Glenn Jacobs, formerly known as Kane in WWE, currently known as the scourge of Knox County

 

The Ballad of Sam Corleone

Every other weekend and twice on Sundays

Smashing skulls for a living on Mondays

Looking like bloodshed in khakis and boots

Fuck the spandex trunks, fuck corporate suits

Heavy metal T-shirt around his big old gut

Messy brown hair above a face full of cuts

He stood in the ring crackling his knuckles

Maybe his opponent pussed out and buckled

Then comes R-Truth and the mid-card clowns

Chasing the champ all over the fucking town

All of this comedy for an ugly green strap

Time to put an end to this silly little crap

Grabbing a steel chair from under the ring

Whacking Truth across the back so he could sing

Repeated shots across his nonexistent spine

Crushing ribs into a powder so damn fine

The pin fall was as easy as one, two, three

A new 24/7 Champ on your TV screen

While Truth boy was carried out on a stretcher

The mid-carders ran away forever and ever

New champ took the mike after taking his throne

“My motherfucking name is Sam Corleone

I’ll bring seriousness to this comedy title

Hold onto this strap for a long ass while”

Drake Maverick sneaked up from behind

Threw a chair shot to Sam’s steel spine

The no-sell motel was open for business

Sam turned around to face this idiot

Yanked his ankles, pancaked him on the mat

With one stomp, Drake’s nuts went splat

The poor fucker puked up blood eternally

Carried to the back and to the infirmary

Nobody else dared challenge the king

Even if he was unconscious in the ring

Sam Corleone kept the belt for a year

Instilling in everyone pants-shitting fear

From Strowman to Roman, Dain to Kane

Big Show to Ohno, they all got owned

Then he burned the title in a garbage can

Who’s laughing now? Not a single man

Get used to Sam having main even status

Even if it makes little kids the saddest

“Merry Christmas to all and to all a goodnight!

You’ve got two options: fuck off or fight!”

3:16

The Death Marshal watched over the Black Widow Amphitheater with an omniscient presence, smiling a razor-toothed smile from the hells below. This afternoon Marilyn Manson concert ran as smoothly as venom through a cobra’s victim. The band was onstage bouncing around to the tune of “Irresponsible Hate Anthem”.

The concertgoers below the stage shoved and slammed into each other in a circle pit that could knock over the heaviest of hitters. The scent of alcohol was seductive to Death Marshal’s nostrils. One lady in the pit removed her Stone Cold Steve Austin T-shirt and threw it to the ground in a heavy metal rage. The energy in this outdoor arena lit the Death Marshal’s soul on fire. The god was pleased.

But of course, nothing could be perfect forever. One bad apple always had to ruin the entire bunch. Outside the cemetery-like gates of the spider-shaped arena stood a red-dressed, purple-haired woman with a crucifix around her neck and a sign in her hand that read, “You Must Be Born Again!” She shouted at Manson fans passing through the gates in a shrieking voice that could sell her own metal albums if she so chose. They either ignored her or flipped her the bird on their way in.

“It’s not too late to save your souls!” the woman belted, pointing an elongated fingernail at passersby. “Leave this place and come to church with me! We can go to heaven together! We can experience Jesus’s love for all eternity! You don’t have to burn in hell! Let us pray together! Let’s fight the devil and push his wicked energy out of our souls! We can be pure again! You must be reborn!”

The Death Marshal couldn’t possibly understand why this woman hated everything about this arena so much. Was it the tarantula-shaped structure with the eight legs acting as tunnels to the bleachers and pit? The event staff wearing black hooded robes and steel horns? The red and orange fogged lighting that illuminated the rows and stage? The white makeup and black clothing the concertgoers were proudly wearing? The LGBT flag that someone was waving at the back of the bleachers? The gargoyle statues? The blood-soaked walls? The skulls dangling from the ceiling? The bronze statue of Death Marshal taking up the middle of the seating area?

The screaming continued despite the many middle fingers the zealot received. “Don’t you walk away from me! Don’t you turn your backs on Jesus Christ! He has sent me to punish you all for your sins! This is devil music and it must be stopped! And I am the only one who has the power to stop it! Remember the name of JoJo Tornado, your new savior and hero!”

The passersby suddenly erupted in a fit of laughter. Death Marshal couldn’t help but crack a smile and hee-haw like a demon either. All of this fanatical rhetoric, all of these mystical threats were coming from a woman named…JoJo Tornado. Many fans asked her if that was actually the name her mother gave her. Were the Tornados an extended family? Did it actually say JoJo Tornado on her driver’s license? Could she even drive without getting a DUI charge after drinking the blood of Christ? Concertgoers slapped their knees and buckled over as these thoughts circulated among them. For once, JoJo managed to be more entertaining than the concert itself, no offense to Marilyn Manson.

And then the bright sunny day turned gray and cold as soon as JoJo’s face scrunched up in anger and she threw her sign to the ground. Concertgoers who wore jorts and T-shirts to the show found themselves shivering and hugging themselves for warmth. Icy winds picked up all around the arena, so much so that the band stopped playing and looked confused. JoJo’s eyes rolled back in her head while she waved her arms around in some kind of magical dance, guiding the wind wherever she wanted it.

Hooded bouncers circled around her to try and stop this display, but the wind grew strong enough to shove them all back against the spider-legged arena tunnels. The screams of heavy metal energy turned to screams of childish terror when one of the bouncers was impaled on a stony spike, his spilling innards and shattered ribcage making this dark fantasy paradise look even more frightening.

Fans bolted for any exit they could find, resembling an animalistic stampede where concertgoers were either crushed underneath boots or picked up and slammed by the wind. Marilyn Manson and his group were long gone by then. Anybody who wanted to follow suit in their cars were shit out of luck as the wind picked up vehicles and smashed them into concertgoers and bouncers alike. The concessions stand, which looked like a stony apothecary’s hut, shattered into pebbles at the drop of an SUV, spraying a fountain of beer in the air.

Somewhere during this mad dash towards higher ground, somewhere in this sea of blood, guts, and bones, a stage prop was blown off its hinges and launched like a javelin through the heart of the Death Marshal statue, knocking it over and desecrating the one true guardian of this sacred arena.

Suddenly, the dashing stopped. Horrified looks turned to pity and rage. Concertgoers and bouncers stood still in awe of the act of blasphemy committed against the Death Marshal statue. Marilyn Manson and his band returned to the stage and glared daggers at JoJo Tornado, who in turn looked muddled by this lack of chaos she worked so hard to create. “Does this mean…you all are ready to repent? Will you come with me to the gates of heaven?” She held out her hand in a loving gesture, but nobody would take it.

They were too busy staring at the green smoke that erupted from the hole where Death Marshal’s statue used to be. The statue was supposed to be a seal for the guardian beast. It was supposed to be his sleeping grounds. The god of the arena was supposed to be a mere spectator. But he was wide awake now. A slimy brown hand gripped the ledge of the hole and then another hand followed suit. With one growling jerk, Death Marshal pulled himself out of the pit for all of his followers to see.

There he was. A giant among men. A slime-and-dirt-covered creature wrapped in mummy bandages. A foul-smelling demon whose odor would be enough of a reason to seal him away in the first place. No lips have touched his face. No eyes wanted these permanent stains. No hands wanted his corrosive feel. He looked like the devil himself and it was a label he embraced to the fullest.

“So…this is what Satan looks like,” said JoJo, determined as ever to keep the chaos going. “This is what dark seduction feels like. You all worship this false idol? You dare use the lord’s name in vain for this prophet? Then I know how what I must do. I must exorcise this beast once and for all!”

Death Marshal’s murky boots slapped against the stone ground as he rushed towards JoJo with his arms outstretched, like he wanted to wrap his mile-long digits around her pencil neck. But the wind held him in place. The dark clouds opened up and unleashed another gust of holy energy. Death Marshal threw punches and braced himself against the aeromancy, but it was no use. Even a creature with his godly strength succumbed to getting bounced off the edge of the stage and nearly knocked unconscious. His omnipresent vision faded in and out of blackness. He really was about to meet God, albeit in a puddle of his own necromantic sludge.

“Is that all you’ve got?” asked JoJo. “Is this finally proof that God’s will conquers all? Ha! Too easy!”

Pain shot through Death Marshal’s nearly cracked spine as he crawled across the ground, dragging pieces of sloppy flesh and chipped bones across the stony surface. He reached out for something. What was it? A fan’s ankle? An angel’s hand? The devil’s weapons? No. It was the Stone Cold Steve Austin T-shirt the female fan threw on the ground earlier. That fan now had an SUV crushing her bones, but her spirit lived on…as did the spirit of the Texas Rattlesnake himself. A demonic mouth opened up in Death Marshal’s palm and it consumed the woman’s T-shirt, both making JoJo shiver in disgust and the concertgoers and bouncers watch in awe and wonder.

With bones creaking and mummy wrapping tearing, Death Marshal staggered to his feet and gazed at his surroundings with blurry vision. And then he remembered why his vision was so blurry. Not because of the force of the wind slamming him against the stage. But because…he was drunk. The Budweiser flowing through his veins ignited his soul. The fans in attendance suddenly believed in their hero again with chants of “Austin! Austin! Austin! Austin!”

And then, with a stomp of his foot and a thrash of his arms, Death Marshal shouted in a familiar southern accent, “Austin 3:16 says I just whipped your ass!” The fans cheered their heads off and the band couldn’t help but smile a little bit.

JoJo Tornado scowled at her opponent and said, “Such fowl language will not be tolerated in the house of the lord! Take THAT!” She blew a gust of wind at Death Marshal and sent him flying over to the shattered beer stand. But instead of cracking his skull against the ground, he grabbed onto the beer hose and started drinking out of it like he was dying of thirst in a desert country.

After releasing a toxic burp that contributed to global warming, Death Marshal aimed the hose at JoJo and splashed her with a stream of beer. She was knocked over on her ass and scrambled to get back up, but couldn’t. The beer spray was too powerful for her, not unlike her wind magic. She even rolled backwards several feet and got some of it in her mouth. The beer stream couldn’t last forever, but it didn’t matter anymore. JoJo was soaked head to toe in alcohol. Her dress nearly fell off several times. And everyone cheered all around her.

Death Marshal stomped over to his drunken opponent, the fans parting like the Red Sea. JoJo struggled to stay on her feet despite nothing spraying her anymore. She burped, slurred her words, and actually made more sense than when she was picketing outside the gates. In that familiar southern accent, the mummy guardian said, “Don’t take this ass-whopping personally, son!” Two middle fingers later, he kicked her in the stomach and smashed her jaw over his shoulders as he dropped on his ass, or as the WWE would call it, a Stone Cold Stunner.

As fans cheered and roared all around him, Death Marshal held two middle fingers to the sky and rattled his head like the badass he was. Some of the crowd threw him cans of beer and he chugged them down within seconds, swimming in a sea of drunkenness. After another burp that rocked the arena, he said, “If you want to see me set this bitch on fire and send her straight to hell, give me a hell yeah!”

“HELL YEAH!” echoed the fans.

Death Marshal grabbed hold of JoJo’s ankle and dragged the dizzy and confused zealot back to the hole in the ground where he came from. The statue was busted. The magic was exposed. This venue probably wouldn’t make money again given the reckless nature of what happened today. But at least he could get all the sleep he wanted. As a final gesture of goodwill to their dark fantasy guardian, one of the fans slowly raised his hands in the air like another familiar WWE wrestler and threw them down on cue with flames bursting from the hole in the ground. In response, Death Marshal burped and threw the slime-covered T-shirt back up to the surface.

The magic was gone and soon everyone realized just how fucked up all of this was. Many fans and bouncers were still dead, vehicles were smashed every which way, stage and arena props were strewn all about. Not even the all mighty Death Marshal could bring them all back together. This sucked. This sucked badly. A heavy metal concert had turned into a day of trauma and death for those who just wanted a good time. Religious wars never did anybody any good. Two deities waged war and it was the public who paid the price. Marilyn Manson’s lyrics knew all about this phenomenon, oddly enough.

Makeshift Wrestling Teams

***MAKESHIFT WRESTLING TEAMS***

Whether you’re a wrestling fan or not, this journal is strictly for my own amusement. I have a raunchy sense of humor with a little bit of Peter Pan Syndrome going on, so I can’t let this opportunity at cheap laughs to slide. Anyways, if you’re a wrestling fan, you know who Team PCB are. The acronym in their team name is made up of their first initials: Paige, Charlotte, and Becky Lynch. They used to be called The Submission Sorority, but when WWE found out that the name was already being used for a porn movie title, they took the route of using initials. And that got me thinking…what other makeshift teams can be formed the same way? Hmmm….

　

1. Kane, Kalisto, and Konnor (Team KKK)

2. Goldust, Ryback, and Rusev (Team GRR)

3. Cesaro, The Undertaker, Neville, and Tamina (Team CUNT)

4. Kevin Owens, Christian, and Kane (Team KOCK)

5. Fandango, The Undertaker, Cesaro, and Kane (Team FUCK)

6. Sin Cara, The Undertaker, and The Miz (Team SCUM)

7. Sin Cara and Adam Rose (Team SCAR)

8. Big E and Diego (Team BED)

9. Jimmy Uso, Neville, and Konnor (Team JUNK)

10. Hornswoggle and Erick Rowan (Team HER)

11. Sting, Hideo Itami, and Tamina (Team SHIT)

12. Blake, Alex Riley, and Fernando (Team BARF)

13. Randy Orton and Adam Rose (Team ROAR)

14. Bayley and Alberto Del Rio (Team BAD)

　

There. It’s all out of my system. I couldn’t be more proud of myself. I love having Peter Pan Syndrome. Hehe! We’ve got ears, say cheers!

　

***EDITING PRIORITIES***

With Occupy Wrestling holding a rating of 2-75 stars and Poison Tongue Tales being close to hitting the 50^th story, it seems as though I’ve come to a crossroads when it comes to editing and working with the ultra awesome Marie Krepps, who’s tough when it matters and a kick-ass best friend. She insists that Occupy Wrestling should take priority since it’s already on the market and she doesn’t want it to be unfairly judged. Good point. Damn good point. But she also said that the decision was ultimately up to me when it came to which book I should edit. I took that to heart when I made my decision. The decision is, why can’t I work on them side-by-side? Is singular focus so sacred that these books can’t coexist in the same process? One day could be spent bulldozing short stories, the next day could be spent editing the hell out of individual OW chapters, and the cycle will repeat until both books are finished. Granted, it will require a great deal of discipline, but that’s something I’m capable of showing even during my low energy days.

　

***WEEKLY SHORT STORY CONTEST AND COMPANY***

It’s a new week at the WSS and the prompt is “Fireworks”. The story I produce for that prompt won’t be part of Poison Tongue Tales since it’s a modern drama. It’s called “Football Sucks” and it goes like this:

　

CHARACTERS:

　

Irwin Gladden, New Mayor of Paulson City
Fred Jacobs, Irwin’s Bodyguard
Random Protesters

　

PROMPT CONFORMITY: Protesters set off fireworks as part of their demonstration.

　

SYNOPSIS: As Irwin’s first official act as mayor, he plans on balancing the city budget by converting a taxpayer-funded football stadium into the city’s largest public library. He even goes so far as to taunt opponents of this measure by saying, “Football sucks”. The morning after making this announcement, Irwin has an army of protesters outside his political headquarters and things don’t get better when Fred enters the room dizzy and bleeding.

　

***POISON TONGUE TALES***

Last night, I wrote story number 48, which was “Wasteland”. Story number 49 will be called “Mastodon” and it goes like this:

　

CHARACTERS:

　

Christopher Brown, Bounty Hunter
Courtney Robyn, Psychotic Criminal

　

PROMPT CONFORMITY: To be announced.

　

SYNOPSIS: In a Dungeons & Dragons-like atmosphere, the city of Middlesex is overrun with criminals and it’s up to human fighter Christopher Brown to capture them for a reward. His latest hunt is Courtney Robyn, a psychotic serial killer whose body count is in the hundreds. Just when he’s closing in on her location, Courtney comes stampeding through the streets riding on a mastodon, crushing everyone in her path.

　

And in case you were wondering, no, Christopher Brown isn’t based on the rapper Chris Brown, although the former’s job requires him to fight a female serial killer. I swear it’s only a coincidence, though. I swear on my mother’s grave (even though she’s still alive).

　

***DARK FANTASY WARRIORS***

The next drawing to come from this series will be of Elizabeth Dempsey, a human ranger from Blood Brawl who is in no way related to Brock Dempsey from Maggie’s Wisdom. It’s amazing that even though Blood Brawl is suspended, I still have the desire to draw the characters from that would-be novel. The more, the merrier I say.

　

***WRESTLING QUOTE OF THE DAY***

“If I hear one note out of that trombone, I’m going to send all three of you to a place that makes Suplex City look like Disneyland!”

-Stephanie McMahon to The New Day-

Brutus Knightwing

NAME: Brutus Knightwing
AGE: 31
OCCUPATION: Professional Wrestler
CANON: Giant Wrestling Federation


Brutus Knightwing is seven feet tall and weighs somewhere north of 325 lbs. For a man of his size, he is light on his feet and can perform wrestling moves cruiserweights normally pull off (spinning wheel kick, cross body block, and springboard elbow drop). In a wrestling promotion like GWF, his speed was a valuable asset in earning him three World Championships and five Tag Team Championships with fellow giant Andreas Rude. The Wrestling Observer Reading Magazine (WORM) rated Brutus the Most Improved Wrestler of 2010 and 2011. With this kind of impressive resume, Brutus should be a perfect fit in just about any promotion he goes to. Even Vinnie Mac & Cheese at WWE would drool over this mountain of muscle.

Unfortunately for Brutus, he never got to see the light of day beyond my computer folders. Wrestling RPG’s (good ones, anyways) are few and far between these days. The last time I took part in a wrestling RPG was when OTT Wrestling was still active on Play By Web dot com (obviously before I was banned from the latter). OTT (Over the Top) was where Occupy Wrestling hero Mitch McLeod got his start. He became so brutal and so popular that I had to make him the main character of my novel. But this was back in 2002. I didn’t conceive Brutus Knightwing until late in 2010, exactly five years after I was banned from Play By Web for not getting along with the admins.

When I say good wrestling RPG’s, I’m talking about games where the players get to act out the matches (objective) instead of just cut promos all the time and hope the admin likes them enough to let them win (subjective). Victory through promos is good in theory, but terrible in practice since admins tend to favor promos that are multiple pages long instead of actually good. Only by acting out the matches do the players have any control over their own destinies. Brutus Knightwing would have thrived in OTT, but drowned everywhere else.

And if he drowns in every RPG where talking is the key to victory, that means the only other option for Brutus is to put him in a novel of some kind. Because of his seven-foot tall stature and intimidating first and last name, he will obviously have to play a villain. As someone’s henchman, he could be a big dumb muscle man who throws people around like rag dolls. As a ruler, he could be vicious and quite possibly a conqueror. Yes, ruling would require some form of charisma that most seven-footers don’t have. But who says that the charisma can’t come from a tribal perspective. He could be a raging barbarian who screams his way through battle and rips everyone to pieces. He wouldn’t even need a weapon unless he was wrestling again, in which case he would use a steel chair.

Do you want to know why Vince McMahon prefers muscle-bound wrestlers over smaller ones? It’s because he believes they’re more marketable to the public. They look good when made into toys, printed on posters, and published in magazines. There is a little bit of truth to this. After all, Rey Mysterio on the cover of Muscle & Fitness doesn’t seem right. But here’s where the “internet dorks” clash with Vince: the smaller guys conquering the bigger guys is a more amazing story. Of course the bigger guy is going to win because that’s what we expect. If we get what we expect, the element of surprise is gone. But if a little runt like Daniel Bryan can get a hulking ogre like Kane to submit to the LeBelle Lock, then it’s a memory that’s going to blow everyone’s mind. Brutus Knightwing is a natural villain, and villains were meant to be conquered. Neil Gaiman said it himself: fantasy teaches us that not only are dragons real, they can be defeated.

　

***WRESTLING DIALOGUE OF THE DAY***

BAD NEWS BARRETT: The last time Rob Van Dam was relevant, I was still in diapers!

MICHAEL COLE: So Barrett wore diapers as a teenager?

WWE Hell in a Cell: Dean Ambrose vs. Seth Rollins

TITLE: WWE Hell in a Cell: Dean Ambrose vs. Seth Rollins

GENRE: Professional Wrestling Match

RATING: TV-PG for moderate violence and brief language

GRADE: Pass

A Hell in a Cell match is more than a typical steel cage fight. In this case, the cage surrounds the entire ring and exposes the concrete floor. You can’t win the match by escape because there is no escape. It’s just you and your opponent inside a wire mesh cage with no rules or regulations to hold you back. As heel commentator JBL so appropriately puts it, the only limit to your attack is your imagination. Dean Ambrose has a wild imagination in case you couldn’t tell from his erratic behavior. Seth Rollins can be just as sadistic and crazy. The first Hell in a Cell match between John Cena and Randy Orton was…acceptable. But this main event match between Ambrose and Rollins was going to steal the show.

Normally a match of this caliber would start in the ring and the bell would sound off three times to start the battle. Dean Ambrose didn’t want that. Carrying a kendo stick like a samurai sword with him, he wanted to start on TOP of the cell. Seth Rollins along with his two stooges Joey Mercury and Jamie Noble were (kind of) happy to humor him. Mercury and Noble got kendo stick welts for their troubles and Rollins and Ambrose fell off the cage and crashed through the English and Spanish-speaking announce tables.

It could have been over before it started. Dean Ambrose didn’t want that ending. He got off of his stretcher and chased Seth Rollins down before throwing him in the cell to officially start the match. Once the bell rung three times, these two warriors brutalized each other. They used chairs, sticks, steel stairs, and wooden tables, all in an effort to achieve victory. Corporate Kane was outside the cell and interfered by blasting Ambrose in the face with a fire extinguisher. That didn’t cool off the fire in the Lunatic Fringe’s belly. He wasn’t just pissed off at Seth Rollins; he had a bloodlust for him. He wanted to torture and twist him in the most painful ways possible.

Dean Ambrose was so close to exacting his revenge when he put an unconscious Seth Rollins’ head on top of cinder blocks to set up for Rollins’ own finisher move, the curb stomp. And then the arena went black and strange tongues were being spoken with a lantern and a ghost in the center of the ring. The speaker of that tongues was none other than the hypnotic and frightening Bray Wyatt, who downed Dean Ambrose with a spinning face buster and allowed Seth Rollins to cover Ambrose for the 1-2-3 pin. The match is over, but the emotional scars bleed like waterfalls and the physical pains burn like hellfire.

And now for the actual critique. To put it shortly, this match was as violent and psychotic as anybody could ask for. The blood was minimal, but the pain was at its maximum with the creative use of weaponry and the multi-story fall from the start of the match. This wasn’t just a wrestling match; this was a fight for survival. Dean Ambrose and Seth Rollins beat each other so badly after that fall it was amazing they didn’t have a hearse parked outside the arena. You’re damn right they were sore and bruised.

Believe it or not, the finish to the match where Bray Wyatt interfered didn’t bother me in the least bit. Yes, I wanted to see Dean Ambrose curb stomp Seth Rollins’ head into powder and slush. But then again, Bray Wyatt had been off of WWE television for a long time and needed a grand reintroduction. And now that the Hell in a Cell pay-per-view is in the books, we’re looking at a rivalry between Ambrose and Wyatt.

You know what that means? It means two crazies, two psychopaths are going to tear each other apart at some point. Dean Ambrose is like The Joker and Bray Wyatt is like Charles Manson. The two wrestlers have the mindset of serial killers and if they have to bleed each other out to get to the climax of their battle, well, let me put it his way: Seth Rollins is the luckiest guy on the planet. If these two loony tunes play enough mind games with each other for long enough, one of those minds will be running down a sewer drain while the other is bleeding with psychological trauma.

What you have to remember when watching WWE is everything happens for a reason. All you have to do as a fan is wait patiently for your favorites to triumph. It’s not an instant situation. It takes time for a climax to launch. Lots of time.

When Daniel Bryan was screwed out of the WWE Title at Summer Slam 2013, it took him until Wrestlemania XXX, which is an April 2014 pay-per-view to regain it. The point of this analogy is if you’re a fan and you want to see Seth Rollins get brutalized over and over again, but eventually for a final time, wait patiently. WWE waited patiently for Dean Ambrose vs. Seth Rollins to climax and it paid off in the most violent way possible, which is why this match in particular gets a passing grade.

Celebrity Memoirs

I hate to break it to you, Tea-Baggers, but Sarah Palin didn’t actually write “Going Rogue”. She can barely write talking points on her hand. She did what every other celebrity has done when they wanted to put out a book: she hired a ghostwriter. As much as I hate to admit it, there are pro-wrestlers out there as well who’ve used ghostwriters as well from Lesnar to Jericho. Unless the celebrity is already an established author like Tobias Wolff or Sarah Vowell, you can be pretty sure some ghostwriter out there wrote the damn book without being touted or paid very well. It’s the curse of being a ghostwriter, but it’s like my sister-in-law Susan says: “You have to start somewhere.” But if all of this celebrity-endorsed work is really a product of qualified writers, then why do bookworms toss them aside like they’re beneath the works of Stephen King and Suzanne Collins? I’ll tell you why: because the ghostwriters dictate a style in which their boss speaks. If you read a celebrity memoir and it suddenly sounded like a Pulitzer magnet, there’s something seriously wrong here. Do you honestly believe that Snooki is capable of talking like a literature student? I hope to God you don’t. Truth is, we don’t buy celebrity memoirs because they’re intelligently written. We buy them because we want to get intimate with the private lives of the person we’re reading about. I will say this: celebrity books dictate a very quick pace because they don’t overdo heavy descriptive language. The descriptions found in these books will most likely be a pop culture reference of some kind. Take for instance “Undisputed” by Chris Jericho. There’s a scene where he’s playing a Fozzy gig and he slides off the stage in what appears to be a goofy accident. You want to know what he compared it to? The toboggan scene from Christmas Vacation. Remember that scene? I do, but that doesn’t mean everybody else does. Not everybody has seen that movie before. But that’s okay, because celebrities can get away with pop culture references. Why is that? Because they’re famous and people will buy their books whether the writing is good or not. If you have no fame, don’t even try for a pop culture reference. It won’t work. People who don’t listen to Nightwish won’t know what you’re talking about if you all of the sudden compare the beauty of your girlfriend to that of Tarja Turunen. Celebrities can get away with pretty much anything they want. They’re famous, they’re rich, and people will love them no matter what. That’s not to say that celebrity memoirs can’t be entertaining. On the contrary, “Undisputed” was VERY entertaining. Just don’t expect to see these books in a college classroom. Ever.

　

***WRESTLING DIALOGUE OF THE DAY***

DANIEL BRYAN: I feel naked without the tag team titles!
KANE: That’s because you’re not wearing a shirt. Or pants.