9/2/04

I Never Promised You A Rose Garden

For you
For me
For nothing

For you
For me
That's all

Hey

What's Bill been up to? Mostly the same old Billshit. Let's get to it.

First off, the votes for the Juggz/DFZ tag team name are barely trickling in, Foolkillers and Hellbound tied at 5, had a couple interesting suggestions, probably the best was Satan Slayers, except if you're not in on the in-joke that Loretta is Satan, it makes us sound like good guys.

Hell, I should've had a contest to come up with alternative slurs for Gandhi, he's been referred to as "that droolbag", "that anus", and "that freak she lives with" in recently received e-mails here at Shitcom Central, mostly in reference to the girls returning to Baltimore. For those who've asked, they're doing okay I guess, I don't hear from them much. It's a busy life they lead when they're there- I guess, fucking whatever, I don't want to talk about it.

The unfortunate birth story from last issue went over a storm. Yes, it was all true, you think I could make something like that up? Also, regarding the family photo, two people asked, "How could you run over your Dad's head with a sled?" As it happens, quite easily.

We were sledding down that giant hill previously mentioned in "Billy, if you've killed your sister!", my Dad was riding on a sled ahead of me and fell off of it, and I ran over his head. He jumps up, his toboggan split in two, and a big bloody sled runner gouge down the middle of his head.

D: Goddamn boy, can't you steer that sled any better than that?
B: I got your head, didn't I? Hey, careful now . .

Of course, you guys make a much bigger thing out of all these incidents than we did at the time, it was just another fucking day to us. Seriously.

M: What on earth happened to you?
B: I fell out of a tree.
M: But you're a bloody pulp.
B: Well, it was a big tree.

Also, while I'm addressing recent correspondence, someone asked a while back, when I mentioned I'd shaved them off, "How could your EYEBROWS (caps are his) piss you off?" They just did, okay? Are you trying to tell me your eyebrows have never pissed YOU off?

I was out at the house the other day, my Dad goes, "I can't stand that fat goop," my Mom got all offended cos she thought he said "gook", my Dad goes "GOOP, goddammit, don't ya speak English?" I had to concede his point on this one, since he was talking about John Goodman, who, while he may be no gook, is most definitely a fat goop, and whom I can't stand either. Although to give him his due, in that second Jesco White thing on PBS, not "The Dancing Outlaw", but the one where Jesco was appearing on "Roseanne" as somebody's hillbilly retard cousin, Goodman was the only one to treat Jesco even halfway decent, Roseanne and Tom Arnold- what a pair of total shitbags they, they make John Goodman look like a fucking saint- were sniggering at and mocking Jesco the whole damn documentary. Fuckhead no talents anyway, I can't stand John Goodman but I absolutely fucking despise Roseanne and Tom. Who are ALSO fat goops on top of it.

I met Jesco somewhere back around '94 or so, while working for Abraxas. I was down at the Boone County Courthouse one Monday morning- Boone, along with Lincoln, and some of the other flat fucking SHITTY circuits down south would not give you an individual hearing time- everyone was scheduled for 9 am, there were well over a hundred people there waiting that particular morning, then they just called your case in whatever arcane order was in use that day. I just always thought that was the most goddamn, inconsiderate, "I'm the judge so I'm important, fuck all the rest of you" way to run a courthouse, so much so that I started refusing to attend hearings in those type circuits- not with Lee, he'd have just fired my ass, he wasn't much for back talk, this was later when Johanna was running the place (into the fucking ground, damn her)- it was nothing to show up at 9 at one of these piss holes and not get in until 2 or 3 that afternoon- but God help your ass if they called your name hours after your 9 am appointment, and you'd gone to get a bite to eat, or take a crap, or put more money in the parking meter, or just gotten disgusted and said "Fuck you goddamn hayseeds, I'm going home", cos then the bailiff was after your ass like you were fucking Al Capone. Dumb fucks, its been ages and I still get pissed off thinking about it.

As an aside, I saw where Carol Bailey, who was the juvenile probation officer for Boone Co. during my Abraxas years, just passed away a few weeks ago, at 64. She was always nice, never had any problems with her at all, just the piss poor way they ran their circuit court, so, RIP Carol.

Jesco and family were there to try and bail out his brother, picked up over the weekend on public intox, a pretty much weekly event from what I heard. I happened to get a seat near them, in fact, at one point, I was sitting next to Jesco. He looks me up and down, sitting there in my suit, and says, "You a doctor?" which I think pretty much sums up the guy. I imagine if he'd been in a hospital waiting room next to a guy in scrubs he'd have asked "You a lawyer?"

Anyway, I said, "Nah, I'm an astronaut", and he goes "FER REAL?" all excited, I felt kind of mean. "No, not for real," I had to admit.

Jesco's wife- at the time, I don't know if they're still married or not- was there as well. What a piece of work she was, reeking of sweat and alcohol and what smelled like aftershave- maybe she'd been drinking the aftershave, which would explain a lot- she was easily one of the ten most hideous human beings I've ever seen in my life. In fact, she WAS the ten most hideous human beings I've ever seen in my life. If a really ugly human and a really ugly bulldog had an offspring, it would look like her. Maybe crossed with a toad. And a human sized chancre. I think Lovecraft wrote a story about her once.

No one was paying the slightest bit of attention to Jesco, but every couple minutes his fucking mutant spouse would still holler out, "This here's Jesco White and y'all just leave him alone, he ain't signin' no auty-graphs today!"

She sees me and Jesco talking, so she hollers- I don't think her monster vocal cords were capable of anything else- "You just leave him alone, he ain't signin' no auty-graphs today!"

I knew there was a long history of domestic violence between them- how could there not be?- so I ask Jesco, "You beaten her any lately?"
Naw, naw," he says, embarrassed. "I quit beating her."
"Well, you might want to think of starting again."
"HYUK!" He looks at his nightmarish spouse. "Doc"- I almost fell off the fucking bench when he called me that- "says I oughta start beating you again."
Her eyes bulge and "You better NAWT!" she says, truly alarmed, like she thinks he's gonna start in right then.

They got called in not long after- since they had no money for bail, bro stayed in jail, not really sure why they even showed up, unless it got them out of the trailer park for a little while, and I didn't see old Jesco again. As a coda, not a week after our encounter, I saw in the paper where Jesco'd just been arrested for beating the dogshit hell out of his wife. Oops.

Back to my Dad, he made this Thai chicken dish last week he was all damn proud of, stopped by there one morning on my way home from Al's, I'm in the house maybe thirty seconds- he must've thrown this stuff in the microwave as soon as he saw me pulling up- when my Dad shoves this huge plate of steaming brown muck in my face.

D: Here, try this.
B: Good gosh, what is it?
D: Thai chicken. I made it.
B: Who ate it the first time?
D: Smart ass. Just try it.

So I do.

D: How'd you like it?
B: Didn't. I really don't like peanut butter sauce on meat. In fact, I really don't like peanut butter sauce at all.
D: You ate all of it.
B: Yeah, well, what would you have done if I didn't clean my plate?

Both of my parents at the same time: Make you sit there till you did.

Exactly. In my house growing up, not only were picky eaters not condoned, they were fucking beaten. I'm serious, if it was set on the table, you put it on your plate, and if it was on your plate, you ate it, and no fucking separate meals for everyone- people tell me all the time about fixing a separate meal for each member of their family and I just think, "You're out of your fucking minds".

D: This is good food. What, you think we'd give you bad food?
B: (Very early on). No, I just don't particularly care for the taste of it.
D: You don't particularly care for- the TASTE of it? Boy, I worked hard to get the money to buy this food, your mother worked hard to prepare it, now you shut your damn mouth and eat it, and be damn glad you've got it to eat.
B: Well, I'll eat it, but I won't enjoy it.
D: I could not care less whether you enjoy it or not. Just eat it.

Of course, as I got older, I took an attitude-

D: Shut up and eat your gruel.
B: Oh, you think I can't? You think I can't eat this gruel? You just watch me. You just watch me shut up and eat this gruel. I'll eat this gruel like nobody's EVER damn eaten gruel. I'll eat this gruel like-
D: SHUT UP. And eat your gruel.

To this day, I defy you to put a plate of food in front of me that I can't, or won't, eat. Not saying I'll enjoy it-

(WE COULD NOT CARE LESS WHETHER YOU ENJOY IT OR NOT).

Exactly. Anyway, my Dad gave me a bunch of that Thai chicken to take home with me, since he'd made about 5 gallons of the nasty stuff, and yeah, I ate it, and no, I didn't- well, you know. But if you're ever called upon to cook for me, ixnay on the peanut butter sauce, okay?

And on a sort of food related note, talking to Rictor Saturday at XMCW, he met old school icon Ole Anderson at a show in North Carolina sometime in the month since I last saw him, said Ole looked at him and said "You look like an oyster cracker". An oyster cracker- how funny.

Went and got fitted for my tux for Jason's wedding yesterday. Now I just have to make sure that I have $121.99 worth of fun at the reception. Which I'm certainly capable of, unless I get all morose- it's hell being a moody fuck sometimes, I swear- and just like drink a beer or two and go home, cos weddings depress me. Might be some decent looking women there, maybe I can get laid- that'll cure this moody ass, for a night, anyway.

What's Bill been reading? This not very flattering biography of famed low budget producer/director Roger Corman. I'm all for low budget, I know I drive the people I watch movies with absolutely nuts by going "I could make an entire movie for what that one scene of gratuitous destruction cost, dammit!", but I'm not cool with making low budget by stiffing people on promised fees. Bad Roger.

Finished that, now reading "Spaghetti Nightmares" about the Italian horror and suspense film industry, pretty interesting, but they refer to all the films by their original Italian titles, so half the time I got no idea what fucking movie they're talking about. Bad Italia.

Drinking? Of course. Getting a bit burned out on the beer- pick yourselves up off the floor, trust me, I'll be back on it soon- Absolut vodka was on sale at Rite Aid the other day when I stopped in there to buy something- oh yeah, it was the vodka- so I'm drinking vodka and cranberry juice. I'll probably get into the Vodka Collins this weekend up at Chris's house- he's made no offer yet to let me move in.

The alcohol consumption is down to Wednesday and Sundays (and alternate Saturdays when I'm not wrestling). I was gonna not get fucked up today, but I came home and did a few things here at the house and my chest started doing that really lonely hurting thing and I said "Ah, fuck it, I'll be strong some other day". And I will be. But not today.

The real problem is that I've been drinking so much this past month, my tolerance right now is fucking science fictional, seriously. I bought a half case of vodka- cases of spirits only run twelve, as any true drinker knows- which translates to six bottles of vodka, and in two nights of drinking, I'm on my last one. I KNOW, dammit, I keep thinking, where is all this shit going, cos while I'm buzzed, I'm not nearly as buzzed as I should be considering all that's gone down the old throat pipe. I been thinking all night, Jesus God, you're gonna get alcohol poisoning drinking this much, but I don't FEEL that fucked up, I'm surely not "feeling no pain", which was my goal when I started this, so fuck it. Drink till you goddamn DROP, that's what I'm after. If I was scheduled to play tennis with any of you tomorrow, let's cancel, okay?

I've gotten some good advice about improving my health from Miss Impetuous, regarding various supplements, which I plan to take (both the advice and the supplements- hell, I'd take her, if she was willing). I'll let you know how they work, since even a freak of fucking nature like myself can still use all the help I can get.

Watched a bunch of late 70's movies since last issue, mostly for nostalgic reasons cos none of them are all that great, "Orca", pretty damn ridiculous, with a pre-"10" Bo Derek in it doing that thing some girls do, where they look okay but nothing spectacular in their clothes, then when they get naked it's like "Hot damn!", also "Black Sunday" with Bill Bitner fave Robert Shaw, you died way too soon, Bobby- RS is also great in another late 70's film, "Robin and Marian" as the Sheriff of Nottingham to Sean Connery's Robin Hood, this one gets a bit sentimental but is still an excellent movie, mawkish ending that I have to admit still got to me a little bit the first time I saw it, though if you repeat that I'll swear you're lying- and "Mother, Jugs And Speed", which has got to be one of the worst titled movies ever. It starts out pretty funny but goes in the crapper when it tries to get serious. It's got Bill Cosby when he was still capable of being genuinely amusing, and not that "oogly googly" parody of himself he's become, an impossibly young looking Harvey Keitel, and Raquel Welch as the totally non-PC Jugs- and why can't the DF form a tag team with HER?

(THAT'S WHAT I'M ASKING?!)

Saw in a Wizard- which I'll rip out of it's plastic bag and read at the magazine rack but won't buy cos I think it's published by asinine, asshole pukes- that they're making a live action Justice League movie to be released next summer. It stars Tom Welling, Christian Bale, Jason Behr, Shane West, Jason Lewis, Wes Bentley. Who the fuck ARE these people, I've never heard of a goddamn ONE of them?! And they're going to portray the Justice League? Not my fucking Justice League, they're not. I'M Batman, ya dicks, and Chris is Green Lantern and . . . ah, it's hopeless. I hate this fucking world.

Charisma Carpenter is also in it, I know who she is, and she's pretty hot, but if they're casting her as Wonder Woman, no fucking way. Oh yeah, and Vin Diesel as Despero. I hope they remember to put the fin on top of his head.

Some bright spark made the observation that maybe I need to get a job, that might occupy the time that I spend drinking, and help get me out of this funk. Well, first off, who asked ya, and second off, what the fuck did I ever do to you? I don't want no stinking job. In two weeks it'll be two years since I've had a "real" job. Here's to 20 fucking more years without, then I can retire.

However, in point of fact, I do have a job. You think this Al gig is all about fun, just sitting around watching TV with some jolly old geezer till he toddles off to bed about 9:30 or so, leaving me to entertain myself the rest of the evening swilling coffee cups full of pink gin and wallowing in buxom, giggling whores (all on his tab)? I fucking wish.

Al's become an ill tempered, never (I mean fucking NEVER) shuts his yap, pain in the goddamn ass, and going down there is totally a job anymore, in the sense that I dread when the time comes to go down there, and I hate it when I'm there. However, it still beats a real job- at least for now.

The problem with jobs, besides the work, is the bosses, the bigger the organization, the taller the hierarchy above you, and since bosses are by definition dicks (or cunts), the larger the organization you work for, the heavier the weight of all those fucking dicks (and cunts) above you becomes, and I, for fucking one, have opted out. Screw corporate America into the goddamn ground, I'm not playing that game anymore. Like I used to say, "Take up arms against the crown", dammit. At least working for myself, my boss may be an asshole, but there's only one of him, and I know where he lives.

(YOU KNOW HOW I FEEL ABOUT IT?)

How?

("LE PATRON A BESOIN DE TOI, TU NAS PAS BESOIN DE LUI").

Sweet Jesus Christ.

(IT MEANS, "THE BOSS NEEDS YOU, YOU DON'T NEED THE BOSS").

I know what it means. I just never in a million years expected to hear you speaking French.

(THAT'S FRENCH?)

I'm afraid so.

(EXCUSE ME. I HAVE TO GO EAT A BAR OF SOAP.)

Excused.

Not much doing in Death Falcon news, didn't work a match last Saturday at XMCW, just did a run in, which was fine in one sense, I was still sweating out beer from earlier in the week, and just exhausted from two straight nights going around (and AROUND) with that evil ass nut job Al's become, it was also hot as a bitch there, as usual, but I'm not thrilled in the sense that I don't think the new guy doing the book for them has a lot of respect for the DF, nor really any idea of how to use him. In fact, I question a lot of his booking ideas, period, but maybe that's just the booker in me, I don't know. Think I'll book HIM against the DF at the next CAPW show and then stiff him out of his goddamn wrestling boots, seriously.

The DF absolutely clobbered poor little Travis Lynn during his run in, and after I told Travis he wouldn't, too, it pisses me off, for real. That goddamn Death Falcon should not be giving chair shots, cos he gives them too goddamn HARD, Travis was genuinely fucked up- it was a brutal shot- and I honestly feel bad about it. I'll tell myself beforehand, "Now, be cool with the chair shots", then put that fucking mask on and the next thing I know that bastard Death Falcon is swinging for the fucking fences, with some guys head as the ball.

Smokie C was there as well, to AGAIN do his monstrous impression of a moonsault off the stage, I think they're trying to get him to kill himself, honestly. This time he's supposed to land on me and my old buddy Bad Boy, we were to be brawling outside the ring, I guess they figured two people are harder to miss than one. Yeah, well guess what? HE MISSED US BOTH ANYWAY. Comes out on his crutches, does it one legged this time, good Lord. I'm telling you, Spiderman couldn't catch that son of a bitch when he moonsaults.

Didn't hurt himself this time, however, and I'm told it's all to set up he and I working on the 11th, come out and see it, I'm working on a finish I call the Twin Towers Collapse. I assume the DF is going over, but down there, who knows. I'll hit him with it anyway, what the fuck, he won't care, Smokie's cool. I think it's all the drugs.

There was this guy there last month, not a worker, one of the innumerable hangers on that XMCW seems to attract, like lice or something, he comes up to me in the locker room and starts trying to fix me up.

Strange guy I don't know: Yeah, this girl I know is totally hot for the Death Falcon man, you need to hook up, I can do it for you.
B: No thanks.
SG etc: No really, she's hot, you should meet her.
B: I'm not really interested in dating anyone right now.
SG: She's hot.
B: Yeah, well . . . you think I could just fuck her, then go away?
SG: Maybe.
B: Well . . . nah. Whenever you fuck 'em, they always want to see you again. Hell, when I fuck 'em, they ALWAYS want to see me again.
SG: She's hot.
B: Yeah, you said. Still, no thanks.

So, last show, I'm getting changed after the DF's run in, this other guy who I know who works there, but don't know his name, comes in, "There's someone who wants to see you out back." I thought it was Joe, or maybe Sean, so I go on out, there's this eager looking girl standing there, she goes "Hi, Death Falcon, my names Robin." "Uh, hi Robin, my name's Bill".

She was short and had a pointy nose. She was also flat chested, and thick through the hips. Other than that, I guess she was a knock out. She also apparently thinks we've been set up, and she's also something of a bitch- maybe cos people talk bad about her looks in their newsletters, I don't know- but she was pretty pushy, and sort of hateful besides, and was just flat fucking taking a lot for granted. I talk to her long enough to be polite, then tell her, "It was nice to meet you, Robin, maybe I'll see you again sometime" and start to leave, she screeches "Aren't you going to take me home?"

B: If by taking you home you mean you need a ride to your place, I can do that. If you mean taking you back to my place to fuck you, no, I can't do that, I have someplace else I have to be. Do you need a ride home?

She gets mad and huffs, "Oh, never mind!", which was pretty much the reaction I was hoping for, so, whatever. I tried to be nice about it. And if she'd been really good looking, would my response have been any different? Fuck me for a bastard, but OF COURSE IT WOULD HAVE.

Reminds me of the time I took out this girl I'd been in Driver's Ed class with, this was private pay, not school, Kim Bishop was her name, she went to high school with Chris at S.C a year ahead of him, don't know if he remembers her or not, her Dad was a State cop. We sat next to one another through that 9 week class, and she wasn't bad looking- bottle blond, but busty, decent if consistently overly made up face, so at the end of class- now that I could drive- I asked her out.

The date was a disaster, I quickly found out that pretty much all we had in common was that we'd set next to one another in Driver's Ed class and exchanged small talk, we've done the dinner and movie, awkwardly, I'm heading toward her house and she goes-

K: Where are we going?
B: I'm taking you home.
K: (Totally indignant) Aren't you even going to fuck me first?
B: Oh, shit, sorry. Knew I was forgetting something.

Well, it's (comparatively) late, and I am absolutely vodka'd to the nostrils, so I guess we're out of here.

When the war is over, the dead are laid to rest.

(TOO DOWNBEAT. SEE, THAT'S WHAT THEY'RE ALL COMPLAINING ABOUT. THIS DAMN THING USED TO BE ENTERTAINING).

Yeah, well to pull one from your phrasebook, "Fuck 'em".

(DON'T BE THAT WAY. GIVE 'EM A POSTIVE OUTRO).

Okay. How about I quote your buddy, Juggulator?

(HE'S NOT MY BUDDY. HE HIT ME WITH THAT GODDAMN TACK BAT).

Who ever promised YOU a rose garden, tough guy? Anyway, he's never hit me with a tack bat. So-

"Get yo wig split bitch, and we out!"

(WE OUT. AND I AIN'T SIGNING NO AUTY-GRAPHS TODAY).

Me either.

Later

Bill