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11/2/2011:
These were the days when I traveled donkeyback across the Sun-cracked stretches of the aptly-named Ole
Mexico Badlands as a member of the clandestine carnival troupe, Lucha Peligrosa. They called me El Bandolera
and I wore a mask before foolishly wagering it in a Mask vs. Mask match with the irrepressible Super Caló. It
was a different time and place. Gunfire was used in place of ring bells and what we lacked in crowds, we made
up for in cacti. The oft-treacherous treks wore on men of weaker constitution but, for me, it was all made
worthwhile when I would return to the hacienda outside Monterrey from which I rented a room to find a young
Mexican maiden with rosy cheeks named Santita holding a bowl of freshly-made queso. Incidentally, she resembled
a Latina Veronica.
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As I contemplate the rapidly-approaching "High Noon," I am reminded of the multitudinous midday showdowns
I witnessed during that time. Colt Cabana picked the wrong gunslinger when he wandered into the CHIKARA Saloon
and challenged Mariachi Archie to a duel. You fear very little when you have seen a man thrown down a well
because he ate the last bite of coyote before offering it to one of the veterans.
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Señor Cabana makes it seem as if he is upset with the treatment of March Madness’ newly-acquired mascot,
Colt Cabunny – a thinly-veiled façade if ever there was one. After all, I ask you – when has the proprietor
of coltmerch.com ever cared about anyone but himself? Clearly, his loss to me at King Of Trios 2011 is eating
away at him like a Tijuana tapeworm.
What I do with Colt Cabunny is no one’s business but my own; I bought him hare-and-square. But I will say that
any accusations of animal cruelty are patently absurd. Cabunny will attest that I treat him as if he were my son.
Why, just yesterday I added padding to the harness he wears when pulling the plow. And he loves the way I decorate
his fur for the holidays with chewed wads of bubblegum.
On 13 November, live on iPPV for all the world to see, I will not hesitate to break that chip off Colt
Cabana’s shoulder. My only regret will be in not having some of Santita’s famous queso to dip it in.
11/2/2011:
These were the days when I traveled donkeyback across the Sun-cracked stretches of the aptly-named Ole
Mexico Badlands as a member of the clandestine carnival troupe, Lucha Peligrosa. They called me El Bandolera
and I wore a mask before foolishly wagering it in a Mask vs. Mask match with the irrepressible Super Caló. It
was a different time and place. Gunfire was used in place of ring bells and what we lacked in crowds, we made
up for in cacti. The oft-treacherous treks wore on men of weaker constitution but, for me, it was all made
worthwhile when I would return to the hacienda outside Monterrey from which I rented a room to find a young
Mexican maiden with rosy cheeks named Santita holding a bowl of freshly-made queso. Incidentally, she resembled
a Latina Veronica.
