We Are All Equal In Death’s Eyes

When I grow up, I want to be Tony Stark. Rich. Suave. Suit of armor. But alas, I’m not a comic book superhero. I’m a human masquerading as a quirky comic book supervillain. I have the wardrobe. I have the requisite genius. I have the backstory. As of a few days ago, I even have the car that I renamed: the Xanatos Gambit. The premise behind it is that all of my plans result in victory, no matter how circumstances may change. I can win. I know I can win. And that leaves me feeling unfulfilled.

The 2012 College Salsa Congress just passed, and I served my duty as my program’s ambassador. I heckled other schools, danced with a couple of expatriates, and generally provided a good time. I was the host. When both of my teams needed a pep talk before their performances, I gave it to them. And our teams did admirably. My congratulations extend to CSU Northridge’s Salsa Libre program for winning the competition, something I felt that should’ve been the third win of a dynasty. However, it happened, and I expressed my joy to our rivals. Some say it wasn’t classy; I say that losing with grace and sportsmanship are not bad concepts. Besides, if some people had been around long enough, they’d know that talent won out. My laments from the party was that I didn’t dance as many songs as I’d prefer with the girls I wanted to meet. Namely, those who weren’t Beach girls. My favorite part of the fiesta was that UCLA did their “8-Clap”, to which I heckled them with “Fire Neuheisel.” Yes, Skippy went to UCLA, but he was a Bruin in name only. YES! YES! YES!

Of course, this is another day in the life…that marks the last year that my right to bear arms is enjoined. In one year, Pippa’s restraining order ends. I point this out since Facebook’s very helpful Timeline feature, and I saw that she posted Christmas wishes three years ago. So bah, there was no blocking. A heart, quick smile, and someone posting a comment along celebratory lines at my temporary change in relationship status. Sigh. I do wonder if my personal life is my one tragic flaw that makes me a true hero. I’ve been taking my belts with me when I step out for the night and they’ve become a runaway hit. Ironically, people love the Rated R spinner belt, which is the one I wore when I met her. Yep, bittersweet approval.

Quick retrospective on the last year ahead of Sunday’s notoriety. Lost a bunch of weight, found shirts in medium, met a few girls, returned to my natural hair color, gained perspective on life. Still single; year’s a failure. Skibbedebebop. Much later.

Current Track – Pitbull “Pause”


Wrestlemania XXVIII, by Moxley Ambrose

Yes, this should’ve been in weeks ago. I’m not sure why it took me so long to get around to it, but hell, I’m writing it now, so live it. Roll the tape, monkeys…

I, Moxley Ambrose, conservative superstar, reactionary herald, and the pride of the GOP, went to Miami for Wrestlemania XXVIII. I was accompanied by Donovan Ray and Manchester Evans, although I probably would’ve enjoyed it more if I brought Counterpart and Cohort instead. That was a Powerpuff Girls joke for the uninitiated. It started with me wearing a championship through LAX because I didn’t want my suitcase to be over 50 pounds; the belt I wore was approximately 17 pounds, so…yes, it needed to be worn. I was dressed rather conservatively otherwise: Patriots sweatshirt, gym shorts, and knee socks. However, nearly 20 pounds of platinum will draw stares, particularly from a few Japanese tourists heading back to Nippon. They thought Moxley was some sort of world champion, and who could blame them? I looked the part. They asked if they could take pictures, and I thought they wanted a picture with the belt. The oddest thing about being a wrestling fan is that everyone wants to dismiss wrestling as fake, but they always want a picture with the belt. But this time, it was different; they wanted a picture with Moxley Ambrose, world champion (?). Now, Donovan was laughing his ass off, because this is the most improbable event that could happen; we hadn’t departed California yet, and mayhem is ensuing. So, I took a picture with both tourists, autographed their flight tickets, and welcomed curious stares from people watching what had transpired. Tacos, laughter, and fake laughter later, we boarded the plane, where it seems as if I was the only person who didn’t sleep. I did get an angry stare from a female passenger when I declared that Rick Santorum will save this country and transvaginal ultrasounds were very necessary. I love being a conservative.

Our pitstop in Memphis was uneventful, other than Donovan eating a very phallic hash brown. If it was any more phallic, I would’ve sent Santorum a message nothing that Tennessee has gone astray. I mean, phallic hash browns? And don’t get me started what it looked like with ketchup. Also, Memphis is the only place in the world where you can get barbecue at seven in the morning. Pathetic slobs. The only great thing that ever came out of Tennessee was Bill Frist. And Peyton Manning by proxy.

Miami International Airport was beautiful. Gorgeous. Contemporary art. I could’ve done with all the international flags, seeing as America is #1, and always will be…but it was a great view. It did take us a rather long time to get to the car rental place, which wasn’t a problem for all of us, just the one person that thought carrying 50 pounds on a shoulder. Not me. Not Donovan, either. After we left a convoluted scene at Sixt Rent-a-Car, we were greeted by a glorious beast known as the Volkswagen Passat. Although I strongly adhere to “buy American”, German engineering served us very well on this trip. We established camp at the Hilton, which was a callback to the last time I went to Wrestlemania. However, last time, there was little toilet humor. This time…my constitutional right to privacy was ignored. No, this is not unlike Roe v. Wade, you filthy bleeding hearts liberals. But, nice hotel, nice showers, and nice free shampoo and conditioner for my delectable mane.

We toured South Beach most days we were there. Keep in mind that I’ve decided to wear a championship everywhere we went; I was not the most out-of-place person wherever we went. That was odd. Particularly on South Beach, when our car was thrown into the middle of a fight. You see, Manchester stopped driving. Which was plenty of time for the big guy to toss the little guy into the trunk of our car. Remember how I gushed about German engineering? Car did not have one scratch. We also filled up the tank once on our trip. For starting World War II, this was a great export for apologies. Also, Dirk Nowitzki…but that’s another story. South Beach trumps anything California offers by a mile. And don’t get me started on the Lincoln Mall. Ten at night and all designer boutiques are open. Ice cream and lattes on every street. The people were ridiculously attractive. Including myself. Knee socks were all the rage. And the cars. Every other car was what most would call ostentatious. Rolls-Royce. Lamborghini. Ferrari. Maserati. Bentley. All were well represented. South Beach made Beverly Hills feel like Skid Row. Even better, none of those pesky Occupiers were present. Long live the 1%.

But, we came for wrestling, and it didn’t disappoint. Autographs: Lance Storm, Tommy Dreamer, Shelton Benjamin, Dolph Ziggler, Christian, Mark Henry, William Regal, Billy Gunn, Road Dogg. Pictures with Sunny and Miss America Rima Fakih. Dragon Gate USA proved one of the rare times the Japanese will ever trump Americans. Although, their show was enhanced by Americans Chuck Taylor and Rich Swann. Great wrestling on Friday.

Ring of Honor’s Saturday show stunk. Highlights included taking pictures of a woman fall asleep. And Davey Richards completely no-selling everything in the main event. Lowlights included not enough Kevin Steen, vanilla midgets on the microphone, and drunken inbred rednecks that made me ashamed to be a conservative. Although, if someone gave me the stick, I’d teach a graduate seminar in how to get over via promo.

WWE Hall of Fame 2012 was held at the AmericanAirlines Center, home to the 2011 NBA Champions Miami Heat. Great production. Notes…Cena can draw heat at a funeral. JBL is still the best speaker of his generation. Ric Flair is awesome. CM Punk can sleep with any Diva on/off the roster and have ex-girlfriends present; no one will say a word. No one could understand Mil Mascaras. And no matter how he’s booked, the Miz will always be the center of attention. Personal highlight from this venture: wearing my 2011 NBA Champions Mavericks jersey. Yes, I still can’t stand the LeBron James and Chris Bosh. Moving on.

Wrestlemania itself…GLORIOUS. I’m a football fan, and The Stadium Formerly Known as Joe Robbie was a treat. The stage was probably the most beautiful set I’ve seen for a wrestling event, probably just short of Wrestlemania X-Seven. The ongoing theme of the weekend was Daniel Bryan is awesome. If you watch wrestling and hear “YES!” repeatedly, blame the people in Miami. Wrestlemania is one of the few times where all the true fans will congregate, and when Bryan lost in 19 seconds, the crowd took a shit on the proceedings. We said “YES!” for the whole show. Speaking of which, that killed the mood for the first four matches, since we were all pissed at Bryan jobbing in the opening match. When I say killed mood, I mean that strictly for the matches, since the crowd was very good at entertaining itself. Funny note from this: when the Divas match took place, half the stadium left for a potty break. YES! I took pictures of it. HHH/Undertaker w/ Shawn Michaels was a masterpiece. A simple story told in a complicated cage equals an ecstatic fan. Undertaker’s Walter White haircut was amazing. So many meth jokes. Punk vs. Jericho needed five more minutes. I appreciated that they gave Punk pyro. But Jericho’s pyro was better. And the Lite Brite jacket. Swoon. I’m addicted to flashy lights and pyro. Rock vs. Cena…I have never heard a crowd so venomous. Miami became Chicago, New York, and Philadelphia wrapped in one. If you were associated with Cena, you were booed. Who am I talking about? Diddy and Machine Gun Kelly. Then again, the latter did call Cena the underdog, and I wasn’t a fan of mannerisms during his performance. Cena enters, Cena gets booed. He’s wearing the most awesome green ensemble created. Yeah, in the home of the Miami Heat, you were Celtics colors. Flo Rida gets two songs, pyro, and the Tron bike. Why did he have the Tron bike? No freaking idea. But The Rock comes out, and proverbial roof comes off the place. It’s loud. Very loud. The Rock learned wrestling moves. The Rock is gassed. The Rock’s about to take a People’s Elbow from Cena. THE ROCK’S ABOUT TO TAKE A PEOPLE’S ELBOW FROM CENA? Whew, just a nightmare, Rock wins. Cena’s still the show MVP for walking into yet another hostile environment and taking the loss like a champion. However, if I had booked the show, the last match would’ve ended much differently.

Last day in Miami…their malls are better in Florida. Dolphin Mall was huge. The amount of civic pride in Miami is ridiculously, as everything has a Dolphin twist. Aqua and orange were everywhere, even on my socks. Because I wanted to look like a local. Although no one in Miami would be caught dead supporting the current Dolphins. Even I’m smart enough to be a Patriots fan. We stopped at Cheeseburger Baby! for the second time on the trip, and er…the food’s expensive, the customer service is horrid, but at midnight or late afternoon, there’s nothing better to eat. Tipping is not a city in China, said one of their signs. Respond to a simple question with a smart-ass comment, and I’ll find you a Chinese map.

Back to California, and everyone is yelling “YES!” as we depart the plane. Hell, they were yelling it as we got on the plane. There were a crapload of Californians that went to Florida for that show. But back to deplaning…the next passengers didn’t know we came from Wrestlemania. Didn’t matter, as I’m skipping and yelling “YES!” wearing two title belts. Winning. Lastly, a Captain Obvious is yelling how wrestling is fake. Sure, do this around baggage claim. Where there aren’t any cops. Where at least three fans are prone to violent tendencies. When former wrestler Diamond Dallas Page is standing behind you, who teaches yoga to help wrestlers deal with their pains. He almost got attacked, nWo style. Wrestling is no more fake than any other sport out there or anything on television. Since I participated in #StandUpforWWE, what was my prize? A photo op with DDP, a couple of autographs, and a conversation on the state of pro wrestling. And I didn’t even have to pay $60 to see him at Axxess. Oh wait, I did, but I was too busy trying to figure out why I couldn’t buy a pink Dolph Ziggler jersey. Long live Miami.

But alas, there were some areas for improvements for the next time. I’m a stickler to timing, and our schedule wasn’t adhered to perfectly. That’s not something I’m a fan of, because we have limited time there. Preparation was there, but it wasn’t followed as well as it should have been. The event that stuck to my mind was not visiting Marlins Park. First season it is around, and I wanted a picture of it before it opened. I’m a stadium junkie, and I wasn’t happy about missing out on the opportunity. Also, I learned that you can’t go on vacations with married people. While I do enjoy my friends dearly, they were the perfect personnel for a wrestling trip, but not exactly “fun” trip. There was a quip that I’d prefer to have gone on the trip with another comrade, with the intention that the joke would be the other person would be a wet blanket. In hindsight, it would not have made much of a difference, since married people are married people. That’s just the way it is. Next year in New York, I doubt that problem would present itself, since I don’t consider New York to be the playground Miami was. But for vacations that aren’t wrestling related, I’ll need a different crew that’s party oriented. It was wrong for me to ask them to cheat on their girlfriends. It was also wrong for me to expect them to be party when their previous nature suggested otherwise. They said they didn’t do anything to harm my chances; I strongly disagree. I’m more comfortable in that sort of environment since I’ve always been on the hunt; I’m far from shy. If there’s a trip to Miami next year with them, I won’t be going. I fully expect and wish for them to stick with their current partners for the long haul. Sure, there’s the possibility of me having a girlfriend next year. But if I have a girlfriend, what’s the point for me going to Miami? The primary focus here is on Metlife Stadium for Wrestlemania XXIX. If we’re going, and I strongly believe we are, there will be no audibles concerning the schedule. I have my eye on possibly Times Square, and depending on where we camp, there are no fewer than four arenas/stadia I want to see while I’m out there. You only live once. And a rigid schedule ensures that I don’t miss any of it. Skibbedebebop. Much later.

Current Track – Mickey Avalon “Dipped in Vaseline”