It's taken me a few weeks to sink into the warm, sweat-covered cushions of Lethal Wrestling, but thanks to a conversation with LW's MMN I came to a crushing realization: I'm never going to get married. There are two conclusions you can draw from that epiphany: 1) That I'm kinda creepy for thinking about marriage while talking to MMN. Or, Most of you are probably going with the first one, and I don't blame you. I've been known to creep myself out more often than not. What the hell am I doing here? I don't belong here. In fact, many readers don't even know what sex I am. I once convinced former Wrestling Uncensored headcheese Macbeth that I was the female world's leader in Transformers Trivia. But after some deep psychoanalysis I decided that it wasn't a sexual identity crisis, like many AOL users who use the number one after their exclamation points because they're too into conversation to hold the shift key down say it is. (Insider Trivia: My "Lady Marmalade" article on Whatever-Dude has branded me a "FUCKING ASS GOBBLING FAGGOT BURGER WITH GAY CHEESE" and a Prince fan amongst chatroom higher-ups.) It's actually a deeper problem. Remember when the WWF was good? Was it because of Stone Cold Steve Austin's antiauthority rise to the top, the transformation of Rock or Triple H, or the shock-TV creative storylines that made it good? Of course not. It was Jeff Jarrett's brief run as woman-beating Alpha Male. And it scarred me for life. I can't shake the habit. I can't stop putting women in wrestling holds. In real life I'm a pretty big guy. Granted I'm not Scott Steiner, but I'm somewhere between the Kane and Spike Dudley. I mean, I'm somewhere between The Rock and Hurricane Helms. Uh...somewhere between Matt and Jeff Hardy? Okay, I've got it, I'm somewhere between a slightly less pastry-filled Matt Hardy and a slightly straighter Jeff Hardy. Perfect. And considering I've got a head the size of Nebraska I've done fairly well in the dating world. According to my score book I've never dated a painfully ugly girl, except for the time I got stuck in the elevator with the blind girl and found out an important lesson about inner beauty. Fucking Mr. Belding put me in detention that afternoon while he pruned his Bansai trees and I had to devise a scheme to win the radio contest prize. I hated high school. Now I want to be a cop! But yeah, I can't stop assaulting women. "Assault" might be too harsh of a word, I don't ever stomp a mudhole in their asses or walk it dry, I don't bash them with lead pipes or anything. I "fake" it, going more for theatrics than pain. This trend started around Chris Jericho's infamous Cruiserweight Title run in WCW. At the time I was dating a girl named Jessica and, upon being blue-balled for about the billionth time, proceeded to put her in the Lion Tamer. In what I attribute to a black hole and fit of confusion, we ended up having sex that night. So I stood up afterwards and was all "Yeah boyee booyah" and she was all "you don't know 20 ways to make me call you big poppa" and I was all "It's on like neckbone." Truly, it was on. A TRIP TO THE WOODSHED My relationship with Jessica was going great, we were two teenage kids exploring our budding adulthood, sometimes in the ass. It was my first attempt at being a good boyfriend, so I went the whole nine yards, faked a spike and threw the bomb for 60. It was a great game, until the stupid fans started throwing beer bottles all over the tattered Astroturf of my emotions. One Saturday afternoon, while Jessica's white-trash mother and stepfather (who looked like Steve Forbes) were out "bowling," which is an ancient ritual performed by hillbillies in times of great strife, Jessica invited me over for another practice test for my brown license. She greeted me wearing my Mark Messier 94 Stanley Cup Champions New York Rangers jersey (there's nothing sexier than a girl in a hockey jersey...nothing.). As she lead me seductively to her room, I realized that WCW Saturday Night was coming on and lead her seductively back to the living room, to watch seductive wrestlers like Lenny Lane and Sgt. Buddy Lee Parker seductively suck up the joint for sixty minutes. After five or six minutes of back and forth, I decided not to be a complete numb nuts and go ahead with the girl. When we got into her room, I knelt down to untie my shoes. She made the mistake of leaning over me to speak into my ear. I stood straight up, with my girlfriend on my shoulders, turned, and death valley driver'd her candy ass into her puffy teenage girl bed. This was followed by a solid ten minutes of yours truly laughing my ass off on the floor, and my girlfriend lying on the bed discovering curse words she never knew existed. I think she called me a "taintfucking chocojabber," which sounds great coming from the lips of a 16 year old Christian teen. A few weeks later she cheated on me with a guy she met at church. Karma's a bitch. A few weeks after that she was sexually assaulted (in a non-Spicolli way) and came back to me. Around that time I was discovering a wonderful thing called the "Crippler Crossface." A few weeks later she cheated on me with a computer programmer. I think she was getting desperate. Haw haw! YEAH BABY After Jessica came a string of three-daters, nobody worth mentioning. I made it my personal mission to overcome my girl troubles with some positive disassociation, and began putting every girl I could in whatever submission hold I could think of, most of the times being the Lion Tamer. Highlights include me putting a former Miss Teen Virginia in the Lion Tamer on the diving board of my friend's swimming pool, and the end of my basement wrestling career when my friend's sister fell victim to the Regal Stretch, and cried to her Mom for two and a half weeks. Bloody wench. I was besmirched!!!!11 !!11 LOLOLOLOLOL A DRUNKEN BRAWL My friend Cristy was, outside of her horrible taste in men and penchant for the standard girl "split-second decision I'll regret in twenty minutes" attitude, one of the sexiest girls I've known. Every one of her friends, male and female, has had some sort of physical relationship with her, but deep down she was always a really cool chick. We've had a few trysts in the past, nothing really worth bragging about. That is, until my Olympic victory. Allow me to explain. I've never seen a girl more naked and more mounting me than Cristy when she was drunk. A hobby of my friends is to get her drunk and hit on her all at once, and see who "wins." Cristy always stated that she was faithful to her tool boyfriend (so cool he got a Poison Elves tattoo on his leg and a "Vampire" role-playing game tattoo on his other leg, all on his thighs so his parents wouldn't know), except for the times when she would get drunk and have threesomes. Or the times when she'd visit people at college and get drunk and fuck them. Or the times when she lounged around in her underwear on me while we were watching Stuart Little. I never fucked the girl, but now whenever I read "Trumpet of the Swan" I get a hard-on. She DID try it once...she was especially tipsy one evening, and asked me to "take her upstairs" so she could "get some sleep." Being a nice guy I obliged, and pseudo-piggybacked her up the stairs. When we entered her room, she wrapped her arms around me and went for the hormone Miracle Ecstasy. I probably would've went for it too, but I was already involved with someone...so she got something much better than my 25 inch car-crushing schlong. She got the Olympic Slam. Up she went and down she came crashing on the bed. Instead of lying there cursing me like Jessica, Cristy took the humorous route and bounced upside down off the side of the bed, and landed on her head. That's when she started barfing everywhere. In retrospect I should've apologized and helped her, but I just went back downstairs. Wait, who the hell am I kidding? In retrospect I should've flipped her loose-ass over and made her tap to the ANGLELOCK. WOOOOOOOOO. BUSINESS IS ABOUT TO PICK UP A girl doesn't have to try to sleep with me to get choked out, it's just the most direct route. As Chris Jericho became a cheesy face and I got tired of trying to put a girl in the Lion Tamer without bashing her head on the pavement on the way down, I switched finishing holds. Today's big finish is the Tazzmission, which is a great move when it's not being done by a fat little orange gas station attendant. Sometimes the girl plays along until she's on the ground with my legs around her, but most give up as I'm swinging them around in a standing position. Memorable Tazzmissions include: - My friend Emily, who hadn't watched wrestling since back when the Junkyard Dog was popular. She goes to an all-girl school, which is kinda lame until you visit and have to use the bathroom. It's like going through the looking glass into wonderland, with all the tiny bottles of girl shampoo and tiny soaps and tiny little towel-clad lesbians trotting around. But I digress... Once Emily was showing me where the bathroom was, and as she raised her hand to point I saw my opportunity. I clamped on the Tazzmission and swung her around, all the way back to her room and down facefirst onto her futon. By the time she was gasping for air and had half of her body hanging off about to hit the floor she asked the important question "how do I get you to let me go?" How the hell was I supposed to know that some people in this world of technology don't know what "tapping out" is? I milked it for a few more minutes and taught her how to tap. She did adamantly, but still forgets for the first few minutes of each new submission hold I try out. - My ex-girlfriend Holly. I hooked her and laid her down on the kitchen floor in peril until she agreed to make me some nachos. - Waiting in line at the KISS farewell tour concert (the third or fourth one, I think) I was introduced to my friend Chris's new girlfriend. She went on a big rant about how tough she was for a girl, and how 2XTREME and 3XTREME and 45XTREME she was for having purple streaks in her hair. Since we were waiting for hours to get into the building anyway and only had mullet-haired hillpersons to chat with, I took her up on her words and we had an impromptu match on the sidewalk. About 2 minutes into the brawl I hooked on the Tazzmission, and ROBBED HER OF HER FOCKIN AIR, I CHOKED HER ASS OUT. She didn't tap right away, though. The dingy broad elbowed me in the hip about thirty times before tapping. I had a bruise on my hip for three weeks afterwards, but she'll have a bruised ego for life. FOR LIFE!!111 I think I might've squeezed her a little hard, but who cares. She was about as pretty as the Undertaker's hair. Anyway.... I'M THAT STAR UP IN THE SKY I'M THAT MOUNTAIN PEAK UP HIGH My two greatest moments involve my most recent girlfriend. She's a wonderful person and I'm one of the luckiest men around, because I found a girl who loves wrestling almost as much as me. We've been to shows together, and even sat through a "Show-Gunns" match at a Smackdown taping together once. She could shoot my parents and I'd still have a thing for her. Moment 1) She had to sleep on a mattress on the floor for a year. The reason? Obvious. During a bit of foreplay she bent down a little too far (if there is such a thing) and ... well, when a woman is bent over in front of you with her face only inches from your crotch what ELSE are you supposed to do? I hooked her arms up, dropped to my knees and delivered a picture-perfect pedigree into the bed. Unfortunately the impact of a tall girl and a big guy crashing down broke some things under the bed, and the mattress found a permanent place on the floor. I still don't think she's forgiven me for it, but at least I got a good laugh. I even stood up and did the Kane "YEAH YOU YOU GOT DROPPED YOU BRUTE!!!11" hand motions. My only regret is that I didn't do it on a table. Moment 2) Probably the story that prompted this post. I was upstairs and heard her coming up the steps. Nothing to mention, right? Wrong. DEAD WRONG. DEAD MAN WALKING WRONG. I took a big swig of Mountain Dew and took my position. As she turned the corner and began to speak, I swung my arms out and nailed her with the green mist. Perhaps the finest moment of my life. As I cackled with EXTREME SODA dribbling down my chin, my girlfriend dropped to her knees and bellowed "FUCK, what the fuck...FUCK." Then I finished her off with the LEG-SLAPPIN KICK OF EXTREME DISCOMFORT IN A PRETEND ENVIRONMENT!!!!!!! Just kidding. I said I was sorry and helped her up. But she learned an important lesson that day: If you're dating B, you better watch out. Or, more specifically... If you're dating B and he throws a chair at you, just let it hit you. If you catch it, it's gonna end up hurting a lot worse. Since that day she's expressed on an unnerving number of occasions that she doesn't ever want to get married. I guess I should feel bad about it, but instead of sitting here thinking of ways to win her heart I'm sitting here thinking of ways to get her in the Tarantula without a house furnished with ring ropes. So in conclusion, thank you MMN, for helping me realize my faults. It's going to be a lonely, lonely life for me. Hey...do you think the girls at the Escort Service have low enough self-confidence to let me Vertebreaker them? I bet! Now there's only two things I need: 1) $400 dollars an hour, and -b |
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