lady who told me she was stripping simply to put herself through college. I admired her gumption and after my attempt to fund her entire higher education, she gave me her address (no e-mail in those days, kids). Mike and Bret laughed when I told them that this girl was different from the rest and I planned to keep in touch. They’d been through many towns and many strippers and knew that dancers were con artists just like we were. That’s why wrestlers and strippers are so attracted to each other; we’re both in the business of selling fantasy. But speaking from experience, it costs a whole lot more to buy what the strippers are selling.
After leaving Shotgun Willy’s, Mike and Bret decided that they wanted to indulge in a little of Grandpa’s secret stash. We ended up on a street corner in the middle of a downtown Denver ghetto and once again because I was the greenhorn, it was my job to procure the loot. I should’ve just said no to drugs but I had to prove I was one of the boys; possible felony and extradition be damned!
I got out of the car and a few minutes later a mean-looking dude walked by. I suddenly morphed into Larry David and said these exact words: “Excuse me, sir, do you have any marijuana?”
Instead of assaulting me on the spot for massive nerdery, he pulled a plastic bag out of his pocket. It contained a handful of what looked like small, clear pieces of hard candy.
He said, “I got this and I think you should buy it.” I began to protest until he opened his coat and revealed a Crocodile Dundee knife. I was sold so I gave him Mike’s money and took the bag. I wasn’t sure of the proper crack-buying etiquette, so I thanked him, gave him a thumbs-up, and sprinted back to the car.
I threw the bag of crack in the front seat, told the boys that we were going to be fricasseed if we had any problems with the service at the drive-thru, and Mike floored it.
A serious debate followed as we tried to decide what we were supposed to do with a bag of crack. Do we smoke the crack? Do we eat the crack? Do we put a pin in the crack and wear it as a brooch? It didn’t take long for us to decide that we should get rid of the crack as soon as possible. So we stuffed it in the bottom of a Coke bottle and dumped it in the garbage. If there were any garbage-picking vagrants in the area that night, they found a whole lot more in that can than just orange peels and coffee grinds.
We arrived (crack-free) in Wichita and went to Christopher Love’s fancy adobe-style house. A guy dressed as a butler answered the door and announced in an overexaggerated serious voice, “Mr. Love will see you now.”
Sitting behind an oak desk, book-ended by a fat black man and a fat white man, was Christopher Love, who was fatter than both of them. He looked like a pissed-off Louie Anderson.
Love surveyed the three of us and from the way he stared at me as if I was a triple cheese with curly fries, it didn’t take Dr. Phil to figure out that he was quite gay. He introduced the white guy as the Zebra Kid, even though he looked nothing like a Zebra and less like a kid. He introduced the black guy as Rudy and nodded to the RUBBER CHICKEN Rudy was holding in his hand.
“Say hello to Rudy’s manager, Cluck.” We smiled at his lame joke, then noticed that nobody else in the room was laughing. Rudy’s gimmick was that he asked his manager Cluck for advice, except it didn’t seem like a gimmick—everyone took the Cluckster quite seriously.
Zebra broke the silence by complimenting Como on his signature move, the Shooting Star Press, which nobody else in the U.S. was doing. The move was similar to a gainer in diving and it was very difficult to do (I broke my arm attempting it, but that’s a story for another chapter). Como had been a trick skier and was agile as a cat. He had mastered the move as a result and had built his reputation on it.
“I’ve seen you do the Shooting Star Press,” Zebra Kid said. “I can do that
After leaving Shotgun Willy’s, Mike and Bret decided that they wanted to indulge in a little of Grandpa’s secret stash. We ended up on a street corner in the middle of a downtown Denver ghetto and once again because I was the greenhorn, it was my job to procure the loot. I should’ve just said no to drugs but I had to prove I was one of the boys; possible felony and extradition be damned!
I got out of the car and a few minutes later a mean-looking dude walked by. I suddenly morphed into Larry David and said these exact words: “Excuse me, sir, do you have any marijuana?”
Instead of assaulting me on the spot for massive nerdery, he pulled a plastic bag out of his pocket. It contained a handful of what looked like small, clear pieces of hard candy.
He said, “I got this and I think you should buy it.” I began to protest until he opened his coat and revealed a Crocodile Dundee knife. I was sold so I gave him Mike’s money and took the bag. I wasn’t sure of the proper crack-buying etiquette, so I thanked him, gave him a thumbs-up, and sprinted back to the car.
I threw the bag of crack in the front seat, told the boys that we were going to be fricasseed if we had any problems with the service at the drive-thru, and Mike floored it.
A serious debate followed as we tried to decide what we were supposed to do with a bag of crack. Do we smoke the crack? Do we eat the crack? Do we put a pin in the crack and wear it as a brooch? It didn’t take long for us to decide that we should get rid of the crack as soon as possible. So we stuffed it in the bottom of a Coke bottle and dumped it in the garbage. If there were any garbage-picking vagrants in the area that night, they found a whole lot more in that can than just orange peels and coffee grinds.
We arrived (crack-free) in Wichita and went to Christopher Love’s fancy adobe-style house. A guy dressed as a butler answered the door and announced in an overexaggerated serious voice, “Mr. Love will see you now.”
Sitting behind an oak desk, book-ended by a fat black man and a fat white man, was Christopher Love, who was fatter than both of them. He looked like a pissed-off Louie Anderson.
Love surveyed the three of us and from the way he stared at me as if I was a triple cheese with curly fries, it didn’t take Dr. Phil to figure out that he was quite gay. He introduced the white guy as the Zebra Kid, even though he looked nothing like a Zebra and less like a kid. He introduced the black guy as Rudy and nodded to the RUBBER CHICKEN Rudy was holding in his hand.
“Say hello to Rudy’s manager, Cluck.” We smiled at his lame joke, then noticed that nobody else in the room was laughing. Rudy’s gimmick was that he asked his manager Cluck for advice, except it didn’t seem like a gimmick—everyone took the Cluckster quite seriously.
Zebra broke the silence by complimenting Como on his signature move, the Shooting Star Press, which nobody else in the U.S. was doing. The move was similar to a gainer in diving and it was very difficult to do (I broke my arm attempting it, but that’s a story for another chapter). Como had been a trick skier and was agile as a cat. He had mastered the move as a result and had built his reputation on it.
“I’ve seen you do the Shooting Star Press,” Zebra Kid said. “I can do that
Similar Books
