While emptying my dishwasher earlier, I came across a James Bond Collectible glass that I'd received from an old landlord a few years ago. I remember it clear as if it happened just hours ago, how he came trapsing down the stairs with the common shit-eating grin and holier-than-thou attitude, held up the glass and asked me, "Do you want this 007 glass? I'm just going to throw it away, otherwise." Not to pass up on free shit very often, I quickly looked at the glass and noticed that it was of decent quality and had DR. NO written across it in bold yellow printing. As you know, I took the glass, but thinking all the while, "Why would you get rid of something as cool as a James Bond glass?" Then it donned on me. My landlord, Denny, was f*cking queer! Not queer as in he could redesign the interior of your house or outfit you with the most chique clothing designs. He wasn't handy like that. No, quite the contrary, he was queer as in he was an odd f*cker.
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The entire time that I lived at that address, he gave me nothing but a shitty attitude. Almost like he was stating his domain. Like the lead wolf in the pack. If I didn't know any better, I would've thought that he was making sure I wasn't going to be sniffing around his [then] fiance/eventual wife. Nothing could've been further from the truth. Brenda, was a nice gal, but she resembled Danny DeVito from Batman Returns. Decent boobs, though. I'll give her that. I mean, hey! I'll call a spade a spade. Even if a chick is ugly as sin, if she's got a decent rack, I'll giver 'er props! It's the humanitarian in me.
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This one time, though, I remember that idiot Denny coming down the stairs to my basement suite. He often barged in without knocking, which always irked me to some degree. I mean, what if I was getting down with some chick in my livingroom? Did I really want this stupid bastard walking in on us? Sadly, that scenario never played out, so we'll never know. But this one time he came in while I was watching one of my wrestling programs. He inquired about what it was. I don't remember which one it was at the time, but I quickly answered him, trying not to miss any of the action occurring onscreen.
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After I told him, he smirked and made a comment using The F-word. Not the good F-word, either. He didn't say, "Awe, cool. Wrestling f*cking rocks!!" Nope, he bravely used the other F-word. The F-word that has always pissed me off. He used the word, FAKE! That is the F-word that has absolutely no positive use except for the sentence: She has fake boobs! Even then, it's quite the put-off.
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"Wrestling?" he sneered, "That stuff's fake, isn't it?" That's when my defenses went up! While pro wrestling is predetermined and scripted, the maneuvers and techniques used in the ring, is anything but fake. Many of the actions are real, just as the injuries are f*cking real.
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"Oh really? It's fake?" I said sarcastically, "Then somebody'd better go tell Owen Hart to get up outta that grave. You're not dead, don't you know wrestling is fake? Or tell Darren Drozdov to get up outta that wheelchair. You're quadripalegic. Just walk off that spinal injury. Don't you know wrestling is fake?!?" He saw that he'd struck a nerve with me, and began reeling backwards, trying to mend fences and re-assure me that he didn't believe the statement he'd just made.
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People like that have always pissed me off. No respect for other beliefs or enjoyments. I say that if you don't know shit about something, then you ought to shut the hell up and keep your thoughts to yourself. And before anyone points a finger at me, just remember there are three more pointing right back at ya!
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When Ken Anderson unveiled his T-shirt (pictured above) earlier in 2010, I f*cking loved it. I don't have one yet, but I plan on getting one soon. It speaks the truth. It speaks the gospel. And best of all, it doesn't just translate to pro wrestling, but it's an adage that could be made in just about any walk of life.
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