Tuesday, December 1, 2015

Getting Color (for just $2)


Just knowing that these carny sumbitches, these mad leathery dogs of glory, will drag makeshift razor blades across their own oily foreheads for cinematic effect just seals it for me: this shit is theater of the highest order. High order theater fueled by the warm, goopy, crimson-hued cocktail brewing inside all of us (spaghetti). The kind that even real deal coke-encrusted film directors couldn't truly achieve with an unlimited budget and the exhumed personage of Lon Chaney. Damn right, you unknowing asshole. Wrestling is "fake", but tell me...Mr. "REALITY"  how many buck-toothed simpletons really died during that scene in The Wild Bunch? Fuck. How many?! Those dudes weren't bleeding their own actual blood man. That's what I'm saying. It's A-R-T of  the flesh. And there's only 3. Sex. Death. Pro wrestling. The kind of art where you use your body, with its sinewy, corporeal limitations to express your inner-most depraved desires. The kinda shit they can't teach you in art school. It must be learned by some fat guy in a fanny pack who legit saw some shit in a rice paddy in Dan Nam. 

Here's to my favorite bleeder. A motherfucker who pre-dates hip hop, but somehow seems like he could've created it. Who docks the "K" from his name cuz it fucks up the symmetry when it's embroidered on his $10,000 robe. Who could carry the territories and survive a GEE-DEE plane crash in '75. The man who meant so much to Mid-Atlantic and the great wresting world at large that Vince Jr. simply could not job him into the midcard and HAD to give him the strap and put him in a main event program. The iron-flecked NWA ring where he dethroned Harley Race at the first Starrcade, and the gallons he's given to this business, in times of feast, and times of famine.

Ric gave his own blood for this business. Now buy a DAMN sticker
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