Strictly CZW (Because Nobody Else Will Hire Me...)
2 nights ago, I arrived at the CZW show entitled “Strictly CZW,” with the intent to kick back, watch the show, and enjoy myself. Walking in the door, I saw CZW promoter (and my all-around favorite black person), Maven T. Bentley, who greeted me with the kind of warmth and genuine affection usually reserved for people who have slept with your sister. Seizing the opportunity to advance myself in the wrestling world, I mentioned to Mr. Bentley that I’d very much like to get the opportunity to be a participant in this years’ “Tournament of Death,” which is one of America’s premeire death-related tournaments, and is the equivalent of “American Idol” for garbage wrestlers, except that even Necro pulls his punches more than TV supervillain, Simon Cowell. *At this point in the story, I’d like to take a moment to apologize for making any sort of reference to such a mind-numbingly atrocious program as American Idol—even in jest—as I see that show, and other such comparably horrible shows, as the primary contributors to the deterioration of modern society*
Back on point, Maven informed me that he didn’t feel comfortable putting me in T.O.D., as I was still technically considered to be on the “injured list,” and he was fearful of the peril it might put his promoters’ license in, to put a hobbled-up nigh-cripple in such a dangerous environment as a deathmatch tournament. My response was to stab him in the gut and throw him down the stairs, then intimidate his friends and family with threats of bodily harm. Actually, that’s not strictly true…what I did, in point of fact, was cry. I walked away from Maven, whimpering and pouting, and resolved to dry my tears and go talk to John Zandig, CZW owner/ultraviolent icon/intimidating-gorilla-of-a-man/ballet enthusiast. As I walked into John’s office, the first thing I noticed was the pile of eviscerated bodies that he had stacked in the corner—presumably the corpses of previous “uppity” wrestlers who had shown the gall to ask him for favors. This was not an encouraging sign, but—much like my personal hero, Beowulf—I ventured forth to face the great beast.
Thankfully, Zandig had just eaten, and so was in no mood to disembowel me and feast on my entrails…He did inform me, however, that in order to be in Tournament of Death, I was going to have to “earn my spot.” He said that I had shown him a recklessness bordering on lunacy in past matches [so I, at least, embodied one of the prerequisites to being in T.O.D.], but this did not necessarily mean that I deserved to have another shot at my eternal nemesis, DJ Hyde. He informed me that if I wanted to be in the Tournament, I’d have to do something to prove my worth. He then went on to state that MexiCanadian Superstar, El Generico, was out with an injury, and his spot was up for grabs…conveniently enough, the stipulation of the match that he was in was that the winner could choose any match of his choosing. Amazing how these coincidences always seem to happen in wrestling…
As anyone who was unfortunate enough to have to watch me the other night is already aware, I took John’s offer, and was announced as a last-minute replacement for El Generico. I felt greatly out of place in a match where my opponent wasn’t three times my size, but I’ve always maintained that I’d fight anyone who was put in the ring with me, so I went in and locked it up with two of CHIKARA Pro’s finest alumnists. I have to admit, I underestimated them a bit…I had the (somewhat cocky) idea that—because they were Chikara guys, as opposed to CZW guys—they wouldn’t be especially adept in a hardcore match, such as a ladder match. This turned out not to be entirely true, as they both spent the majority of the match (basically) kicking the shit out of me. Fair play to them; my mistake. However, fortunately for moi, their long-standing feud led them to focus too much on one another, and I sneaked up the ladder and won the opportunity to choose my fate.
Unfortunately for moi, I’m something of an idiot, and I let my mouth run a little too much, and ended up choosing the fate labeled “slow, painful death, via Zandig and DJ Hyde double-team killing me in a 3-way deathmatch that will no doubt end with me in a wheelchair, drooling and twitching like some sort of seizure-prone invalid.”
…And that, kids, is the story of why your Grandpa Danny has never been able to play with you or hug you…because he’s a fucking idiot who got in the ring—of his own valition—with two very mean-spirited, very dangerous men who were twice his size and wanted nothing more than to hurt him…Now, who wants to feed Grandpa…?
