The highlight of this week's Grapple Groove for Jake is definitely the in-ring debut of The Bodyslam Poet. As fun as it was to see the floopy-eared masked wrestler bodyslamming beatniks in berets at a poetry slam last week, it's even more fun to see him wrestle in the ring. His opponent is The Buff Barrister, a British lawyer who wears one of those powdery white wigs and a black robe to the ring. He enters the ring first to his entrance music of Edward Elgar's "Land Of Hope And Glory" waving to all his fans like he's The Queen of England. Most of the unruly arena crowd wave back with one finger and boo. B.B. reaches the ring, and has his butler take his wig and robe. In his Union Jack trunks imprinted with "B.B." on each side, he jogs in place for a moment, then his butler brings him a microphone. The crowd continues to boo. "Oh, come come, you're not still bitter over the war of 1812 or something, are you? What's there to be bitter about? Didn't you win?" B.B. asks the crowd.
They respond by booing. "What? You're upset you won? I'll tell you one thing though, by winning that war and the one before it, what do you call it? I like to call it the crybaby rebellion myself. 'Wah, wah, don't tax our stamps and teas,'" B.B. says, miming crying by wiping his fists over his eyes.
The butler comes over and whispers in his ear, and B.B. nods. "That's right, the Revolutionary War. And it started right here in Boston, didn't it?"
The crowd cheers. B.B. continues, "Go ahead, pat yourselves on the backs. Like you yourselves fought in it and won it, you wankers. I'll tell you one consequence of breaking away from the greatest nation of all time. That would be Great Britain, not the United States, just to make sure you're clear on that point. Greatness is part of our very name. One consequence is that you never learned any manners. You people should respect your betters! Such as myself! The proper response when I enter a ring is gratitude, not giving me the finger and booing. You should bow down and be delighted you get to be in the presence of such nobility. But no! So, because you ruffians like to throw your beverages instead of drinking them like civilized people, I have to wash my wig night after night to get rid of that vile watery substance you claim is beer. You barbarians wouldn't know beer from a puddle of piss in the loo apparently. I tell you I'm getting sick and tired of it. So, tonight, I'm going to teach one of you a lesson in this ring. My opponent is going to learn some manners at least. He apparently fancies himself a poet. Well, I know you love that rap, hippety-hop stuff here in the colonies and think that's poetry, but I am well-versed in English literature, and I can tell you it is not. Shakespeare is poetry, and he wrote sonnets. He didn't show up in some pub and drink beer, and then recite a bunch of rhyming gibberish to a bunch of fellow drunks, and call it poetry."
Strains of be-bop jazz laced with heavy metal guitar fill the arena. The crowd rises to their feet and starts to cheer as The Bodyslam Poet, wearing his Mexican wrestling mask, black trunks, and a dark blue and white striped shirt enters, carrying a microphone. As the crowd noise dies down, he paces at the arena entrance and speaks into the microphone, pointing at The Buff Barrister in the ring. "I'd like to read a poem right now, followed by some literary criticism of what my opponent said earlier this week on the Grapple Groove website. First, the poem: Barrister, they say you are Buff / But having seen you strut your stuff / You and that gross London court lid / Are going to be deported."
The Bodyslam Poet reaches into the front of his trunks and pulls out a sweaty piece of paper, "Now the literary criticism. I printed out the comments you said about me on the website this week. I quote, 'I'm going to tell my butler to set the kettle to boil when the bell rings, and by the time it whistles, I'll have that dumpy lump of bard lard defeated. I've seen him in the locker room, or should I say smelled him. He's beastly, and I'm a bit offended I got booked into this match. Beating him will be easy, but having to touch him will be dreadful. I'll just instruct my butler to bring plenty of antibacterial wipes. I better get a championship shot after I take out this masked piece of rubbish.'"
"I did say that, I did," B.B. says, putting on gardening gloves, and speaking into the microphone which his butler dutifully holds for him, "But I forgot to add that not only do you smell, but your poetry also stinks."
"Buffy, I think you're a punk, and I'm going to take you out, and I don't mean for dinner and dancing! That's my recommended daily allowance of fighting words, and I'm going to make you eat your words," The Bodyslam Poet says, before he drops the microphone, sticks the paper back in his trunks, and runs down to the ring.
The bell rings and the match is over before B.B.'s kettle whistles that it's time for tea, but it ends up with The Bodyslam Poet pulling the sweaty piece of paper with B.B.'s comments on it from the front of his trunks and sticking it in B.B.'s mouth while sitting on top of him. The Bodyslam Poet gets disqualified for that, and loses his first match, but starts his first feud. The Buff Barrister retching, crawls to a microphone, and says, "You bloody bastard! I'll see you in court! You won't get away with this! I'll sue you! I'll make you liable for libel! I'll teach you to respect your betters!"
At this, The Bodyslam Poet scoops up B.B. and slams him outside the ring right on top of his butler who has just poured the kettle water into the teapot. He then jumps outside the ring and borrows some beer from the fans to pour on B.B. and his butler to cool off their scalds from the tea as they writhe at ringside. He then grabs a microphone, and says, "Now, that's my kind of Boston Tea Party!"
The crowd cheers, and the wrestlers exit ringside. Later, B.B., who's from Kent (Ohio, not England), his butler, who's from Canton (Ohio, not China), The Bodyslam Poet, who's from Toledo (Ohio, not Spain), and the referee, who's from Athens (Ohio, not Greece) will all go to a diner together, and drink coffee and eat dinner before driving all night to the next stop on the tour.
Blog Love Omega Glee is a novel by Wred Fright about two bloggers who fall in love while the world falls apart, which is being serialized on his blog. To start reading from the beginning or read another installment, please visit Blog Love Omega Glee Central on WredFright.Com. If you like what you've read, or you've read all of Blog Love Omega Glee and want more Fright, then please read his first novel, which is available in print and as an ebook.
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