Re-Writing The Book: And Now For Something Completely Stupid


So, tis the holiday weekend, and that affects this column quite heavily. How so? Well, as of the 2nd, the little woman and I are off for a four-day weekend. But that shortens my week by a couple days, which leaves me very little time to get a full-length column off to Widro for y’all to enjoy (and, it abbreviates the following week as well). So, because of this, this week’s column is a little unusual. It’s a one-shot (unless it’s so popular, the people demand its revival, and I doubt that’ll happen), and there are no deep thought moments like Montreal or Bash at the Beach 2000. So, join me as we ask questions that probably shouldn’t be asked, and discover the answers in …

A Very Special Stupid (But Hopefully Funny) Edition Of Re-Writing The Book!

The format today will have a number of short stories in no particular order. Just writing them as they come. First up:

What if Triple H used his sledgehammer to solve all his problems?

Triple H looks to the left and snarls. To the right, more disappointment. People are paying for a pack of gum and a National Enquirer with a debit card. Someone has seventy-eight cans of chicken noodle, and they’re using the 12-items-or-less line. All the U-scans are down, and there’s only three lanes open out of twenty.

For Triple H, however, this isn’t really a problem. There’s one thing he never leaves home without. No, not American Express … his sledgehammer.

BAM!, and an old bitch with the walker hits the tile floor. Triple H swings and WHACK!, the hammer sends the dipshit with the soup flying into a end-cap display full of cookies. CRACK! and some moron from Europe with about three English words in his vocabulary is dropped like Joanie Laurer.

With an aisle cleared, Triple H snags a bottle of Dasani from a nearby cooler, rips off the cap, takes a swig and does his pose, spraying water into the air like a geyser. “I AM THE GAME-AH!” he bellows, then spits the last of the water directly at the clerk, who casually wipes off her face on her sleeve.

“And how will you be paying for your protein bars?” she asks, ignoring the pleas of Triple H’s victims to call 911 as she runs his purchases over the UPC scanner.

Triple H flashes that (so he thinks) charming smile that stole Stephanie’s heart. “You wouldn’t be able to cash a payroll check from the WWE, would you?”

What if Trish Stratus’ ridiculously large breast implants served another purpose?

“I can’t believe what we’ve seen so far, King,” Jim Ross says as he watches the match on the monitor. It is the first Hell In A Cell with women, pitting Woman’s Champion Trish Stratus against Jazz. “Between the chairs, the tables and …”

“Look!” Lawler yelps, his voice as high as an eight-year old girl. “They’re climbing the cell!”

“Folks, in my twenty-plus years in the business, I know I’ve said this before, but I really have never seen anything quite like this! These women are beating the hell out of each other, and now they’re on the roof of the cell!”

“The puppies! Don’t damage the puppies!”

“King, there’s more to life then puppies … these to women are human beings! They could seriously injure themselves! Oooooh, a vicious chairshot by Jazz, and Trish is reeling. Wait, King … she’s awful close to the edge.”

King’s voice drops down to his “concerned” octave. “Oh, my god. Jazz wouldn’t do what I think she’s gonna, would she?”

“No, she wouldn’t! Not to … oh, my god … Trish is teetering … and here comes Jazz, she has Trish by … GOOD GOD ALMIGHTY! TRISH HAS BEEN THROWN-“

“What in the hell?” says Lawler, unable to comprehend what he’s seen. “How did-“

“I know I just said it a couple seconds, ago folks, but I really really have never seen anything quite like this! Trish Stratus landed face-first on the concrete, and her … um …”

“The puppies! They’re … they’re super-puppies!

“Well, yes, you’d be right, King. The puppies bounced Trish from the ground back onto the roof of the cell! And Jazz is confused! She doesn’t know what to make of it! Wait … Jazz kicks Trish in the stomach … she has Trish by the hair again, and … Jazz throws Trish again! And again Trish Stratus’ boobs saved her from serious injury!”

“She’s gonna need replacement puppies if this keeps up, JR!”

“Yeah, well, at least hers didn’t deflate explode from a clothesline like someone else I could mention!”

What if Scott Steiner had a debate with James Brown?

“Good evening, I’m Peter Jennings, and I will be your moderator for this evening’s debate between the WWE’s Scott Steiner and the Godfather of Soul, James Brown. Each respondant will have one minute to respond to their question, and their opposition will have forty-five seconds to rebut.” Jennings turns to Steiner and says; “Mister Steiner. Teen pregnancy is at an all-time high in this country, and the low-end age of children having children is lower then ever, with ages of 11 and 12 being reported. Conservatives blame this on sex education and the availability of condoms in public schools, while liberals say this points to a lack of thorough education by the school systems. How would you tackle this problem?”

Steiner: “Me and the freaks! The enn-dub-YO! Holla… if ya hear me!”

Jennings: “Mister Brown, rebuttal.”

Brown: “Heh … get in the HAWT-TUB-uh … gon’ make meh SWEAT-uh … get in the HAWT-TUB-uh … gon’ get me WET-uh!”

Jennings: “I see. Well, next question is for you, Mister Brown. Corporate scandals seem to be a daily occurrence. From Enron to Martha Stewart to Tyco, CEO’s and presidents are being brought up on charges at an alarming rate, killing the faith of Big Business in middle America. How would your administration curb this issue?”

Brown: “Jump back … wanna kiss myself-uh … papa got a brand new bag!”

Jennings: “Thought-provoking. Mister Steiner, your rebuttal.”

Steiner: “Big Bad Booty Daddy! I got your hook-up!”

Jennings: “Okay. Final question. The debate over stem-cell research and genetic cloning has reached a fever pitch. Nancy Reagan requested of President George W. Bush that cells be taken from the late President Ronald Reagan in the hopes of fighting Alzheimer’s Disease, but First Lady Laura Bush replied for her husband, saying no benefit was worth the inhuman decision to harvest these cells. Mister Steiner, what would your cabinet’s platform be on these hot-button topics?”

Steiner: “Big Poppa Pump! Genetic freak! Hook me up … if ya holla at me!”

Jennings: “Uh-huh. And Mister Brown, the final word?”

Brown: “Ah sam-bom-bo … titty-no-buh … gramma, no’un ell … heh!. HEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEY!

What if Steve Austin preferred wine to beer?

Austin! Austin! Austin has just won a record tenth WWE World Title! And he’s calling for a couple celebratory bottles of vino!

“Probably Mad Dog 20/20, damn redneck!”

“King! Austin drinks only the finest wines! That first one that just got tossed to him looks like … yes, a ’69 pinot noir, and the other one is a dry ’71 cabernet. Austin climbs the turnbuckle, pops the corks and … OH, DEAR GOD!!! The bottles shattered against one another! Austin’s hands have been shredded from the broken glass! His hands look like ground beef! I know I’ve said it probably forty-eight times in the past half hour, folks, but in all my years of covering this sport, I really really really have never seen anything quite like this!”

What if the WWE tried recasting other roles as they did with Diesel and Razor Ramon

“Thanks for coming, Al,” says Jim Ross, offering a seat to his visitor.

Al Snow nods and sits. He’s had to sit through meetings like this before, and they always ended badly: Avatar, Leif Cassidy, the list never seemed to end. Being called in like this meant another dumb gimmick change that no one in their right mind would ever find entertaining. “So, what’s this about, JR?” Al asks, hoping the nerves-and irritation-don’t show in his voice, or on his face.

“Well, we’ve been doing some research,” JR explains, “and we’ve discovered that, since we brought back Hogan, the fans are kind of clamoring for more nostalgia.”

“I don’t think anyone finds Avatar nostalgic, JR, if you don’t mind my saying so.”

“No, that’s not in, Al. We followed up that research by polling the fans and seeing which wrestlers fans miss the most. I have those results, and I was wondering if you’d be interested in playing one of these roles.”

Al cannot hide his disappointment now. “JR, I’m in semi-retirement. I train youngsters. Haven’t you put me through enough stupid gimmicks to last a lifetime? And why would this work in the first place? The fans shit all over those fake Razor and Diesel guys you did years ago!”

“I know, I know, but that’s a distant memory, Al!” JR waves the research file in the air, as if doing so makes the idea any better. “The fans have spoken, Al! And we can’t go switching gimmicks on Triple H or Chris Benoit or Kurt Angle. But you … they’ll never notice you!”

Al’s response is as dry as a mummy’s ass-crack. “Thanks a lot, JR. Way to motivate me.”

“Al, Al, I didn’t mean it like that.” JR shakes his head. “Never mind that. Just hear me out. What would you say if I told you Vince believes you can carry off this first recast? He and I agree … Al Snow, repackaged as … get ready … Yokozuna!”

Al’s mouth drops comically low, his mouth big enough to fit a lime in. “You gotta be shitting me.”

“Al, he was a two-time WWE Champion! A Tag Champion with Owen Hart! You’d be playing a former World Champion, Al! Think of the prestige!”

“He’s dead! I mean, isn’t that disrespectful!” Al shakes his head. “What the hell am I saying? Jim, never mind the dead thing; don’t you notice a little something … different … about me and Yokozuna?”

JR blinks, his face as blank as Stephanie’s head in math class. “Like?”


“Only in the role. In real life, he was-“

“Who cares? I’m white!

“Well then, what about Andre The Giant? He’s white! A perfect fit!”

“Are you out of your f*cking mind? I’m not French! And he was seven feet tall! And five hundred pounds!”

“We’ll get you some shoe lifts, Al.”

“I’m six-foot-one! What’re you gonna do, get me circus stilts?”

JR’s glare across the room tells Al that JR is every bit serious about this as he is his barbeque sauce. “I get the feeling you’re just being obstructive, Al. Or maybe ungrateful. We could just as easily ask someone else to do this.”

“I’d be more interested if this idea made any sense! I mean, what’s your next idea, Chyna?”

“Well, we’d considered it. Would you rather do that then Andre?”

Al stands up, lifting his shirt up to his throat. “Do you see tits, JR? No, you know why? Because I’m f*cking guy! Do I need to pull out my pecker too?”

“So was Chyna when she first came in. Should I take it that’s a no?”

Al slumps back in his chair, all hope of an honorable final curtain washed away like Lita’s mascara in one of her “acting” moments. “Jesus, JR, why you don’t you just shoot me and get it over with. Seriously, what’s next? Haystacks Calhoun?”

“No,” JR says without a shred of irony, “we’re saving that for Ultimo Dragon.”

What if The Dudleys discovered their long-lost mothers?


D-Von and Spike turn towards the bellowing of their half-brother, Bubba, running towards them like a stampeding water buffalo. His face is as red as a bottle of Heinz ketchup, and there’s a smile cutting his head in half. In his hands, he is holding a paper, waving it around like a ten-year old proud of his school assignment.

“What’s up, Bubba?” Spike says, a little nervous. Bubba’s excitement can be contagious … or frightening. Depending on the approach. Today, it’s frightening.

Bubba is panting, hands on his knees, but he can’t stop smiling. His smile makes him look like Eugene, only without the innocence. Or moderate level of intelligence. “Guys …” he starts, but waits until he can catch his breath. For a big dude like him, it takes a bit. Finally, his breathing is controllable, and he rattles off his news at light speed.

“Guys, you know those websites where you can research your family tree? Well, I thought I’d spend the money and see if we can track down our mothers!”

D-Von’s and Spike’s face are portraits of shock. It is a mystery none of them have had the courage to solve, and with Big Daddy Dudley dead, it was one they always figured would go unsolved. But now, here it was, staring them in the face (well, printed on a piece of paper, apparently): the solution, the missing piece(s) of the Dudley family puzzle.

Spike points to the paper in Bubba’s hand. “Is … is …”

Bubba held up both hands. “I think you guys just need to come with me. I have something to show you.”

Bubba takes off back in the direction he came, back to their locker room. Spike and D-Von hesitate a moment, looking at one another, and then break into a job to follow their brother. They meet up with him in the locker room, where he’s standing next to a table with a laptop computer on it. Bubba’s face isn’t as happy as it was a moment ago. “D-Von,” he says, “I didn’t wanna just hand you this piece of paper without showing you who your mom was first.” He leans over, turns on the monitor and hands D-Von the paper, which he sees is a genealogy tree. The names on the paper don’t mean anything to him. But the picture does.

“Is that …” D-Von’s voice catches as he starts to choke up. “My mom is …?”

Bubba nods as D-Von’s voice trails off. “Yes, D-Von. It’s Sapphire. I’m sorry you didn’t find out sooner.”

D-Von falls into the chair in front of the computer, staring at the picture, then studying the paper in front of him. There is no one else in the room as far, as D-Von is concerned.

Suddenly, the door to the locker room bangs open. In strolls the Fabulous Moolah, looking as angry and irritated as ever. Test, who is as naked as a centerfold as he steps from the shower, sees Moolah and dives back into the showers. She waves it off, saying loudly enough for Test to hear; “Not like I ain’t seen one of those before in my time, boy! Remember, I showered with Chyna!” She puts a hand up to her mouth and whispers conspiratorially; “And believe me, Chyna was plenty bigger then that!”

“Hi, Moolah!” Bubba says exuberantly. “How are you?”

“Well, I wanna know why you asked me to come down, Bubba,” she barks. She steps up to Bubba, grabs him by the lobe and yanks him down to her level. “And this better not be another one of your shitass ribs, boy, or I’ll pound your ass so hard, you’ll be begging for Triple H to be behind you instead!”

Spike’s eyes are wide enough be coffee saucers; he can already tell where this is going. “Ow, ow, owwwww!” Bubba says, swatting at Moolah’s hand. She lets him go, and he rubs his lobe. “Ain’t no prank, Moolah! This is serious!”


Bubba slugs Spike in the pec. “Shut up, Spike!” This earns him a clap on the already-smarting ear from Moolah. “Be nice to your brother, boy! Ain’t your momma raised you to be nice to ones littler then you?”

“Well, see, Moolah, that’s the thing … funny you mentioned mommas.” Bubba grabs another document off the table and hands it to Moolah, who gives it half a look before offering it back to Bubba with a quizzical look about her. “It’s a family tree,” Bubba says. “My family tree. Your family tree.”

Moolah raises an eyebrow and looks at the paper again, tracing family lines. Her grandmother … her mother … aunts, uncles, cousins, siblings … and her affair with that handsome stranger, which, strangely enough, is on this piece of paper. And, she now notices, the name of the guy is filled in as “Big Daddy Dudley”, and there’s a branch coming down from the two of them …

She looks up, then looks down again, then up, then down, then up, the gravity of the situation dawning on her bit by bit. “Tell me you’re joking, boy,” she deadpans.

“No, mom, I’m not.”

She glares at him with all the warmth and emotion of Linda McMahon. “Don’t call me mom.”

“But you are my mother!” Bubba says.

Before Moolah can say anything, the locker room door slams open. Everyone turns to see who is coming in so dramatically; Spike knows what’s coming the moment he sees her face, but her face is only visible for a moment. Within seconds, she is upon him, crushing him with a mighty hug and suffocating him with the smell of Vapo-rub and hairspray.

“Oh, my precious boy!” Mae Young exclaims right into Spike’s ear. She leans back to look him in the (horrified) eyes, then showers kisses on his face. He is too taken aback to say or do much of anything. “And I’ve got a surprise for you!” Mae turns towards the door again, sticks two fingers in her mouth and lets out a shrill whistle. Through the door comes a baby carriage pushed by Mark Henry. “You’ve got a half-brother, Spike!”

What if Sycho Sid sought therapy?

Jim Ross stands in the ring, ready to interview the number-one contender for the WWF Title, Sycho Sid. Sid looks focused and ready, smiling that Sycho Sid smile everyone knows means someone is bound to get hurt.

“Sycho Sid, we’re just six days away from your date with Shawn Michaels and the WWF Title at Survivor Series,” says JR. “Where is your head at right now?”

Dripping as if he’s just stepped out of a dunk tank, Sycho Sid steps up to the microphone being held out by (a nervous) JR. “Don’t call me psycho, JR,” he says through a clinched jaw.

“But Sid, you’ve never been known as a well-balanced person-“

“Would you like it if I called you a hick, JR? No, that would be judgemental.” Sid claps Ross on the shoulder as if they’d be going for beers later. Suddenly, the clinched jaw is relaxed and his psychotic smile has melted into a serene grin. “See, I’ve been seeking therapy for my anger management issues, JR. And the labels you apply to me make me feel belittled, and for that, I want to powerbomb you into oblivion. But my therapist has helped me to see that these labels people use are a way of deflecting criticism about themselves, and reflecting their own iniquities in others. By calling me psycho, you’re projecting your anger over some issue onto me. Tell me JR, what makes you angry?”

Ross raises an eyebrow, confused by this newfound transcendence. “I don’t think we’re here to talk about that, Sid. We’re here to talk about Survivor Series and Shawn Michaels.”

“And we’ll get to Shawn,” says Sid in a voice so serene, Ross starts to wonder if he’s on Valium, “because Shawn needs more help then anyone I’ve met. But right now, I wanna talk about Jim Ross. You seem to have a lot of pent-up rage, Jim. Is there something you’re angry about?”

“Er, no …”

Sid puts his arm around JR’s shoulders and pulls him in; JR looks grossly uncomfortable, as uncomfortable as his last prostate exam. “Oh, but I think you are angry, Jim Ross. Very angry.” Sid stands in front of JR, squatting down so they are face-to-face. “You’re angry about Vince firing you a while back, aren’t you?”

“No, that’s behind us, we worked it out,” JR says, his gaze cast down to the mat.

Sid looks at the crowd, shaking his head and smiling very self-satisfactorily. He ducks under JR’s hat and looks up at him. “I think you’re hiding your true feelings, Jim. You’re still upset over it, and you’ve been bottling it up inside for some time now. And you vent by calling people names … I’m ‘psycho’ … Sunny is a ‘tramp’ … Mankind is “deranged”. Your labels are a way of releasing frustration over Vince firing you years ago. It’s in the way you speak and the way you hold yourself, JR. Talk to me! I’m your friend!”

Suddenly, Sid stands up, wraps his arms around Jim Ross and embraces him in a rib-crushing hug. Even with the microphone caught between the two of them, the crowd can still make out, albeit a bit muffled, Sid exclaiming; “I love you, man!” Smothered in Sid’s chest, JR starts to sob. “Shh, there there,” Sid says, patting JR’s back. “Let it out, Jim, let it all out.”

“It hurt, dammit, it hurt!” JR yells into Sid’s chest. One by one, wrestlers are coming out and offering sympathy; JR notices none of it, he just keeps sobbing and screaming. Sid leans over to Vader, who has come into the ring to discuss his own rage issues, and says; “Better get a chair or two; this could take a while.”

What if the WWE were booked by certain high-profile IWC members?

If it were Scott Keith booking …’s Raw preview:

Tonight will be a celebration like no other on Raw! Join us live from Edmonton, Alberta, Canada, for a very special celebration commemorating Chris Benoit’s fifteenth consecutive year as the Undisputed WWE Champion! Be here as he is joined by the entire Hart family and close personal friends to look back on fifteen years of Canadian perfection!

Also, tensions have reached a boiling point between Chris Jericho and Triple H. Triple H’s unwarranted attacks in recent months provoked Chris Jericho into crossing a very serious line by throwing Stephanie McMahon-Helmsley off the Golden Gate Bridge into the icy waters below! Triple H is said to be looking for revenge for his wife’s untimely demise, but Triple H a game Y2J has mastered? Tune in to find out!

All this, plus Kevin Nash facing off against JLB in the first-ever Fatality match (someone’s gonna die!), Kurt Angle against Eddie Guerrero in a one-hour Iron Man Hell In A Cell match, and more! You can’t miss the next Raw!

If it were Eric S booking …’s Raw preview:

Tonight, the WWE brings you a very special episode: two straight hours of humilation for The Rock and Stone Cold Steve Austin!

See! … The Rock’s embarrassing debut as Rocky Maivia with that stupid shark-tooth tassel thing!

See! … Austin’s debut as The Ringmaster!

See! … The Rock job to Mark Henry on pay-per-view!

See! … Austin lose to Savio-f*cking-Vega!

All this, plus The Rock and Austin will be held captive … er, be on hand, for some fresh new humiliating moments! Everyone from Chris Jericho, Kurt Angle and more, all lining up to give these living legends a good old-fashioned kick in the nuts … some of them, quite literally! All this and more, live on Raw tonight!

And, finally, if it Hyatte were booking …’s Raw preview:

Due to the unexplained (and unexpected) vacation taken by head writer Hyatte, Raw will not be on the air tonight. Hyatte has informed us that Raw might return next week, but it might also be on hiatus for the summer. Or until further notice. Check back weekly.


So, with some free space, I feel compelled to use it (since this thing will be WAY under the size limit) for my own fell purposes. First, a pimp for Eric S, who pimped me, and said some awful nice things to boot, so I return the favor here.

Now for some business. On the subject of reader submissions, I think I’ve had all but one entry not be worthy (don’t ask what or whom … I ain’t gonna humiliate the poor guy in a public forum). The rest of them-and there have been quite a lot-have been great. When I came up with the concept for this column, my buddy Kurtis and I brainstormed and came up with about 50 ideas. Thanks to you guys, I now have close to 100 (and some of them, like redoing the Who Ran Over Austin? angle, have multiple ways I can take it), so barring me suddenly quitting or Widro giving me the axe, I should be around for awhile, entertaining y’all.

Few of things to say about the suggestions and its process, though …

#1: Don’t worry about being too obscure. Just send ’em in. If I can’t do it, I’ll tell you.

#2: Understand that I get a lot of ideas, not to mention ones I come up with on my own. So, if I should do “What If Owen Hart hadn’t died?” next time, and you don’t see your name credited as the idea-giver, this means one of two things: either I came up with it on my own, or someone else beat you to the punch. Don’t flame me saying “But it was my idea!” First come, first credited.

#3: Don’t get your hopes up and think I’ll be doing your idea instantly. With 100 concepts just sitting there waiting, some people will find their idea waiting for quite a while. I do them as the ideas call to me. I’m going to try to balance them out between yours and mine best I can … but if any of you are writers, you’ll know that real writers ain’t in charge … they all just follow the orders of the pen. Or, in this case, keyboard.

#4: The Invasion-be it with or without the big names like Goldberg, Bischoff, Sting-is by far the top request. EVERYONE wants that one, it seems. I will be doing it … not for a bit yet, cause that one needs planning and forethought (and it’s gonna be long … early projections say spanning 4 to 6 parts, which means 4 to 6 weeks). So, y’all can stop requesting it. It’ll get done, promise. Otherwise, I think I might get lynched.

Finally, a big thanks to the warm reception I’ve received from fans and staffers alike. The praise I’ve gotten has been, at times, humbling (one guy compared me to Michael Crichton and John Grisham … believe me, if I were, I’d be making Crichton/Grisham money instead of the pittance I receive now), but all very welcome. I’ve even started to notice regular fans, such as Joe Doucette-Executive Chef (I love how that rolls off the tongue, like “Nick Fury, Agent of S.H.I.E.L.D.”), Abarker20 and Gohan (sorry I didn’t get to use your idea, man … had to finish this in a hurry, but if there’s another one of these, it’ll be on there fo’ sho’), although that’s not all of them, and they all deserve props as well for their continued support each and every week.

Okay, I’m bailing before this gets all mushy and shit. There is a small chance I might not be posting next week … I’m gonna work my ass off to see that I don’t skip, but if I do, I apologize in advance. Sometimes, you don’t get to make the choices, ya know? If I do have to skip, the next week I’ll come back with something cool for sure. Certainly nothing as lame as this was.