My Turn

By Burl Burlingame

Saturday, November 2, 1996

Eh, voters!
Don’t miss Tuesday’s
down ’n’ dirty bouts

Candidates, put down those sissy signs,
and let’s see some hammerlocks

Everyone here? Handsome Johnny? Lord Tally-Ho? Bull? Ripper Collins? Sit down. Shut up.

Listen, you mugs, next Tuesday's wrestling bout at the Civic might not get the attendance we've been looking for. We might have to move to the Bloch. So we've got to go over the script. Folks want a real blood match, so we're going to go head-to-head, old knucklebusters paired off against inexperienced but strong yard apes.

Talk it up, in and out of the ring. Get the juices stirred. These are grudge matches, people; make it look good.

First off, for the East Oahu fans, we'll pit the Schoolmarm versus the Capitalist Guy. I know, it doesn't look fair. He's big, he's mean, he's got a yap on him that won't quit. She's little, but she's fast and crafty, and she's just as mean as he is. There's a reason she's been on top for all these years. She's got the ways, she's got the means.

Schoolmarm, Capitalist Guy, no dancing around. Come right out of your corners, race across the ring and head-butt. Blam! Stagger around, your hands over your eyes, and point at the other and scream bloody murder. Get the audience riled. Then head-butt again. Blam! We'll put a blood squib into Schoolmarm's hair so she'll look lacerated. Real pitiful. Dance around. Grab for each other's ankles.

Capitalist Guy, at some point, you sweep her up by the legs and whirl her around for a Hammer Throw, but Schoolmarm bends over backward - yeah! - and gets her mouth up by Capitalist Guy's head. She says something that only he can hear and he howls in rage, and at that point Schoolmarm sinks her teeth into his ear and Capitalist Guy lets go of her legs - except she's still swinging around, holding on by her teeth! Real bulldog!

Who wins? Don't care. They'll both be back later.

Then it's time to bring in the props. We'll match off Jock-Boy and Computer Geek. Who wouldn't relate to that? Jock-Boy, play to the home-town crowd. Point at Computer Geek and stage-whisper, he's an outsider! He's doesn't understand us! We're special, and he's not! Computer Geek, pretend you don't know what Jock-Boy is saying. Shrug and smile and turn your back on him. Then, Jock-Boy, you whip out a football and fling it at Computer Geek's head!

Computer Geek, that football carooms off your noggin. We'll add a sound effect like a Lincoln towncar crashing into an aircraft carrier. Bla-whaaango! Stagger. Then you ward off the second football by whipping out a slide rule and batting it out of the ring.

But the next football catches you right in the ol' solar plexus. Ooof! Fall back into the ropes and get tangled - yeah, you're supposed to be a spaz. Play it up - and while you're wriggling around, Jock-Boy dances and poses. But when he passes you by, you stab out with your foot, which has a computer virus hidden in your sharpened big-toe nail. Jock-Boy is infected! His head crashes! His drives are down! His megs are missing! His system is corrupt! He starts speaking gibberish, but in a really calm, quiet voice like that HAL computer in "2001." Spooky, yeah?

OK, Computer Geek, I know that computers don't work that way. You think the fans know? Don't be such a brainiac.

And then we'll set off the Mean Marine and the Dirty Damn Hippie. Snarl, you guys. Curl your lips like junkyard dogs. Mean Marine, every chance you get, let people know that in an earlier grudge match you were caged up, but make it look like Dirty Damn Hippie's fault. Dirty Damn Hippie, you shrug and raise your eyebrows at the fans. Who, me? That's what you're saying.

Mean Marine then leaps, shoulder into Dirty Damn Hippie's big butt. They go down! Mean Marine sweeps Dirty Damn Hippie up in the air and spins him around. He's gonna give him the fly-boy treatment, the Atomic Splash! Dirty Damn Hippie is screaming, who, me? But when Mean Marine lets go, Dirty Damn Hippie flies through the air and lands on his feet, easy as you please. Dirty Damn Hippie smiles a big smile, and beckons, come here, on my side of the ring. He laughs a wicked laugh, heh heh heh!

Mean Marine goes crazy! He's pulling his hair out, he's screaming, he's slapping his belly like a marching band drum! He charges, grabs Dirty Damn Hippie's hair - what's left of it - and yanks. Dirty Damn Hippie's whole head comes off.

It's just a mask!

But under the mask, Dirty Damn Hippie looks exactly the same! Mean Marine shrieks in fear!

The crowd goes nuts!

Don't know who'll win that one either. Judgment call; we'll be watching the audience and slip you guys the high sign. No matter who wins though, the loser has to diss the winner. Act bitter and disappointed, and blame the fans.

OK, let's get out there and sell tickets. With any luck, next week it'll be politics - I mean wrestling - as usual.

Burl Burlingame, a Star-Bulletin feature writer.
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My Turn is a periodic feature written by
Star-Bulletin staff members.

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