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by Sean Carless

NOVEMBER 16, 2011


You know what I could go an entire lifetime without ever experiencing again? BEING RUN OVER. Oh, and maybe Reality TV show, X-Factor. But mostly the first one.

And I know what you’re all saying – “weren’t you already ran over in 2008 after enjoying a light lunch, harassing children in Blockbuster, and then procuring the underrated Season 2 of Dexter on DVD?”

YES. I WAS. But if you are asking this verbatim: holy shit -- stalker! Too much personal info! (or not enough. You left out the part where I was handsome, and my jeans looked like they were unable to contain the fiery passion imprisoned within.).

Anyway, life was not good. Or more not good. Or actual proper word structure I should know in my chosen vocation. One minute I was ‘mindin’ my bidness’ as no one is wont to say, adjusting my mp3 player to repeat “You’ve got the touch” – my personal anthem (I hope to one day, on my death bed, force my ribcage open and hand-off my accumulated knowledge to a young hot-head, only to return 6 months later from death after being repaired via egg-shaped alien architect of creation, and take that shit back) – and the next, a giant truck -- a beastly black chariot forged in the devil’s womb and shaped by the cruel whispers of man’s vilest thoughts (I think it was a Ford) -- slams into me, knocking me to the ground, concussing me, and almost destroying the universe in the process. (I’m convinced that I’m imperative to the survival of existence).

So ya, I was holed up at home from there, unable to enjoy even the basest of my favorite whims – innocent things like walking behind the elderly while humming the “ki-ki mama” death-anthem from Friday the 13th, eating Mac Snack Wraps while mocking them by yelling and teasing that, "you’re only half the meal a Big Mac is! You’re worthless! Fucking worthless!"; and of course having sex (even consensually).

As I instead lay there, awesome but helpless, I was soon advised by loved ones to get a CAT scan to make sure all was right. I was then advised by hated ones to “not worry about it, and to maybe just die instead.” I opted for neither as I am half a warrior, half an optimist, and half a guy with no concept of base mathematics. I figured, nature would sort it out, and fate would surely not take its greatest soldier in the war against things that are everything but apathy.

I however grew depressed regardless. I began to ask questions. Mostly about Japanese Instruction manuals, and how it would be so much easier if they just told me exactly what was supposed to happen, instead of showing so many weird and unrelated pictures of sad Asians in snowsuits exploding while the Ghostbuster red circle & slash ran through the picture.

I also began to question just how something this tragic and unfair could befall a person as careless, indifferent and self-indulgent as I. I truly lost faith in everything. I yelled, “do bad things really happen to good people who are only pretending?” I never got an answer. My psychiatrist told me this was a good thing.

However, when all seemed bleakest and all seemed lost, there was a sudden light at the end of the tunnel (I have no idea how I got there. I just went with it. I was too afraid to ask.): I was medically cleared to resume my life! I was ecstatic!!! Well, as much as I could be due to being unable to psychologically process joy and emotion.

I called my friends. I retrieved my kill-tools discreetly hidden in a river in case I actually expired from my injuries. And amidst my celebration, and vast plastic-wrapping of a remote cabin, my press credentials arrived! It was official (to me, no one else seemed to give a fuck): I was off to cover UFC on Fox – another chance to return to California, a place where the weed flows like… weed. And where someone as white and Canadian as me would surely blend in completely.

Unlike the last time, though, I decided that this time I would take this opportunity, this lucky second chance, to truly smell the roses. And not just the seats of various unknowing pretty ladies sitting in my vicinity. I would soak up the state, and try not to anger as many Latinos this time with my hilarious antics, flagrant racism, and insistence on holding my gun upright instead of sideways with a fully done-up plaid shirt over a white wifebeater. The shit was on.

I also decided this would be a great opportunity to get laid. With an actual woman. It had been about a month, after all. And I was tired of jacking off (the romance was gone). So, I went through my rolodex (three numbers written on a post-it) and found a willing victim, err, I mean date for the occasion. She was everything I wanted in a woman: Alive. And umm, ya.

We left on Friday. I carried a suitcase that looked as if it was fashioned from the discarded clothes and body of WKRP night-time DJ Venus FlyTrap. Seriously. If this suitcase was a jacket, I’d surely be swagger-walking with a diamond-covered cane, wearing pants as purple as Barney and smooth as velvet, and beating a whore to death for even thinking about starting a new life. It was that cool. And old.

After deep consideration, I contemplated informing Airport security that “no worries, I left my drugs in my other asshole.” But I did not. (say that, I mean; my drugs were in fact in a balloon inside me). My date did not approve of even the thought of this joke, however. “Wait till she finds out what I plan to put in her asshole,” I then thought with a smile. (It was my penis!!).

I was then asked by customs if there was anything I wished to declare.

“Why, yes,” I answered firmly and proudly. “I’ve always preferred blow-jobs to actual intercourse. Mostly because I don’t have to do anything.”

They didn’t ask me again.

We arrived at LAX at 2ish whatever time. I didn’t care. Clocks are for people with real life responsibilities, I’ve always thought… whilst sleeping and doing very little … and still making more money than you.

Saturday arrived quickly. Mostly because it was already Saturday. I didn’t question it.

Time moved on from there, as it tends to do when the universe is functioning per its usual parameters.

After some shopping that day, we tried to get some lunch. And I say ‘tried’, because Jesus Christ, they don’t serve anything remotely human, edible, or both here. And heaven forbid you ask for the dreaded and feared mayonnaise! If you do, be prepared! For people here will look at you like you just asked to fuck them in the ass with a kielbasa made of AIDS. I mean, sure, I would, but only after I get my mayo.

So, ya, everything was Vegan. And I will tell you right now, the only time I’ve ever eaten vegan is this one time I went down on this hippie chick at a Xmas party in 2009. Ok, I didn’t really do that. But boy did I picture it. Later. Alone. So very, very alone. While thinking up that line. She LOVED it, though. That slut. (That virtual slut).

As for lunch – given as to how I’ve realized I’ll die if I don’t eat (I truly believed I was a Cyborg until 2007) -- I was given no choice due to a lack of options and ate this slop.

My god, it was horrible. It was green. It was dry. It was awkwardly dropped and coiled on a plate likely made out of Hemp and other items secretly retrieved from Ed Begley Jr.’s bungalow made of wheat and wind-powered electricity. I could barely eat all of it, and hers, as well. I mean, holy shit, it looked like it was personally spooned out of the ass of Swamp Thing, or perhaps puked out of the Ancient Jews' Alien-inspired Manna machine. It was the worst lunch I’ve ever had twice.

“That’s the last time I eat two helpings of this,” I soon declared furiously, before ordering a third and fourth serving. I think I showed these people what for.

Back at the Hotel by 2pm. And feeling Frisky. (I forgot her name already, and this sounds like a reasonable and fun replacement until I remember/ am called into to police custody). I then gave her the best 30 seconds she’ll ever forget/tune out/ seek treatment for. But I realized quickly a conundrum therein with no solution as I rolled over defeated and spent : No matter how much money you spend on dinners, hotels and romantic gifts, a lady will seemingly never succumb to your whimsy to apply unto her “Arabian Goggles” in the most tender of moments. Come on, though! It gets windy in California. You should appreciate the offer!

Honda Center. KFC YUM it is not. Whatever o’clock. I am seated in the press area, where I am sadly not greeted with the pageantry expected and deserved by an Internet dignitary like myself. I then quickly realized that this was because I am not nearly as respected or revered as I am by me; and am known only as ‘ that guy who makes way too many jokes about jacking off, while jacking off.” And that’s just by my family.

Event starts. Punches are thrown. I publicly declare that I would ‘wreck Arianny Celeste.' What I don’t disclose is that I mean “psychologically.”

I then notice above all else how much Ringside cut-man Jacob Duran bears a striking and disturbing resemblance to Commander Adama himself, Edward James Olmos. I then wonder if he too can guide a starship out of a Cylon attack as well as he can close pussy-axe wounds on dude’s heads. I then stop when I realize how ridiculous I sound. He’s just a cut-man, for Christ’s sakes. He’s no real-life star captain.

Mexicans are making more and more noise around me now. I make the stupid mistake of joking to several sitting close by, whilst they stand there, wrapped in their former nation’s flag: ‘if they knew where I could get some Mexican.’ They are not pleased. I think. Truth is, I stopped caring after I mentioned that like the dethroned and deposed King Latifah, no one has ever seen nor apparently heard from Senior Dos Santos, either.

It is at this point that I notice something quite revolting and unsettling about fighter Aaron Rosa: his stomach appears to be covered in what looks like an endomorphic face made of hair. It’s like an inbred Alien is looking at me, dumbfounded and confused. I don’t know how to react other than to pray – and I am not even a religious man.

It is later, during the war that is Guida/ Henderson that I notice that, the former, ADD punching bag, Clay, and Wrestling Observer magnate Dave Meltzer, too share a striking similarity. I mean, it’s uncanny. You would think it was canny, but fuck you, you’re wrong.

It is in that moment that I then get an idea. I begin to ponder that like the dual Ron Silvers in TIMECOP (the greatest movie ever made about time travel karate revenge), that Meltzer and Clay are in fact the same entity, only brought together in our time by providence, and perhaps like Silver, by way of an enclosed mining car that CAN BEND THE VERY LAWS OF TIME. I then plan, during the presser, given the opportunity, that I will shove both men into one another, creating one paradoxical being of thrashing flesh before both, as one, explode and implode amidst a violent flash of light. It’s science. And insane. I can’t wait.

Main Event arrives after an insufferably long intermission. I later learned during my legally, illegally obtaining of the broadcast online in my hotel that this was due to the Fox opening coverage/breakdown. All I know, while watching it later, was that Brock Lesnar in a sport jacket reminded me of the Ninja Turtles going incognito in their trench-coats – that being: awkwardly rotund and sadly out of place, despite the opposite of intentions. Only to my knowledge, the former ‘Next Big Thing’ wasn’t schooled in the martial arts by an ancient rat – he just married one.

I also noticed during my watching of the broadcast that Lesnar seemed to be harboring an internal rage for broadcast co-host [WHATEVER] after his perpetual insistence that Lesnar was basically destroyed by Velasquez in their last encounter. Be careful, guy. I can already tell you right now that Brock is clearing mantle room for your smiling brown visage on his wall of Elk heads. You’ve been warned.

HEY. DID YOU KNOW THAT THE STARS HAVE COME OUT TONIGHT? But are they standing behind these people they’re showing? Jesus. This is as bad as Gorilla Monsoon telling us that Akeem vs. Hillbilly Jim is a Main Event ANYWHERE in the country.

VIDEO PACKAGES. YES. I mean, who wouldn’t want to watch two hard-working, humble men who suffered through abject poverty attempt to kill one another? But no one is thanking god, at least. That’s always awkward.

“God, I’d like to thank you for giving me the will and determination to punch a man in the face until he bleeds/passes out or suffers potentially lethal brain damage!”



Ok, it’s over. The (now former) Champion Cain goes down in 64 seconds (that’s what she said!) off a punch to the side of his Easter Island-esque head, and I smile to myself at the cleverness of my impending article title of “CAIN UNABLE”. Lulz, right?

Anyway, I haven’t seen this many sad Mexicans since something that is clever and humorous pertaining to their ethnicity and despair that I cannot think of right now. They are even booing poor Cain during his post-match interview. Awwww.

Everything is fuzzy after this for me, especially the presser. (Although, I remember mentioning to the many un-amused that Dana White looks like a Thumb). I suspect the baggy I bought from said flag-draped dudes contained less pot than I intended and much more deadly carcinogens. I was 34. And terrible.

Seriously, if I've learned anything, (other than “it’s not gonna suck itself, you know,” is never the right answer to ANY question), it’s that I am, without a doubt, the single WORST MMA journalist in the history of everything. Why do Dana White & UFC keep letting me attend these things? Because they have no idea who I am, and don’t care to ever know? Maybe.

But I am happy. Truly. I love UFC: unconditionally, passionately. In fact, if I could make sweet, sweet love to UFC, I, well, wouldn’t, because it’s a sport, and not a sexual being, and that'd be absurd.

But yes, A GREAT time. I even made a bit of money betting on Dos Santos (Despite my original attempted bet on “the Hispanic guy” to no avail.). I highly recommend being me. I just don’t know how it’s possible.

So, ya. Sunday arrived. Same as Saturday, transitioning from night to day with amazing majesty. I think I may have seen JARED FROM SUBWAY in the street, as well. Seriously. And get this, he was carrying a grocery bag filled with EVERYTHING BUT DELICIOUS, OVEN-BAKED SUBWAY SANDWICHES. My cries of, “Hey, Jared! Fuck you! Fuck you, you fucking phony liar with your fucking groceries!” did not impress my special lady friend .

“That doesn’t even look like Jared,” she instead insisted.

“Holy shit. I hope that wasn’t Joey Styles,” I thought from there.

Ok. On the plane as I write this. And am now convinced that the elderly gentleman across from us is, in fact, movie-star and oatmeal enthusiast WILFORD BRIMLEY. And this excites me. I have an unnatural obsession for obscure stars from the 80’s who push breakfast cereals – albeit cruelly and without remorse.

Wilford is a personal hero of mine. And like Joe E. Tata from 90210, I too modeled my entire life around this guy. I ate Oatmeal plentifully. I procured Type-2 diabetes just to say, “hey, I did that.” I even swam in a pool with questionable regenerating pods and killed a room full of arctic dogs under the assumption that they were, in fact, shape-shifting extra terrestrials that would eventually assimilate everyone I knew. I was arrested for that last one and sentenced to four years in prison. And raped. But you can’t RAPE THE WILLING, AMIRITE?*

*I wasn’t *really* raped. Just molested, really. Only my pride was violated. And maybe my asshole a bit.).

So, ya. Thumb-heads up to UFC on Fox. The best 3 days I've spent since the last time.

The end.

I’m Sean.
And only most of this is untrue.

Special thanks to FARK for banner.

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Sean Carless is a man of many hats. And he wears those hats to cover an ever-increasing bald spot. Sean's various scribblings have been read at Live Audio Wrestling, 411 Mania, Honky Tonk Man.com, The Toronto Star.com, Wrestlecrap, and Lethal Wrestling. He has also cured AIDS.

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November 2006


by Sean Carless

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.).