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By James Walker

It was a blistery December 23rd in Stamford, Connecticut. Vince McMahon is reading over the finance report for the year, and is smiling. Profits are up, the WWE stock is up, and all is well in his world. He then double takes at a financial figure, and calls in an advisor.


“You wanted to see me, Vince?”

“Hey, Johnny. I was wondering about this strip-club and binge drinking tour you went on, and wrote off on the company.”

“Oh that… I took that liberty after we fired Charlie Haas. I basically spent the savings.”

“Ah, fair enough. Merry Christmas.”


And so, that night Vince McMahon slept soundly in his bed, arms wrapped around his wife and daughter. He was in the midst of a fantastic dream, complete with him defecating on Ted Turner’s face – oh the joy -, then he was startled in his sleep by a thumping emanating form the downstairs area. THUMP! Vince was flabbergasted, and grabbed his handy barbed wire 2 X 4 to investigate. THUMP! The sound was getting louder, and it was deafening. THUMP! It sounded as if a tree trunk was falling with amazing force, right in his living room! THUMP! Vince turned the corner, and couldn’t believe his eyes.


THUMP! A large, ghostly hulk of a man, all tanned and decked out in feather boas stood before him.


“Hey dude, hope you don’t mind me gettin’ into shape... Wrestlemania is comin’ up, bruther.”

“… What are you doing here at this hour?”

“Listen, dude. I’m the Ghost of Christmas past, man. The big man upstairs sent me to come have a talk with you, and the dude sounds pretty serious.”

“What the hell…”

“Brother, just grab a hold of my barndoor back, I’ve got somethin’ to show you.”


As soon as Vince placed his arms around the beast, the room took a tailspin, giving him a feeling he hasn’t had since the late seventies. As Vince was shaking off the effects of the ride, he found himself in a massive building, that must have been able to hold 78,000 – no, even 93,173 people! In the center of the building lay a wrestling ring, and around him were rabid fans, decked out in mid 80’s styles. A familiar tune struck up on the speakers, and there before him he saw the Ghost coming to the ring! Before him, lay an even larger man, why, he must have been a giant!


For the following twelve minutes, Vince watched the epic battle of two behemoths, and was encapsulated by the sheer magnitude of the event. The atmosphere was as intense as 1000 suns, and the tension was gripping. In the end, the Ghost lifted the man who must have been 700 pounds straight over his head, and soon followed that up with the familiar THUMP noise, and the building was engulfed in cheers! It was intense, riveting, and unparalleled!


With a quick flash, Vince was in the locker room. In here, there’s a celebration with champagne flying and women everywhere. The ghostly figure steps up from a table, his nose looking slightly whiter than usual, and comes over to talk to Vince. 


“There’s more, bruther.”


The room began to spin, and here was the Ghost on the mat, while an extremely buff, if not demented man with a face adorned in paint, shook the ropes in vigor.


“Whoops… uh, let’s just move on ahead, ok dude?”


Next thing Vince knew, they were outdoors in a Caesarian setting… but the wrestling ring was in full effect. A large oriental man was gloating over his victory over a medium-sized man in pink and black, when the Ghost comes running out…


“Something is wrong with this thing, bruther”


Moving forward now to a court room, with the Ghost on the stand, talking about ‘Dr. Zahorian’ and…


“I tell you, McMahon, someone must be ribbing me…”


Now back in a wrestling ring, there’s the Ghost, an unshaven man with long black hair, sporting a tooth-pick, and a Tall man with flowing golden locks of the almighty Zeus. ‘This is the New World Order of wrestling, bru- ’




This time, the two men stood in a large arena, with what appeared to be a retractable roof. The Ghost, clearly aged, was fighting a young attractive Samoan man. The crowd was rabid, the fans were sitting at the edge of their seat, the excitement in air was hotter than hell, and the smell was just as bad. However, everyone had tears in their eyes as the Samoan man finished the ghost off in dramatic fashion, but not before the Ghost had stolen all the attention for himself and completely overshadowed the victor. In that instant, all was well in the world.


The spinning feeling took over once again, and Vince this time found himself in a dark room, with the Ghost.


“Now whatchu got to say about that, bruther?”

“Uhh… what does this have to do with me?”

“Don’t you see all those people that you’ve harmed, dude? You’ve been hurting people for years, brah!”

“But.. those were just clips of you”

“Oh yeah. Your clips were lame, bruther, so I made my own copy.”


“But the point is you’re a douche. Oh, and expect another visitor to come, noon tomorrow, dude.”


And with a twirl of a yellow boa, Vince was back in bed, drenched with cold sweat. There he lay, pondering if what he had just experienced was real or not. While not particularly frightening, the experience certainly seemed real. Shrugging it off as a dream, Vince went back to a calm slumber after staring at his daughter’s breasts for half an hour.


The following morning, Vince awoke as usual. It seemed as if the experience was indeed nothing more than a nightmare, and it was a typical Christmas Eve in the McMahon household. With his wife watching plants grow, his son jumping off the mansion roof on to Big Show, and his daughter eating butter behind the chef’s back, Vince settled in to watch the tape of the Smackdown he didn’t watch. However, as Orlando Jordan made his entrance, Vince became bored and fell asleep almost instantly.


He awoke a few hours later and noticed the time was 11:58. Suddenly, the dream of last night came back to him, as he recalled the auspicious words of the Ghost that said he’d get another visitor at noon. 11:59. Vince began to worry… was it real? Was someone trying to tell him something? 12:00. Vince now was biting his nails! Why was he doing this, it was just a silly dream! But... it seemed so vivid, and so profound! There must have been something to it, even if it was a dream, it was a sign from someone, yes, it must have… 12:01. Well, maybe not.


Vince went upstairs, and giggled as he saw his daughter attempting to steal a turkey from the very same chef. Yes, it had all been a dream, and Vince had nothing to worry about. Vince decided all this excitement had him on his last nerve, and he needed to go do some drive by mailbox smashings to lighten his mood. He got into his limousine, and called for the driver to take him to Ted Turner’s neighborhood… but the driver wasn’t there.


Vince thought something was amiss, and heard a screeching from the road. Vince looked outside, and saw a large man in a very stylish suit, running to Vince’s house. Behind him lay his driver, squirming on the ground. The man patted Vince on the back, and caught his breath. This went on for the next ten minutes.


“What is the meaning of all this?”

“I’m… (gasp)… the Ghost of Christmas Present.”


Vince did a double take. It was a good half hour past noon, and Vince had come to peace with the fact is was merely a dream.


“Sorry bout being late… Austin no showed, so I got called in to fill in…”


“Silly all powerful entity business, don’t worry about it.”


“Listen, just come with me.”



And with that, the man pulled Vince into the limousine and started driving.


“You see Vince; you’re a cock-mongrel.”


Vince just stares at the man, noticing his sleek and narrow goatee, and attractive sunglasses. He also has veins pulsating in his forehead, but that’s probably of little concern.


“Right now, all over the world, there are people suffering because of you. I’m going to show you.”


Suddenly, the limousine begun to familiarly spin, and Vince now found himself parked outside ‘Happy Acres Drug Rehabilitation Center’.


“C’mon Vince. You’re gonna like this.”


The man led the way… it seemed as if no one noticed them, as if they were invisible to their eye. They came to a room, marked ‘Nick Dinsmore’.


“Here’s your good buddy, Eugene. We all know that he overdosed on Somas a few weeks back, and you sent him to rehab.”

“Yeah, you damn right I did! I want to see the guy get cleaned up!”

“Do you even KNOW what they do here, Vince?”

“They get you off of drugs?”

“If it were only that simple…”


They opened the door, and before them lay Nick upright on a hospital bed, surrounded by fabric, yarn, and needles. Propped up in his bed, he was carefully hand stitching a quilt… in fact, many quilts. They were of such excellent quality, they would even make the Amish jealous.


“Quilts, Vince. Quilts.”

“But.. that’s no thing for a wrestler to do...”


“I won’t believe it! It can’t be true!”

“Well then.. maybe you’ll believe this.”


The Ghost then gave two big thumbs down and the room spun again, and Vince had to stop for a second. This whole spinning thing.. it seemed rather ineffective. I mean, why not play a nice little piece of music? Or maybe, have a unicorn come and ride them away. Surely anything was better than a 6 second state of inebriation. Anyways, all that passed as Vince now saw that he was in a clothing outlet.


“Joe’s Big & Tall. Really nice suits here, you know.”

“And we’re here because…?”


The man pointed to a corner, where custom tailoring occurred. As Vince approached, he saw a very large black man with white eyes getting custom fitted.


“An’ make it reeeeaal tight aroun’ the crotch.. yeah, I want them to cup 'em.”

“But.. sir… that’s highly uncomfortable…”

“I know what’s comfortable, boy!”

“No… it’s uncomfortable for me, you know…”


The Ghost now whispered into Vince’s ear.


“It seems your dress code regulation has forced men like Viscera here to trade in their spandex pants and dew rags and buy some suits.”

“I don’t see a problem with that.”

“Do you have any idea how many tailors have quit within the last month? One man in Phoenix nearly drowned when Gene Snitsky wanted his shirts tighter in the back.”

“Oh, big deal.”

“BIG DEAL? Vince, all the good tailors are leaving the business! This is my last good suit here, and the rest are form Sears. SEARS, VINCE. SEARS. Is that what you want?”

“I… it’s not my problem they can’t toughen up!”

“You’re a tough one to crack, aren’t you?”


Vince rolled his eyes as the room began to spin again. This time, the two men landed backstage at a WWE event. The locker room was quiet and a little depressing, just like Vince liked it. The Ghost tugged Vince along, and they went and stood in front of an athletic black man. He was pacing back and forth, muttering ‘Up, up, Down, Down… Left, Right, Left, Right, B, A, Start’, over and over again.


Shelton here has been a wreck since you banned video games backstage. Whenever his music cues up, he scares us all by yelling ‘MORTAL KOMBAAAAAAAAAAT’”.


A child in the locker room walked up to Shelton. Shelton pays little attention, choosing to hum the Zelda theme song, but the child talks to him never the less.


“Mr.. Mr.. Benjamin.. have you seen my mom?”

“I’m sorry, but the princess is in another castle.”


The child began to walk away, and Shelton perks up.



“Yes…. Yes, Mr. Benj-”

“Is that… a PSP in your pocket?”

“Yeah… I got – ”

“Listen kid, I need to play it. Just give me five minutes, c’mon. I just need my fix, you know, man? C’mon, I’ll give you anything. You want into the women’s locker room, I can get you in there. You want my tights? Here, you got my tights.”


Shelton strips down to nothing, thinking nothing of it, and tosses it to the child. The child, obviously terrified, began to run away. However, Shelton curled up into a blue ball, and began to spin, and chased after the child, reminding Vince of a hedgehog. However, road agents quickly came to the scene and held Shelton back.


“Get off of me, damn it! It’s a me, Mario!”

“Don’t gimme no bass now, son.”



Next thing Vince knew, he was back in the limousine, with the man driving.


“Now where were you going?”

“What? Oh… ummm, just... to the office, I need to go to my office.”



The car drove off, and Vince looked out the window.


“So... he’s going to be okay, right?”

“You talkin’ to me?”

“Uh, yeah.”

“I can’t answer that, but at midnight tonight, someone will.”


Vince shuddered for a minute, desperate for someone to run in and blast this guy with a chair. The ghost pulled up to Titan towers and Vince quietly left the vehicle. Looking up, Vince wanted to ask the ghost if there was anything he could do, but when he turned around he’d already vanished.


From there, Vince walked up into his office. The halls of Titan towers were cold, dark, and smelling of old people – just the way Vince liked it. The building was decked out with pictures of Vince, and.. Vince. Oh, look another one a of Vince, that’s pretty cute. However, the aura about the events was looming over his head, and only one thing could solve this situation: Alcohol.


Sitting as his desk, drinking his usual – a blueberry daiquiri with a lemon twist around the umbrella – Vince couldn’t think. This whole situation had him in such a mess, he was constantly paranoid, looking over his shoulder, wondering what would happen next. Hammering down the liquor like Jake Roberts in the Sahara, Vince questioned his actions and priorities.. maybe he’d been foolish his whole life, maybe it was time for a change. He had peppermint schnapps in one hand, and the financial report in another… 45 million dollars he pocketed this year. Was it worth it, all this pain and sufferance? Was it worth the anxiety? Of course it is, stupid. More schnapps. Schnapps is good. Schnapps Schnapps Schnapps.


7 hours later, Vince awoke to find himself in a puddle of minty vomit. After flying in Lance Storm to clean it up, and downing a few Tylenol, he realized it was nearly midnight. Accepting his fate, Vince called out.




Vince walked back and forth, looking to his double doors. Nothing was happening, and Vince seemed rather confused. Not to lose his composure, he continues to talk.




Suddenly, the doors burst open, and a medium sized man with a tied back pony tail came billowing through the door, with puffs of smoke behind him. Smelling of body odor and cheetos, Vince wasn’t too pleased, but he had little choice.


“Hey dude, It’s me, Mr. Monday Nigh-”


Just as soon as he entered, a larger man with dirty blond hair, and facial hair that reminded him of a Viking, came through the door and hit the ghost with a sledgehammer.


“I’m the future of the business, and don’t you forget it!”


Looking on in confusion, Vince quietly whistled.


“Hey Dad! How you doin’, buddy ol’ pal? That’s great to hear, y’know. Really, you’re doing a bang up job.”


“Oh yeah, I’ve got a bunch of stuff to show you. Let’s get to it, shall we?”


And with that, the man spat some water into the air, mouthed some words to a corner for little to no reason, and Vince now found himself in a colorful world,with most notably, a yellow brick road below. Around him, small men like Rey Mysterio, Paul London, Gregory Helms were singing.


“Ding, Dong, Vince is dead,

The wicked Vince,

The mean old Vince,



“I’m… dead?”


“Squash… Hurricane” the ghost muttered, as he jotted it down.


 Putting away his note book, the ghost now spat the water again.


It was a press conference, with media from across the globe. There were hundreds of reporters, and there was a special buzz in the air. At the podium stood a man, overweight, balding on top but with long black hair in rear, and somehow, obviously, Jewish.


“As president of World Wrestling Entertainment, I’m here to talk about our 2011 fiscal report. I don’t have to tell you media twice how well we’ve been doing – With our stock trading at ten times what it was five years ago, the WWE has…”


The ghost, seemingly angry at what he saw, bitterly muttered ‘Put Tazz on Velocity’, and suddenly warped to a large outdoor stadium. The marquee read “Wrestlemania 30”.


For the next 4 hours, Vince sat in amazement. The matches were clean, crisp, and were booked incredibly well. The crowd loved every minute of the evening, even the unveiling that Stephanie McMahon was to pose in her 3rd playboy pictorial. By and large, it was the greatest Wrestlemania of all time.


“You see here Vince… is this what you want? Small men who can’t carry the main event? A former competitor disgracing your legacy? Your daughter naked?”


“One out of three just doesn’t cut it. I… have to change.”


And with these words, Vince found himself in his bed. It was morning, Christmas morning, to be exact. Immediately, Vince sprang up and reached for the telephone.


“Johnny! Listen, I can’t explain why, but just listen.... Fire everyone under six feet! Get Nick Dinsmore prepped on a new ‘Grandma Retard’ gimmick. Give Shelton Benjamin a new addiction, cocaine will work fine. Hire Rico back to be our tailor. And write this down… Randy Orton VS. Undertaker, Wrestlemania 30. Just.. go with it. Thanks.”


“But boss-”

“Just do it, thanks.”


Walking into the family living room, Vince admired the lovely spread of melons. Turning away from his daughter, he noticed all the glorious food! Such an amazing day, the smell of the season was in the air! Well, truthfully, it was the fresh smell of paint that his wife was watching as it dried, but never the less.


Christmas time was here, and life had never been better! Vince felt generous, and he started to make proclamations.


“I’m going to push that young buck, Chris Masters! Bonuses to the entire creative team! JBL will get his own Talk Show! MERRY CHRISTMAS EVERYONE!”


And with that, a small child hobbled in through the door.


“God bless us,” said Zack Gowen, “God bless us, everyone.”

Pics created by Sean Carless

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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.).