves waiting!
We're working on what successful companies like Best Buy call "organic growth;"
namely, growing from what we already have and from the inside rather than extraneously. In
terms of an entertainment website like ourselves that equates to SUBSECTIONS SUBSECTIONS
SUBSECTIONS. Every time Mike posts an article we're turning it into a subsection. Did
people respond to your article about the Monchichis by writing "hey i also remember
monchichis" on the forum? Turn it into a subsection! Is part of our website going to
begin serving cold hoagie sandwiches? Turn it into a subsection! The possibilities are
endless, like Mike.
One thing we've tried in the past is expanding beyond what is expected. During the site's
initial run we wanted to separate ourselves from X-Entertainment
or Whatever-Dude.com by being
the "Calvinball of websites." That meant experimenting with what a comedy
website could be, manipulating HTML and writing conventions to produce a unique brand of
education and entertainment I like to call "entercation." When that became our
M.O. we switched gears and began asking "do you remember this thing?" We didn't
want to be pigeonholed as the "weird" site who only writes about lesbians and
how Amazon is more like Shamazon. So we became the "Baseball of websites,"
becoming boring and writing about baseball all the time.
We'd tried leaving writing behind completely to pursue our sports dreams before, setting
up our very own NFL
Franchise "The Progressive Boinks." We only lasted a week and like any good
Christians were destroyed by Lions. Thanks to the anarchonistic nature of our website we
later learned about how I
buy the Baltimore Orioles of the future and stock them with my friends and a variety
of fictional characters, effectively making them slightly better than they are in real
life. Neither worked out as well as we'd hope, and P-Boi Sports just kinda sat there
pointlessly, never being updated.
I tried to comfort myself with my writing. If I surround myself with enough enablers I'm
no longer en able to produce hilarious diatribes, but many of my more creative efforts are
skimmed and/or hey-man-good-jobbed in favor of the ones I wrote in haste and at the last
minute, i.e., everything about wrestling I have ever written. I write about wrestling when
I'm writing about wrestling, and I write about wrestling when I'm not. I write about it
when I'm making my grocery list. Or during frank sexual pieces. "Yeah we set it up so
I was pretending to rape her, and I tied her leg up like Kobashi had his legs tangled in
the ropes allowing Stan Hansen to Westernly Lariat his face off. Afterwards I spanked her
as though I was Stan Hansen defending the sanctity of the mens' locker room against Missy
Hyatt. Also I am thinking about fucking Stan Hansen." It's a disease.
I began writing about wrestling ("my girlfriend wants me to look like some of the HOT
wrestlers like Z-Man or Flyin' Brian!...oh, or YOU Terry Taylor!") when I got a
bright idea...
I would combine my love of wrestling with my love of getting away from this ineffectual
"Arts" racket! Away, yeah, that's the ticket! I would finally get over my fear
of some pathetic, jaded old veteran breaking my ankle for no other reason than because I
was born during a year when he was alive and get into the wrestling business. If being on
the Internet has taught me nothing else it's taught me how the wrestling business SHOULD
be run.
My first preference (since I am an elitist snob) was to partner with Northeast American
independent promotion Ring of Honor, an
organization known for their dedication to the athletic aspects of wrestling above the
ridiculous presentation and for their fans. I wanted the other writers and I to wrestle in
front of the ROH fans because of one simple fact: ROH FANS LOVE EVERYBODY. It doesn't
matter if you're a legitimate five-star wrestler like Samoa Joe or if you're a skinny guy
who showed up with a ponytail and some Saved by the Bell themed trunks. You're going to
get a "please come back!" chant when you show up and a "please don't
go!" chant when you get back. The ROHbots are codependent if nothing else. I figure
Nick knows how to hold somebody by the wrist while they flip around and he knows how to
throw a backbreaker, so he should have no problems getting over. Hey, Roderick Strong did
it.
I spoke with Ring of Honor owner Rob Feinstein about the possible alliance online briefly
and we arranged to meet behind the dumpster in the back of a Shakey's in the middle of
Pennsylvania. The discussion was going great until a police car careened into the alleyway
and dragged him away by his little tanktop. Come to find out he isn't even the owner of
Ring of Honor anymore. Thanks a lot, 1Wrestling! Ah well, it wasn't a total loss. Boy,
could that man go on and on about wanting to fuck fifteen-year olds. He's a man of my
heart! But I can think of a lot of ways to piss off the younger ROH fans than by pushing
Azriael.
My next choice was to meet with "Designing Women" star Dixie Carter, who in
addition to transporting tiny cups heads up Total
Nonstop Action, a wrestling show which can be seen either while on Disney vacation or
while you should be out doing something with your goddamn life in the middle of the night
on Saturdays. TNA is just like Ring of Honor, only every match ends with someone being hit
by an inanimate object. These include hockey sticks, beer bottles, and Larry Zbysko. Dixie
wanted to bring in all ten of our writers as fan favorites, only to have them all turn
heel later in the night and align with Jeff Jarrett. There were creative differences, and
as I was leaving her office she hit me in the upper back with a toaster.
I thought about Japan, but I didn't want to encourage Lindy. I thought about Mexico, but I
didn't want to encourage Pholby. I thought about some of the local promotions like Combat
Zone Wrestling but I couldn't get used to the feeling of breaking my good ideas over my
head.
I never expected Vince McMahon and the World Wrestling Federation of Entertainers to
answer my calls. As a terrible wrestling fan I grew up watching stars like Hulk Hogan! No
I didn't. Fuck you, I love Vader. But still, they're a multimillion dollar company and
despite my qualms with some of their motivations (and against the better advice of
everyone who has ever posted on the Internet) I phoned up Jim Ross, and you know what? He
blabbered on about barbecue sauce for thirty minutes. No only joking! That's what we
Wrestling Uncensored alumni call parody and satire. We actually talked for a few and he
invited me up to their Stamford, Connecticut home base to talk business. Out of one corner
of his mouth.
A deal was struck. Progressive Boink would be brought in as a new stable of antiauthority
Hell raisers or as a group of really arrogant sexy young men. They weren't sure yet which
of their two gimmicks to give us. Regardless, we were going to be running a SuperCard
featuring the superstars of the WWE and the desperately in need of validation Progressive
Boink staff. It was the big time!
Not everyone was happy with our decision. There was obviously a backlash on the Internet,
where at least twelve or thirteen different fat guys in ill-fitting hockey jerseys called
us cocksuckers for Vince McMahon and reassured us that they, the king of all assholes,
would surely beat us up physically if we were ever in the same place. I thought about
using the pullout method to escape our WWE dry hump, but reconsidered. Hell, even P-Boi
founder and former writer Mendal King decided against character to express his dismay at
our decision.
Sadly he chose to do so via The Revolution, which was not televised.
Before we made our debut on Monday Night Raw we were introduced to the boys. They were all
very gracious and kind, and wished us well. Then we were introduced to the wrestlers. They
informed us of some talking points in case we were ever asked about our careers in the
WWE. Among those points were:
- There is no offseason in the WWE!
- The WWE Superstars are the best athletes in the world, and you can look in any sport and
not find an athlete the caliber of said WWE Superstar. Even the WWE Superstars who start
sucking wind after they do a clothesline. They are still the best athletes in the world.
Even the really fat ones.
- If you think wrestling is "fake" why don't you get in the ring with me and see
how fake it is! Or simply explain to me how wrestling is neither "fake" nor
"real" but a performance integrating athleticism with storytelling and allow me
to retort by beating you up, which will assumedly disprove your theories and allow me to
continually delude myself about the intent and motivation of what I have chosen to do for
a living, which probably explains why I'm not very good at it.
- NBC's "Secrets of Pro Wrestling: REVEALED!" is the funniest shit in history.
My stomach was full of butterflies standing back in the hallway of curtains with Michael
P.S. Hayes (who is always forgetting to add his last name until he's almost done writing)
and Janet the Make-up Lady. They explained to me how I had to be dedicated and intense to
get the job, but now that I've got it I just have to wear the suspenders and the bow-tie
and stand in the ring talking about homosexuality and its relation to me for five minutes,
then go back to the hotel. There's no offseason in the WWE! John Cena has to work
"poop" into a sentence 366 days a year, folks!
Then: OUR MUSIC HITS.
"Yeah No Whoa" by Nu Metal Band from Five Years Ago!
And we're on!
As you can see, I chose to wear the mask of Ultimo Dragon (as I usually do) to show my
love and respect for Yoshihiro Asai, the worker who has portrayed the Dragon around the
globe in three decades now. I didn't even have to bring my own. I found one of Dragon's
old masks laying in the locker room beside a GTV camera and Shelton Benjamin's integrity.
Turns out nobody even remembered that he WORKED for the WWE until I mentioned how he
slipped on his own sparkly cape at Wrestlemania XX. Then we all got a good laugh. Then The
Masterpiece Chris Masters won a wrestling match!
We chose Jon to
wrestle in the first match of the night because if he didn't we'd probably miss the update
this week and I don't know, like Mark would have to do a post. "Mark doing a
post" is arguably what's going on before your very eyes.
Somehow, I think my nine-year-old self would be disappointed in me for putting myself
and my friends in a video game as wrestlers rather than acting like a man and actually
being one. Hate to break it to you, kid, but you're going to waste your days away
working yourself to death at Office Max and developing a promising career as an Internet
writer who relies on screenshots to be funny. I can’t find a good image
of the kid from “The Kid” yelling “I GROW UP TO BE A LOO-SOAR”
to Bruce Willis, so here’s a picture of Jon judo-kicking some guy.
Jon isn't wearing any shoes there because he didn't have time to put them on. He barely
made it to the show at all, what with his toilet overflowing.
We booked Nick
Dallamora in the second match under a "rich guy" gimmick, because all
anybody wants is a DALLAMORA!
Nick is wrestling Carlito Caribbean Cool here, and I want to take a moment to explain
why. I've been a wrestling fan my entire life. Since birth. Nick isn't a wrestling fan
now, but he WAS, and that's an important kind of wrestling fan, since it's the kind we all
know the most frequently. He loved guys like the Million Dollar Man and The Undertaker as
a child (because Nick is 11 years old) so he still holds a very sincere, very open love of
that time period and those wrestlers. They didn't suddenly become "fake" and
"gay" to him, even if he doesn't watch anymore or care about the newer guys. I
juxtapose that with Carly Colon, the son of Puerto Rican wrestling legend Carlos Colon,
who is only here because, well, he has to be.
What's the closer connection? Neither guy has been into wrestling for the last few years.
Notice here how Carlito is stunned (and still kinda dressed) to find himself in the
Million Dollar Dream right in the middle of his "wrestling" job of eating fruit
and talking.
Nick and Jon both performed well in their matches, but one of the most important parts of
us being on the show for me was getting our female writers over as equals to the men. They
are. Em and Lindy are two of
the most talented girls I've ever known.
They can do all kinds of things. Draw, write, crochet. I can't crochet. I gotta know
what a crumpet is before I can understand crochet. We have never seen them as anything but
our peers and friends.
 
This is how my meeting with WWE Creative went.
B. It's important to me that we present Emily Rowley and Lindy Kempe in a
positive light, and give them as much screen time and gravitas as you'd give Jon or me or
Fireball.
RICK D. We're going to have them make out.
RICK B. AFTER BEING STALKED!
RICK D. Shut up, Rick B.
STEPHANIE. Yeah, shut up Rick B.
B. I didn't notice (well, I noticed, but you know) until I was making
their create-a-wrestlers what a zaftig female staff we have at P-Boi.
RICK D. The Russian guy from Street Fighter II?
RICK B. No, it means "full-bosomed." In England zaftig means a
"bunch of sticks!"
STEPHANIE. I also have luxurious, full breasts! /fondles self
twenty minutes pass
B. I just want them to be "athletes." Superstars. They deserve
it. We should put the spotlight on them and all submit to that vagina-envy wish for
motherhood thing we men get some time, where we can't help but idealize them and put them
up on pedestals for being exactly what we need to be happy, and to just get by. Stephanie,
I know as a woman you can understand what I'm trying to say.
STEPHANIE. I do. What ideas do you have, boys?
RICK D. Push her face into a birthday cake?
RICK B. SPANKING!
RICK D. Cut her face!
RICK B. Put a knife in their vaginas!
RICK D. Live, TORRID SEX IN THE MIDDLE OF THE RING!
RICK B. Wait, why are they having sex in the fat girl clothes from Hot
Topic?
STEPHANIE. Those are all great ideas. Mr. Stroud, I give you my word that
we will respect your coworkers to the utmost of our abilities as writers and human beings.
B. Just don't make them wrestle in gravy, okay?
STEPHANIE. What, gravy's bad? SINCE WHEN?
I guess I did the best I could.
Pholby was
supposed to wrestle at this show, but he didn't. He decided that the allure of the
"big leagues" was nothing compared to the self-respect you get working on the
independent circuit, performing for fewer but more appreciative fans. The kind of fans who
drove eight or nine hours just to see their favorite wrestler perform.
The kinds of fans who will stand up and CHEER their hearts out for you when your
fighting spirit keeps you pressing forward, teaching you that you should NEVER give up.
These fans will chant your name when you win, and if will only chant "YOU FUCKED
UP" and the like every time you make a small mistake. But hey, at least they have the
decency to do it immediately afterward, so your head is still pounding and you can't see
straight or hear them.
Pholby wanted MORE out of his wrestling show. I can't say I blame him. He Packs an Eli
Wallop.
Oh who am I kidding, Pholby couldn't work the show because in "WWE-style"
he'd only be able to do armdrags and chinlocks. I heard that after the indy show he and
Paul London exchanged quick glances, then went on their way. The toll taken on his body
means everything when he hears the crowd roar...especially since they are roaring slightly
louder at his springboard double somersault to the guardrail than they would at the guy
who grabs his wrist and says huss.
I still think they're
in cahoots.
Kyle and Justin were supposed to be in a tag match in the middle of the show, but for
whatever reason they weren't ready to go in time and we had to push it back. We let the
Lindy/Emily match go on a little longer, because they deserved the time to tell the story
of two women who have been paid to take off their clothes in front of people to the
critical smark crowd.
Shortly after this I made an Akira Hokuto create-a-wrestler and watched all three
wrestle for like an hour. Heh heh.
Bill's match was up next.
A match with Bill sometimes takes a while to happen. You want him to wrestle every show,
and you want him to slap hands and sign autographs afterward. You just like watching him
wrestle, you know? But it doesn't happen a whole lot. You've got to change the channel and
watch Konnan throw his shoe at Jason Rivera or whatever. You start to worry and you want
to convince Bill that he SHOULD wrestle, even if he doesn't like his match, because he
NEEDS to wrestle. We all want him to. Then he does, finally, and you know what? It's
better than every other match on the card.
Sometimes I've just got to explain things in wrestling terms.
Despite having designed the arena we were wrestling in and the actual game I used to do
this, our little Pokémon Mike Westfall didn't
want to wrestle. He made a resolution this year that he'd wrestle every day, but he just
wasn't feeling up to it tonight, especially since wrestlers from other federations were
always stealing his signature moves.
However a little pep talk and reassurance from a really bad PG-13 rated 18-34
demographic version of Karen got the Fireball back on his feet, and pretty soon he was out
there in the ring living out his dream of jumping on Andre the Giant's back and strangling
him.
Notice that Fireball was the only one to show up in uniform.
Soon enough it was time for the main event. Since I couldn't get Ric Flair to write B =
Best!!11 across his man-boobs I had to inflate my ego somewhere else, and throwing myself
into a main-event title match with Triple H was the way to go. The funny thing is that
although Triple H isn't the champ as of this writing, this writing will stay online for
however long, and the longer it goes the better the chance that while you're reading it
Triple H IS in fact the heavyweight champion. It's like me typing "you have to pee
right now." I don't know you or who you are, but there's a pretty good chance I'm
right.
I play the "lung disease" card a lot when I'm asked why I never became a
professional wrestler (or at least gave it a shot), but the truth is that I COULDN'T. I
know how to do it. That sounds like bullshit, but I do. I know how to "punch"
and how to "fall" and how to push over the stunt granny. I know how to blade,
how to work a microphone, how to tell a story. I do it all the time. I've studied
wrestling religiously and meticulously to the point where all joking aside I cannot be
conscious and mentally unoccupied without it coming into my head. I've met Kenta Kobashi
and Eddy Guerrero, and I've met The Maestro and Ernest "The Cat" Miller. The
spectrum goes all the way around.
I don't tell myself this a lot, but I'd be a good wrestler. I think. I wouldn't want to be
a "wrestler wrestler" so much as I'd like to wrestle, going out there and doing
it and having a blast. I don't care if I'd win or lose. As long as I got to put on a great
match I couldn't give a shit. Doing it to do it is a lost art. Maybe that's why I love
Bryan Danielson so much. Get a tan! No! Okay. And then he wrestles. Could it be like that?
Could you really be an accountant or real estate agent or work at an Office Max call
center and wrestle on the weekends, and have it make you as happy as going to SEE the
wrestling on weekends? There's a tactile joy in doing it to do it. But there's an even
deeper fear of losing that, and losing it all.
I don't want to lose my love of wrestling. I wrestled in high school. I picked up my
300 plus pound friend Christian and slammed him for dropping elbows on my throat when he
should've been tying up collar-and-elbow. It was beautiful. I loved grappling, I loved
doing backbends against the wall because it made me feel like Chris Benoit. Then the
"team" would come in, and "wrestling" would be replaced by "high
school," and you were a fucking idiot for not doing that the way coach said and what
the fuck is your problem go run laps.
It stays when you start wrestling "professionally." You do it to do it, and you
love it. And then some asshole like Bob Holly thinks you deserved to be punched in the
face, and what can you do? You can't punch him back, even though Bob Holly is one of those
walking penises who would be murdered by death the second anyone with a basic knowledge of
what a key lock is retaliated. He's protected, not just by his seniority in the
"business" but by the law. He punches you. It's a show! You punch him. It's
retaliation, and it's "real," and it's assault. Someone breaks your ankle for no
reason. They stretch you out to teach you "respect for the business," whether
you already have it or not.
And that's why I'm afraid. I once said that I could never kill myself no matter how
depressed I got because I'd miss wrestling. It's true. When I die there's going to be
years and years of matches and guys that I'll never be able to see. It's fucking
mortality. Life goes on, and so does the stupid shit like wrestling that trails along
behind it.
So what do I do? Face my fear and pessimism for humanity long enough to step into a ring
and "find out how fake it is" and get that unstoppable rush of joy from deep
down in my heart, or do I selfishly hold on to that thing I can't live without and make
myself F-5 the balls off of Triple H? I can talk about it online afterward. We can all get
a good laugh. Then we go on, out of obligation. Always one step outside of that circle,
where the "boys" live their dreams, whatever they ended up being.
This'll work for now.
DARK MATCH HAPPENINGS
It turns out that Kyle was late for the
show because he had to start growing out his facial hair and dye his hair in January to be
ready for his Halloween costume in October, but he showed up. The unreliable but
well-meaning Justin
showed up alongside him, and they |
