Most tales and ballads depict (peasants) as aggressive, insolent, greedy, sullen, suspicious, tricky, unshaved, unwashed, ugly, stupid, and credulous. – Barbara Tuchman, A Distant Mirror
Thus proving that marks have existed since the 14th Century.
Geez, you take a few weeks off, and all of a sudden, the site starts looking like a cover from one of those Music For Bachelor Pads albums from the late Fifties or early Sixties. Makes me want to pop on a smoking jacket and put some Brubeck on the turntable, lounging around sipping on a vodka martini. That would be a nice little bit of a flashback, wouldn’t it?
A SPECIAL ANNOUNCEMENT FIRST:
Here are two words that longtime readers thought they’d never see in this column.
No, not “I’m Sorry”.
I’m convinced. It’s tragic that the face he’s against at WM is going to be f*cking Austin yet again, but my conditions have been met, despite the fact that he antagonized Helms on Raw, which makes him a face in my book. I’ll just consider that a Flex Flashback. I will be referring to him by the above words in the future. However, I reserve the right to return to Flex at any time WWE is stupid enough to turn him face again and not change his style.
I gave my word. I kept my word.
END THE SPECIAL ANNOUNCEMENT AND LET’S TALK ABOUT THE PRESENT, SHALL WE?
For those of you who were here before the Mania Era (and I feel a bit discriminated against by 411mania.com; where’s 411depressiva.com for me?), you know why I took that little hiatus. For those of you who are noobs, let me go over the ground rules again:
I will talk about what I want to talk about, what interests me. I don’t stick to wrestling. I delve into politics, current events, sports, and other things that catch my eye while trolling around the Wide World Of Bullshit. If you’re reading this column for only wrestling news, may I suggest you go somewhere else to do so? Hell, we already got the hit and the ad views from you clicking on this, so WidShish have already cashed in. We don’t give a rat’s ass whether or not you read the content.
Oh, I already see you scrolling down to comment about this philosophy alien to most wrestling websites, noob. Could one of the veterans in the audience explain to the noob about something called “You’re A Moron”?
Now that we understand each other, let’s get on with the festivities…
SO WHAT DID YOU DO ON YOUR HIATUS, ERIC?
As most readers know, I recently started a new job in Iowa. Until a week and a half ago, I was living out of a motel as I tried to get used to the new position, so my mind wasn’t very conducive to doing the column for a bit. This was despite the fact that the Shitty Motel Cable System did have TNN and I have been keeping up with Raw (except for the interval last week ‘twixt access to the apartment and access to cable). I could have actually stuck it out except for one thing: no Net access at the Shitty Motel, and my own computer at work has been coming in “sometime this week” for the past six weeks. Of course, there’s no goddamn place to put it when it does come in, because the new offices that my department are supposed to be moving into are still being built.
There’s also a few problems with the job itself. It seems that the plant and its employees have been a little derelict in some areas over the years. These areas, of course, are the ones that I’ve been hired to straighten out. Hercules, meet Augean Stables…you know, considering that this place does cattle slaughter, maybe I shouldn’t use that particular metaphor (yes, I know that the Augean Stables housed horses, but horses and cattle both have four feet, eat grass, and shit a whole helluva lot, so I think I’m in shooting distance here). It’s enough that I was greeted on my departure from work on Sunday with the beautiful sight of what is euphemistically called a “downer” in the meat biz. In layman’s terms, there was a dead cow lying in the middle of the parking lot, frozen…well, stiff. A thing of beauty and joy forever.
It’s definitely a challenge for me, not to mention to the Lamictal, Lexapro, Nexium, and Klonopin. The vestige of sanity that I am trying so hard to regain courtesy of Better Living Through Paying Off Pharmaceutical Companies is rapidly being flushed down the toilet courtesy of the age-old principles of Apathy and Intertia. This place has one of the worst cases of Not Invented Here Syndrome I’ve ever seen. And I’m supposed to make constructive changes how?
Work is bad enough. Now, let’s talk about my living arrangements.
HOME SWEET HELL
Ah, beautiful northeast Iowa. The rolling hills, the endless fallow fields with a light dusting of snow over them, the silos and quaint farmhouses, the…
Oh, who the f*ck am I kidding?
This place sucks Rikishi-sized ass. I’m in the middle of goddamn nowhere. I did find an apartment out here pretty quickly. Huge place, nicely equipped, dirt cheap when compared to Chicago. Unfortunately, it’s out in the f*cking sticks. Jesus, it’s in a suburb of a town of eight thousand. I didn’t know towns of eight thousand could HAVE suburbs.
Somehow, though, they do have wireless Net access here (you can only get DSL inside of the town of eight thousand). Naturally, though, my apartment isn’t in line of sight of the nearest tower, so that option’s in the dumper. The guy who did the site survey, though, did tell me that in a couple months, they’re going to install an omnidirectional tower in my neck of the woods, and all I’ll need to do is throw an antenna outside the window. Let’s see what happens first, this or my computer at the office making an appearance.
So, in the meantime, I’m on dial-up, and since I’m out in the sticks with the standard shitty phone wiring, I can’t get above 26.4 if my life depended on it. Fortunately, this ISP does offer two free months, which should take me through until that new tower’s up, if the guy from the wireless service wasn’t lying. Yeah, and I won’t cum in your mouth.
In the meantime, I’m using a shitty old laptop that I’m attempting to refurbish for a friend to type this out on. I was smart enough to get a real keyboard for it, though, since Chiclets are for chewing, not for typing on. So I’ll be patient until my stuff comes from Chicago. So what’s my computer doing in Chicago? It’s taking advantage of the broadband I have over there to obtain material that I’ll have a hard time getting OTC (hey, Master of Orion III finally came out, and the nearest Best Buy is sixty miles away). You don’t pirate full CDs on 26.4, guys. You don’t even download MP3s at 26.4. Please, reserve that privilege for the bandwidth hogs.
THE INVASION OF THE NORWEGIAN LUTHERANS
The town I live near takes a great amount of pride in its Norwegian heritage. Unfortunately, in the drive for tourism bucks, they have to promote themselves in a way that would be obvious to non-Norwegians, and that’s to use the primary thing that most Americans would think about when they hear “Norwegian”. Yep, you guessed it. There’s so much Viking imagery around town that tailgaters at the Metrodome would look around and say “Damn, that’s tacky”.
I swear, there’s enough tall blond people around this town to provide a collective wet dream to the members of Aryan Nation. Unfortunately, they have made one collective tonsorial blunder. You know that reality series that MTV’s going to be doing, The Mullet Brothers? It could be filmed here. Every-f*cking-body wears a goddamn mullet. Stringy blond hair done up in a mullet is not a very attractive image, gentlemen. Yet somehow they seem to get married at a great frequency, which points out the apparent lack of taste on the part of the female persuasion around here…
…the first person to say “So you’re finally going to have a chance in hell of getting laid” gets their fingernails torn out, got it?…
Now, where was I? Oh, yes, lack of taste. Wal-Mart is, of course, the arbiter of fashion taste in town, and the dominant sartorial theme for men’s clothing seems to be hunting camo. I was in Wal-Mart on Sunday when some Army Reservists were getting off duty and getting some shopping done, and they were underdressed. Also, I think that it’s a state law that you have to wear or at least own something made by Carhartt. I actually had a look at some Carhartt jackets, both in fear of breaking that law and in the fact that they’re well-insulated (I think the weather warms up here sometime in late May). I’m sorry, I’m not paying that much for a jacket unless the name “Armani” is somewhere on the label. I’ll just freeze my ass off, thank you very much.
The person who has the parking space next to me has a pickup which hasn’t been washed since Bruno Sammartino held the WWWF belt. In the bed is an empty case of Milwaukee’s Best, perhaps the world’s cheapest and worst beer. Well, this isn’t surprising. I knew I had to strike white trash sometime around here. Just not in my own apartment building.
I DON’T HAVE DIGITAL; I DON’T HAVE DIDDLEY-SQUAT
The cable here outright blows. Fifty-three channels, four of which are CBS affiliates, three of which are ABC affiliates, two of which are NBC affiliates. No Smackdown in sight, not even on the typical Saturday delay. No PPV channels that I can see, so that lets WM, the only WWE PPV that I’m tempted to buy, completely out as an option. I’m also facing north, which leaves satellite out, since the dish has to have a clear view of the southern sky to work. This isn’t a living arrangement, this is exile.
SOMEONE’S TRYING TO TELL ME SOMETHING
The following has happened since I came here:
I pratfalled in the parking lot at work and injured my ribs when I forgot my lessons on how to fall, namely the one that says “Don’t prop your elbow under your chest to break your fall”. That happened last week, and I’m still hurting. Now I know how Kurt Angle, Randy Orton, and Dave Batista feel. Well, sort of.
My VCR blew out from static, necessitating a trip to Wal-Mart at 8:30 PM on a Saturday for a new one. I picked up one of those VCR/DVD combos, despite owning a DVD player, mostly because of the fact that I think this one will do VCDs. Despite being cut off from broadband at this point, there’s still inventory to be dealt with.
The Damn Vaninator definitely does not like it here. First, one of its rearview mirrors fell off. Then its starter blew. Then the wire connecting the new starter to the battery came loose. The starter and wire ran me three bills, the tows another hundred fifty.
Just when I have to do five-hundred-mile round trip bounces to and from Chicago, gas prices skyrocket.
This all begs the question: why do I get myself into situations like this? The answer is quite simple:
I’m a whore.
Flash me a little money and a good opportunity, and my legs open up like the Red Sea. I’ll be willing to do anything masochistic, like sleep on the floor for a few weeks or postpone my move and reschedule my appointment with the shrink because I’m the only one who knows how to inspect the new poultry line we’re installing. Just keep the money coming, baby, and kiss me afterward and tell me that you love me.
So, in the meantime, I’ll learn to live in the gilded cage and try to avoid choking on my own excremental-like bile. C’est la vie.
LET’S GET AWAY FROM IOWA, OKAY?
A little politics to make up for the time away? Why, sure!
Okay, now who’s been telling you for the past two and a half years that Dubbaya is a clueless idiot? I was right about Flex; I’m right about this too. The collection of bozo moves that he’s done since nut-cutting time with Iraq started …oh, my God. To think that the Supreme Court elected this man the leader of the alleged Free World. 5 to 4, mind you…
Actually, I don’t need to humiliate Dubbaya. He’s already done that quite well himself. Jesus, he got the French, Germans, and Russians to agree on something. When the f*ck was the last time that happened? The War of the Polish Succession?
THE PIMP SECTION
Thank you, Daniels, and God bless your work. Thanks especially to Flea for putting my e-mails and old articles out there so that people wouldn’t forget (amazing how things haven’t changed in over two years, despite the name change to WWE). Thanks to everyone who covered for various and sundry. I realized that Hyatte and I being on hiatus at the same time provided a terrific strain on everyone, but you came through like the troupers you all are.
Rivett is a god, as is anyone who could use the phrase “Raw is Triple HIV” in context.
Biscutti should insult his mailers a little more, but then again, that’d be gimmick infringement. I’ll authorize it, though.
No, Syl, I’m not giving into the brainwashing, despite the declaration. I have some evil words concerning that person later on.
Let’s get to those evil words, among other things, as the Tuesday Tradition reignites…
THE SHORT FORM
Okay, I know Keith is doing one of the recaps. I think. But the other one? Hell, I’m clueless…okay, PK’s back. That’s cool.
Chris Crass over the Hungry Hungry Hippos (Pinfall, Jericho pins Van Dam, Lionsault): Yet another curtain-jerker for the upper-mid-carders in order to fill in some time. Wrestlemania is no excuse for this; they’ve been doing this for God knows how long. Boring, boring, boring, seen it all before. Yeah, this is a great goddamn way to welcome me back, WWE. Thanks a whole helluva lot.
Jeff Hardy over Rico (Like I care): Apathy strikes early and often. This is the type of match that screams “Make some damn dinner for yourself.” So I did.
Trish Stratus versus Jazz, Number One Contender’s Match (Double DQ, Tatu-ference): So, who does face Victoria at WM? Harvey Wippleman?
Trip over Maven (Pinfall, Pedigree): This is one match where you’re not sure of the motivation. Was Maven getting buried or getting a rub? Did I actually see Trip selling for Maven at chosen moments? Is Maven’s selling actually getting better? This is definitely a match that leaves more questions than answers, with the biggest question being “Will Trip actually lay down for Booker?”
The Neighbors To The North, Non-Chris Crass Division, over D’Von Dudley, Handicap Reinstatement Match (Pinfall, Morley pins D’Von, Money Shot): The pizza was done.
Hurriqueen Helms over The Rock, No-DQ Match (Pinfall, rollup): He may have his name back, but he’s still a shitty wrestler with selling problems (over or no, nothing between). So things haven’t changed that much.
Not-So-Covert Meanings: You’d think that Booker, being a victim of WCW’s old-South booking (inherited from that paragon of the NAACP, Bill Watts), would shy away from a promo sequence that contains his admission of armed robbery and claims from the remaining half of Evolution that he’d be better off as a chauffeur or a bathroom attendant. There’s a certain six-letter word beginning with N that seems to appear near the foreground of the mind, and it isn’t a pleasant thought.
Thank You For The Assistance: The transmission outage here in the States actually helped me to fill in some blanks in the above. Considering that I pulled in from work five minutes before Raw, I needed that time.
Booooor-ing!: Austin hasn’t got off my shit list, so I wasn’t impressed by his same-old-same-old promo. The Rock was a little weak as well. However, Bisch saved the whole segment. He merged shoot with work effortlessly. The guy doesn’t need to prove that he’s one of the best on the mic in the business; he did that a long time ago during the NWO days (his “We Are In Control” promo is one of the best mic moments in the history of SE). However, it’s always great to see him do what he does best (other than plow companies into the ground).
Daddy’s Back, Honey: Abandon that two-timing bastard Test, My Beautiful and Beloved. I’ve left the new address on the door. I’ll be waiting. With some dry towels.
And that’s pretty much it for this session due to the fact that, not having proper ad blockers installed on the Shitty Laptop, it takes forever for 1bullshit and the Torch to load. Maybe tomorrow I’ll have a chance to actually discuss wrestling. In other words, things are back to normal for this column. Until such time, I bid you adieu.