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Raven's Log
Stardate 5.17.04
I love the wrestling business.
THE JOYS OF PRO-WRESTLING
I was staying at the Comfort Inn in Queens, NY Friday night, which my favorite indie promoter, The Masked Kleptomaniac, Frank Goodman, put me up at. I had just returned from USA Pro where I wrestled "The French Fries" Shane Douglas in a steel cage. The show started at 7:30 and after an exhaustive 38 matches, we went on. There was no door on the cage which I found highly entertaining. Obviously, winning by a pinfall was a must. We went on at 12:40 am and finished at 1 am. It's a testament to The Masked Pyromaniac Frank Goodman's fans that nobody was sleeping and only half of the thousand people had left or had died of boredom during Chris Daniels' match (just kidding once again, don't get your panties in a bunch). Lucky for me, I enjoy and am accustomed to working for The Masked Hemophiliac, Frank Goodman. I arrived at the building around 9 pm, went to the diner 'til 10:30 and barely had time to get dressed, run my mouth, insult my friends and prepare for my match in that short two hour window. Ah, who am I kidding, I never prepare for my matches.
Anyway, I'm at the Comfort Inn and I want a late checkout at 3 o'clock. They called me at 2 and told me to leave. I said I would pay for half a day so I could stay the extra hour. I'd never had a hotel not let you have half a day, but they said no. I said I would leave at 3 and they said no. This useless banter went on for 5 or 10 minutes before i finally said, "Look, I'm leaving at 3," and hung the phone up. They called again. At this point, I could've already showered and been out the door, but no, they said I had to leave right now. After stating emphatically that I would not leave until I took a shower, they called again. She said the main problem was the maid had to leave by five. I said that would give them 2 hours to clean my room. Even in my drug addict days of trashing rooms like a rock star, I can promise you that it never took 2 hours to clean my room. She was a moron. Anyway, they kept calling so I took the phone off the hook. Next thing I know, I'm getting out of the shower, and The Masked Polkamaniac, Frank Goodman, is at the door. They told him I had barricaded myself in the room, gone postal and threatened to call the police if The Masked Hypochondriac, Frank Goodman, didn't come down.
I felt bad for The Masked Metal Maniac, Frank Goodman, having to make the trip because, as I told him, "Worse comes to worse, all they could've done was charge me for an extra day," which I gladly would've done in order to take a shower. They cannot call the cops, all they had to do was bill me. I feel bad for Frank because he's my boy, my favorite indie promoter and a friend, but apparently, he was called by the manager who said I wouldn't talk to him, which is a lie (they never even offered to let me talk to the manager) made up by that pederast Hanrahan behind the front desk who he was probably bucking for a promotion.
I love the wrestling business.
P.S. That last line of copy is a ripoff of a line from one of my favorite movies, free picture to the first person who can tell me what movie.
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