Sunday August 29, 2010
The Zoo Arena- Backstage
Los Angeles, California
8:11 PM Local Time
“Whooo-EEE!” Daniel Pollaski crowed as he threw aside the curtain and strutted into the backstage area. Several backstage workers jumped in alarm as the portly manager-turned-wrestler unleashed his battle cry. Suddenly finding himself the center of attention, Pollaski grinned, and chuckled. “How ya’ll like THEM apples!”
“Nice, dude,” Terrence Thompson, Pollaski’s longtime client, and best friend, snickered. Clapping his manager on the shoulder, he nodded approvingly at his manager. “You did real well out there.”
“Thanks,” Pollaski said, although he rubbed his neck from where Angel Kash had applied her headscissors. “That was pretty fun.”
“Yeah, a little TOO much fun,” Terrence responded, lightly elbowing Pollaski in the side, as the two began the long walk back to Pollaski’s dressing room. “Although I will confess that was a brilliant way of getting out of the hold... I was worried there for a second.”
“The headscissors? That was nothing,” Pollaski said, shuddering just a bit. “It was the SMELL I couldn’t stand. I don’t know what’s going on down there, but somethin’ moved in and ain’t payin full rent, if you get my drift..”
Terrence made a disgusted face at the manager, and shook his head in disbelief. “Gross, dude,” he said.
“You weren’t in there, you wouldn’t know” Pollaski replied defensively. “I just hope I don’t get any diseases out of it. Now come on. I should probably change before I go watch the rest of this show.”
“Change out of what?” Terrence asked, arching an eyebrow. True enough, with the pair of shorts and Seattle Seahawks #12 jersey that he wore to the ring, Pollaski generally looked the same as he did outside the ring.
Nevertheless, Pollaski shrugged, and the two men continued walking. Reaching a bend in the hallway, they rounded the corner...
...and froze.
A furious, flame haired virago was bearing down on them. Wendy Briese, her face contorted in rage, stormed through the hallway, and when she saw her manager and husband standing at the end of the hall, her normally fair face turned beet red in about three second’s flat. At the end of the hallway, Terrence gulped. “Uh oh...”
He looked over to his manager, and wasn’t entirely shocked to see Pollaski almost fifty feet away, running as quickly away from Wendy as his chubby legs could carry him. Seeing her prey getting away, Wendy broke into a run, and Terrence threw himself against the wall to avoid being bulled over by his wife. Wendy swung around the corner in a full sprint, and Pollaski, realizing she was bearing down on him, let out a shriek of terror, and tried to run faster, darting around another corner.
Terrence calmly walked to the next hallway himself, and risked a peek. Pollaski, realizing that outrunning the much more nimble Wendy was futile, was slowly backing away, while Wendy continued to bore down on him, her fingers curled into talons.
With a sigh, Terrence turned away, heading back to Pollaski’s locker room on his own. He supposed he should have tried to pry his wife off, but at the same time, he didn’t really feel like getting into the middle of it.
Besides, a significant part of him knew that his manager was getting EXACTLY what he deserved after that grope-fest on Angel Kash.
Even so, even the Mechanical Mayhem had to wince when Pollaski’s pain-filled yowl echoed down the hallways into his ears.
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The following blog was posted at whirlybirdz.com. The opinions expressed herein do not reflect the opinions of the WhirlyBirdz VHS, CPW or anyone but the author. So please don’t sue them.
Hey kids.
First of all, I suppose I owe one Angel Kash an apology for my actions at Pandamonium. After a THOROUGH discussion with my friend Wendy, I now realize that my actions were demeaning to not only Angel, but the sport of wrestling as a whole.
It’s just, they were there. And they were big, and round, and soft and squishy, and I just couldn’t help myself. I mean, seriously, anyone in my position woulda done it. So yeah. No more copping a feel on my female opponents. Ever. I promise.
Apparently, however offended Wendy was by my actions, Valerie Belmont and Cammy Pazzini were NOT, since she pretty much threw me into the same situation for this week. Either that or they are offended, and they’re trying to get me killed.
Also.. I MAY have called Cammy fat in a PWX column. And Valerie a hussy. This could be an attempt at revenge.
Either way, on to this week, when I face one Tori Bishop. Obviously this could be a bit of a stiffer (HA!) challenge than Angel Kash was. After all, Tori’s a rookie with, what, two CPW matches under her belt? Apparently that’s enough to make some blogger single her out, among the hundreds of wrestlers in the world today, for being a fake-ass bitch.
Now, I’m not saying that Tori’s hired somebody to say mean things about her so she can feign indignation and post little hissy-fits on her blog in some idiotic attempt to gain notoriety. But it IS something I would do, if I had thought of it first.
Honestly? I don’t give a flying shit what Tori does in her free time. This whole ‘straight-edge’ movement is just another wrestling fad, anyways. Three years from now, all that crap’s gonna be on the shelf next to the emo-goth faggots and the Insane Clown Posse ripoffs. But you know, reading Tori’s blogs, and listening to her screechy-harpy like voice proclaiming her ‘purity’, for all the world to hear... I honestly feel like getting myself a cold one right now.
Hrm... I do have a case of Mike’s Hard Pink Lemonade in the fridge.
The hillarious thing is, over the course of my life, I’ve been drunk way less than Tori’s ever been. Once, a couple weeks ago, I downed a whole sixpack of Smirnoff Strawberry in about an hour and a half. I’m not going to go into details, but there was much room spinning, and before long, I had my shirt off, a lampshade on my head, and was cruising Wikipedia to try and find what the largest prime number known to mankind is. I won’t post the entire thing, but I will say there’s like twelve and a half million DIGITS in it. That’s a big number.
Dear God, I just realized that alcohol makes me a bigger nerd than I already am!
But back to Tori. I know I made a promise that I wouldn’t grope my opponents anymore, but someone seriously needs to reach up into her panties, figure out which hole the stick’s up, and pull it out. I could do it myself, but that’d just get me into another ‘philosophical discussion’ with Wendy, and those HURT.
So, this Sunday, at the zoo, I suppose I’ll have to do things the ‘proper’ way. Get in the ring, whup some ass, and make sure Tori Bishop knows that while in her mind she’s the cat’s meow, out here in Realityland, she’s nothing more than a screechy broad with a lame-ass gimmick she’s not even able to stick to.
As for me, it’ll be three in a row, and in bowling, that’s called a turkey.
Gobble gobble gobble, bitches.
POLLA OUT!
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