Post by Dennis Driver on Nov 17, 2013 19:29:04 GMT -5
Why in the fuck is my alarm going off? In a hamhanded attempt to find my phone I run my hand under my pillow, making sure to keep the rest of my body as still as possible. I don't wake up easy under the best circumstances ,and certainly not when I've been drinking a week straight. It's not under the pillow, it's inside the pillowcase. Of course. I finally open my eyes to check the clock. 1:30 PM. Well, that's just great. I am a grown man who needs a loud beeping noise to tell me to wake up at 1:30. An involuntary, pained groan escapes my mouth. It has the approximate melody of the boring hipster song that redhead girl told me I "had to listen to" yesterday. What was her name? Shit, I'm getting really bad if I can't even remember the names of my fellow human beings. It was definitely something really dumb. A stripper name. Like "Amnesty" or something. Bad at having a real person's name, bad at listening to music, bad at kissing. I turn my alarm off and I get a great idea: I delete "Amnesty Evans" from my contacts forever. Poof! Into the ether.
Well, that made me feel warm and fuzzy inside, but it didn't really solve the mystery: why did my alarm go off? There's no way I have anything to do today. No way it's PURE TV today, I'm not that much of a fuckup. I lean over and look at my bedroom floor: well, I should at least lose the beer cans. Does PURE want us to do some creepy photoshoot? I feel like I can get a good scowl out today, which is always good for my line of work, but if you want me to "smize" I don't think I have it in me. I thumb over to my boxphone's calendar. Above "2:00" and today's date, two unfamiliar words stare me in the face: "Radio Thing." Well.
Radio thing. Radio thing. Oh shit. I said I'd be on some podunk radio show last week. Who was the guy from the station? McSomething. Someone McSomething. I fumble through the phone in search of unfamiliar Scotsmen and Irishmen. Not Davey MacTavish, he was in my frat. Chris McDonald? Don't know the area code, but he could be from around here. Give it a try.
"Yo, Chris, wazzup," I mumble into the line, still not entirely awake. "It's Dennis Driver. About the radio show..."
"Driver? What the fuck are you calling me about? I fucking hate you. Don't call this number again, go fuck yourself, I'm gonna..." I hang up. McDonald, McDonald. Yep, I banged his little sister and called her a "boring sorostitute." On Facebook. So why's he in my contacts? We had a group project together or some bullshit, I never clear out my contacts. Until today. He's gone. So is his boring sister. Only one McSomething left: Jesper McGlinchey. I try as hard as I can to match the face to the name, but when I hear the name "Jesper McGlinchey" all I can see are minor Harry Potter characters. That first call was just a test as to whether I can feel shame or not. I clearly can't, not even a little, so here goes nothing.
"Heya, this is Jesper with the radio station, right?" A seasoned radio voice was on the other end, not an angry college kid. I knew I had the right man before I even took in what it was that he was saying.
"This is Jesper McGlinchey, WKKR Seattle, may I ask who's calling?"
"It's Dennis, yo. My thing's today, right?"
"Your interview? It's in 27 minutes."
"Right. I...ah...I knew that. Listen, man, I'm running a bit late today. Had a business meeting. A really important business meeting. Is there a way we can do this over the phone?"
A pause. Maybe he was checking protocol or something.
"We don't have the equipment, we need you in studio. Also, remember: no cursing on air, man, we're a family station."
"Are...you?" How am I gonna get there in time?
"Well, yeah. Families also need to know the latest news in the world of firearms."
"I see," I deadpanned. What a great little booking I made for myself. Wow. "What's the address again?"
"450 Somerset Avenue."
"Okay, cool, I'll head over. Should make it on time." I have no earthly idea of where that is, I don't know how I'm getting there, and I'm too socially awkward to ask a man who hosts a radio show on a radio network about guns for a ride. I do the same little "hang up and wince" thing I just did a minute ago. Great day so far.
I finally crawl out of bed, still wearing yesterday's pajama pants and yesterday's skin-tight PK Subban shirtsey, with no plans on changing. On my way to my laptop I almost wipe out on my ornately constructed beer can pile. The headline "PURE Wrestling star tears ACL in Keystone Light accident, gets released from contract, dies alone in American healthcare wasteland" flashes before my eyes. Headlines are getting longer and longer these days, but I'm fine. Maybe I'd have a shot against Assassin and Stallion on one leg anyway. 450 Somerset. I don't have a car out here, so I'll have to harass one of my housemates or pull off some hardcore bus wrangling if I want to make it on this guy's show. Do I even want to make it on this guy's show? I have some leftover chicken tikka masala in the fridge and some bud on my desk.
I knew my sense of direction was bad, but until Google Maps told me that 450 Somerset Avenue was an eight minute walk from my house I hadn't really grasped the gravity of the situation. Wow. New depths. Well, I guess I have no excuse not to do the radio show now. The official WKKR website is even worse than I would have imagined, by the way. Camouflage, American flags and animated GIF images of rifles are the three central design elements. Some clicking around leads me to the "guestbook," where I anonymously leave a crudely drawn penis.
I brush my teeth and heat up the chicken tikka. I can actually eat it on the way over; the radio station for firearms enthusiasts is not likely to care all that much about decorum. I even have enough time to change into my next outfit: jeans and a t-shirt that says "Punk Rock." It's go time.
"Testing 3-2-1...this is Jesper McGlinchey with the Jesper McGlinchey Variety Hour on your home for guns, ammo and rock and roll: WKKR 98.1, broadcasting as always to the greater Seattle area. It is 2:00 here in our super cool underground bunker, and what better way to kick things off than with a wrestler? For those of you who are not as up to date with the wrestling industry as I am a company called PURE Wrestling, that's the name, PURE Wrestling, has just opened up in Seattle. They have a weekly TV show Monday nights on, of all places, AMC, but I strongly, strongly suggest hopping over there and seeing a show for yourself. It's electrifying, it's entertaining, and it's supporting local people. I guarantee that you will like it. Our man in the studio lives three blocks away from us, but he still asked if he could do the interview via telephone! In front of him right now is a half-eaten bowl of Indian food that is totally stinking the place up, but trust me, he's not that bad of a guy! He's not that bad of a guy and he's supposed to be a great wrestler, he is Dennis Driver!"
My theme plays for a couple seconds, I have to admit that was a nice touch. I'm still gonna call the guy out for ragging on my chicken tikka though.
"That's a nice little song you got there. But hey, bro - don't knock the Indian food. It's chicken tikka and it's very good, I made it myself."
"He offered me some, I said no. The kid came here all the way from Mystic, Connecticut to work for PURE. For fans of 80s movies in the audience, yes, that is a real place."
"I'm gonna be hearing that same Mystic Pizza joke until they bury me, man."
"Did you ever eat there?"
"Eat there? I worked there one summer, I can hook you up with a shirt."
"Wow, what a gentleman. I'm gonna go straight to the tough questions if you don't mind. PURE has a lot of people in from all over the world. Not everyone, but a lot of your coworkers have pedigree in the business. Some big names in there, at least for people who follow this stuff. You don't really have the resume some of these guys have - do you think that will be a problem?"
I didn't expect him to go from chummy bro to douchey sports talk radio host in a minute. Time to set this guy straight.
"Well, I'm a big enough deal to make it on the...what is this, the Jesper McGlinchey Variety Hour? I'm a big enough deal for them to sign my checks. And they pay me okay, too! So no, I don't think it matters at all. People knowing your name and knowing you were the champion of such and such company in 2006 doesn't make you take a punch any better. Not to get too cliche around here but after my first match they'll all know who I am."
"Your story's a pretty weird one if I remember right - how did you get over here?"
"They found some Youtube video of me beating this French-Canadian in a ladder match and they said they needed to have me. I agreed with them. You know...the money to move over here was good, they even paid for my flight, I had to give 'em what they wanted. Now they just need to give us some ladders!"
"Up until now you've been working really small shows, right?"
"Yeah, tiny stuff. Maybe twenty...fifty people, usually. But when you're the star, you're the star. I'll tell ya the last three dates I worked over in New England, it's a pretty good sample. A VFW, a high school gym, and, I'm not even kidding here, a Croatian cultural association in Boston. I was lucky because one of my boys back from high school's a Serb, y'know, he was born over there. He taught me some nice things to say to the fans as I walked down to the ring, even gave me a flag to wave around."
McGlinchey chuckles to himself. "Well, I bet they weren't happy about that."
"No, they weren't. And you know, I thought it was really ungrateful of the Croatians."
"Really ungrateful of the Croatians?"
"Yeah. I felt like all those other guys were there just to work a match, get their beer money, but I was also there to embrace their culture. It's not every day that you get to go to a Croatian cultural association. I mean, sure, I brought the wrong flag, but it's close enough. I've looked at their flags, you can hardly tell them apart. I was speaking their language, I was really trying. And those people just start standing up and booing a guy for making an honest mistake. I bet it's a good thing I couldn't understand most of what they were saying."
"Well...I'm not an expert in that part of the world, it's a long way away, but I do know that Croatians and Serbians don't tend to get along. They had a war about something."
"And then I get on the microphone again after I won my match, I start to talk about baseball and you don't know this, I'm a huge Yankee fan..."
McGlinchey cuts me off by, as it turns out, laughing at me. "With that, there's just no way you didn't expect to get booed. No way."
"I dunno. Don't they love baseball in Boston?" I can't play it straight anymore and I start laughing too.
"Wow. Anyway, I was just wondering - you're gonna be on Monday's show, right?"
"I am, yeah. The fact that I wasn't on last week was a travesty. It was a sham. It was a trava...shamockery. I don't follow football, who's the Seahawks' backup quarterback?"
"Tarvaris Jackson."
"Woah. He's still alive?"
"Um...yeah?"
"Thought he was dead for some reason."
"That's messed up."
"Imagine if the Seahawks just decided to bench Russell Wilson and play that guy instead. It would be a disgrace. You don't sit your best guys! Then this week - and I'm gonna make the Internet nerds really happy here - they tried to sit me again! I had to grovel before...what's his face...Callahan! Like they didn't sign me for a reason or something. Luckily for PURE, I don't think they'll make that mistake after Monday."
"You are scheduled to wrestle on Monday, then?"
"I think it's the second or third match on the card, so anyone who's listening to this station has my permission to show up for my match, watch me win, leave the arena in protest, and do whatever gun people do with their free time. Jesp, what do gun people do, anyway?"
"Shoot guns? But mostly...normal person stuff. I don't know how many gun people you know, but we're pretty normal. We're not the illuminati."
"Well, illuminati or not, if my fans have guns and the other guys don't, that has to be some kind of advantage, right?"
"I don't think that's how it...works. Who are you up against?"
"Well, they couldn't give me just one opponent - they had to give me two. It's a triple threat match. Guys by the names of Shawn "the Stallion" Stevens and the Emerald Assassin. But baby, I don't care what kinds of odds they stack up against me, I don't care how far this conspiracy reaches, Dennis Driver is the best wrestler in PURE and he is a hero to gun people everywhere."
"Stop saying 'gun people,' it makes us sound like aliens."
"Gun people. People who...shoot guns at stuff. Whatever, man. The point is I've played hockey with guys like the Stallion, I went to college with guys like the Stallion, I've wrestled guys like the Stallion. That man is a haircut, a spray tan, and baby, he's not a whole lot else. Well, Stal - if I can call you that - hell, I'll call you whatever I want - you're gettin' a bit long in the tooth there, buddy."
"He's old? I couldn't tell, he moves around so well in the ring."
"He's getting old. And someday, probably someday soon, he'll start to notice the hairline's receding. He'll start to lose a step. Maybe, and this isn't my business so I do apologize, he will stop being such a 'stallion' in the bedroom. And no amount of curls in the squat rack or money in the world will get pretty blonde girls to look at him again. Maybe it all starts on Monday - who knows? You might say otherwise, Stal, but you don't live in the real world any more than our green, masked buddy does. Say this about Stallion, though - at least girls look at him. I'm decent looking, I do okay for myself. The third man in our match is so tragically, hysterically ugly that he has to hide his face from the world."
"Are you sure about that? I don't think that's his story."
"Yes, I am, I know it for a fact. Masked wrestlers are either ugly men, cowards, or ugly cowards. I bet our hero here is both. And I'd love nothing more than to show him what the real world is like. Wrestling in front of fifty people, not getting paid on time, getting paid in bus passes, clawing your way up the ranks, not getting booked on the show. That's the world we live in. I've watched the movies like everyone else, I wish there were superheroes as much as anyone else does, but they don't exist. Crack-smoking mayors, foreign wars, student debt, men named Jesper, women turning down a man like Dennis Driver for human haircuts and spraytans like the 'Stallion' over there. That's where we live, buddy. That's the world you wanna save so badly. And no matter what you do, it's not getting any better. If you're putting a mask on to hide yourself from that, hey, I sympathize with ya. If it's because you're ugly, I still do. Really. It might not sound like it, but I do. But you're not gonna beat me in the ring if you're that afraid. You're not even gonna come close."
Finally, my eternal interview is over. I take my headset off, generally relieved. Jesper smiles at me, even though I finally managed to make a sick burn about his name.
"Kicking off the variety hour was PURE Wrestling's own Dennis Driver. He's in action Monday night against Emerald Assassin and Shawn "The Stallion" Stevens, it should be a fun match. That's Dennis - you can love him or you can hate him, but he's a character. Go eat your curry, Dennis."
Well, that made me feel warm and fuzzy inside, but it didn't really solve the mystery: why did my alarm go off? There's no way I have anything to do today. No way it's PURE TV today, I'm not that much of a fuckup. I lean over and look at my bedroom floor: well, I should at least lose the beer cans. Does PURE want us to do some creepy photoshoot? I feel like I can get a good scowl out today, which is always good for my line of work, but if you want me to "smize" I don't think I have it in me. I thumb over to my boxphone's calendar. Above "2:00" and today's date, two unfamiliar words stare me in the face: "Radio Thing." Well.
Radio thing. Radio thing. Oh shit. I said I'd be on some podunk radio show last week. Who was the guy from the station? McSomething. Someone McSomething. I fumble through the phone in search of unfamiliar Scotsmen and Irishmen. Not Davey MacTavish, he was in my frat. Chris McDonald? Don't know the area code, but he could be from around here. Give it a try.
"Yo, Chris, wazzup," I mumble into the line, still not entirely awake. "It's Dennis Driver. About the radio show..."
"Driver? What the fuck are you calling me about? I fucking hate you. Don't call this number again, go fuck yourself, I'm gonna..." I hang up. McDonald, McDonald. Yep, I banged his little sister and called her a "boring sorostitute." On Facebook. So why's he in my contacts? We had a group project together or some bullshit, I never clear out my contacts. Until today. He's gone. So is his boring sister. Only one McSomething left: Jesper McGlinchey. I try as hard as I can to match the face to the name, but when I hear the name "Jesper McGlinchey" all I can see are minor Harry Potter characters. That first call was just a test as to whether I can feel shame or not. I clearly can't, not even a little, so here goes nothing.
"Heya, this is Jesper with the radio station, right?" A seasoned radio voice was on the other end, not an angry college kid. I knew I had the right man before I even took in what it was that he was saying.
"This is Jesper McGlinchey, WKKR Seattle, may I ask who's calling?"
"It's Dennis, yo. My thing's today, right?"
"Your interview? It's in 27 minutes."
"Right. I...ah...I knew that. Listen, man, I'm running a bit late today. Had a business meeting. A really important business meeting. Is there a way we can do this over the phone?"
A pause. Maybe he was checking protocol or something.
"We don't have the equipment, we need you in studio. Also, remember: no cursing on air, man, we're a family station."
"Are...you?" How am I gonna get there in time?
"Well, yeah. Families also need to know the latest news in the world of firearms."
"I see," I deadpanned. What a great little booking I made for myself. Wow. "What's the address again?"
"450 Somerset Avenue."
"Okay, cool, I'll head over. Should make it on time." I have no earthly idea of where that is, I don't know how I'm getting there, and I'm too socially awkward to ask a man who hosts a radio show on a radio network about guns for a ride. I do the same little "hang up and wince" thing I just did a minute ago. Great day so far.
I finally crawl out of bed, still wearing yesterday's pajama pants and yesterday's skin-tight PK Subban shirtsey, with no plans on changing. On my way to my laptop I almost wipe out on my ornately constructed beer can pile. The headline "PURE Wrestling star tears ACL in Keystone Light accident, gets released from contract, dies alone in American healthcare wasteland" flashes before my eyes. Headlines are getting longer and longer these days, but I'm fine. Maybe I'd have a shot against Assassin and Stallion on one leg anyway. 450 Somerset. I don't have a car out here, so I'll have to harass one of my housemates or pull off some hardcore bus wrangling if I want to make it on this guy's show. Do I even want to make it on this guy's show? I have some leftover chicken tikka masala in the fridge and some bud on my desk.
I knew my sense of direction was bad, but until Google Maps told me that 450 Somerset Avenue was an eight minute walk from my house I hadn't really grasped the gravity of the situation. Wow. New depths. Well, I guess I have no excuse not to do the radio show now. The official WKKR website is even worse than I would have imagined, by the way. Camouflage, American flags and animated GIF images of rifles are the three central design elements. Some clicking around leads me to the "guestbook," where I anonymously leave a crudely drawn penis.
I brush my teeth and heat up the chicken tikka. I can actually eat it on the way over; the radio station for firearms enthusiasts is not likely to care all that much about decorum. I even have enough time to change into my next outfit: jeans and a t-shirt that says "Punk Rock." It's go time.
"Testing 3-2-1...this is Jesper McGlinchey with the Jesper McGlinchey Variety Hour on your home for guns, ammo and rock and roll: WKKR 98.1, broadcasting as always to the greater Seattle area. It is 2:00 here in our super cool underground bunker, and what better way to kick things off than with a wrestler? For those of you who are not as up to date with the wrestling industry as I am a company called PURE Wrestling, that's the name, PURE Wrestling, has just opened up in Seattle. They have a weekly TV show Monday nights on, of all places, AMC, but I strongly, strongly suggest hopping over there and seeing a show for yourself. It's electrifying, it's entertaining, and it's supporting local people. I guarantee that you will like it. Our man in the studio lives three blocks away from us, but he still asked if he could do the interview via telephone! In front of him right now is a half-eaten bowl of Indian food that is totally stinking the place up, but trust me, he's not that bad of a guy! He's not that bad of a guy and he's supposed to be a great wrestler, he is Dennis Driver!"
My theme plays for a couple seconds, I have to admit that was a nice touch. I'm still gonna call the guy out for ragging on my chicken tikka though.
"That's a nice little song you got there. But hey, bro - don't knock the Indian food. It's chicken tikka and it's very good, I made it myself."
"He offered me some, I said no. The kid came here all the way from Mystic, Connecticut to work for PURE. For fans of 80s movies in the audience, yes, that is a real place."
"I'm gonna be hearing that same Mystic Pizza joke until they bury me, man."
"Did you ever eat there?"
"Eat there? I worked there one summer, I can hook you up with a shirt."
"Wow, what a gentleman. I'm gonna go straight to the tough questions if you don't mind. PURE has a lot of people in from all over the world. Not everyone, but a lot of your coworkers have pedigree in the business. Some big names in there, at least for people who follow this stuff. You don't really have the resume some of these guys have - do you think that will be a problem?"
I didn't expect him to go from chummy bro to douchey sports talk radio host in a minute. Time to set this guy straight.
"Well, I'm a big enough deal to make it on the...what is this, the Jesper McGlinchey Variety Hour? I'm a big enough deal for them to sign my checks. And they pay me okay, too! So no, I don't think it matters at all. People knowing your name and knowing you were the champion of such and such company in 2006 doesn't make you take a punch any better. Not to get too cliche around here but after my first match they'll all know who I am."
"Your story's a pretty weird one if I remember right - how did you get over here?"
"They found some Youtube video of me beating this French-Canadian in a ladder match and they said they needed to have me. I agreed with them. You know...the money to move over here was good, they even paid for my flight, I had to give 'em what they wanted. Now they just need to give us some ladders!"
"Up until now you've been working really small shows, right?"
"Yeah, tiny stuff. Maybe twenty...fifty people, usually. But when you're the star, you're the star. I'll tell ya the last three dates I worked over in New England, it's a pretty good sample. A VFW, a high school gym, and, I'm not even kidding here, a Croatian cultural association in Boston. I was lucky because one of my boys back from high school's a Serb, y'know, he was born over there. He taught me some nice things to say to the fans as I walked down to the ring, even gave me a flag to wave around."
McGlinchey chuckles to himself. "Well, I bet they weren't happy about that."
"No, they weren't. And you know, I thought it was really ungrateful of the Croatians."
"Really ungrateful of the Croatians?"
"Yeah. I felt like all those other guys were there just to work a match, get their beer money, but I was also there to embrace their culture. It's not every day that you get to go to a Croatian cultural association. I mean, sure, I brought the wrong flag, but it's close enough. I've looked at their flags, you can hardly tell them apart. I was speaking their language, I was really trying. And those people just start standing up and booing a guy for making an honest mistake. I bet it's a good thing I couldn't understand most of what they were saying."
"Well...I'm not an expert in that part of the world, it's a long way away, but I do know that Croatians and Serbians don't tend to get along. They had a war about something."
"And then I get on the microphone again after I won my match, I start to talk about baseball and you don't know this, I'm a huge Yankee fan..."
McGlinchey cuts me off by, as it turns out, laughing at me. "With that, there's just no way you didn't expect to get booed. No way."
"I dunno. Don't they love baseball in Boston?" I can't play it straight anymore and I start laughing too.
"Wow. Anyway, I was just wondering - you're gonna be on Monday's show, right?"
"I am, yeah. The fact that I wasn't on last week was a travesty. It was a sham. It was a trava...shamockery. I don't follow football, who's the Seahawks' backup quarterback?"
"Tarvaris Jackson."
"Woah. He's still alive?"
"Um...yeah?"
"Thought he was dead for some reason."
"That's messed up."
"Imagine if the Seahawks just decided to bench Russell Wilson and play that guy instead. It would be a disgrace. You don't sit your best guys! Then this week - and I'm gonna make the Internet nerds really happy here - they tried to sit me again! I had to grovel before...what's his face...Callahan! Like they didn't sign me for a reason or something. Luckily for PURE, I don't think they'll make that mistake after Monday."
"You are scheduled to wrestle on Monday, then?"
"I think it's the second or third match on the card, so anyone who's listening to this station has my permission to show up for my match, watch me win, leave the arena in protest, and do whatever gun people do with their free time. Jesp, what do gun people do, anyway?"
"Shoot guns? But mostly...normal person stuff. I don't know how many gun people you know, but we're pretty normal. We're not the illuminati."
"Well, illuminati or not, if my fans have guns and the other guys don't, that has to be some kind of advantage, right?"
"I don't think that's how it...works. Who are you up against?"
"Well, they couldn't give me just one opponent - they had to give me two. It's a triple threat match. Guys by the names of Shawn "the Stallion" Stevens and the Emerald Assassin. But baby, I don't care what kinds of odds they stack up against me, I don't care how far this conspiracy reaches, Dennis Driver is the best wrestler in PURE and he is a hero to gun people everywhere."
"Stop saying 'gun people,' it makes us sound like aliens."
"Gun people. People who...shoot guns at stuff. Whatever, man. The point is I've played hockey with guys like the Stallion, I went to college with guys like the Stallion, I've wrestled guys like the Stallion. That man is a haircut, a spray tan, and baby, he's not a whole lot else. Well, Stal - if I can call you that - hell, I'll call you whatever I want - you're gettin' a bit long in the tooth there, buddy."
"He's old? I couldn't tell, he moves around so well in the ring."
"He's getting old. And someday, probably someday soon, he'll start to notice the hairline's receding. He'll start to lose a step. Maybe, and this isn't my business so I do apologize, he will stop being such a 'stallion' in the bedroom. And no amount of curls in the squat rack or money in the world will get pretty blonde girls to look at him again. Maybe it all starts on Monday - who knows? You might say otherwise, Stal, but you don't live in the real world any more than our green, masked buddy does. Say this about Stallion, though - at least girls look at him. I'm decent looking, I do okay for myself. The third man in our match is so tragically, hysterically ugly that he has to hide his face from the world."
"Are you sure about that? I don't think that's his story."
"Yes, I am, I know it for a fact. Masked wrestlers are either ugly men, cowards, or ugly cowards. I bet our hero here is both. And I'd love nothing more than to show him what the real world is like. Wrestling in front of fifty people, not getting paid on time, getting paid in bus passes, clawing your way up the ranks, not getting booked on the show. That's the world we live in. I've watched the movies like everyone else, I wish there were superheroes as much as anyone else does, but they don't exist. Crack-smoking mayors, foreign wars, student debt, men named Jesper, women turning down a man like Dennis Driver for human haircuts and spraytans like the 'Stallion' over there. That's where we live, buddy. That's the world you wanna save so badly. And no matter what you do, it's not getting any better. If you're putting a mask on to hide yourself from that, hey, I sympathize with ya. If it's because you're ugly, I still do. Really. It might not sound like it, but I do. But you're not gonna beat me in the ring if you're that afraid. You're not even gonna come close."
Finally, my eternal interview is over. I take my headset off, generally relieved. Jesper smiles at me, even though I finally managed to make a sick burn about his name.
"Kicking off the variety hour was PURE Wrestling's own Dennis Driver. He's in action Monday night against Emerald Assassin and Shawn "The Stallion" Stevens, it should be a fun match. That's Dennis - you can love him or you can hate him, but he's a character. Go eat your curry, Dennis."
