Instead of wanting
Seek to give with all your heart
And know Christmas time
I’ve trimmed down my waistline (fuck that fat!), my Facebook friends list (fuck those traitors!), how much crap is in my house (fuck that shit I don’t need) and even how many shows I watch on a weekly basis (fuck it all!) As for the latter, my time is precious (and all our time is fleeting) so if I’m going to give you any of it in the name of televised entertainment you’re gonna have to convince me it’ll be worth it.
Putting on a mask and hitting me with a clothesline certainly helps.
I’ve watched wrestling for a long time but mostly it’s been WWE and lately, as in the last decade lately, Old Mr. McMahon’s promotion has grown worn out and stale. They’re shoving last week’s breakroom bagels up their asses and telling you it’s going to be a delicious and meaningful treat. My wife struggles to stay awake for the main events of pay-per-views and when she passes out I consider reading a dictionary cover to cover because at least that would be more interesting than sitting through any match with John Cena in it. Most of the time he’s pummeling my will to live and sadly he’s booked to win. Now, in all fairness, WWE’s developmental territory NXT is outstanding. I attend tapings regularly and have seen some of the best sports entertainers ever step into the ring at those events. Electrifying almost all of them, which means as soon as they get called up to the main roster they’ll be squashed, misused and then forgotten. All in all then, the WWE landscape as it now stands is one of current or soon to be disappointment.
Enter Lucha Underground.
Enter so spectacularly that I’ll be jumping off my couch clapping and screaming to cheer every face and jeer at every heel. Yes, I know they’re called “téchnicos” and “rudos” but what you don’t know is that my dick is still hard from watching the first episode. Lucha Underground made me feel like a kid again. A kid who wanted to fuck and fight everyone and everything in the world! It probably doesn’t hurt that one of my favorite comic book characters of all time was Marshal Law. This Marshal Law!
By combining my love for this leather clad law bringer with a curious addiction to Jarritos and nearly incessant need for tacos it’s clear to see that Robert Rodriguez has, with his El Rey network, presented to me just about the most perfect pageant of athleticism, excitement and south of the border badassery I could ever ask for. I now know it’s possible to be fully erect and fully spent at precisely the same fucking time because that’s what happens to me during this show. This gringo can tell you, it’s that good.
There’s not too much talking but when anyone opens their mouth it’s fresh, fun, often curse word laden and un-PC sensitive. The play by play and commentary mix well with the produced segments and all of it flows along with, not against, the story the luchadores are telling in the ring. The spoken word slathered over brutality, technicality and sex! Attitude era, tits in your face and hands and mouth kinda sex:
That’s Catrina. She licks you and then her beau, Mil Muertes, tears you a new asshole. And face hole. And all holes.
He’s kind of a tank, slow and punishing, beating you near to death with his sluggish intensity in lieu of acrobatic aplomb. He’s one warrior however in a temple full of combatants and there is guaranteed to be someone that suits your personal style. High flyers, grapplers, old school brawlers, heavyweight, lightweight and every weight in between. Whether it’s on the mat or off the ropes Lucha Underground is off the charts. And don’t let Catrina fool you, sure she puts the “T and A” into the “Jesus, those are some nice tits” but the ladies aren’t just set dressing around here. Female luchas get down and dirty (yes, against the men!) and fuck so many kinds of shit up that new shit has to be invented just so it can be fucked! Take Sexy Star for instance:
Don’t let her looks, or the previously ample use of Catrina’s bewbs, fool you into thinking that the feminine is relegated to the realm of eye candy only. Hell no, this is Lucha Underground, the bitches and the bastards both compete on equal terms here. No pandering to feminist whining, no glorification of domestic abuse, no excuses. The men and women here prove that age old idiom “where there’s a will there’s a way” by sacrificing body and blood against whoever, wherever in the name of their personal whatevers. Here’s Sexy after taking an almost unprotected chair shot to the head…from a dude.
Is that brutal? Yes, undeniably. Is life? You goddamn know it is. Whether you have a sack or a slit between your legs, Lucha Underground doesn’t pull any punches because outside of your flatscreen and your cubicle and your somewhat safe Wal-Mart shopping experience the world out there can be terrible. There’s no excuse not to accept that and prepare yourself accordingly. This show is completely fake, and 100% real. The effort and expenditure of it’s production staff (including Mark Burnett of Survivor fame) and all of its stars (including WWE castoff John Morrison, Luchador legend Blue Demon Jr. and holy-shit-how- have-I-never-heard-of-this-guy-until-now guy Prince Puma) is immediately evident and immediately appreciated.
5 rounds in the cylinder for Lucha Underground. If you love slobberknockers with a Southwestern flavor, this show is right up your alley. No lube and hard up your alley, but you’re still gonna love it. I haven’t enjoyed wrestling this much in years. The talent and creative sides of this upstart engine are both running full throttle and looking for a stranglehold on any other promotion that chooses to stagnate instead of innovate. It’s not purely Mexican but not completely Americanized either, it’s a masochistic melting pot with all the ingredients needed to make a tremendously entertaining and devastating dish.
And 1…2…3, thank you ‘mano!
Behind every mask is a story and, with an open door policy at Lucha Underground, I’ve been giving some thought to telling my own tale. I’m no spring chicken but I know I’ve got lots of bumps and bruises left to give and take before I ever tap out of this life. And whether you follow me into the ring or not amigo I pray you’ll find your own squared circle sooner rather than later, filling it with every adventure and right up to the last.
So many have died
While others bravely still risk
And we all stay free
Andrew Walls is going through some tough times. Lost wages, mental anguish and, according to certain documents, “severe emotional stress”. Is he a former first responder traumatized by an accident? Maybe a veteran returned home after witnessing unspeakable horrors on the battlefield? No food on his table or roof over his head even? Nope on all counts. The startling truth is this: Andy had surgery and when he woke up afterwards he was wearing women’s underwear!
Seems after a colonoscopy the “victim” was fitted with some pink lady’s sundries as a prank by his co-workers, the medical staff of a surgical center. He awoke but only to find his nightmare just beginning. A nightmare that would lead him to litigate presumably after said business failed to settle for the bazillions he was seeking. You know, to cope with the abject terror of being garbed in silk undies. I have no doubt that for some men this would be annoying or slightly disquieting but let’s save any diagnosis preceded by “severe” for kids who get beaten or a woman who got raped or a grunt who saw his buddies blown up right in front of him.
While the option of filing suit to right actual wrongs is one sign of an mature if not enlightened society, preposterous litigation in the name of “I’m a huge sleeze gimme a comparably sized pile of cash” has become too commonplace. Cases like this are despicable and detrimental to the legal system, despoiling the good deeds of those David like attorneys slinging stones at corporate Goliaths and muting the cries of actual people in need. Walls’ own lawyer, Gary Nitsche, would I’m sure disagree. The complaint he filed read in part, “the defendant’s extreme and outrageous conduct went beyond all possible bounds of decency.” His name reminds me of an old quote, something about “when you stare into an asshole, the asshole stares back until you become an asshole you fucking asshole!” I’m paraphrasing but you know that’s just how Gary and Andy got on with each other.
Now perhaps this dress code violation was simply the final straw in an ongoing pattern of harassment but if Mr. Walls had been the target of systemically inappropriate verbal and/or physical molestation up to this point, based on race, creed or color, neither the complaint nor any reporting news agency has made mention of what would surely be a shitstorm creating circumstance. So I’m left to conclude that Andrew Walls is but a schmuck. Maybe he’s a prankster and ended up on the wrong end of a jest for once. Or worse, he’s a bully and the set-upon staff finally gave him a taste of his own medicine.
Either way, it’s not the end of the world.
Unless he’s a closeted crossdresser whose privacy and suffering self-worth were assaulted by the conspiratorial acts of bigoted bastards he needs to go find a good, short pier and take a long, hard go fuck himself. Starving is troubling. Losing a loved one, unsettling. Getting beheaded has to be rather horrible. Wearing panties?
Other than saying I find them rather comfortable, I won’t even dignify that with a response.
Sunset’s sweet sadness
Sand in my heart and out there
I must stop staring