Preshow:

          The interior of the Joliet Park District building reminds us faintly of Romeoville, but the acoustics sound strange. A single test clap echoes for nearly a second and a half. This place is really going to get loud when we start bellowing. The preshow music seems to be selections from the Terminator 2 soundtrack; a nice touch.

The Show:

          Studd Muffin comes out; his outfit is very “busy”. He calls out Michael Lopez, his gardener, and begins to verbally berate him for not doing his job and wasting time trying to learn how to wrestle. Studd Muffin apparently hasn’t poked his head outside recently; it’s been raining like hell all day. For a guy who’s being verbally dressed down, Lopez is grinning too much. Muffin calls out Juggalo J-City, apparently to beat some sense into his hired hand.

Juggalo J-City vs. Michael Lopez

          Some passable back and forth action. Lopez hits a dropkick that nails JJC somewhere around the waist; Ben Jordan would call that a “variation”. JJC is a little too much for Lopez, and gets the pinfall. He looks a little too happy to have beaten a guy with little to no wrestling experience. Studd Muffin is elated, and orders Lopez to the back. I’m amazed that Lopez would even consider staying in Muffin’s employ after that.

Atlas vs. Sal DiNiro

          Squash with a capital “S”. DiNiro looks nothing like the guy featured in the video promo on VWAA’s Myspace site. After a mercifully short match where Atlas gains the win, the “real” Sal DiNiro is heard over the PA system, promising a big surprise for Atlas.

          Frankie Valiant is here, wearing a set of religious robes that actually look like dropped some coin on. His guests are the Furies, and poor Mitch Blake is on crutches. Rick Walsh’s jersey confuses me; it says he’s number 72 on the front, but number 27 on the back. Blake assures me that it’s a “tailor error”. I’ll buy that. Blake says he’s unable to wrestle tonight (regardless of Whack’s claims that the injury is a sham), and Rick Walsh will compete later tonight for the Furies.

Isaias Velasquez vs. Squanto

          Velasquez has a nice purple set of ring gear. Squanto wears a hat that makes him look like Kung Lao from Mortal Kombat. The hat falls off the ring post two minutes into the bout; a bad omen for Squanto. Good match between the two, with a number of near-falls that really kind of had me going. Velasquez picks up the well-deserved win, but both of these guys were pretty impressive.

Ovirload vs. Rick Walsh

          Ovirload and his partner, the Amazing Kuan, are black men in masks. They’ve got a good look. Some wild action in this one, including Mitch Blake absorbing a top rope dropkick, and then showing amazing fortitude by beating Ovirload mercilessly with one of his crutches. This one goes to a no-contest, and Frankie Valiant returns, proclaiming Blake’s healed knee as a “miracle”.

“The Urban American Dream” Willie “Da Bomb” Richardson vs. Jordan Pryde

            This is indeed a pleasant surprise; we didn’t even know Willie was going to be present. Pryde looks similar to a poor man’s Samoa Joe, the difference being that I may actually pay to see Pryde again. Willie responds to our frantic screamings for the Headbutt (twice!), and also grants us two “Potato” shots. Trust me, it was glorious. Willie reverses a cross-body for the win.

          Intermission is actually about 15 minutes, a rarity in indy wrestling these days. I buy an Isaias Velasquez 5X7 for a dollar, planning on waving it at talent I find to be inferior to his greatness. The Dean is introduced as our referee for the second half. We go mad with applause.

Vigilante vs. The Amazing Kuan

            Kuan and Ovirload are still selling their earlier injuries like crazy. It’s attention to little bits of continuity like this that I really like. Vigilante is billed as having something to do with the 80′s. However, his spiked hairstyle is very 1990, and the flannel tied around his waist is pure Pearl Jam circa 1992. We call foul, and continue to do so throughout the match. At about the six minute mark, the Furies come from out of nowhere, starting a Pier Four (two down from Pier Six) brawl. Countout ensues. Boo. Mitch Blake looks pretty good for a guy with a futzed-up knee. Yay for speedy recovery!
Battle Royal

          Bodies are everywhere. Even the Furies’ manager gets in on the fun. This one is over surprising quick, with Vigilante getting the victory.

Abbadon vs. Ivan Manson (No-DQ)

          Good hardcore action. Abbadon uses a golf club and someone’s cell phone as weapons. I get chastised for heckling Cheeks Manson by her mother. Abbadon drags Manson around the crowd perimeter, as fans chop and slap his helpless form. As much as I dislike this practice, the crowd seemed into it. Kudos to the woman in the front row across from us, who laid into Manson with a chop as solid as any worker’s. Abbadon blasts Manson with a computer keyboard to get the win, sending numbers and letters flying. I got a “1/!”.

Overall:

          The acoustics were the biggest problem; but seeing as how the music was clear while the microphone sounded garbled, this may just be a placement issue. Some of VWAA’s workers seem a bit green, but they all worked their asses off. This wasn’t a bad show at all for a fledgling company, and it seems like they’ve got their act together. I look forward to watching them progress and improve as time goes on.

             With some of the bizarre topics I write about, I guess I shouldn’t be surprised when peculiar search engine queries lead folks to my little breakfast nook of the Internet. But just about every day, there’s something that seems to do just that. (And now having inscribed the phrase “breakfast nook of the Internet” on this blog, I’m sure somebody with an abnormal fetish for crepes will soon be gazing at page after page of stories about arrogant wrestling federations and dismemberments at Six Flags, and wonder what the hell is going on.) I only wish that WordPress granted me IP addresses, so I could ask those folks personally what they were thinking. Let’s begin!

park my semi truck while at Disney World

Google rank: 8 & 9

          I truly sympathize with those who drive the big rigs. After all, in the words of Emmanuel Transmission, “The truck is the backbone of commerce.” And I really feel bad for the long-distance hauler who decides to bring his Peterbilt to Walt Disney World. Sure, the parking lots have enough space, but they’re in the farthest reaches of the asphalt, where guest trams dare not to tread. Disney ought to be receptive to the needs of these people, these kings of the road if you will, and turn the absolutely useless DisneyQuest building into a multi-leveled semi parking garage.

peeing and lovemaking

Google rank: Good fucking question

          After I failed to find my blog among the first three pages of Google search results, I wondered how far I’d have to delve into the world of “peeing and lovemaking” before I found it. 250 entries later, I gave up. What’s truly concerning is that whoever was searching this particular term went well over 250 entries to find my blog, passing up such gems as “Patches Place Watersports Training Manual” and “housing for working single mother with hlandicap daughter”.

whack his pee pee

Google rank: I’m at a loss

          This time, I decided to stop after 150 misfires. And wouldn’t you know it, still nothing. I wondered if a search for “billy whack his pee pee” would get me anything better. No dice there.

hot girls at six flags

Google rank: 10

          Nice try, perverted coaster enthusiasts. I hope you’re all amputee fetishists into 13 year old girls, because most of the entries I spotted have to do with poor Kaitlyn Lassiter, the girl mangled by Six Flags’ new Ineptitude Policy. Here’s an idea; have another cup of Dippin’ Dots, and get in line for the closest Vekoma Boomerang. Forget about “hot girls at six flags”. Trust me; I’m saving you time and humiliation.

the other sister motion picture

Google rank: I have no idea/1 (see below)

          I stopped at 200 entries. Google lists “about” 2,140,000. Juliette Lewis is a hack, unless she’s playing white trash. Do what ya know.

          For curiosity’s sake, I added “cm venom” to the end of the term. Ah, that’s better.

pictures of chris beniot dead hanging

Google rank: 47

          I don’t know what’s funnier; the misspelling of Chris Benoit’s name, or the fact that someone actually believed they’d find pictures of the former WWE World Champion hanging limply from a Bowflex machine. Wouldn’t Google Image Search be a more appropriate tool for this kind of thing?

billy whack

Google rank: 7

          Ew. There really are some sick fucks on the Internet.

funeral for Chris Benoit, Dean Malenko

Google rank: 10

          At least this one spelled “Benoit” correctly. But I wonder how Dean Malenko would feel about people looking for information on his funeral, especially considering that he’s not dead.

          By the time the middle of the 1996 LWF Season had rolled around, we’d learned our lesson.

          As a renegade wrestling company, we had begun pulling in what could only be described as massive crowds (to us at least). Weekend shows had started with a smattering of curious folks, but after we began carpet-bombing local businesses and hangouts with crudely done and vulgar fliers, the crowds started to pour in. By the time mid-summer came, the LWF was hosting crowds of up to four hundred people per show.

          The “backyard” version of the LWF was located on a friend’s farm south of Joliet, and each Saturday night brought a tailgate party-like atmosphere. Fans would show up early, park haphazardly in the field next to the ring, and generally party hard. We would make the pre-show rounds, chatting with the LWF faithful, and freely accepting offers of free liquor.

          All that changed one night. At a show aptly named “Crash N’ Burn”, Brawn the Lumberjack became the flashpoint for a riot during an in-ring battle royale. In all fairness, Brawn was defending himself from an attack by some drunken misanthrope, and the ensuing melee spilled out of control. Scores of fans fled for their cars to escape the cyclone of bodies. The night also featured some imbecile sideswiping parked cars on his way out like a game of vehicular pinball.

          We called an emergency meeting of the LWF Founders the next day; something had to be done. After hours of painful deliberation, we decided that our lax attitude toward our fans’ alcohol consumption was the largest factor in the debacle, and decided to completely ban all such libations from the theatre of the LWF.

          Some folks were decidedly unhappy when they pulled up two weeks later to be greeted by a sign proclaiming the new policy, as well as several stone-faced LWF representatives. Our policy was simple; we were going to search your car, and confiscate any alcoholic beverages. We gave the option of refusing such a search, but admission to the show would summarily be denied. If you somehow managed to sneak alcohol in and we spotted it, you would be ejected from the property. Some grumbled, some left, but most just sighed and handed over their booze. Two hours before showtime, we had amassed quite a pile of beer, wine, and hard liquor, all of it left on display.

          As darkness fell before showtime, several of us would prowl the parking area in teams of two, armed with flashlights, looking for those who had managed to evade our net of confiscation. Our favorite method was to slink up in the darkness, engage the target in some banal conversation, and eventually ask for a beer. When said beer would be offered, we’d reveal ourselves as LWF personnel, and appropriate their stash. Surprisingly, none of us got our asses kicked in the process, despite the fact that there were over four hundred fans in attendance, and we had six people with flashlights.

          About a half hour before the show, I was heading toward the backstage area, when something caught my eye. A group of fans were standing around, talking loudly and laughing. One of them, a young man of about nineteen, was swaying and hooting, holding a can of Pepsi in his hand. I caught a glint of silver on the otherwise blue can. I moved in a little closer.

          “Hey, what’s up, guys?” I asked.

          “Hey, man!” one of them said, “Fuckin’ LWF! You guys fucking rock!”

          “Thanks, thanks.” I said, peering at the can in question. It quickly became obvious to me what was happening. This enterprising youth had actually cut a can of Pepsi apart, and was using it to mask a can of Miller Lite. Pretty sharp. But what would really been sharp was if he had held the slight seam created by his can masquerade away from sight, as opposed to blatantly outward.

          Still, it was pretty damn ingenious. As a reward for his ingenuity, I decided to make this as uncomfortable for him as humanly possible. I spotted fellow LWFer Brother Don walking by, and I waved him over.

          “What’s up?” Don asked.

          “Nothing much.” I said. “I just wanted you to meet a few of our honored fan base.” I locked eyes with Don, and gave a slight nod of my head toward the Pepsi Kid. Don flitted his eyes over him for a moment, and then returned his gaze to me, giving a slight nod. He had seen it.

          “Hey, that’s great.” he said, turning his attention toward the group. “You know, doing all this running around, and getting the show ready is really thirsty work.”

          I nodded. “Oh, no doubt. I just wish I had something cool and refreshing to drink.”

          “Sure would be nice.” Don lamented.

          “Hey!” I said, pointing at the Pepsi Kid, “This guy’s got a nice cold Pepsi right here! And that’s my favorite drink!” The kid smiled sheepishly, and began shifting around as if his skin was suddenly too tight.

          “Wow.” Don deadpanned. “How lucky are you?”

          I reached my hand out to the Pepsi Kid. “Dude, let me have a sip. I’ll totally be your friend forever.”

          “Uh…I…uh…” he began to stammer. A few of his friends exchanged nervous looks.

          “Oh, if you’re worried about me drinking the whole thing, don’t fret.” I said. “I’ve got a whole cooler full, but they’re all the way on the other side of the ring.”

          “So very, very far.” said Don. The smile had faded from his face. He was staring bullets at the Kid now.

          “No, man…this is…is my…” the Pepsi Kid stammered. He looked like he was ready to vomit. I reached out and took the can from him slowly. He offered no resistance.

          “This is your…beer, I take it?” I said, peeling the aluminum camouflage off the can. The Pepsi Kid went ghost white. His friends looked around anxiously.

          “I…I…I…” he began to stutter.

          “You…you…you…what exactly?” asked Don mockingly. He took a step forward, and turned on the “menacing persona”. The Kid and his companions took an involuntary step back. “I’ll tell you what you were doing. You thought you’d be smart, and smuggle in beer, even though it’s blatantly obvious that it’s against our policy.”

          “The sign’s at the entrance.” I added helpfully.

          “But that doesn’t apply to you, does it?” Don asked. “No, you’re exempt from the rules.”

          I poured the remainder of the beer out onto the ground, as the Pepsi Kid watched apprehensively. When it was empty, I tossed it over my shoulder. “C’mon kid.” I said, beckoning him forward with a finger. “We’re taking a walk.”

          “What do you mean, a walk?” he asked.

          “What I mean, is that the sign clearly states that if you’re caught with alcohol, you’re ejected from the property. You were caught with alcohol, so you’re being ejected from the property.”

          The sign actually did say that, but we had been letting people slide on it by just taking their booze. Maybe it was the fact that this kid seemed to have no extra booze on hand to confiscate, but I just kinda felt like being a hardass.

          “What about my friends?” he asked, as the panic started to set in.

          Don scanned the group with his eyes. “Any of you hiding alcohol on you?” he asked. They murmured a negative response as a collective group. “Then they can stay. Your ass, however, is out of here. March.” Don pointed to the field, beyond which was the closest country road, at least a good quarter-mile walk.

          The Pepsi Kid mumbled something under his breath, and started walking. Don and I flanked him, and within moments, the hubbub of the LWF had faded to a dim noise. The moon was the only source of illumination, but was more than bright enough for us to see.

          “This is fucking bullshit”. The Kid spat. “You fucking guys…”

          “If you’d have followed the rules, there wouldn’t have been any trouble.” Don said, and there was no mistaking the amusement in his voice. “Now you’re fucked.”

          We trudged on for a few more silent moments, before The Kid started up again. “You guys can’t fucking do this. What’s your right?”

          “Oh, we can.” I said, sharing a smirk with Don in the moonlight. “And we most certainly are.”

          “Fuck you, man…fuck you both…” he said, before his voice got lower. “Ought to kick the fucking shit out of you…”

          Don tapped him on the shoulder. “What was that?” he asked loudly. “What did you say, you little fucking pissant?”

          “I said…” Pepsi Kid said, gathering up his courage, “…that I oughta kick the fucking shit out of both of you.”

          “Oh, that one’s good.” I said. “You’re going to kick the shit out of both of us?”

          “Oughta fuckin’ kill you guys…” he mumbled. I’m pretty sure he had assessed the situation at hand (two of us, one of him, in a dark field where no one would hear a damn thing), and reconsidered his stance. He didn’t sound too confident now.

          Don pressed the issue. “That’s funny, cuz here’s how it would work. You’d hit one of us, and if you’re lucky, you’d knock him down. But there’s still the other one to deal with. And d’you know what the first one’s going to do then, after you knock him down?”

          The Pepsi Kid shook his head. He wasn’t looking at either of us now.

          Don got right up next to him. “The other one is going to get up, you little motherfucker. And then we’re both going to beat your ass, and dump you in the fucking quicksand pit out here.”

          I suppressed a snicker. The Kid probably thought Don was being glib, but there actually was a quicksand pit out there. And I had no doubt that Don would carry such a threat out without hesitation.

          “And if you are thinking about taking a shot at one of us, I suggest you swing first at him.” Don continued, pointing at me. “Because I’ll knock you the fuck out before he gets back to his feet. It’ll save you the indignity of getting beaten retarded by both of us.”

          Don gave him a little shove, and we continued the forced march. Minutes later, we finally approached the main road, which was shadowy and silent. In the sticks of Elwood, there were no such things as “street lights”, or at this time of night, “traffic”.

          “Here you go, smart guy.” Don said. “Hit the bricks.”

          The Pepsi Kid looked back and forth between both of us. “What do you mean?” he asked.

          “What we mean is get to walking.” I said. “You’re ejected from the property. We don’t give a shit where you go, but you can’t stay here.” We both turned and started walking back toward the lights of the LWF. We had a show to run, goddamnit.

          “But there’s nothing out here!” the ejected genius said. “What the hell am I supposed to do?”

          “Good question.” Don said without even turning around. “Don’t care. Have a good night.”

          “Aw, fuck you guys!” The Kid wailed.

          “And if you decide to come back on the property, and I see you,” Don continued, still walking away, “I’m not even going to warn you. Punch. Drop. Quicksand.”

          That was Don.

         

         

        

          We laid Brother Don to rest on Saturday morning.

          This was easily one of the hardest weeks of my life. Each day brought a new variety of heartbreak. The stunned gathering we hosted on Wednesday hours after receiving the news of his passing. Seeing the text messages I sent early in the week that were never answered. Scanning through eleven-year-old videotapes for screencaps of Brother Don in his many LWF personas.

          Even during the “official services” on Friday and Saturday, we couldn’t help but shoot each other furtive glances. Listening to a well-meaning local pastor who referred to him as “Donald”, and sounded like Sammy Sosa, we all thought the same thing. Don would have hated this.

          We honored Brother Don in our own way. Most of us carried bottles of liquor in our suit pockets or purses, and our clandestine sips in the far reaches of the funeral home parking lot quickly turned into blatant guzzling right outside the doors. The drink of choice for most was “The Smirnoff”, with some Southern Comfort and blackberry brandy thrown in for good measure.

          Classy? Probably not. But Brother Don would have loved it. And it certainly would have made Saul Weinstein proud.

          And through all the mumbo-jumbo that we were subjected to at the services and the church (90% “Glory of God” talk, 10% “Remembrance of Don”), the definitive word came from the eulogy delivered by Don’s (biological) brother. Standing in front of the masses at St. George’s in Tinley Park, Mikey delivered a superlative tribute, peppered with off-color anecdotes and enough “blasphemous” avowals to make the two men of the cloth present shift uncomfortably on their pious thrones.

          And it was brilliant. It was just the kind of thing that Don would have approved of.

          I can’t properly put my feelings for Brother Don into words, and I’m really not going to try. The truth is all of us were better for knowing him, and all of us are poorer in his absence.

          We’ll never forget Saul Weinstein, the drunken and immoral owner of the Lunatic Wrestling Federation. We’ll never forget Agnes, the first hermaphrodite to step into a wrestling ring. We’ll never forget Otto, part-time LWF janitor, brother to the Supreme Aryan, and the reason that Sgt. Army gained the LWF World Title. We’ll never forget Mr. Trumbull, whose ineptitude and misplacement of his tools led to an entire event to be named in his honor. We’ll never forget Robert Buggs, despite having only one appearance in the annals of history. And we’ll never forget Cabrini Dean, the shortest-lived LWF Champion of all time, and the only man to ever be murdered in the ring while the LWF faithful cheered their approval.

          And we’ll never forget Brother Don.

 

Don Petersen

1973-2007

Always a Gentleman

Forever our Brother

         

 (This is Part Two to “Who Wants To Be A Millionaire? I Do, Goddamnit”. If you haven’t read Part One, I strongly suggest you do so, otherwise confusion will set in quickly and painfully.)

          May 2004 had rolled around, and Carter and I were faced with the pleasant task of deciding on the destination for our next vacation. Anything on the west coast was nixed, seeing as how we had just been out to California a few months prior. Las Vegas was discussed, and then eliminated (mostly for fear that we’d get loaded on complimentary cocktails while playing slots at the Tropicana, and wake up on top of a crumpled, liquor-splattered marriage license). And the east coast was just plain boring to us.

          So we decided on the default location; Walt Disney World. On a whim, we decided to drag Whack and Box with us, ensuring four days of drunken hijinks and scathing commentary caught on videotape. We made the arraignments in minutes, deciding on Disney’s Port Orleans resort for our accommodations. (The Animal Kingdom Lodge was our first choice, but seeing as how we’d spend most of our time drunkenly prowling theme parks, it seemed silly to spend that much on such lavish digs.) And as an unexpected bonus, the weekend we’d selected happened to be one of the Star Wars Weekends at Disney MGM Studios.

          For fans of George Lucas’ space epic like ourselves (well, Episodes IV through VI, at least), Star Wars Weekends are pure nirvana. Our excitement mounted as we read through the list of activities; a Star Wars parade, exclusive merchandise, and celebrity appearances. Our weekend of choice happened to coincide with the presence of Jeremy Bulloch (Boba Fett) and quite possibly the worst child actor of this or any other generation, Jake Lloyd (Anakin Skywalker in Phantom Menace). But the clincher was a special edition of Who Wants To Be A Millionaire: Play It!, this one featuring nothing but Star Wars questions.

          Sold.

          We were buzzed on mimosa during the limo ride to the airport, still giddy on the plane, and began drinking in earnest upon our arrival at Port Orleans. We woke early the next day, and after Whack and I had brought what appeared to be scrambled condor eggs back to the bleary-eyed girls, we headed out to the Disney MGM Studios.

          Eschewing our typical favorites such as the Rock n’ Roller Coaster or the Twilight Zone Tower of Terror, we made a scorching beeline for Mickey Avenue, and Millionaire. Carter and Box sighed and rolled their eyes, while Whack and I maintained our steely determination; one of us was going to beat this thing.

          The first showing was about three-quarters full, and featured a confused Jawa roaming around the seating area as preshow entertainment. Maybe it was the trace booze running through our systems (or more likely the effects of the small handfuls of Vicodin we had gobbled down with breakfast), but we were a little off on our game. The highest I managed to rank was second on the leaderboard. Whack and I zipped outside and back in line after the game’s conclusion, while the girls (not hip on our geekiness) took a bathroom break. We spotted them a few minutes after gaining our seats, sitting across the theatre, undoubtedly talking about how they hoped the whole vacation wouldn’t be filled with this sort of nonsense.

          The preshow entertainment this time around was a Gammorean guard carrying a shopping bag. A Disney cast member came out onto the main floor a few minutes before the show was slated to start, and said he had a little surprise for us. The surprise turned out to be Jeremy Bulloch and Jake Lloyd, both holding wireless microphones, ready to greet the Star Wars faithful.

          It became quickly obvious that Bulloch was a trained professional. As he professed his delight to be present at the weekend’s festivities, his elocution was crisp and clear. He addressed each quarter of the audience with equal time, and we just got the undeniable feeling that this guy was a class act. But the best was yet to come, as he turned to introduce Jake Lloyd.

          “And I can’t express how delighted I am!” he said in a light British accent. “I simply can’t believe I’m standing here next to the young Darth Vader!”

          If Bulloch looked like the consummate classically-trained professional, Jake Lloyd gave off the impression of being a mealy-mouthed, stumbling boob. His head had grown rapidly since the filming of Episode I; it now resembled the cap of a mushroom. He was never what I would have termed a “cute movie kid”, and he made an even uglier young adult. With his microphone in a white-knuckled grip, he lurched forward, his posture stiff and nervous.

          He raised the microphone to his mouth, and in an uncertain and halting voice (hardly befitting one who would list “actor” as his occupation) said “Well…I can’t believe…that I’ve never been…with an older man…before…”

          Perplexed by this baffling statement, the entire crowd of 600 strong went dead silent. Lloyd looked around uncertainly, as if he wasn’t sure if he should continue. He seemed well aware, however, that his puzzling declaration went over like a proverbial ton of bricks. No one seemed to want to break the queasy hush in the room, so after a few seconds, Whack and I did.

          “BOOOOOOOO!” we howled in unison, and more than a fair share of those present whipped their heads around to look at us. Across the theatre, Carter and Box hid their faces, as if their solidarity with us was blatantly obvious to all. Bulloch just grinned politely, while Lloyd looked around in panicked fashion, seemingly unable to grasp the reality of the boomingly negative catcall he had just heard.

          The Disney Cast Member who had introduced the duo came walking back out onto the main floor at a fast clip, eager to remove Lloyd before more verbal abuse began raining down. He applauded heartily, and most of the audience got the cue, and began halfheartedly clapping.

          “Jeremy Bulloch and Jake Lloyd, everybody!” he said, gesturing to them before quickly ushering them off the floor.

          “IT’S WORKING!” I bellowed over the applause, mocking one of Lloyd’s awkwardly-delivered Episode I lines. “THANKS FOR STOPPING BY, YOU HACK!”

          “CHESKO, SEBULBA!” Whack hollered, quoting more of Lucas’ Shakespearean-quality dialogue.

          Wearing a hangdog expression, Lloyd looked over his shoulder in our general direction as he was escorted backstage. It was painfully obvious he wasn’t used to such jeering from such a “loyal” fanbase. Bulloch took his time leaving, smiling and waving to the crowd. We suspected he agreed with our thunderous assessment of his young companion.

          Finally, the game began. The Hot Seat was to be filled by a Fastest Finger question, where the one to correctly rank the four presented options in order would gain the Seat. The question was ridiculously easy, asking to name four planets in the order they were visited in the Original Trilogy.

          Although my answers were correct, the seat number called was not mine. I watched as a gangly boy jumped out of his seat, and made his way down to the floor. He barely looked thirteen. He wasn’t going to last long. I hovered my fingers over the A-B-C-D pad in front of me to play along, waiting for his weakness to become my victory.

          I didn’t have to wait long. After correctly answering three softball questions (“What name did Obi Wan Kenobi use on Tatooine?” and similar claptrap), the kid flunked out when asked a question about Grand Moff Tarkin. I hunched forward in my seat. Having been in this very situation so many times before without the sweet release of victory, I half expected some natural disaster or unforeseen incident to rob me of my potential glory. The leaderboard came to life on the viewscreens, filling up from bottom to top.

          And next in the Hot Seat…seat 327.

          After three years of torturous disappointment, the Hot Seat was finally mine.

          I gave a quick fist pump to Whack, and began making my way down the stairs to the floor. I gave Carter a salute and a smile as I did. She looked happy, partially because I had finally made it, and partially because she would never have to hear me bitch about it again.

          Rich, the game’s dapper host, greeted me warmly, and instructed me to take a seat across from him. He began to usual rundown of how the game was played, but knowing it inside and out, I was barely listening. I just looked around at the set and the crowd, ecstatic to finally be there.

          It began. To be honest, I have little or no memory of the first five questions that lead me to the 1,000 point plateau. Rich tried to engage me in some small talk for the amusement of the audience, but when he asked what the strangest thing I had seen at Walt Disney World was, I think my answer of “the breakfast eggs at Port Orleans Riverside” kinda threw him a bit. I easily made it to the 16,000 point question before hitting my first quandary.

          I don’t find most of the lifelines offered in Millionaire to be all that helpful. In my estimation, only the “50-50″ (which eliminates two of the incorrect answers, leaving you with one correct and one incorrect choice) is useful at any stage of the game. After the mid-point of the game, “Ask The Audience” is a crapshoot, as my low opinion of strangers’ intelligence leads me to believe that they don’t know their asses from a hole in the ground. And the “Phone A Friend” lifeline can only be helpful if you’ve picked the right friend.

          But in the theme park version of Millionaire, phoning an actual friend is logistically impossible. So Disney has replaced it with “Phone A Complete Stranger”, where a Cast Member outside the theatre will thrust the phone into the hand of a random passerby on Mickey Avenue. You may get George Lucas himself, or you may get a retarded adult wearing a foam helmet and a bib. One just never knows.

          The 16,000 point question was thus: What was the call sign of the snowspeeder that found Han and Luke on Hoth? A) Red One B) Rogue Two C) Red Four or D) Rogue Five? I gave it a moment’s thought, and then elected to use my “Phone A Complete Stranger” lifeline.

          Over the theater’s sound system, a Stormtrooper answered the phone. Nice touch. He “conscripted” a passerby, some guy from Dayton, Ohio. When prompted by Rich, I asked him the question, along with the four possible responses.

GUY FROM DAYTON, OHIO: “Aw, gee…that’s a tough one…uh…Red, uh…Red what? What were those choices again?

          I rolled my eyes at the host, who responded with a tiny smirk unseen by the audience. I repeated the question and answers, wasting a few more seconds of valuable time.

GUY FROM DAYTON, OHIO: Man…geez…I’m, uh…I’m not sure…maybe, um…I guess…Red Four?

          The time limit was reached, and Guy From Dayton, Ohio was gone. Rich looked at me. “Well, there you have it.” he said. “He thinks that it’s Red Four.”

          It was my turn to smirk. Here comes the swerve.

          “Yeah, he thinks it’s Red Four.” I said arrogantly. “But he’s wrong. Rogue Two, final answer.”

          Rich held the silence for a few beats, mostly for dramatic tension, before proclaiming my answer correct. The reaction from the crowd was surprisingly loud, akin to almost any pop I’d received in wrestling over the years. It was also the first time since the game started that I’d paid any attention to the fact that I was surrounded by over 600 people, all cheering me on. Looking around, I also realized that the lighting in the theatre had changed. Aside from a shift of colors, the lights were now focused more toward the center of the floor. I could just barely make out Carter, some fifteen rows up. I smiled at her, and I’m pretty sure I got one in return.

          Rich’s attitude toward me changed slightly after my display with the lifeline. Gone was the small talk and banter, I think he realized that he actually had someone on his hands that knew his shit, and could possibly run the table on the game. Either that, or my exhibition of egotism put him off, and he just wanted to get me out of the Hot Seat as fast as possible. I think he liked me, though. I’m a charmer.

          The lights changed again after I successfully answered the 25,000 point question (Who played the Jedi Knight Ki-Adi Mundi? Silas Carson. Please…), focusing even more on the main floor. Three-quarters of the audience was now in darkness to me, as if I was being symbolically cut off from the audience as I progressed. Even in the middle of this madness, I still marveled at Disney’s ability to fuck with one’s subconscious.

          I used my “50-50″ lifeline to correctly decide that Admiral Motti’s Imperial insignia had six colored pips. The “Ask The Audience” was used to “confirm” what I already knew to be true, that Jango and Boba Fett’s Slave I was a Firespray-class ship. (I mostly wanted to see how many of the Star Wars fans in the audience would get it wrong; roughly half, it turned out.) And after answering correctly that the Obi-Wan/Acklay battle was inspired by battle sequences in the 1925 film The Lost World (Whack told me after the show that when that question came up, he believed me “fucked”.), I was looking at one question to go.

          One million points. One free Disney Cruise for four. One question.

          “Here it is…for one million points…are you ready?” Rich asked. I nodded in the affirmative.

          There was only one light in the whole theatre; a bright spot that shone down directly on me and Rich. Everything else was swallowed by inky blackness. There was nothing but silence.

          “In Episode II: Attack of the Clones,” Rich asked solemnly, “who supervised the motion capture for Dexter Jettster?”

          Supervised? I thought to myself. Fucked if I know.

          I knew that Ronald Falk did the voice for Dexter Jettster, but did he do the motion capture? Or “supervised” it, whatever the fuck that nebulous term meant? Falk’s name popped up as one of the four possible answers, but was it that easy, or an elaborate ruse to divert me? It was the million point question, after all. It wasn’t meant to be simple.

          For the first time, the 30 second time limit became a problem. I silently cursed the fact that I didn’t have a lifeline; even though it probably wouldn’t have done me much good in the form of a correct answer, it still would have bought me a little time to decide.

          Screw it. I thought, I’ve gotten this far on guts and Vicodin.

          “B. Ronald Falk.” I said, locking eyes with Rich as if I knew the answer beyond a shadow of a doubt. “Final answer.”

          Rich was motionless. He fixed me with an inscrutable gaze. Time lost all meaning for me. I was seconds away from either being hammered by a crushing wave of defeat, or kicking a clean, deadly hole right through the center of this game that had become my Floridian nemesis.

          I waited.

          Rich finally took in a breath, and I inclined myself slightly toward him. Here it was.

          “I’m…” he said, slowly. “…sorry. That is incorrect.”

          Six hundred plus let out a collective “AWWWW”. I’m sure Carter’s was the worst. All that drama she had to put up with revolving around this game, and her dumbass boyfriend blows the final question.

          To my surprise, the bullwhip-like crack of my heart breaking didn’t come. Sure, I was pretty disappointed that I wouldn’t be lying on a sun-drenched deck on the way to Castaway Cay for four days, but it wasn’t the devastating, “onset of suicide” blow that I had imagined. Rich looked legitimately distressed; I’m sure that he was looking forward to awarding the million point prize to someone.

          I shrugged. “Oh, well. Them’s the breaks.” I said.

          “I’m so sorry.” Rich said. “You came so close.”

          “Hey, I was happy just to get to the seat.” I said. Rich stood up, and I did the same.

          “If you want to follow her,” he said, motioning to a Cast Member near the exit, “she’ll take you backstage. You’ll need to fill out some paperwork for the prizes you won.” He leaned in a little closer. “I was really pulling for you.”

          “I appreciate it. Thanks for everything.” I said, and we shook hands. “Besides, I really fucking hated Episode II.“

          Rich gave me a little smile that indicated that he felt the same way. I heard applause for my efforts as I walked backstage, but it was sympathy applause. I’m not sure how it’s different, but I could just tell.

          I was ushered into an office, where I signed a multitude of waivers and documents. I learned that Disney could basically mold their next national ad campaign around the visage of my pill-poppin’ ass, and I’d have no legal recourse whatsoever. Also, I couldn’t attempt to get into the Hot Seat for another thirty days, so my plan to dress up in blackface and call myself Dave Mierendorf was squelched.

          The process was interrupted several times by Cast Members who came into the room for the sole purpose of telling me that they so badly wanted me to win. The two that hurt the most were the girl who told me that I had gotten the furthest of anyone during this year’s Star Wars Weekends, and the guy who said he was in charge of the confetti drop (had I won), and his finger was “on the button”. Wonderful.

          I ended up with a Millionaire polo shirt and baseball cap (which still sit in the original bag today, untouched), a series of pins, one for each correct question (also pristine and untouched), a Star Wars Unleashed Clonetrooper statuette (unopened at press time), a year’s subscription to Star Wars Insider magazine (which I received one issue of before it just stopped), and a Millionaire lanyard. I put the lanyard around my neck, a cloth and metal albatross to remind me of my collapse.

          I finally emerged into the humid Florida morning, slightly stunned that it wasn’t even 11:30 in the morning yet. Carter, Whack, and Box were waiting for me near the entrance, and I felt a little strange accepting congratulatory hugs and fist bumps, seeing as how I had technically “lost”. I was accosted by a small black girl, who proceeded to inform me that had she been in the Hot Seat, she would have gotten the question right. Looking back, I think it was the combination of Vicodin and my shell-shocked state of mind that kept me from telling her to go pound sand.

          During the course of the day, I was approached by no fewer than twenty people, all of which told me that I should have won, and it was a damn shame that I didn’t (including a gentleman who attempted to carry on a conversation while at an adjacent urinal at Epcot). After wondering for hours why people kept approaching me, it occurred that I might want to take that fucking Millionaire lanyard off from around my neck. That did the trick.

—-

 

          I felt a little better after I learned that out of the over five year run of the attraction, only 126 people ever answered the million point question correctly. I guess when you look at the vast number of people who filed through that attraction in its lifetime, one question away from being Number 127 isn’t too shabby at all.

          Thanks to the fine people at MouseSurplus, I have in my possession two of the A-B-C-D keypads from the attraction. There’s only about six hundred of these in existence, and I’m elated to possess two of them. They’re one of the highlights of my Walt Disney World memorabilia collection.

          I never got another shot at Millionaire. The Disney MGM Studios version was closed in August of 2006, and is now the future site of Toy Story Mania, an interactive shoot-em up starring characters from the Pixar movies. Although I’m not happy about the fact that I’ll never get another shot at the attraction that bedeviled me for so many years, I understand Disney’s reasoning. The parks need to be kept fresh and exciting, and sometimes, something old has to go in favor of something new.

          I’m sure I’ll thoroughly enjoy Toy Story Mania after it opens sometime in 2008. But while riding through and firing infrared beams of light at cartoon targets of Hopper, Syndrome, and Emperor Zurg, if I happen to feel a sudden twinge of sadness when I pass over a particular spot in that show building…

          I’ll know why.

          Just when you thought the story of Kaitlyn Lasitter couldn’t get any more bizarre, you’d be wrong.

          Kaitlyn, as you may recall, is the 13 year old girl whose feet were severed by a snapped cable on the Superman Tower of Power at Six Flags Kentucky Kingdom on June 21. According to a Courier-Journal article (found at http://www.courier-journal.com/apps/pbcs.dll/article?AID=/20070720/NEWS01/307200014), the girl’s father was invited to view the site where his daughter’s horrific injury took place. The cable, which is now under the strange-but-true jurisdiction of the Kentucky Department of Agriculture, is still at the park. From the article;

He saw a shoelace that appeared to be from his daughter’s sneakers knotted into a cable on the ride, said the family’s attorney, Larry Franklin, in an interview with The Courier-Journal after he and Randy Lasitter toured the site.

          Although ghoulish, that’s not the strangest part. Mentioned later in the article;

While it is clear a cable malfunction caused the accident, Franklin said the cable’s manufacturer remains unclear, which is why a manufacturer was not named in the family’s lawsuit.

One of the things observers — including attorneys, metallurgists and mechanical engineers — were trying to determine yesterday was whether the cable’s manufacturer could be identified from its construction, such as how many strands it had or what kind of oil-based substance was used in its middle, Franklin said.

“The manufacturer in question has not confirmed that it is their cable,” said Bill Clary, a spokesman for the Agriculture Department.

Park officials declined to comment yesterday, citing the investigation.

          Okay, let me get this straight. Six Flags is a multimillion dollar company with locations all over the world, boasting a highly-touted maintenance department. They are responsible for the safety of each and every person who steps foot on their properties, latches themselves into one of their rides, or consumes one of their nine-dollar hamburgers.

          And yet, the “cable’s manufacturer remains unclear”? How can it be unclear? Am I to believe that Six Flags doesn’t know who manufactures the parts used in their rides?

          A simple check of the ride’s repair and maintenance log should have answered this question. But Six Flags remains maddeningly vague on the subject. I can look inside my fridge, and tell you that the bacon ranch potato salad was bought from Jewel, and the half-empty bottle of Southern Comfort came from the Cardinal Liquors across the way. But Six Flags can’t tell anyone where this cable, a high-tension and integral part of this amusement ride, is from?

          Am I to believe it’s a “mystery cable”, possibly installed by elves sometime after Fright Fest? And should anyone feel safe at a Six Flags park at this point? It’s likely that the restraints holding you safely in a Vekoma Boomerang train are manufacturer’s originals. But as this basic lack of information comes to light, one could also assume that the restraints were machined by Edgar’s Tool and Die, just across the county line. And Edgar likes a nip of the hooch during business hours, if you get my drift.

          The Kentucky Department of Agriculture plans to send the cable to a commercial laboratory, where metallurgy tests can potentially identify the cable’s origin. Until results are (hopefully) made public, I will not crucify and vilify Six Flags for this accident.

          But for now (and probably forever), I wouldn’t exactly feel safe on one of Six Flags’ rides. How about you?

 (Warning: There’s a good likelihood that some of you may be offended by what you are about to read. To this, I say “Hard cheese”.)    

          The Lunatic Wrestling Federation’s first practice facility (dubbed “The Bump Factory”) was a cramped piece of warehouse space in western Mokena. Seeing as how we were completely self-funded in those days (our nest egg had been totally depleted by our ring purchase, and our first show was months away), we pretty much had to deal with what we could afford.

          The building complex was shared by an Ace Hardware and a nail salon, the employees and patrons of which were rattled on a regular basis by the bassy explosions of suplex drills and the muffled profanities when a chain sequence went wrong. Inside, the facility was barely large enough to hold the ring, and the “office space” (only large enough for a card table and a pair of chairs) could only be accessed by cutting through the ring diagonally. Tendrils of insulation hung from the ceiling like cobwebs in a cut-rate haunted house. The whole place smelled like beef and pee.

          But those problems were minor compared to the real enemy…the heat. Summer in the Midwest can range from pleasant to downright god-awful, but this one was bad. In addition to the ambient temperature, the sun would beat down on the blacktopped roof without mercy, turning our humble practice facility into something akin to the interior of Hell’s steam engine. Ventilation was nearly non-existent, so our only option was opening the large main sliding door that opened out toward the building’s back access road. An occasionally breeze would puff in, but for the most part, we felt akin to broasted chicken.

          By mid-July, something odd began to happen. Occasionally while working in the ring, one would catch a fleeting glimpse of something out of the corner of the eye, peering into the facility from the edge of the door. It would vanish as quickly as it appeared, and by the time someone would manage to exit the ring and look outside, there was nothing to behold. These occurrences slowly increased in frequency as time marched on, sometimes happening three to four times a day. We chalked it up to kids from the adjoining neighborhood drawn in by the booming and creaking of the ring, who were running away to avoid detection.

          One day, the Supreme Aryan and I were alone in the facility, working on some ring basics. We had just locked ourselves into a collar and elbow tie up (the standing grapple one usually sees near the beginning of a match, for those of you not wrestling savvy), when I saw one of the peering intruders in my peripheral vision.

          “There’s one at the door.” I whispered to the Supreme Aryan, not breaking the grapple. “See him?”

          The Supreme Aryan slowly struggled with me, moving himself into a better vantage point. “Yeah, I see him. He’s not moving.”

          “Let’s break slowly, and try not to scare him off.” I said. We gingerly released our hold on one another, and turned calmly toward the open door.

          Upon realizing he had been spotted, the lurker jerked his head back, so only one of his eyes was visible. I waved slowly.

          “Hi there.” I said in a pleasant voice, as if talking to an animal I didn’t want to scare off. “It’s okay.”

          “It’s alright, buddy. You can watch if you want to. We’re not going to hurt you.” said the Supreme Aryan.

          Our visitor slowly revealed more of himself, until finally he had poked most of his torso into view. He looked like a kid around ten to twelve years old, wearing a t-shirt and a pair of jeans. He didn’t move, but we got the feeling he was ready to bolt at the first sign of trouble.

          “Oh my god…” said the Supreme Aryan, low enough so only I could hear him. “Look at his face.”

          I squinted so as to better see his facial features. His skull looked unnaturally large, but his face was small. His mouth hung slightly slack, and his eyes were drooped like Katie Holmes on morphine. The eyebrows were high and arched. Having worked at St. Coletta’s years prior, I knew that look.

          “Dude,” I said quietly, “he’s developmentally disabled.”

          “Hi there!” said the Supreme Aryan in a louder voice, waving at him. “What’s your name?”

          The interloper looked confused for a moment, and then slowly slid from view. The Supreme Aryan and I both bailed from the ring, and streaked up to the edge of the door before stopping short. We slowly peered around the corner; we had no intention of terrifying our newest fan.

          He was shambling down the access road, seemingly oblivious to our presence. But to our surprise, he turned left, and walked through a door further down the building. The Supreme Aryan and I shared a confused glance; where was he going? We had to find out.

          Upon approaching the door, our questions were answered. A wooden sign proclaimed it the home of Trinity Services, a Joliet-based non-profit organization that aids the developmentally disabled. The door was solid, unfortunately blocking any view of what lay inside.

          “I bet there’s a whole army of ‘em in there.” Supreme Aryan said. “At least we know who all those ghostly visitors were.”

          “Man, we sure can pick a training facility, can’t we?” I asked.

          Word must have gotten around quick, because the very next day, a handful of the Trinity kids were clustered around the door by noon. They watched, wide-eyed and slack-jawed, as we performed irish whip drills and debated the best way to effectively throw a shoulder thrust. They would back away if anyone entered or exited, but were a polite and quiet bunch, seemingly enthralled by the action going on in the ring.

          Eventually, our kind tones and friendly waves began to comfort them, and they would no longer shirk at our approach. They became our unofficial fan club of sorts, chittering excitedly amongst themselves when particularly vicious maneuvers were performed. A few of the braver ones even came a few feet into the facility to get a better view of the action.

          The Bump Factory was crowded on the day of the Challenger. The Double M Magnificent Mike and the Mimic were in the ring, working on drills. Billy Whack and the Supreme Aryan were in the office, hanging action figures on the wall (the LWF’s preferred method of decoration). CM Punk, Broox, and I watched the in-ring work, and a few of our friends milled around. The Trinity group was out in force, there were at least six or seven pairs of eager eyes about five feet into the facility.

          I kept trying to watch the Double M and Mimic work, but my eyes were continually drawn to the Trinity group. One in particular, a beefy-looking kid of about 15, was slowly inching his way closer to the ring, and away from the group. He seemed enraptured by the wrestling action, and his face looked like Belloq when he first opened the Ark of the Covenant in Raiders of the Lost Ark. He would shuffle forward a bit, then stop, then do it again. Within minutes, he was at least five feet away from the group, alone in his own spellbound world. I alerted CM Punk to his actions, and we jokingly dubbed him “Tom”, due to his physical similarity to a DJ friend of ours. I continued to watch him, curious about what he would do next.

          Television can be quite impressionable on the young. Kids attempt to emulate their television heroes by donning capes like Batman, or attempting to murder roadrunners with elaborate Acme products. Tom was apparently impressionable as well, but influenced by televised wrestling. And no one watching was ready for what happened next.

          Without warning, he scooped up a nearby metal folding chair, and hurled it at the ring. This was accompanied by a hoarse, guttural cry, the first time we’d ever heard anything coherent from one of the Trinity kids.

          “SHHHHHIIIIITTTT!” he bellowed as he let the projectile fly. It sailed neatly over the ropes, and landed with a clatter in between a stunned Double M and Mimic. Everyone froze in place. The Bump Factory went dead silent, with the exception of Tom’s labored breathing. He had seen wrestling on television, and logically to him, that’s what wrestlers did.

          As the founding fathers of the LWF, Supreme Aryan, Whack, Broox, CM Punk and I gathered in a quick little huddle to discuss the situation.

          “Jesus, did you see that?” Supreme Aryan said. “That could have killed someone!”

          “It figures I didn’t have a fucking camera running.” lamented Whack.

          “That was a good throw.” Broox said. “We should sign that kid.”

          We quickly came to the realization that Tom should be escorted back to Trinity before he did something really dangerous, like attempt a German suplex on someone, or worse, ask to work a program with Johnny Mac. As the only one with a slight familiarity with the developmentally disabled, I volunteered to take on the monumental task of foraging into the unknown territory. Just to be a prick, I volunteered CM Punk to accompany me.

          With soothing voices, we gently guided Tom out of the Bump Factory and down the road to Trinity. The smell that greeted us when we opened the door was similar to that of a hamburger stand at a traveling carnival; sweat and old grease. A dozen of Trinity’s finest were scattered around the room, working on various arts and crafts at low tables. They all looked up with a mix of curiosity and fear. They had caught our scent.

          CM Punk and I realized that we needed to find a fully-functional adult authority figure, and fast. Putting on our biggest smiles, we guided Tom through the room, toward an open doorway. We kept our movements slow and deliberate, so as not to alarm anyone. It was as if we walked through a minefield of our own making.

          That door led to another room, this one even more populated. The activity of choice here was knitting, mostly potholders. A low murmur ran through the room upon our appearance. We were outsiders, and they knew it. We picked up the pace slightly; there had to be an adult here. Somewhere.

          What followed was a ten-minute ordeal I can only describe as a mindfuck. The interior of Trinity Services was like an Escher drawing come to life; doors that led to nowhere, rooms shaped like heptagons, small windows that looked out onto unfamiliar landscapes. The humidity increased the further we went, until finally it was akin to trying to breathe through a damp cotton blanket. And all the while, distrustful scrutiny from the eyes of Trinity’s finest.

          To our relief, we finally came upon an adult who was cleaning up some alien mess from a countertop. He furrowed his brow at us, wondering exactly who these two people were. Perhaps he thought us new arrivals who had abandoned our light assembly duties.

          “Can I…help you?” he asked.

         ”Heyhowyadoingwe’refromtheLunaticWrestlingFederationnextdoorwethinkthisisoneofyourshereyagothanks’kaybye.” I said without stopping for breath. CM Punk gave Tom a little shove toward the man, officially completing the transfer of responsibility. We turned on our heels, ignoring the inevitable flood of follow-up questions. Walking at a brisk pace, we knifed through the mazelike interior, hoping that heading in one direction without deviation would eventually lead us to the exit.

          We finally exited into the summer afternoon. Fresh air had never felt so good.

          Tom the Challenger was never seen again. We immortalized him on the Bump Factory calendar, which is still sitting in some dusty box somewhere, sandwiched between surplus fliers from LWF Hit & Run, and booking sheets containing shit too perverse for public consumption.

          Our bizarre fan club dried up instantly as well, perhaps the Trinity powers-that-be decreed that mental retardation and professional wrestling weren’t a good combination. Of course, anyone who’s been to an independent wrestling show would argue otherwise.

 

          Fourteen years.         

          It’s difficult to believe that it’s been fourteen years to the day that a group of imbeciles pounded four landscaping timbers into a suburban Mokena backyard, strung three layers of rope betwixt them, spray-painted a hastily created logo on the ground, and called it a wrestling ring.

          For those of you not in the know, today, July 10^th, 2007, is the fourteenth anniversary of Bloodbath, the first “organized” show in Lunatic Wrestling Federation history.

          The term “backyard wrestling” conjures an assortment of horrifying images: emaciated teenagers in jean shorts attacking one another with cheese graters, suicide dives from the tops of garages and stacked garbage cans, gruesome injuries created for the sole purpose of entertaining the nine people present.

          Our amateur fed was different. The focus wasn’t on the physical feats we had no business attempting. It was all about promos, acting, and characters. We knew that our actual wrestling sucked the high, hard one (show me a backyard fed that doesn’t blow in that respect). But I’d have put our characters up against anyone in any wrestling company. Ever.

          And what a frightening new array of characters was unleashed upon the world that summer. Malice, the undead man whose head was covered by a black executioner’s style hood (complete with condom-like reservoir tip). Billy Whack, the master of ceremonies who seemed constantly befuddled and confused (although Whack would quickly become the on-camera glue that held the volatile LWF together). Mr. Smith, the “everyman” of the LWF, who beseeched his friends in Japan to “stay in school, because that’s what’s cool”. And his opponent for the first show, The Supreme Aryan, whose true intentions seemed in doubt until his first spoken lines (“Mr. Smith…you Jewish scum.”), despite the fact that he wore a hockey mask and shoulder pads emblazoned with the swastika.

          And who can forget about the Gigolo (who had a problem, too many bitches, that was his problem)? Or Sgt. Army, the frustratingly vague hero of “The Army”, who would be drafted to “The War” moments after winning the World Title in one of the most heart-tugging LWF moments of all time? The drunken sot Filthy Willy Schlitz? The alien Ralf Wheels? The perpetually-injured Sublime? And that’s not even counting the core talent of the LWF, superstars such as The All-American Kid Mike Broox, the Chick Magnets (CM Punk and CM Venom), and the Mercenary (although it was never established who was actually paying the Mercenary to compete).

          In later years, the roster would swell to uncomfortable proportions. Dr. Gimic, the sexual predator from the stars, would spread his own brand of disgust and horror across LWF rings (not to mention his band of equally repulsive clones). Burn Camp, the team of Roscoe (deaf) and Cletus (mute), who wore vinyl workout suits and face-blurring nylon masks. Brawn the Lumberjack, the hardcore specialist who would incite riots with a flick of his wrist. And the whole circus was lorded over by the immoral Saul Weinstein, who won the LWF in a crooked poker game. Weinstein was completely disinterested in the goings-on of his own company, instead immersing himself in his lust for Smirnoff vodka, underage prostitutes, and El Dungo cigars.

          To this day, we consider the “backyard” days of the LWF to be legitimate. In the four years of the original LWF (1993-1996), we moved from a cramped backyard to a spacious plot of land in Elwood, Illinois. Crowds began as a meager collection of friends, but by 1996, had swelled to hundreds making the trek out to see the madness of the Lunatic Wrestling Federation. (By way of comparison, today’s Chicago independent feds would kill for bi-weekly crowds of over 400.) And secondly, our storylines and continuity transferred neatly when we made the switch over to a “true” wrestling business in 1997. There is a clearly defined history of champions and feuds from 1993 to 2004, because that’s what we did. It was all about character.

          The transformation to a licensed company was a necessary step; we had reached the limits of what we could do in the current incarnation. Personally, I don’t regret making the switch; it was the next step in our evolution. And the tendrils of our influence are still felt today, over three years after closing our doors. One of our former mainstays is Heavyweight Champion of PCW. Half of Elite Pro’s locker room is filled with former LWF World and Tag champs. And although he’ll refuse to acknowledge any of his time with us (both as co-workers and friends), former LWF founder CM Punk currently plies his trade in the employ of Vince McMahon’s ECW.

          In hindsight, my only regret is our sanitizing of the LWF upon “going mainstream”. Horribly offensive characters like the Supreme Aryan and Dr. Gimic were toned down to become more palatable. Supreme Aryan became “Supreme”, a maladjusted individual who yelled at people. And Gimic would make occasional appearances, managing teams like Zero and the Greek Goddess, and swaying his hips suggestively to the strains of Motley Crue’s Girls, Girls, Girls. Gone were the days when a drunken CM Venom and a sober CM Punk would challenge entire high school football teams to a physical confrontation, and walk away completely unscathed. Who knows how far we would have gone had we not worried about “political correctness”, and maintained the irreverence and attitude that brought us to the dance in the first place?

          But the ring is still in storage. We’ve still got a modest amount of stroke in the Chicago scene. And if anything, we’re wiser than we were back in the day.

          In closing, keep an eye out, jerks. You never know what tomorrow will bring.

 (Note: Walt Disney World fans may find this hilarious, sickening, or a bizarre combination of both. Those not so obsessed with the Florida property may be a bit confused at times, although there’s probably enough depraved humor within to keep them at least slightly entertained.)         

          If you frequent any kind of Walt Disney World message board, you’re bound to see a thread where people discuss what they would do if they were in charge of the resort for a day. Schemes range from the mundane (“I’d have the Magic Kingdom all to myself, and invite all of my friends, and we’d stay up all night, and ride Space Mountain like, fifty times!!!”) to the wistful (“I’d rebuild Horizons, and have it forty times as big, and have all the robots be able to talk to you.”) to the downright creepy (“I’d have a bathtub filled with Flame Tree BBQ sauce and soak in it whenever I wanted.”)

          Okay, CMVenom, you ask, if you’re so smart, what would YOU do if you ran the Walt Disney World Resort? Well, I would respond, that’s what the entire point of this missive is. You should have gleaned that from the title, you simpleton.

          This edition will focus entirely on Epcot’s Future World, with future pieces dealing with World Showcase, the Magic Kingdom, the Disney Studios, and the Animal Kingdom, if I damn well feel like it. And don’t comment saying that most of these changes would take “more than a day”. I’m well aware of that, just as I’m aware that the chances of a twisted deviant like me actually taking control of 43 square miles of Florida property are pretty miniscule. So shut up, and enjoy the flight of fancy.

SPACESHIP EARTH

          This once-great attraction has been fucked with more times over the past 25 years than Halle Berry at an X-Men convention. The first thing to go would be those horribly bright and intrusive video screens on the ride’s initial ascent, which completely ruin the aesthetic value of traveling back in time. Guests would be given long-handled hammers, and be invited to flail away until the tunnel went dark again, as the Imagineers originally intended.

          I loved the old Walter Cronkite audio track that accompanied the ride. However, I’m also a big fan of the Jeremy Irons version. And I couldn’t truly give a shit about Vic Perrin. So what to do? Whom to choose?

          That’s easy. Vic Tayback, of Alice fame. And as a bonus, he’d be sexually excited by the Audio-Animatronic cast of the attraction.

“Never mind da majesty of da Sistine Chapel. Did you get a look at the rack on that Egyptian broad a few scenes ago? Hubba hubba!”

          And at the ride’s conclusion, video screens may show Tayback being kicked squarely in the nuts by pop superstar Pink. But I really haven’t made my mind up about that ending yet.

INNOVENTIONS EAST AND WEST

          The concept of the Innoventions pavilions are alright in my book; a place where Guests can see the future of technology…today! But too much corporate sponsorship has turned these areas into virtual showrooms, and children, the little bastards being lured in by the promise of free video games, overrun parts of the place.

          And in an era where the future has a nasty habit of turning into today (not unlike the problem that the Magic Kingdom and Disneyland had with Tomorrowland), how does one keep this concept fresh and exciting?

          That’s simple. Ditch the whole damn thing. On my watch, the Innoventions pavilions would become gigantic hospital wards for tourists who have been injured on Universal Studios’ Dudley Do-Right’s Ripsaw Falls.

 

 

The biggest deathtrap in Central Florida. Yes, even worse than Gatorland on fire.

THE LIVING SEAS

          Yeah, that’s not a typo. I don’t mean The Seas with Nemo and Friends, I mean the motherfuckin’ Living Seas. I certainly have nothing against Pixar (after all, they’ve churned out one quality film after another while Walt Disney Animation gave us dreck like Home on the Range and Atlantis), but the educational message behind the Living Seas didn’t need a surf-speaking turtle and a clownfish with questionable parenting skills.

          Hydrolators? Back in business. Clamshell ride vehicles? Uh-uh, sorry. It’s back to the old Epcot blue cabs. Turtle Talk With Crush? Try “Talk With A Real, Live Marine Biologist”. After all, Epcot is the education park, and heaven forbid you learn anything anymore.

          And for my money, there was never any better preshow in Walt Disney World than the short film entitled The Sea. It’s long gone now, but back under my watch. This piece of majesty will make a triumphant return.

          Any anyone spotted fidgeting, checking his or her watch, or generally not paying attention to the film will be shown to a different door at its conclusion.

          Which leads to another theatre. Where you’ll sit down, and watch The Sea. Again. And again and again, if necessary. You will watch this film. I can do this all day if I have to, people.

THE LAND

          I’d shut most of this attraction off from the public. With all that super-futuristic growing technology, I’d have a few friends who’d be seriously interested in making use of those greenhouses.

          Soarin’ would be re-themed heavily, and the “new” ride would be entitled Saruman. The ride’s IMAX projection screens and unique inverted simulator system will remain in place, but instead of experiencing a lighthearted aerial tour of the Golden State, Guests will be menaced by the evil white wizard portrayed by Christopher Lee.

JOURNEY INTO IMAGINATION

          I think the best idea here would be to bring back the original mind-bending version from 1983, with Dreamfinder and Figment. But just to jazz things up, Guests will pass through a vapor cloud consisting of a figurative buffet of psychotropic drugs, ensuring a serious “journey into imagination”.

UNIVERSE OF ENERGY/ELLEN’S ENERGY ADVENTURE

          You know, I’d pretty much leave this attraction alone. I’ve got nothing in particular against it. The only thing I can think of is to restore that really cool Radok kinetic preshow.

          Oh yeah, and one more small thing. All the Audio-Animatronic dinosaurs in the attraction would be able to roam free of their moorings, and pluck Guests from their seats. Kinda makes Universal’s Jurassic Park Adventure look like one of those traveling carnival spook houses, doesn’t it?

WONDERS OF LIFE

               I’d leave this attraction exactly as is; inactive. Guests will be invited to wander around the stark interior for as along as they’d like, with absolutely nothing to do. And it’ll still be more entertaining than Body Wars.

TEST TRACK

          Admittedly, this attraction is one of my favorites, and would be perfectly acceptable to leave exactly as is. But where’s the fun in that?

          What would make Test Track better are random scenarios. The Twilight Zone Tower of Terror has had great success with its random drop sequences, a feature that keeps the thirteen-year old attraction feeling fresh and new. Granted, with the exception of acceleration and braking, there isn’t much you can do on a fixed track. So obviously, the only answer is to add more tracks.

          Each one of these new tracks would diverge off from the ride just before the high-speed whirl around the building. Each new path would be random; you just never know what you’re going to get. The new endings would be as follows:

-The Billy Joel Experience: Your vehicle takes you on a careening, high-speed trip through the hills and mountains of upstate New York, while Allentown inexplicably blares from the onboard sound system. You eventually crash into a daycare center, and you and your fellow riders are bitch-slapped by an Audio-Animatronic Christy Brinkley.

-The Lindsey Lohan Experience: You travel down a meticulously detailed recreation of Sunset Boulevard, and careen off a seemingly endless parade of parked cars. Keep an eye out for celebrity pedestrians who scatter out of your way, such as Meryl Streep, Dennis Quaid, and the guy who directed Freaky Friday.

-The Illinois Route 7 Bridge Over The Des Plaines River Experience: After a quick left turn, your vehicle comes to a screeching halt behind a phalanx of stopped traffic. And it stays right there without moving.

So basically, it’s a typical afternoon on Test Track.

MISSION SPACE

          Sure, using a technologically advanced centrifuge system, Mission Space does a pretty good job of simulating spaceflight, but it could be SO much better. Under my brutal and domineering hand, the new version of the ride would be a near-perfect replication of an actual trip into the cosmos.

          After waiting in an hours-long queue, Guests will finally make it inside Mission Space Command, where a video of creepy Gary Sinese will inform them that due to a dangerous looking bank of clouds forty-seven miles away, their spaceflight has been delayed indefinitely. A team of Disney vendors will immediately appear, helping to whittle away the time by selling Mylar balloons, calzones shaped like Mickey Mouse’s head, eight-dollar bottles of water, and those knock-off lightsabers that every kid at the fucking park seems to have after 8:30pm. These vendors, however, vanish when the first Guest inquires about the location of the nearest restroom.

          Eventually, Gary Sinese appears again, and delivers half of your pre-flight briefing before stating that the mission has been delayed again. Generations will rise and fall before anyone actually gets a look inside the fucking simulator.

          And of course, Mission Space is going to need a new corporate sponsor. And who knows quality spacecraft parts better than Morton Thiokol?

          What?

          Oh.

          Well kids, that’s it for this time. Stay tuned for the next installment in my complete bastardization of the Walt Disney World Resort, as I create a World Showcase where countries consist of nothing but cruel stereotypes, and the “New” Illuminations involves nations firing ballistic weapons at each other across World Showcase Lagoon. Ta!

         

          I, like most wrestling fans, was shocked/stunned to hear of the “untimely” passing of WWE superstar Chris Benoit. I first got the news from a phone call from Whack, as I was heading home from work, mired in the construction of what, I assume, will eventually be the I-355 extension. Benoit, his wife Nancy (better known to you 18 WCW fans as “Woman”) and their 7-year old son Daniel (better known to wrestling fans as “That Kid With The Oddly-Shaped Skull”) were found dead Monday afternoon in their suburban Atlanta home. Oddly, the first thing that went through my mind was the WWE’s “relocation” of Benoit’s hometown from Canada to Georgia, as if Vince McMahon thought that audiences wouldn’t connect with someone who saluted the Maple Leaf.

          Broox, Whack told me, was on his way over to watch the night’s three-hour RAW, which would undoubtedly turn into a celebration of all things Benoit. I pressed the gas pedal a little harder, and tailgated a littler fiercer.

          Arriving home, I quickly medicated myself with ibuprofen and Southern Comfort (or “Comfort of Southern”, as Thag the Brute would put it), threw my theory of a murder-suicide on the CPW.com board, and settled down on the couch with Whack, Broox, Box, and the ever-gorgeous Carter.

          Vince opened the show in the ring, in a stark and empty arena, and pretty much laid the entire “Death of Mr. McMahon” angle to rest. As he eulogized the Rabid Wolverine, I only hoped that with the abortion of that angle, the “perpetrator” of the heinous deed would be revealed at some point. Triple H? Tony Garea? A suddenly intelligent Eugene? Ah, all in good time, I’m sure.

          Classic Benoit matches were shown, along with (sometimes) tearful remembrances by WWE superstars. Dean Malenko showed his customary lack of emotion, although I’m sure he was torn up inside. We realized Edge was the result of mating experiments with humans and aliens from Rigel 6. And CM Punk, Benoit’s “would-have-been” opponent on Sunday night, shed some theatrical tears as he bemoaned the loss of his friend. I found it morbidly funny that Phil (who had spoken glowingly of Benoit from the age of 14) would never get the chance to do the job to someone he idolized so feverishly.

          But a funny thing, as they say, happened on the way to the funeral. Internet reports started speaking of odd particulars, such as investigators speaking of things “bizarre”. And the report that the “instruments of death” were found at the scene set us completely over the edge. Something was rotten in Atlanta, and for once, it wasn’t the seats on a MARTA bus.

          By the time that the official WWE eulogy was over, wrestling marks the world over were beginning to salt their fawning remembrances of The Crippler in preparation for eating their words. It became painfully obvious that Chris Benoit, idolized by many for his incredible technical skills and dedication to the business, was nothing more than a murderer.

          Let that sink in for a moment. Chris Benoit, quite possibly one of the top five greatest technical wrestlers of all time, was a murderer. A man who entertained millions (myself included) was revealed to be an absolute chunk of crap. Mental images crumbled. Tearful marks choked on their words. And internet avatars featuring the former World Heavyweight Champion were stopped in mid-creation; 1967-2007 hanging limply at the bottom, angel wings graphed to his back unfinished.

          By the accounts of Tuesday afternoon, Benoit strangled his wife to death at some point on Friday, and smothered his seven-year old son to death on Saturday, before hanging himself to death at some point on Monday. Oh, wait. Let me clarify that for you. He strangled his wife to death with an electrical cord at some point on Friday, and smothered his seven-year old son to death on Saturday with a plastic bag, before hanging himself to death at some point on Monday. There, that’s better.

          The media is up in arms at this point, mostly about the fact that prescription anabolic steroids were found in the home; a fact that is neither here nor there. Whether or not steroids played a part in this horrific tragedy is yet to be determined, and any speculation on that by the media is, at this point, pure sensationalism.

          Some are also criticizing World Wrestling Entertainment for running a three-hour tribute for a man who turned out to be an executioner. The decision to run the Benoit tribute show was made before any of these ghastly details came to light, and the WWE should not be criticized for their decision.

          Besides, had they done nothing, they would have been crucified for ignoring one of the “all-time greats”. Damned if you do, damned if you don’t.

          And despite what some ring-stealing traitors will tell you, that’s your first lesson in the wrestling business.

          Goodbye, Sharon Morrill. And good riddance.

          Who, you may ask, is Sharon Morrill? And the answer would be the former president of Disney Toons Studios. “Former”, because her ass got bounced this week, mostly due to the influence of John Lassiter (of Pixar fame, as well as the current Chief Creative Officer of Walt Disney Animation). And why does any of this matter?

          Morrill is widely credited with being the “genius” behind the last decade or so of “direct to video” sequels to classic Disney animated films.

          Ah. Now you see.

          Lassiter, a “traditionalist” when it comes to the subject of Disney Animation, has been using his power since January of 2006 to ixnay a series of poorly-conceived DTV sequels (Aristocats 2? Chicken Little 2?). According to those inside Disney, the final straw came when Lassiter sat through a rough cut of The Tinkerbell Movie, a computer animated DTV sequel that had been all but created by Morrill.

          Lassiter was pissed. To him, The Tinkerbell Movie summed up everything that was wrong with Disney Toon Studios. The next thing you know, Morrill is gone, the direct to video sequel epidemic seems to be a thing of the past, and a sigh of relief whooshed out from Disney Animation traditionalists everywhere.

          Including me. Good riddance, Morrill.

          I’m not against the concept of sequels, far from it. In my opinion, some follow-ups are superior to the original film. X2: X-Men United, Terminator 2: Judgment Day, and Aliens immediately spring to mind. And Dead Man’s Chest and At World’s End were at least as entertaining as the original Pirates of the Caribbean.

          But these Disney DTV sequels? Ugh. Let’s take a quick look at a few, shall we?

The Return of Jafar (1994)

           

          Jafar, from 1992′s Aladdin, was a classic Disney villain. He schemed and plotted, used everyone’s faults against then, gained a massive amount of power, and was defeated soundly in the end. Great story arc.

          So what’s the most logical course of action? Bring him back in a weakly-produced sequel featuring Dan Castellaneta trying to ape Robin Williams, and animation that belonged on a Disney Saturday morning cartoon. Unfortunately, because it raked in a shitload of money, this is the nugget of crap that got the whole ball rolling.

Pocahontas II: Journey to a New World (1998)

           

          This DTV sequel is the heartwarming tale of Pocahontas’ travels to England after the events of the first movie, a series of comic misadventures, and her falling in love with John Rolfe, the man who would become her husband. It ends with Pocahontas and Rolfe in each other’s arms, sailing back to the New World under a beautiful sunset.

          In real life, Pocahontas came to England as part of hostage situation, was baptized, took the name “Rebecca Rolfe”, and died of smallpox on the way home from England. Now that’s a direct to video sequel I want to see.

101 Dalmatians II: Patch’s London Adventure (2003)

            All you need to know is that it features the voices of Martin Short, Jason Alexander, and Barry Bostwick.

          Pass.

          I know these “films” (for lack of a better word) filled the Disney coffers with money, as they were intended to do. (After all, the cheaper the product, the higher the profit.) But from an artistic standpoint, all they do is weaken the good name that they’re stacked upon. The world doesn’t really need to see what happened when the Little Mermaid returned to the sea, how Tarzan grew up, or a situation where Kronk got a “new” groove. Thankfully, the death of this unfortunate trend means we’ll never be subjected to The Rescuers III: The Rescuers Do Vegas, or Lilo & Stitch III: Lilo’s Prom Night Date Rape.

          I wholeheartedly applaud Lassiter’s approach to this situation, and hope that he continues to clear out the dead wood not just in Disney Animation, but in the company as a whole. The re-opening of the Submarine Voyage at Disneyland, and future plans for Walt Disney World seem to bringing great hope for the future.

          And in case Sharon Morrill happens upon this while Googling her name (after all, she’s got some free time now), let me say this.

          Sharon, I don’t know you. You’re probably not a “bad” person, and I understand you’re not wholly responsible for the thirteen years of feces that’s been clogging up store shelves and pissing me off. After all, it’s not as if you wrote, directed, and produced every single one of these atrocities personally. I’m sure most of it was outsourced to India or some country where diphtheria breaks out every time it rains.

          Perhaps now, you can use your massive creative talents toward a more appropriate end. Say, for example…

“Welcome to Cosmic Ray’s Starlight Café. May I take your order?”