Stephen Rivera's 4th Fall
Session Thirteen: Fourteen
July 7th, 2011
You told me not to do it. Since taking permanent residence in my tower of light, you thought the suffering was over. You said I would regret it, but what is done is done. Another part of me is gone. My messenger bird has been relieved of his duties. I shot the messenger. He is now in animal heaven, exploring the heavenly bodies of messenger bees and JBL's limousine.
While his shipping and handling of fan mail was adequate, no bird of mine does satisfactory work. His inability to record wrestling programs on my DVR, unplug the digital video recording unit, use his beak to carry the box to my new home (which still does not have cable because he was too lazy to install it), provide power to the lighthouse by turning a complex series of cranks, and connect the box to my home theatre system was unacceptable. Come on, pigeon. The wrestling community needs me. "What is your opinion of middle turnbuckles?" they ask with intense desperation. Who is able to answer this hard-hitting question but me? Obviously, I am against them. They exhibit racist tendencies.
In his absence, I spent the entire week casting giant fishing nets from the shore, hoping to receive messages from my most shipwrecked and exiled admirers. I am not sure how many oceans I covered with my nets. I will just tell you that strangers often compliment my strong casting arms. You know what they say about a man with strong casting arms? "He" "receives" "a" "lot of" "messages."
So far, I have reeled in thousands of messages in bottles. The majority of them came from inquisitive minds who want my in-depth take on the wrestling world. One bottle is shiny yet unidentifiable; I shall open it later. The others contain letters from a lonely Kevin Costner. I will not reply to these messages. I have my own problems, Lonely Kevin Costner. Go bug someone else. Build a field and play paranormal baseball with Ghost Babe Ruth. I am trying to do my job here.
"What does Sheamus use to keep his hair so perfectly spiked during matches?"
What you believe to be Sheamus' hair is not so, J (if that is your real name). Before entering WWE, Sheamus won the Brightest of the Whitest Tournament in Dublin, Ireland. At the coronation, he was rewarded with a sceptre in the form of a novelty-sized, Tide-To-Go pen and a spiked, hair-like, golden-auburn crown. And no, you do not need to tell me. You are super jealous of him for it.
Today, I think it is in the best interest of everyone for the Celtic Warrior to don one crown at a time. We must have our limits and play within them. For Sheamus to go back to wearing his King of the Ring crown would be redundant, similar to the Kool-Aid Man holding a smaller Kool-Aid Man, who is holding a tiny Kool-Aid Man in a tiny Hawaiian shirt.
"Why does WWE only push one diva at a time?"
Pushing one woman is hard enough. Have you ever tried to push two women at a time? As the French say, that would be "très difficile" (English translation: very deficient facilities, like a bathroom with half of a bathtub). They will not go into the kitchen or bedroom against their will. More often than not, one dame will use the momentum to slingshot the other towards a voting booth.
You might as well push a child or small dog instead. They are less likely to resist and more likely to appreciate your efforts to better them.
"I want my son back, but I don't know how! Any advice?"
For one, do not name your son, "Back." He ran away for several reasons, most of which had to do with your poor naming capabilities. For two, perhaps you should befriend How by asking about his likes, dislikes, and aspirations. Once How trusts you as a confidant, take him hostage and use his personal information against him. At that point, he should tell you the whereabouts of Back.
In the end, you may discover that Back is in an inspirational film with John Cena. If so, leave him be. John can teach him the important life lessons you cannot, such as the squarer the head, the happier you will be. In the background, Danny Glover is wisely nodding in agreement.
"Would the commentary be better or worse if Michael Cole was replaced by a strawberry Pop Tart?"
Believe you me you me you again me again you for a fourth time; I get this question a lot. Seriously now. Enough already. Just because your family rules the Cape Cod Pickling Empire does not give you the right to ask such tired questions. If you must know, my answer remains the same: Strawberry Pop Tarts make awful play-by-play commentators.
Whenever the lights flicker in and out to signify an incoming message from the anonymous RAW General Manager, Monday Night RAW would come to a screeching halt. Why? Strawberry Pop Tart would leap out of its seat... and that would be it. Pop Tarts cannot read out English e-mails from shy authority figures, let alone understand the language. It could waddle over to the podium and act out the overall theme with its burnt corners, but I bet it will refuse to do so. From my experiences, strawberry-flavoured breakfast foods are prima donnas.
After RAW ends with 90 minutes of awkward, stadium silence, the Internet Wrestling Community would rush to their computers and rant about Pop Tart's performance: "Strawberry Pop Tart was too crispy. Where was the light flakiness? I hate that little box of his, too. Insert tab into slot? Insert finger into air. Bring back Good Ol' Raspberry Toaster Strudel. That man has a family and a separate frosting packet."
"Now that the acronym WWE no longer stands for World Wrestling Entertainment and recent press releases have stated that the WWE is a global entertainment company with a movie studio, international licensing deals, publisher of multiple magazines, consumer goods distributor and much more, how soon do you expect them to fail at all of these ventures and be forced back to appeal to the moonshine and cousin-humping demographic that they've long since forgotten?"
Hold the home, portable, and hands-free telecommunications devices (yes, you must hold all three for I am quite alarmed). They have forgotten about them? Since when? Are you saying that I have to turn these washtubs over now?
I distinctly hear classical jug blowing in the Money in the Bank theme song. Also, if you turn the volume on RAW and SmackDown all the way up, you may detect the faint sound of genetic mutation. Strangely enough, that sounds like classical jug blowing as well.
"Is DDP's current career as a motivational speaker a step up or a step down from his WWE run?"
Any non-diamond-cutting career path that Diamond Dallas Page takes is a drastic step down from his WWE run. Ever since he stopped stalking the living spouses of patriotic, undead motor-bicyclists, I have been waiting for him to start work at a diamond cutting and polishing company. His co-workers would earn their paycheques in fear. At any time, Page could approach them and turn an everyday conversation about bran muffins into a Diamond Cutter.
Also, he would wear rib tape. He would cut diamonds from 9 AM to 5 PM on weekdays and listen to Jayson-Zed while sporting rib tape. He has 99 problems, and he has wrapped rib tape around each one..
"Where the hell is Judy Bagwell?"
I am afraid that you are looking in the wrong realm, Nathaniel. Look higher. Look to the hills.
During your next reckless and sexy street race through Rio Di Janeiro, Brazil, you will come across a giant statue of "Judy the Bagwell." This statue depicts Judy "Yoga Body" Bagwell — who formed a tag team with Ester "Granola Bar" Norton known as "Nutritious and Delicious" — martyred on a forklift. She knew her son was "The Stuff," and therefore, superior to Kanyon. She would not waver in this belief. Lest we forget her sacrifices, she has been immortalized, her remains surrounded by reinforced concrete and stone.
Historians will tell you that it is actually a statue of the gentle carpenter himself, but don't take their word for it. I do not see the resemblance. Besides, out of these two religious figures, who has done the most for humanity? I am now taking my case to bed. Why is that? I have rested it.
"Why does no one love Disco Inferno like me? WHY?!"
If you only knew, my infernal acquaintance. If you only knew.
Like you, I was a Disco Inferno fan during the days of World Championship Wrestling. As he shook his booty into multiple Television Title reigns, he boogie-oogie-oogied into the hearts of you and I. For me, no Golden Bergs or Hogans of Hollywood were needed. Disco reigned supreme. I thought he could do no wrong.
Then, it happened. On a nitro-powered Monday night, I disco-danced so hard to Sir Inferno's entrance theme that I became stricken with Disco Fever. Immediately, my parents told our butlers to take me to the hospital.
In a fevered haze, a blurry doctor instructed me to Alex-Wright-Dance my way out of my ailment. I should not have listened to him as my German-discotheque-inspired gyrations attracted many a fräulein. Against my will, they gave me Disco Gonorrhea at twelve years old. Eventually, I got physically better thanks to an experimental treatment known as Norman Smiley's Big Wiggle. Emotionally, I have never been the same. Thank you for reminding me.
"Why is it necessary for one's intro music to play before interfering in any beat down or fight? Follow up question: Why do the people administering the beating stop to stare at the guy running down the ramp instead of getting a few extra kicks on the guy they are brutalizing?"
Professional wrestling is simply adhering to the rules of Greek mythology, in which all successful run-ins were accompanied by music. For example, the Greeks ended the Trojan War with such interference.
Once the Greeks piled into the wooden horse, the Trojans cued up that world-renowned theme: Evolution is a wooden horse. Full of wood, it's a horse, of course. Don't look inside, you'll make it uncomfortable. You guys just met. The Trojans never saw it coming.
As for people stopping to stare at others running down the ramp, they are doing so because they have poor eyesight. From a distance, interfering wrestlers look like cardboard cut-outs. Is that your enemy, or is it an innocent civilian enjoying an inclined stroll with her baby? You must be certain.
P.S. Thank you for giving me ample time to answer your follow-up question. You saved me from enduring that awkward millisecond of silence.
"Is Miz Girl going out with Little Jimmy?"
The day after The Miz Girl won the 2010 Slammy Award for Reaction of the Year, I hired a private investigator to take a closer look at the girl behind the reaction. Several months and $425,000 in service fees later, the secret is out.
According to his Facebook profile, Little Jimmy claims that he "got got" The Miz Girl. On the surface, his relationship with the young lady seems serious — a male does not claim double possession of a female unless he truly means it. On the other hand, The Miz Girl's relationship status reads, It's Complicated. Her sister, "Tiger Butter," "likes" this status. Naturally, I am more inclined to believe a "Tiger Butter" than a "Tiger Margarine."
We all know what that means: she is cheating on Little Jimmy with Randy Orton. My investigator has photographed them having play dates in shaded, public places. The Miz Girl is wearing a floppy summer hat, Onassis glasses, and a polka-dot neck scarf to retain anonymity. Orton is still wearing his ring gear for some reason. Jimmy will be devastated.
"Do wrestlers love fanny packs because they have no pockets on their tights, or because they like the style?"
Neither. Deep down, professional wrestlers do not want to become famous world champions as much they long to live the glamorous life of the mother kangaroo. They want all the attention and praise without the maternal responsibility. I, for one, do not blame them.
Isn’t that what we all want: to be loved, appreciated, and almost able to carry around your hypothetical young in your anterior pouch?
"If a tree falls in the forest, how big would it be?"
Forest-sized, but my computer just fell in the forest. Did I really answer this question, your majesty?
Stephen Rivera is the creator of The Swerved (2006-2010), Neon Ropes, and this column. He sees the face of a man who's driving towards a cliff at 100 kilometres per hour. You see a woman who is in love with a man who's driving towards a cliff at 100 kilometres per hour.
THE TWF "MENTAL WELLNESS TEST!"
With Christmas just around the corner, what better way to spend your few remaining dollars (left over after the seemingly infinite line-up of fucking pay-per-views ) then on the following "quality WWE merchandise!" After all, if they don't move this stuff, and fast, stockholders just might get time to figure out what "plummeting domestic buyrates" means!... and well, I don't think they need to tell you what that means! (Seriously. They're not telling you. Everything is fine! Ahem.).