We interrupt your regularly scheduled ECW on Sci-Fi report for a very special program!

Hello there! In the wacky world of 80s television, it was a FCC rule that all programs HAD to air a Christmas special around the 25th. It didn't matter whether the show was a sitcom, a Saturday morning cartoon, or a violent cop drama: if the show aired around the 24th of December, Balky was going to learn the true meaning of Christmas, He-Man was going to use the power of Greyskull to decorate a tree, and The Fat Man was going to wear an elf hat whether Jake liked it or not. It was unavoidable legislature, and failure to adhere to these stringent guidelines resulted in immediate execution of the producers involved.

If it's good enough for twenty years ago, by Job, it's good enough for this article! Instead of doing a recap of tonight's "Best-of" ECW show, I'll share with you a Yule-time fable passed down from my forefathers to their fathers to me. If you're disappointed that this week's compilation show isn't being dissected and prod by my overseeing intellect and feel the need to email me with bullshit like "OMG, I want serious wrestling journalism, not stories you made up", please feel free to jump in a bathtub with a working toaster shoved up your ass.

Gather around, Internet Wrestling Community. I'll give you a little time to grab your Batista mugs of warm cocoa and non-existent girlfriends. Okay, ready for an age-old tale of Christmas splendor? Okay, let's open the big book of wrestling fairy tales. If you pay real close attention, you might even learn something. Well, everyone except for you, little Russo. Here's a magical fork that allows you to see Jesus! Now go stick it in an electrical socket and don't let go until you see clouds and Curt Hennig. Now, to let the tale unfold.

Our story begins in the sleepy little hamlet of Southern Philadelphia. Now, typically, Southern Philadelphia could be described as a bitterly cold, desolate hellhole populated by lawless, violent sociopaths. This night in particular, Southern Philadelphia could be described as a magical bitterly cold, desolate hellhole populated by lawless, violent sociopaths. The scent of Christmas cheer and other assorted industrial wastes wafted throughout the Atlantic breeze, as myriad elves, clad in black T- shirts and outdated haircuts, anxiously filed into a tiny auditorium in the most crime-soaked district of America's shittiest non-named-Detroit city. These horribly deformed, typically undeveloped troglodytes were ecstatic about their visit to this magical housing. For weeks, they dreamed of barbed wire fancies and ditties about pregnancy as composed by a wondrous gnome of the Hebrew persuasion. These proud, unwashed denizens of Extreme-Sylvania were more than willing to risk possible hypothermia and / or stabbing just to witness the splendor that was their favorite garbage promotion in vivid live movement.

Oh, and the wonders they saw! There were trapeze artists from the magical kingdom of Mexico-land, whom risked paralysis for the amusement of a paltry crowd of three hundred Starter Jacket bedecked stereotypes. Afterward, these squinty eyed fellows would come out and slap each other with chairs, and the raucous crowd reveled in the glorious bliss that was foreigners hurting other foreigners with sundry furniture. Then, these fellows in tie- dyed shirts would berate the crowd with unflattering remarks regarding the general crowd's mothers' penchant for acts of fellatio. Of course, some noble knights would come out to defend the integrity of the unshaven audience, whom brandished orange fingers perma-dyed from constant cheese-doodle over consumption. These chivalrous, integrity driven soldiers would often find themselves failing in their quest to slay the dragons of Dudleyville, almost always culminating with a lot of no-selling of finishing maneuvers and several violations of city fire code ordinances. And this was just the first hour of the spectacular!

Flannel-sporting gentlemen would joust utilizing steel sitting aides, as the already riled-up spectators would erupt into full-frenzy mode as some old star from days gone by would emerge for one-last-go-around, and the ruthless, albeit genuine throngs of Pennsylvania faithful would greet this retuning vet with welcoming adoration. Inversely, if one of the top clowns of the circus was to head to the "bigger tents" in NY or Atlanta, the adoring wave of humanity was more than willing to cheer them with one last goodbye. This was truly the show of the downtrodden, made by the downtrodden, for the downtrodden. And it was good.

After a glorious four hour show that was only supposed to be an hour and forty five minutes long, the supreme ogre set down behind his desk. He watched the deluge of mullet-headed fans spew forth from his home, as they slowly disappeared into their low-income housing with newfangled 56 K internet connections adjacent to the arena. Normally, this pony tailed goblin would relish in his achievement post show. However, this evening, he was very much saddened. His monetary funds were shrinking; he'd spent all of his gold coins and he didn't have enough pixie dust to pay off his top circus performers. It was becoming abundantly clear that the magical show that provided so much joy for so many joyless assholes was going to have to close its doors forever.

The fat, balding Jew-ogre laid his hydrocephalic head upon his desk and began to sob. One by one, he thought of all of his friends whom would soon be out of a job. There was the company ogre, a proud, loyal innovator whom was always there to cover his boss' rear-end when he purposely left off a couple of zeroes on his checks and the performers threatened to mutiny. Then there was that hulking figure, the dream bringer whom drenched himself in magic sleepy potion before, after, and sometimes during matches. It's funny, because a rival ogre in the faraway land of Stamford "borrowed" this act for his own and made many, many bags of pixie dust because of it. Then there were the two diametrically opposed gents, the loud, brash one, and the silent, Arabian one that flew through the air and always smelled like oregano. They would soon be cast out of their Utopian mid-Atlantic urban hell, and they would most certainly be gobbled up be those two, other ogres roaming the countryside.

And it did come to an end. The circus closed its operations without nary a sound, as an aghast nation watched the beloved spectacle die without an ounce of vigor. The show, of course, was only supposed to be a delight for the citizens of Philly, but no-goodniks the world over fell in love with the Hebrew ogre's unique brand of debauchery, violence, passion and respect for the art form. As the tent slowly had it's stakes removed from that sacrosanct firmament, the world mourned a devastating loss.

The years came and passed, with the notable alum of that wonderful circus finding work in that really big carnival up north. You see, around the same time that clown house in Philadelphia shut down, the really big carnival down South also folded. Nobody gave a shit about that one closing, so for the sake of our story, fuck it.

Although that tiny little house had been demolished, it's spirit lived on. Every time a trapeze artist sailed through the air, a clown took a vicious wife-killing chair shot to the noggin or sensible booking occurred, the small yet vocal crowd of ne'er-do-wells from that bygone era gloriously chanted the mantra of their long-dead clown house as casual fans wondered what the fuck a Tajiri was supposed to be.

The spirit of Philadelphia couldn't be killed. Or uttered by its correct name, because it was now copyrighted by a heartless mega conglomerate ran by an enormous troll named Vince.

Vince the Troll was a menacing figure. His approval or disapproval ran the entire clown-industry. If he liked something or it fucked his daughter, it was given free reign throughout the kingdom. If he didn't like it or it weighed less than 200 pounds, it was banished to the horrid no-man's land of Ohio. He was a vicious ruler, but a respectable one.

However, the tyrant Troll was also growing senile and lazy. With no clown-competition, Vince the Troll decided that the company was no longer a carnival act, but rather, "Tent-enclosed entertainment". He also allowed story tellers from the kingdom of Los Angeles to "write" his "tent-enclosed entertainment" for him, going as far as to allow his troll daughter to have considerable say in "creative control". That meant that instead of allowing the most talented performers to have center stage, only the lion tamers and ringleaders on magical strong-making juice could do so.

This made many of the Philly fans angry. They would vow to never partake of the troll's offering, and then post observations of that night's show two hours later on magical computing boxes. Some stopped watching carnival acts altogether and become fully functioning human beings complete with lives, jobs, significant others and various other unobtainable items that couldn't be forged as "carnival fans". Some began to turn to smaller tents, like the one in Orlando or Ring of Ogre in the northeast. However, most stayed with Vince's circus, and sighed a hearty sigh at their dismal plight.

However, Vince the Troll was fearful of the Philly fans. He was afraid of them because they weren't mesmerized by his hypnotic production values and knew of his bullshit politicking backstage. Though small and technically homeless, they were a vocal bunch, and Vince knew that no matter what he did, he would never have a legion of subjects as dedicated as the ones that Jew-ogre had. This made Vince the Troll very, very angry. Vince the Troll concocted a clever scheme to rid the world of the memory of that little carnival in South Philly. He would rebuild that tent, this time in his own image. He allowed the Jew-ogre to do one or two reunion specials, and they were truly magical. Now it was Vince's turn to bring back that splendiferous company full time. Only this time, he purposely made it shitty and forced the remnants of the old guard to suck.

It worked. The old chants of that tiny carnival in Philly disappeared. The Jew-ogre went back into seclusion. All of the top performers were replaced by new, sucky performers but there's this one guy that used to be in Ring of Ogre that's the champion now so people can't say shit about the booking. Worst of all, a heroic young lad had to ditch dates and cut out study time for college so he could "recap" the antics of a multi-breasted man with two moves and a his grade school teacher handler instead of getting "As" or laid. And, as a new entity, the house that extreme built was finally forgotten.

Our story ends there, but wait! You see, one page over, a new story begins. Remember that old Jew-ogre? Well, as it turns out, he's not exactly sitting around his ogre-parent's house doing nothing. Oh, not even close! You see, he's formulating, and hypothesizing, and experimenting. He has another carnival idea, and he's keeping it a deep secret from everyone: the elves in Orlando, the carnival his old friend started, and especially from Vince the Troll. I could let you in on the details, but I too am sworn to secrecy. All I can state of the upcoming story is the opening sentence:

"Defeated, the Jew-ogre looked at the dingy ring across the way, and suddenly, it dawned on him: the carnival industry is in dire need of something new, and perhaps this independent league before him provided him just the right amount of mixed ingredients to elevate the art form."

Fade to black.