Yeah, I know. It’s been a while. Those of you who know me will understand, those of you who (used to) read this blog casually have probably moved on to something else, and those of you who got here by doing a Google search on “CM Venom” (after viewing someone’s Wiki page) are in for a bit of a surprise.

I’m not going to get into what’s transpired in the past two years and change in any detail, suffice to say that I have refused to fall headlong into the 3D craze, there are many more rabbits in my household since last we spoke, and Cedar Point was the shit (despite that I believe my one and only ride on Mean Streak gave me the cancer).

Congrats, now YOU need minor chemo.

Monday nights always had something for me. It was NFL football for many years, until Vincent K. McMahon decided to start running a little WWF weekly show called Monday Night Raw. Good or bad, Raw always managed to deliver some form of entertainment, be it Vince’s feverish (and futile) attempts to make Lex Luger a star or Psycho Sid bellowing that he didn’t know shit, crybaby. After I removed myself from the business in the early 2000s, I watched with less frequency, catching the show here and there, and sometimes watching the Spanish language rebroadcast if in the mood for something more surreal.

By the time 2010 rolled around, I was catching a Raw maybe once every 3-4 months. And after Shawn Michaels put himself out to pasture, I just pretty much stopped watching. Oh sure, I still keep abreast of news, but that’s mostly to be in the loop when someone keels over and dies (Umaga, I’m looking in your direction…southwest and down). Last week I had it on as a background noise/ colorful moving artwork, and was delighted to see Randy Savage featured in a Make-A-Wish video and the fact that our friend Goldust is still employed.

So I got to wondering…what would my impressions of an entire Raw be now? Would I embrace their latest push for a PG product? Or would the absence of such past superstars as La Parka and Aldo Montoya make it nearly unwatchable? I guess there’s only one way to find out. I charge myself with “liveblogging” tonight’s Raw. (This is similar to “Livejournaling” something, but in this case, people are paying attention.)

Note: The following commentary is for mature audiences only, and may contain profanity, questionable statements, and out-of-nowhere references to Dutch roller coaster companies. You have been warned.

Preparation: According to the Comcast guide, tonight’s Raw is summed up thustly: “John Cena joins the Nexus.” Didn’t he do that last week? Maybe nobody knows what’s going to happen on Raw tonight.

166, up 9. Fuck yeah.

8:00pm: Sheamus is now in the entrance video, and we are live in Seattle.

Cena is out (random sign: “C’MON MAN”), and thanks the crowd for standing behind him. He repeats “Never give up”, which so happens to be the slogan on Cena’s shirt. The camera lingers on this, and his Nexus armband. It’s fashion porn.

He recaps the Nexus angle for anyone not paying attention/liveblogging for the first time. He also warns the crowd of how he may have to do some things they may not like. He also may-

Here comes the Miz, along with his Money In The Bank briefcase and someone named Alex Riley. Riley is Alex Wright 2010, and probably wears Ed Hardy on the weekends. Miz touts his position as captain of Team Raw at the upcoming Bragging Rights pay per view, when-

And then here comes Wade Barrett, and it’s good to see that the E still loves interruptions. Barrett says nothing will get in the way of Cena in his corner at Bragging Rights. Wade..no one was talking about that. Your fears are unfounded. Riley now has the stick, and his nebulous statement falls flat.

An e-mail from the General Manager? What is this? How long has this invisible boss been in place? And since when is Michael Cole such a heat machine?

He announces Miz vs. John Cena…tonight! Barrett looks like a 50s greaser. Barrett takes offense to Miz, and pegs him with a sharp headbutt. Shmozz up, and Riley and Miz put boots to Barrett until he motions for Cena. Cena cleans house, and we head to a commercial like someone’s life defends on it.

I think I will have to purchase Dead Rising 2. And these marching folks commercials from Burger King have their hearts in the right place, even if the execution is sometimes slightly off.

Ted DiBiase and Maryse (?) are in the ring, and Goldust stealing the MDC last week is shown. R-Truth informs me it’s time to “get crunk”, and he has a poor man’s Fergie with him. (Later note: Eve, I guess?) Truth’s theme music is more Puddle of Mud than Public Enemy…are the crunching guitars there so the white folk can enjoy themselves without guilt?

I’m not into calling the moves of the match (I had more than enough of that during LWF commentary), my recaps are more retrospective. Some would call me lazy. I’d be fine with that.

DiBiase preps for the Million Dollar Dream Street…or whatever, but distracted by the music of Goooooldust. Ted loses concentration just long enough to get beat by R-Truth. Goldust looks great. What a superb gig that guy has; he has to stay healthy, but not worry about his abs. Plus, he gets to paint his face and say creepy things in front of thousands of people.

Commercial: Helen Mirren looks so saucy with a firearm.

Justin Roberts, huh? Last time I saw him, his knuckles were white. That’s a story for another time.

John Morrison looks better with facial hair. And his Hitman-like glasses giveaway is nice. Tyson Kidd is the opponent. Kidd comes out to a modified Hitman theme, and has a ridiculous spork of hair. Morrison looks like he’s improved since last I saw him, his movements seem more fluid. Kidd is an unknown quantity for me. Suddenly-

SH-SH-SH-SH-SHARPSHOOTER

Too bad for Kidd, though, as he falls prey to-…well, it’s something I’ve never seen two human beings do before.

Black Nexus, Red Nexus, and Anime Nexus are talking to two gentlemen who the crowd knows, but I don’t. Here’s Barrett, advancing his own angle. Black Nexus feints interest in fighting Randy Orton, but Anime Nexus gets the honor. They use their real names in reference to each other. Wait for it…there. I’ve already forgotten. Ortunga? Tortuga?

Forty minutes in, and doing this is a lot harder than I though. I haven’t had to “pay attention” to wrestling for a while. One passable match, one good to very good one. That seems like a pretty good average so far. I have no idea if this is rare for Raw.

Santino Marella is still one of the funniest-…holy shit, what is up with Zack Ryder? No stick time for Santino, I hope they haven’t turned him into a utility wrestler. Ryder has a license plate logo on the back of his trunks. For this reason alone, I wish harm upon him. Santino hits the Cobra (?) for the win, and a spot on Team Raw. A jacked up version of the Fresh Prince’s Karyn Parsons hits the ring, and advances some storyline with Santino.

Holy shit, that Snickers commercial with the plastic face woman is one of the worst things I’ve ever seen. If I have the energy when this is done, maybe I’ll look for a photo to post. Or maybe not, but I guess you already know if I did or not.

Anime Nexus is accompanied by Black Nexus and Red Nexus for his match against Randy Orton. I hope Randy still looks like our cat Tennant, with his massive head and tiny eyes. Whooo, Orton is over, and WWE Champion apparently. I get the feeling that three Nexus folks will be of little problem to Randy Orton. We’re still calling him the Viper, right? Has he stopped crapping in people’s shoes? Can we joke about that now?

Orton is much leaner and browner than I remember. Black Nexus and Red Nexus get sent to the back, like Kevin Nash did at Wrestlemania X. That’s Ten, folks…not the mysterious “Wrestlemania X” videotape we saw on the shelf while watching Wrestlemania IX.

Thank Gawd, commercials. Rest for my fingers, and a few squares of British Cadbury Dairy Milk. The American version pales in comparison.

We’re back, and Orton crushes Anime Nexus with stomps. Lawler really sounds like he’s being a little cunty tonight. I like how the Nexus guys all wear the armband. As much fun as I make, I really kinda like the Nexus thing. Barrett’s a strong leader, and they’ve got a nice variety of guys. I guess there like, what…7 originally? Good call in paring it down a bit.

They’re giving this one some time, we’re past the 9 o’clock hour. If Orton is being Orton, the RKO will come out of-

Holy shit, did he stiff that kid with that forearm. Aw, does he still hear “voices in his head”? Did they ever get him “help” for that anger management problem he freely admitted years ago? THERE’S your RKO out of nowhere after a not/quite/full 450 splash. Barrett and Orton should be a good match, not enough to get the PPV, but good nonetheless.

Remember, still to come…Cena vs. Miz for the captainship of Team Raw, which Cena will win, but be forced to give up his spot at 10:04 pm by Wade Barrett. Sheamus vs. Daniel Bryan Danielson. Do I even know what this guy looks like? I don’t think so. I am a terrible professional wrestling fan.

According to the graphic on the Bragging Nights PPV commercial, I’m going to see Kane face off against Mark Henry. Hoo boy, that’s weak. (Note: Don’t get on my shit. I know we’re not going to see that, matchups are subject to change.) When a film (like say…the Big Show’s Knuckleheads) is touted as having a “limited release”, it’s not a good sign. Show seems like a real affable guy, I kinda feel sorry for him taking part in this. Maybe the script made it look better. In other news, someone got paid to write the script for this.

Oh, that’s Daniel Bryan. Okay. Oh shit, is Michael Cole doing some sort of anti-Bryan heel schitck? Is this something ongoing? Because if it is, it sucks. Sheamus’ skin is brilliant, it’s beyond white. I kinda wanna get up and pee, but I don’t want to miss Daniel Bryan do something that’s going to save wrestling and send me off to buy Ring Of Honor DVDs with Carter’s PayPal account. Did Sheamus put Triple H “out”? I wondered why we hadn’t seen the King Of All Nepotism yet.

Bryan’s pretty good. Michael Cole is inconsistent; he talked shit before the bell, but calls the match like it’s all business. Cole doesn’t have a strong grasp on his character. Sheamus wins with some kind of big kick, and now Cole gets shitty again. What happened to Jim Ross? He was just fine. So Sheamus is on Team Raw, and I realized we haven’t seen any crappy Divas bits yet. I…don’t like that. That means they’re yet to come. Must they?

R-Truth is in the back with Cena, and sends him mixed messages before teasing that there is another way out…”Just quit.” Quit what, exactly? Nexus? The WWE? Wrestling? How about quitting talking to R-Truth?

Great, a promo for the Tribute To The Troops. Show for troops in the sand: awesome. Sending Mark Henry: nice, I guess. A probable upcoming shot of some asshole I used to know in a Kevlar helmet: not so hot.

Alright! The fifth member of Team Raw will either be Evan Bourne or…oh, wonderful. Look who got drafted to Raw. Tonight, apparently. About a minute nine later, and your Team Raw consists of R-Truth, Morrison, Santino, Sheamus, and CM Phil. CM Phil destroys Bourne outside, and some drunk clearly yells “ECW days!“. And that’s funny, because he spent quite a few ECW days sitting across from us.

I watched that Undertaker-Kane main event from the Hell In A Deli PPV, and it…it was such shit.

Goddmanit! That Snickers commercial again! Did this terrify no one during any phase of conception? The director, writer, designer…all of em, should put their names on that little shred of horror. They need to be held accountable.

Whoa, Mark Henry isn’t here…personal matters? Natalya is in ring, name drops “Uncle Bret” 24 seconds in, and taunts “Laycool”, who I guess is Layla and Michelle McCool. She’s the one fucking the Undertaker, right? She’s pretty awful on the stick, and now she’s lecturing everyone on HD. Layla (who sounded like Marisa Tomei in My Cousin Vinny the first time she spoke, now apparently has British in her) is just as bad. Laycool goes to leave, and the rest of the Divas I don’t know are blocking the ramp. Cole helpfully starts listing them off…Bella Twins, Gail Kim, Eve…thanks, Cole. Why couldn’t Bret Hart’s music signal the arrival (via wormhole) of 1997 anti-American Bret Hart? That’s wrestling I want to see. This Divas stuff (shockingly) seems to have gotten worse during my hiatus.

Chris Pike and Denzel Washingston in Unstoppable, about a runaway train? Is GMB already on Fandango?

One hour 50 in, and I’ve got the main event to go. I wouldn’t want to do this every week, but it was certainly different. It’s like writing live commentary, and it’s completely different from anything I’m used to doing lately. I can’t stand the Smackdown vs. Raw video game series, if it ain’t No Mercy, I don’t give a shit.

Here’s our Main: Cena-Miz with the leadership of Team Raw on the line. Is Smackdown doing something similar? Crowd seems oddly divided, and I don’t really see why. Cena’s predicament of being under Barrett’s thumb is about as sympathetic as can be, and he hasn’t done anything classified as “evil”. Why would you react to him negatively? I’d be yelling “Hey, you can find a way out of this predicament! Think it over on the drive to that house show in Spokane!”

 I don’t know, Red. I don’t think I like the “energy shot” version of you.

Miz has gotten “serious” while I’ve been away. I guess it works. They fight outside, and it’s 10pm. Let’s see how the 2010 Raw works the overrun time. Eeeewww…the Key Arena. It probably still smells like Supersonic failure. You Are Unable To View John Cena, and here’s the part of the match where guys trade finishers. Miz’s little buddy (looks back earlier in draft)…Alex Riley is holding the Money In The Bank briefcase in a what would be a horrible future vision.

The two guys I didn’t know from before (Somebody Harris? Somebody McGillicutty?) interfere, and Miz gets the win and the largely ceremonial position of Team Raw Captain. Post match, Cena goes at em, until stopped by Barrett. Face to Face, until the Invisible GM decrees that Those Guys vs. Cena-Orton next week. Now (bear with me, this is all going fast) Barrett says if Cena loses next week, he’ll (uh, Barrett) induct Those Guys into Nexus (Creating, I guess Pudgy Nexus and Weasely Nexus.) I guess that’s bad. Barrett calls Cena spineless, yellow-bellied, and so on. Cena grrrrrits his teeth.

Barrett turns his back on Cena, continuing to taunt his “employee” for no reason. There’s four sides to a ring, why doesn’t Cena just leave? Why would you stand there until well after 10:10pm getting carved up like that?

Cena leaves at 1o:11pm…no, Barrett! Don’t stop him, just let him go.

Oh, never mind. Barrett: “Until next week…you can’t see me!” He then does that thing with the hand waving. That’s fucking golden. The crowd seems more annoyed than angry, and Barrett smiles as the 2010 WWE copyright logo comes up.

Let’s see if I can call the movie before the title comes up. Okay, that’s the most recent Disney opening…Bruckheimer graphic…I’m gonna say Pirates 2…dead on. These movies are so good on Blu-ray.

So what’s my assessment of America’s Favorite Sports Entertainment Show On Monday Nights? The Barrett-Cena thing is pretty good, and my only hope is that they make Cena do more and more malicious things before the eventual blowoff of this feud. The selections for Team Raw are kinda eclectic, and Heel Michael Cole sucks. That’s what I’ve got.

Jets are up 12-0 on the Vikes in a rainy Meadowlands. Looks like I made the right choice tonight. Poor NFL announcers…it must be hard to kiss Favre ass for three hours plus when he’s just not winning football games.

Until I feel like doing this again…

If you’re like me, the following news in the ongoing saga of Kaitlyn Lasitter (the Louisville, Kentucky teen who had both of her feet severed on Six Flags Kentucky Kingdom’s Superman Tower of Power last June) will shock you to the point of inducing involuntary bodily functions. All I know is that after I read it, I flooded my trousers with urine, and then made a cocoa-bomb in my Hanes while cleaning up the first mess. I haven’t been this stunned since I actually liked Tom Arnold in True Lies.

 Read on, but just make sure you’re over a non-porous surface. Learn from my error.

 LOUISVILLE, Ky. –A maintenance supervisor for a Louisville amusement park said workers did not follow several of the ride manufacturer’s instructions for handling a cable that snapped and severed the feet of a teenager last summer.

 John Schmidt, the park’s ride-maintenance manager since 1999, said in a deposition in November that technicians for the theme park never performed a hands-on inspection before the accident on any of the 10 cables on the Superman Tower of Power ride.

 I know, I know…the idea of Six Flags, the world leader in filthy and understaffed parks, would skimp on basic and preventative maintenance is something that chills me to the core of my being. I (along with what are undoubtedly thousands of my readers) had believed that little Miss Lasitter had lost her shoe holders simply because “God” had deemed it so.

 What’s that, you say? There’s more?

 Schmidt, 56, also said that park technicians did not lubricate the cables monthly, and that they applied cornstarch to reduce “cable slippage” from over-lubrication that they believed was coming from the ride’s machinery.

 Quick, someone get right over to the Wikipedia entry for “cornstarch”, and add this fabulous new use for everyone’s favorite starch of the maize grain. I’ll get you started; it should look similar to this:

 Cornstarch also has many uses in the manufacturing of environmentally-friendly products. For example, in 2004, the Japanese company Pioneer announced a biodegradable Blu-Ray disc made out of cornstarch. The use for the plastic is vast, as it is a renewable plastic that has the benefits of being biodegradable, used in injection molding, in extruders, and other common milling processes.

 Cornstarch is used by employees of the Six Flags family of theme parks on amusement rides to reduce “cable slippage” in cases where excess lubrication is coming from somewhere else in the ride’s machinery. This is a popular use for employees who would rather be texting their friends or discussing the most recent episode of “Dancing With The Stars”, rather than investigating the source of the potential malfunction.

 Cornstarch has been used as a replacement for talc in baby powder.

 Fuckin’ Six Flags. And as a final boot in the ass, from the source article itself (bold lettering added by me for dramatic effect):

 The company that made the ride and installed it at Six Flags Kentucky Kingdom, Intamin, gives instructions in the ride manual about using a rag to inspect the cables. The manual states that maintenance workers should check at least every six months for fractured wires by holding a cotton rag around each cable while the ride operates in maintenance, or manual, mode.

 Schmidt said in his deposition that workers conducted twice-weekly visual inspections, “It was never brought to my attention to check those cables with a rag for snags.“

 I feel a whole lot safer strapping myself into a metal contraption that drops me 200 feet toward the cold, unforgiving earth knowing that park’s ride maintenance manager doesn’t even know basic instructions for ride operation. I mean, where else is he going to find that information? Well, aside from the manual provided by the original fucking manufacturer?

 People ask me why I refuse to join them on outings to my local Six Flags park. When news like this comes to light, I’m not even sure I feel safe driving past the park on the interstate. Who knows when a full train of American Eagle riders is going to derail from the helix and land square in the middle of Interstate 94? Or when a faulty gas line will cause the park’s Johnny Rockets restaurant to explode in a greezy fireball, effectively creating a biohazardous cloud over picturesque Gurnee, Illinois?

 Granted, those two examples are pretty outlandish (the rickety American Eagle barely tops out at twenty-five miles an hour these days in the helix), but the fear of an accident due to negligent maintenance is all too real. When you visit any amusement park, you’re trusting that their rides are in top working order and the park is doing everything they can to ensure that guests are safe. I’ve felt that trust deteriorate at the Six Flags parks year after year, and these comments from a ride maintenance manager giving a deposition under oath doesn’t make me feel any better.

So give that some thought next time you’re thinking about heading out to your local Six Flags and dropping fifty bones for admission. One day, it’s a snapped cable ripping a teenage girl’s feet clean off. The next, it could be your blood showering down on a retail kiosk selling twenty-dollar homogeneous Warner Brothers character merchandise.

Me? Fuck that. I’ll see you at Cedar Point.

 Before we get into the main topic tonight, let’s get a few things straight. For everyone who ends up here doing a Google search for “CM Venom”, I present several facts:

1) Yes, I am THAT CM Venom.

2) There was no “performer (who) skipped out on the card”.

3) There are no “younger sisters” either.

4) He didn’t “leave” the LWF, he was booted out for being an insufferable asshole.

5) Several thousand dollars were embezzled from the Lunatic Wrestling Federation, alright, along with half of our ring one October night in 1999. We’ve got some videotape of its sheepish return most of you straight-edge sychophants might not want to see.

6) And finally, your “hero” had time to hang around backstage at an AAW show and make a personal appearance at Six Flags during a weekend in August 2007, but not enough time to drop into the funeral proceedings for one of our (and his professed) best friends that same weekend.

Roll those facts around in your head for a while, and ask yourself this daunting question… “Shouldn’t I really be cheering for Chavo Guerrero?”.

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The 80^th Academy Awards show goes live at 7pm Central Time this Sunday, February 24^th. For those of you living in a cave, (or worse, in Oklahoma) the “Oscars” are the awards presented by the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences to recognize excellence of professionals in the film industry, including directors, actors, writers, and creators of totally incomprehensible foreign language features.

The hilariously smug Jon Stewart will host, and presenters will include such luminaries as Jennifer Hudson, Miley Cyrus (up go my hits for tweenies and perverts looking for Hannah Montana information), and noted classical thespian Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson. And as if that wasn’t enough to attract you/repel you in horror, the show will also feature Jamia Simone Nash and the IMPACT Repertory Theatre of Harlem performing “Raise It Up” from the film August Rush. If there’s a better time to perform that cleansing enema you’ve been putting off for months, I can’t find one at press time.

So what better way to celebrate motion picture’s most formal night than with a drinking game? Here in my household, awards shows of all kinds are less about cheering on our favorites and checking the pulse of film/television/music, and more about getting sheeted and commenting about how Aretha Franklin probably possesses her own gravity field.

For those of you wishing to participate in such a massive undertaking in your own homes, I present the Official Conditions for our Awards Show Drinking Game, which I cleverly dub “The ASDG”.

One shot for each participant upon each of the following occurences:

-Any kind of a “wardrobe malfunction”. One or (hopefully) both of Anne Hathaway’s tits popping out or Helen Mirren accidently flashing her Bronze Age vag are acceptable examples; Nikki Blonsky bursting out of an ill-fitting get-up like a tube of Colgate left in a hot car…not so much.

-Any time a winner’s speech is cut off by music (orchestral or pre-recorded). A second shot must be taken if the recipient makes verbal note of their displeasure at being hurried along in such a fashion.

-Anyone on stage acknowledges something yelled from the crowd. Acknowledgement will be defined as verbal recognition of the uncalled-for outburst, a hand wave, the “smile and nod” motion, a finger point (as if to say “That’s the guy…that guy right there.”), or pleas for Warren Beatty to get his hand off someone’s leg. Unsolicited mention of someone in the audience does not count, such as Robin Williams doing the same Jack Nicholson impersonation he’s been trotting out for twenty-eight years, followed by a reaction shot of the clearly drunk star of Five Easy Pieces.

-Any sighting of a bowtie; on stage, in the audience, or on that breathless and mincing faggot who does red carpet interviews for VH1.

-Anyone on camera trips, falls down, stumbles on their dress, or drops the Oscar statuette on James Woods’ foot.

-Any profanity heard that somehow slips past network censors.

-Any time a black person thanks “God”. A double shot is taken (one after the other as quickly as possible) if a white person does the same. Anyone of Hispanic origin…well, let’s be frank. Aside from Javier Bardem, the Latins ain’t got much of a chance this time around.

-Any time anyone utters the phrase “amazing experience” or “wonderful people”. These must be uttered VERBATIM; “incredible experience” or “amazing people” doesn’t cut it.

-Any mention of “Darfour”. This is the latest in a line of disaster or tragedy mentions that celebrities like to trot out to show that they “care”. This stipulation is cumulative from past years, so any mention of Hurricane Katrina or the Asian tsumani also calls for a shot. NOTE: Any mention of the totally overshadowed Hurricane Rita results in a double shot.

(ADDENDUM OF 2/22/08: Any mention of recent high-profile shootings (Northern Illinois University, Tinley Park Lane Bryant, or that whackjob who shot up that city council meeting in Missouri) will also result in a shot.

-Any time a presenter or award winner’s joke falls totally flat. There’s not specific formula for this; you’ll know it when it happens. If D.L. Hughely shows up on camera, better get to pouring. It’s coming.

-An award winner is not there to accept their award.

-The camera catches a bad wig or hairpiece.

-Someone makes a cumbersome attempt to drum up support or recognition for some sort of “cause”, be it a “saxaphones for schoolchildren” program, or feeding starving dusky people in some nation that didn’t exist last time you looked at a globe.

-Some engages in shameless self-promotion (such as “Well, Alicia Silverstone, that Internet video of you getting cornholed by that Belgian Draft Horse was pretty hot. Not as hot as my new movie, which hits theatres on March 10th, but…”).

-The “New Fan Of…” Shot. When someone you had never given a second thought to before does or says something so outrageous, hilarious, or “in the moment”, and you suddenly become a “new fan of…”, one shot must be taken. Examples include Vince Gill taunting Kanye West at Grammys, or Leslie Mann deftly dropping the f-bomb on the Critic’s Choice Awards.

-And finally, if anyone vomits or drops dead on camera, the participants in the ASDG must combine their efforts, and consume every drop of alcohol in the household. I’m talking everything, even those little bottles of chocolate liquor and that dusty bottle of Harvey’s Bristol Cream that’s sat upopened since Christmas.

Feel free to join in, and post your best resulting alcoholic hallucinations here. I’ll be waiting.

For those of you not in the know, the New England Patriots play the New York Giants in National Football League action this coming Saturday night. With a win, the Patriots become only the second team in NFL history to finish the regular season undefeated, joining the 1972 Miami Dolphins.

One could argue that the Patriots potential achievement is even more impressive than that of the Dolphins; the regular season schedule in 1972 consisted of 14 games (as opposed to today’s 16), and parity is widespread in today’s NFL. Win or lose, it’s an impressive regular season run, and one that will most likely lead to the Patriots’ fourth Super Bowl title come February.

But a serious problem loomed as this game approached. The league’s NFL Network cable station held exclusive rights to broadcast the game, and with the station only available to 40% of America’s households, a majority of the nation would be unable to see this potentially historic match-up. Sure, the game would get broadcast on regular TV in the Boston and New York markets, but who the fuck wants to live there? (Boston and New York residents: please leave hateful comments below this entry.)

Luckily (?), our nanny state swooped into action. Having solved all of the nation’s serious problems, our beloved senators and congressmen “pressured” the NFL to allow the game to be broadcast on regular television throughout the country. The game will now be shown on not only the NFL Network, but CBS and NBC as well, the first time in history a triple simulcast has taken place.

Everyone gets to see the game (Patriots 34 Giants 14, btw), and no one has to be subjected to Saturday night reruns of Law & Order and CSI: Muncie, Indiana. This is great news, right?

One can only imagine the seething anger of executives in the shadowy and dank tunnels of NFL Headquarters. Their plan to lock up the post-Thanksgiving football viewing audience…foiled! And they would have gotten away with it, if it weren’t for those meddling lawmakers. If you listen closely, you can hear them now…

“How dare they force our hand in such a fashion? They should be going after those vampires at Comcast, not us! So, they want the Patriots-Giants game, do they? Well they’ll get it, and more than they bargained for. Unleash…THE GUMBEL!”

This is the ultimate tool of revenge of the NFL Network. The droning and annoying Bryant Gumbel, worse on the microphone than a thousand PL Meyers on Xanax. Sure, CBS and NBC, you can show the game. But it’s going to be played under NFL Network rules, and those rules include this insipid half-breed and his inane commentary. The only thing that makes NFL Network game broadcasts watchable is Gumbel’s co-announcer, former Cincinnati Bengal receiver Cris Collinsworth. And as intelligent and likable as he is, it’s still not enough to offset the complete vacuum of entertainment that surrounds Gumbel like the rings of Saturn.

What to do? Your options include watching the game with the sound off, creating a three-hour custom music soundtrack for the game (I suggest Lily Allen’s Alright, Still, Depeche Mode’s Violator, and the greatest hits of Phil Collins), or get drunk on rum and bellow out your own commentary.

I’m not a big fan of the government pressuring a private business to do something for the “good of the people”, and in this case I believe their well-intentioned interference did more harm than good. I’m sure if most citizens knew they’d be subjected to Gumbel’s Kermit the Frog-like delivery for three hours, they’d take a pass on watching the game. Effectively, our government has launched a terrorist attack on its own people, akin to exploding a chlorine-filled hot air balloon over Times Square on New Years’ Eve.

 

Here’s a little piece of real-life comedy I came across over on Screamscape.

Six Flags announced their Q3 results and the news was not good. According to the summary on Forbes, there was a 53% drop in profits that quarter, dropping to just $84 million from $159 the year before. Overall sales, however, were only down 2%, hitting $465 million from $474 the year before. The market is not respond(ing) well to this news however, and Six Flags stock dropped to its lowest price ever at $2.25 a share. Then, as if the ghost of Kieran Burke was still running the show, Mark Shapiro then blamed the losses on bad weather this summer. While a good portion of the country has been experience(ing) the biggest drought in recent history, there were a few weeks at the start of Q3 where bad rain pounded Texas and the Northeast. They also placed some of the blame on the accident at Kentucky Kingdom generating a lot of negative publicity.

Wow. Negative publicity when one of your rides experiences a catastrophic malfunction and chops a 13-year old girl’s feet off. Who would have thought? Come to think of it, there really hasn’t been any word about the details of that calamity in quite some time. Perhaps some further investigation is in order…

And bad weather…yeah…that’s something we can’t control. There’s the reason for a 75 million dollar drop in profits!

Now I may not be a highly-paid theme park CEO, but I do understand basic financials and a fair bit about the amusement industry. And it’s fairly obvious that Shapiro’s “family friendly” approach to running Six Flags (otherwise known as the More Strollers, Less Tattoos Doctrine) isn’t exactly setting the bottom line on fire.

Shapiro is trying to transform the Six Flags parks into Disney, without the benefit of understanding what makes Disney parks work. Peppering the parks with higher-priced restaurants and anemic family attractions may work in the short term to draw in the all-important family demographic of 2 parents and 2.5 kids. But these same families that you’re working so hard to court aren’t going to remember the smiles on little Caitland’s face as she saw the Wiggles live and in person, or little Cody’s joy as he rode a Batman-themed wild mouse coaster. No, they’re going to remember the astronomical parking fee, scores of unpunished line-jumping teenagers, and vast stretches of filthy midways. I hope Six Flags managed to squeeze as many bucks out of them as they could, because most of them aren’t going to be back.

Decades of courting the young thrill-seeker demographic has saddled the company with an albatross that can’t be immediately fixed by importing a few placid shows and rides and suddenly declaring yourself a “family” park. I put on a Kyle Orton jersey every Sunday for three hours, but that sure as hell doesn’t make me a Bears quarterback.

So what’s the fix? Fucked if I know. As stated earlier, I’m not a highly-paid theme park CEO. Might I suggest you work on a few long term solutions? Perhaps raise your employee wages a bit and invest more time and energy in training; you might start eliminating some of the dead-eyed (and sometimes downright surly) staff that comes in direct contact with your valued guests. You know the energy you put into themeing and dressing the park during Fright Fest? Try doing that throughout the entire season. And stop gouging your customers at every possible turn. I’m still waiting for anyone (be it someone from Six Flags Corporate, or one of those sycophantic apologists from the enthusiast community) to explain to me why a fifteen dollar parking fee is necessary.

And $ 2.25 a share for Six Flags stock? Holy shit. I might pick up a dozen or so for origami purposes alone.

Former Illinois governor George Ryan trudges off to begin his federal prison sentence, while his wife Lura Lynn keeps it real.

 

Represent.

           It’s 11:30am on a Friday morning, and I need a cigarette.

          The “smoking canopy” at my workplace is located out back, near the loading dock. It’s a grim little location, filled with rusting skeletons of welding tables and vehicle husks that will never see the joys of production. But at least there’s a rickety wooden picnic table, and a free-standing ashtray that implores smokers to “park their butts”. Occasionally, I’ll run into a co-worker out there, and discuss the ineptitude of management or the shaky state of the Chicago Bears offense.

          But not this time. It’s just me and my Marlboro Menthol Ultra Light 100. Until I spotted “The Solicitor”.

          From across the parking lot, I watched him approach; a middle-aged black man dressed in a black shirt, black pants and white striped tie. He carried under his arm a shabby-looking box with some sort of papers jutting out the top. In the twenty five seconds or so it took him to make his way from the street to me, I waited, wondering what business he could possibly have with me.

          “Hey buddy, how you doing today?” he asked, jutting out his hand. I ignored it, but kept my voice friendly in an attempt to confuse him.

          “Good, good.” I replied. “And you?”

          “Not bad, not bad.” he said. “Little hot out today though, isn’t it?”

          “That indeed.”

          “Listen,” he said, pulling something out of the box, “I’ve got something I want you to take a look at.” He thrust toward me an oversized Scooby-Doo coloring book. Admittedly, it wasn’t exactly something I was expecting. I took it out of pure curiosity.

          “It’s a…coloring book.” I said, stating the obvious.

          “It sure is.” he said, as if my statement required affirmation. “Great for the kids, and if you look in the middle…” He reached out, and flipped the book open to the center page. “…you’ll see that there’s a full-color poster inside with Scooby and the whole gang.”

          “Yeah, it…sure is.” I said, continuing the trend of useless dialogue. The poster was indeed full-color, depicting Scooby, Shaggy, and rest of the “gang” clustered together, looking terrified, while being beset upon by a menagerie of every conceivable movie monster. There was a mummy, a werewolf, a zombie, Frankenstein’s Monster, and a vampire complete with starched shirt, cape, and Euro-trash medallion.

          “That’s something, isn’t it?” he said cheerfully. I didn’t exactly understand how a bearded thirtysomething with a cigarette in his hand was supposed to be impressed by the centerfold of a children’s coloring book.

          “Yeah, something alright.” I said.

          “Now, they’re selling these down at the Warner Brothers Store for twenty bucks,” he said, launching into the “hard-sell” portion of the conversation, “but I’m willing to let these go today for ten apiece.”

          I found this statement a little debatable, seeing as how the Warner Brothers Stores went out of business roughly six years ago. So, as he had launched into his “hard-sell” mode, I figured it was time for him to spend several uncomfortable moments with CMVenom.

          “Don’t you think this is a little odd?” I asked, pointing at the vampire on the poster. “Y’know, that they would use an undead creature in a book marketed toward children?” If the question rattled him in any way, he gave no indication, and continued to stare at me with a goofy smile affixed to his face.

I decided to continue.

          “I mean, technically, a vampire is nothing more than an undead creature. A reanimated corpse if you will, usually by some sort of necromantic magicks. I’m not sure that’s the kind of things you should be thrusting toward kids.”

          Instead of debating this completely logical point with me, he decided to pretend I hadn’t said a goddamned thing. “It’s a beautiful book, that’s for sure. Hours of enjoyment, great for the kids…and only ten doll-”

          I handed the book back to him. “It’s nice alright, but I’m afraid I don’t have any use for it. No kids. Sorry.”

          He actually looked disappointed. “No kids? No nieces, nephews, cousins? Nobody who’d like this?”

          “Nope, sorry.” I said. “None of those, and no kids for me and the wife.”

          He raised and eyebrow. “Sounds to me like you and the wife need to…you know…start getting busy.”

          “Oh, we get busy alright.” I fired back at this wholly inappropriate commentary on my sex life. “But she really likes it in the pooper. Little hard to make babies that way, right champ?”

          I’d never seen the color drain out of a black man’s face before.

          “Yeah…uh…” he stammered, quickly shoving the coloring book back in his shoddy box. “…well, uh…you have a good day…” He was already retreating while sputtering out the last words.

          “You too, dude!” I bellowed cheerfully. “Good luck with that!”

          It took him roughly twenty five seconds to approach, but only about fifteen to leave. I’d like to think I did good work today.

(DISCLAIMER: Carter would like my readers to know that she is a pure and chaste young woman, and any statement made by me in this account about her was solely for the purpose of freaking out an unwelcome solicitation. Thanks go out to her for allowing it to be recanted exactly as it happened, and for being the most magnificent girlfriend a guy could ask for.)

         

         

           Oh, I’m sorry…that was a typo. The headline was supposed to read:

“kanye west: gigantic asshole”

          The moral of this story is simple; whoever you are, fuck your problems. Kanye West has it much worse than you.

According to several sources backstage at the 2007 MTV Video Music Awards – and a report published late Sunday night by The Associated Press – West lost it again, this time because his performance of “Stronger” took place in the Palms’ Hugh Hefner Sky Villa and not on the main stage.

 

“Kanye was watching the closing performance [a medley featuring Justin Timberlake, Timbaland and Nelly Furtado] on a closed-circuit monitor, and he started getting upset,” a source who was backstage told MTV News. “He started asking anyone who’d listen why he wasn’t allowed to perform on the main stage. ‘Why did I perform in just a suite?’ he was saying. ‘Justin’s my boy, but even he gets to perform in both a suite and on the main stage? Something’s wrong here.’ “

          Okay, fuckstick…you’re going to make me do something I didn’t want to do. Here it is.

          I actually watched the VMAs.

          Yes, I spent two hours and some change of my life taking in that absolute abortion of a televised awards program. That’s time I’m never going to get back; time I could have spent doing something far more productive, like licking the tasty powder off every chip in bag of Cool Ranch Doritos, or whittling a piece of wood into the likeness of Burt Young from Rocky III.

          But no, I watched the VMAs. And something in Kanye West’s statement doesn’t “jive” with me. MTV showed footage of those ridiculous suite parties going into and coming out of every commercial break, as well as a few times within the context of the show. With four locations (one each featuring 50 Cent, Fallout Boy, the Foo Fighters, and Mr. West) and what seemed like a commercial break every four minutes, the suite parties got a lot of exposure.

          So instead of being featured once in a “main stage” performance, West gets exposure throughout the entire running time of the show. Maybe I’m ignorant to the whole concept of celebrity, but can someone explain to me how this is a bad thing?

          Oh, but we’re not done. Then there’s this…

But West didn’t stop there – according to People.com, he said MTV is to blame for Britney Spears’ less-than-well-received performance at the awards show Sunday night. “They exploited Britney in helping to end her career,” he said. “Near the end, I felt so bad for her. I said, ‘Man, it’s a dirty game. This game will chew you up and spit you out.’ “

KANYE FEELS: MTV is to blame for Britney Spears’ sleepwalking performance that set the tone for an evening of lackluster preening.

I FEEL: Darvocet and frozen margaritas are the culprits here. Toss in a little mental illness brought about by what was undoubtedly generations of Louisiana inbreeding, and we’ve got a winner.

          And if MTV frets and sputters at the “controversial” statements of Kanye West, they only have themselves to blame. If it weren’t for them plastering his slack-jawed mug all over their network and websites, he’d be an official nobody; a brother with an axe to grind and no one around to listen.

           I’m a genial type of guy. And few things make me happier than communicating with you, the loyal readers of Several Uncomfortable Minutes With CMVenom. And I’m not just talking about my regular readers (and you know who you are). No, I mean even those of you who put some bizarre chain of words in a search engine, and somehow end up here, miles away from your intended destination. The mental vision I get of your absolutely confused expression when you come across my little bit o’ Internet is priceless.

          Today’s column is dedicated to YOU, clueless person who stumbled across this blog while searching for something completely different. This is your time to shine. Or as one might put it to Sailor Dave; This is your time, comma, shine.

TO WHOEVER WAS LOOKING FOR “who wants to be a milliner the game”          

          I have a question for you; where does one find this spectacular game show, where people vie for the job of making women’s hats? And does anyone watch it except for you?

TO WHOEVER WAS LOOKING FOR “the real meaning of disney on ice death”    

          What is the true meaning of death, man? Is it, like, an afterlife? Or is it more like a purgatory? What is the true meaning of Disney on Ice death? I myself am curious. Was some poor performer’s guts spilled by an angry Shere Khan? Were they squeezed to death by the snake form of the villainous wizard Jafar? Or does it have something to do with the guy looking for “fat bad guy from Pocahontas”? All I know is that I’m keeping an eye out for the next area performance. This I gotta see.

TO WHOEVER WAS LOOKING FOR “peeing uncomfortable”

            Get off the Internet. Go see a doctor. Now.

TO WHOEVER WAS LOOKING FOR “drinking Scotch at Walt Disney World”

            Aw, dude…so close. If you’d done a search for something like “smoking truly heroic amounts of pot at Walt Disney World” or “drinking liquor and popping painkillers like Pez at Walt Disney World” we might have something to talk about. But as it is, you’re S.O.L.

TO WHOEVER WAS LOOKING FOR “the act of having several wives at one time”

            Your Jeopardy answer is “polygamy”.

          Polygamy.

TO WHOEVER WAS LOOKING FOR “Lovie Smith visibly erect”

            Hey! You’re back! Don’t get me wrong, I love that you’re reading my stuff, but you didn’t find what you were looking for the first time. Why the hell would you come back? Perhaps you found my caustic nature too engaging to resist. Or perhaps you were hoping that I had actually posted some information about the Chicago Bears head coach with a raging hard-on. One of those options will disappoint you.

TO WHOEVER WAS LOOKING FOR “disney mishaps”

            Perhaps you’d be more comfortable here.

 TO WHOEVER WAS LOOKING FOR “POCAHONTAS 2 JOURNEY TO A RAW WORLD”

            Stop typing in all caps. It’s annoying. Also, is this one of those “adult” films I keep hearing about? Like The Day The Ass Stood Still, or Schindler’s Fist? Yup, nothing like a porno about an Indian maiden with a face like a World War I army boot to get me going.

TO WHOEVER WAS LOOKING FOR “cm venom wwe”

            Boy, that’s a thought that makes your testicles drop, don’t it? Screw the idea of actually working in the WWE; I can’t even stomach the notion of breathing the same air as Randy Orton or that crow-eyed shrew who hangs out with Deuce & Domino. No, I’d want a writing job in the E. Within the first month, William Regal would be Intercontinental Champion, Rey Mysterio would be whipped bloody by Finlay for wearing that stupid silver paint at Summerslam, and La Parka would be the illegitimate son of Vince McMahon.

 TO WHOEVER WAS LOOKING FOR “CM PUNK celebrating in the locker room”

            Oh, yeah…and you’d never see this either.

           Some days, you just want to get off work, go home, order some food for delivery, and waste the evening watching episodes of Build It Bigger. Yesterday was one of those days.

          I had spent a good chunk of the morning in a conference meeting headed by an imbecile, and my afternoon was spent trying to squelch the urge to beat a smarmy engineer to the consistency of strawberry jam. So it was quite a relief to get home, kick off my shoes, and look forward to an evening of relaxation.

          Carter suggested we order delivery from Great Wok, a Chinese restaurant that we had ordered from before. (Remember that, for it is integral to this story. We had ordered from them before.) The selection was made (General Tso’s, beef fried rice, crab Rangoon), and I made the phone call to Great Wok. It took the woman on the phone a few minutes to grasp the concept of our address, but I was assured that the order would be on its way shortly.

          Fast forward twenty five minutes, when the phone rings.

          “Hello, this Great Wok. You order food from us?”

          “Yes, I did.”

          “And you say address is 3892 Hayes? Hayes Lane?”

          “Yeah, that’s it.”

          “Okay…we no got. Driver cannot find. You sure it 3892 Hayes?”

          “Yeah, I’m pretty positive. I do live here, after all.”

          Five minutes later…

          “Hello, this Great Wok. You order food from us?”

          “Yes, yes I did.”

          “And your address three eight nine two Hayes?”

          “Yes, hon. Three eight nine two.”

          “My driver know Hayes, but he not find address.”

          A quick aside; “Hayes” is not a difficult street to navigate. There isn’t even an easterly outlet. If you’re on the street, you’re going to run into our address.

          “I don’t know what to tell you. It’s clearly marked on the front of the building. 3892 Hayes.”

          “3892. Okay.”

          He hung up. I had the sneaky suspicion that this wouldn’t be the last of it. Seven minutes later, I was proven right.

          “Hello, this Great Wok. You order food from us?”

          “For the third time, yes.”

          “You say three…eight…nine…two?”

          “Yes, that’s the address. I’ve been living here for three months, I’ve got a pretty good grasp on it.”

          “3892…what it near?”

          “You guys don’t have a computer? Or a map, for that matter?”

          “What it near?”

          “It’s a condo building right behind the Dunkin Donuts on Williams.”

          “Oh! Behind Dukah Donut!”

          “Yes, very good.”

          Two minutes elapse.

          “Hello, this Great Wok. You order food from us?”

          “Goddamnit…”

          “You at 3892 Hayes. My driver cannot find. You say it behind Dunka Donuts?”

          “Yes, it’s the street behind Dunkin Donuts. If you’re at the Dunkin Donuts, get on Williams going west. Turn right on Chesterfield, and then make a quick right onto Hayes. I’m down the street. Three…eight…nine…two Hayes. I’ll be waiting out front. I’m wearing a white t-shirt.”

          “Oh, okay.”

          RING!

            “Hello, this Great Wok. You-?”

          “Yes, I order food from you. What now?”

          “You say…3892 Hayes?”

          “Oh for Christ’s sake…why is this so difficult? Did you understand the directions I gave you?”

          “Driver cannot find Hayes. He at Dunka Donuts.”

          “Well, he’s in the wrong place.”

          “You pick up food at Dunka Donuts?”

          Maybe it’s just me, but having to head out to pick up your own food doesn’t qualify as “delivery” to me. I gave up trying to hide the indignation in my voice.

          “Lady, I’m not driving to Dunkin Donuts to pick up my goddamned food. That’s why I ordered it to be delivered. De…live…erd.”

          “Oh, okay.”

          I had barely begun to explain to poor Carter why she wasn’t yet munching on crab rangoon, when…

          “Hello, this Great Wok. You order food from us?”

          “It’s been so long, I don’t remember.”

          “We no deliver. Driver cannot find 3982 Hayes. We no deliver.”

          “First off, it’s 3892 Hayes. And second, what do you mean you can’t deliver? A chimp could follow those directions.”

          “Driver cannot find on Hayes. Driver go to Dunka-”

          “Yeah, yeah…Dunka Donuts. We’ve been over this.”

          “He not find on Hayes. We no deliver on Hayes.”

          “Y’know what? Screw this. Forget about the whole fuckin’ thing.”

          We ended up driving out to get Mexican in what were essentially our pajamas. And it was good.

          For more on this insane situation, where a restaurant that charges for delivery is unable to follow the simplest directions, can’t afford a computer to access Mapquest, or just can’t open to the map in the goddamned phone book, feel free to call Great Wok yourself at (815) 609-7104.

            Or if you’ve got the persuasion to send them Xerox copies of your genitalia, fax those over to (815) 609-7106.

          Finally, for those of you who prefer to mock and deride in a more personal fashion, stop by Great Wok itself at 2400 Caton Farm Road, Crest Hill, IL, 60435. Tell ‘em CMVenom sent ya.

          Can’t find it? No problem. Here’s a Mapquest link to the goddamned place.

            Now get down to business. Great Wok awaits.