Monday, July 22, 2002
The situation has darkened, good people. Frequent readers of my column, and despite what everyone says I’m convinced they exist, will remember my recent revelation that I was a pro-wrestler briefly in the ‘80s. To my surprise, everyone has been extremely warm and receptive about it. I mean, I haven’t heard anyone approving of my lifestyle or remarking how brave it was to come out and admit it, but it is pro-wrestling, a little resistance and unspoken prejudice can be expected. Either that or none of them have read any of my columns.

But not everyone has been so accepting. As I discovered Thursday night when I came home and found a note pinned to my door.

It was a hand-scrawled note with sloppy penmanship and spelling. But I knew all-too well who it was from and what it was about. It read:

“Finger! So yur the 4-Feet Nitemare. Yu turd. I new Id find yu sonir or laytir. Im a kill yu like I wud have kild yu then. Yu run away cowird. – MD”

At first I suspected my family physician, Dr. Scrudd. But then I remembered seeing his handwriting on countless prescriptions and it didn’t match at all; Scrudd’s pen is blue, this one is black. Finally, after hours of meditating, falling asleep, waking up again to start meditating once more, I realized who my anonymous adversary is.

The Masked Dude has come back for revenge.

When I discussed my pro-wrestling secret life, I left out a lot of details so as not to gross out the general public who is uncomfortable with such information. But one important bit that needed mentioning was my furious antagonist, The Masked Dude. He was five-foot tall, the second-shortest wrestler in the Dandies of America league I was part of, and had a severe complex about it. He was remarkable for many reasons: His glittering sequined spandex pants, his red glossy boots, his hairless, flabby mid-section, and his match record of never having won once.

Usually The Masked Dude was hopelessly overpowered by his opponents. Some of them reaching heights of up to 5’11”, with vicious names like The Vicious Scrunch and Eddie “Pin Them Drunk” Vicious, The Masked Dude soon proved to be a laughingstock of the D.O.A., which was already the laughingstock of wrestling fans everywhere, who are the laughingstock of the rest of us, so you can imagine the shame. The Masked Dude was intent on gaining respect, and I soon provided the best possibility of winning a match.

I was a good wrestler. Good? Hell, I was possibly the best God ever created. Really? Thank you, that’s sweet. But for all of my talent my winning record was frequently fifty-fifty, meaning I won half my matches and half of that was won by deceitful tendencies. I was merely making up for a game that was stacked against me, me being short and not that good at wrestling the way they wanted to do it. But actual statistical match records were the lowest in the league, next to The Masked Dude. He sought me out obsessively, and thus started our rivalry. I thought it ended when I hung up my tights, sniffed them curiously, then threw them away for good. But apparently not.

I have to admit I’m a little worried. I don’t know when and from where and at what time The Masked Dude is coming after me. I assume he’s reading this column, since he’s the only one who’s mentioned my former pro-wrestler status, and I hope to implore him to let bygones be bygones and blowguns be blowguns, to put the past behind us and start anew as friends who share a common history.

But don’t mistake this as fear or cowardice, Masked Dude. I will put the smack down on you wicked if you want to get shitty with me.

My Past Life as a Pro-Wrestler Has Come Back to Haunt Me
Now my one little past discretion has come back to haunt me. No, not my out-of-wedlock children—they are neither singular enough in number nor small enough in individual quantity to count as one little indiscretion.

I Have Been Dragged by a Car for Three Days
It started out innocently enough, leaving work Thursday night and stepping out into moving traffic. Little could I guess, though I probably could have seen if I’d bothered to check the oncoming traffic first, there was some speeding car with a driver of drunken magnitude.

I Have a Wicked Bassist in Lee
It’s a good idea—anybody can see it’s a good idea. Building a sharp power trio around our infallible bassist Lee. The only problem is that the other members of our power trio have, how Lee phrased it, “absolutely no musical ability."

I Have Unfinished Business with Carl Tomlin
As is the custom, I drove over to mine and Arvelyn’s house around midnight to sneak in and watch her sleep for a little while. But she had company—Carl Tomlin’s car, complete with his TONG ASS personalized plates, was in my drive way.