Attention: Fans, Comrades, and People Who Force the Inclusion of an Inconvenient Third Category:
Perhaps you've heard by now, perhaps not; I, Daniel T. Havoc, have resigned from the rasslin. I've said my farewells, taken my bows, been the recipient of a staggering and humbling number of objectively exaggerated compliments, and "hung up my boots" (the quotation marks indicating, of course, that I am using this phrase figuratively...who hangs boots? What, so as to avoid wrinkles?? What an odd expression). To put it plain, I'm through. Only...I've got all of these Damn t-shirts left over...
Danny Havoc, pictured here with a heart-breaking amount of surplus inventory. No longer an active wrestler, Havoc finds himself in the unenviable position of being a salesman with no marketplace. Due to these tragic circumstances, Havoc is forced to swallow his pride and throw himself on the mercy of the fans, lest he be forced to go back on the game...
I thought that I had pretty well estimated the right amount of shirts to bring to my farewell show, based on a complicated mathematical equation wherein x=statistically probable demand, y=industry standard print groups, a=the ebb and flow of the markets within predictable parameters, b=ball, c=cat, xx=the first 2/3 of a movie starring Vin Diesel, yy=product distribution adjusted for 'final match' sentimentality, e=mc2 ("McDouble"), and the square root of the number of minutes DJ spent on the mic would give us the approximate height of a flagpole based on its shadow. It seemed like a flawless theorem. The only hitch (and ultimately, the undoing of the entire project) was that it turns out I don't understand math even remotely. That, and the unexpected gifting of a completely unsolicited reprinting of my most recent previous shirt design by one Gary Wellknown. While extremely generous, this new influx of tshirts--in conjunction with my total misapplication of arithmetic--left me to exit the "Farewell Show" with more inventory than I'd arrived with. With no more planned events and no desire to tour the Indy merch table scene, peddling my wares like some kind of goddamn Eastern European, I am left with no alternative than to turn to my longtime nemesis, the internet, to try to offload my remaining merchandise. If there proves to be sufficient demand (there wont), I may ultimately change this to a more efficient system...but for the moment, if you want to buy a shirt, email me at typicalnondescriptusername@yahoo.com... Once we've established to your satisfaction that I am a real Nigerian Prince, you will send me your money, and I will keep it. After your money has cleared, I will make a mental note to do something about it in 3 days or so, then eventually trudge down to the Post Office to do something I've not done regularly since that big Anthrax fad a few years back: send an actual package via the Post. You remember that Anthrax craze, right? It was like the "Ice Bucket Challenge," but rather than nominating a friend to dump cold water over themselves, you instead anonymously mailed them a package of deadly Anthrax and waited for confirmation that they had expired. It was extremely viral back in the day. This whole thing could've been trimmed down to four no-nonsense sentences and been not only AS clear, but MORE clear than it is presently. I'll almost certainly lose a couple of sales in this inescapable jungle of unnecessary words, but I'm willing to eat that loss so long as I get to be a philibustering douchebag, and I think that goal has been attained. That's it. It ends now. This isn't fiction, in which things progress with heightening tension toward a satisfying conclusion like, "He had won the war with himself. He loved Big Brother." No, this is real life, where your final chapter likely ends with you half-drunk on box wine, digging around in your recliner cushions to find the remote control so you can stop watching back-to-back Diagnosis: Murders, when your heart gives out on you, and your last thought will be, "Man, I botched the shit out of this..." Which you did. Sometimes shit just comes to a screeching halt. Hard lessons, my friends.
Anyway, buy a t-shirt.
