by Rick Scaia
Exclusive to OnlineOnslaught.com

Now, this column isn't gonna be about that.  I've spent two weeks making fun of putting fruit in one's beer.  Maybe it tastes good, I don't know.  But it still strikes me as a girly thing to do.  There are times for putting fruit in drinks: it's just that beer ain't one of those occasions.  Grab a brewski, suck it down, have 8 more, fart all night long...  that's what beer's there for.  So be a man about drinking it.

I've had enough of trying to make my case on that issue.  If you agree with me, great.  If you're going to insist that there's nothing castrating about being seen in public with fruit in your beer, that's fine, too.  I'm past that.  It wasn't even REALLY my original point, anyway.

My original point was that, given my own opinions about fruit in beer, that getting to see Orton drinking a Corona with Lime was too perfect.  Maybe my perceptions about Randy Orton are as wrong as my perceptions about putting fruit in beer, but the fact is, for that 5 second clip, I laughed my ass off.  Orton, who strikes me as a classic pretty boy and "mimbo" (or "himbo" or whatever), drinking something I considered quite emasculating.  How utterly vindicating a sight. 

Two weeks of dealing with the assorted hate mail, and later with the fan mail as I refused to bow to pressure, got me to thinking.  I didn't realize that Corona with Lime was Randy Orton's "perfect drink" until I saw it, but what if I put my prodigious mind to the task of figuring out the "perfect drinks" for other superstars?  That might be fun, right?

So, on a day when there's no real wrestling news that can't wait till Monday and with all due apologies to Rocky Swift's Comparative Analysis of Pro Wrestlers and Their Corresponding Japanese Challenge Food, I'm gonna put my hard-won years of studying pro wrestling and having a bar in my basement to good use:  I'm going to pair up 15 or so pro wrestlers with the cocktails that best match their true natures.

Enjoy.
 

The drink: usually served in a large pint glass, the Long Island is made up of small amounts of every one of the clear liquors.  Mixed properly, however, its true potency is usually a secret: it goes down quick and smooth, without much trouble, although you may well curse its name later in the evening or the next morning.  [The Rick's Recipe: fill a pint glass with ice.  Add one shot each of vodka, gin, rum, tequila, and triple sec.  Toss in lemon juice to your taste -- more than a splash, but less than an ounce is ideal -- and top off the glass with Coke.  Stir it up and serve.]

The guy: there's no denying HHH's hugeness, first as a bodybuilder turned wrestler, and now according to internet lore, as a bona fide fatty.  And also: as a student of the wrestling game, Triple H has patterned his in-ring style on a seemingly endless string of the sports' legends, from Harley Race to Ric Flair.  Tiny elements of all their work can be seen in HHH's.  The end result is usually a very palatable performance, although after the fact, fans can still find reasons to curse HHH's name.

The synthesis: In composition, there is no other drink nor any other wrestler that is made up of so many tiny amount of seemingly mis-matched ingredients that still somehow fit together well.  The Long Island puts gin and tequila in the same glass, a not unremarkable feat.  Triple H marries Jack Brisco's solid ringwork to Flair's over-the-top and sometimes-comical heelish mannerisms.  And although both are quite enjoyable, both the Long Island Iced Tea and Triple H somehow end up being the butt of way more second guessing and criticism after the fact than the vast majority of cocktails or pro wrestlers.
 

The drink: the Black Russian is a pared down version of the much more popular White Russian.  Without the addition of milk/cream, it still tastes pretty good, actually, retaining the general "milk shake-y" flavor of the White Russian, albeit with a distinctively different consistency.  And without the milk, its potency is actually enhanced significantly, even though the flavor seems essentially the same. [The Rick's Recipe: fill a rocks glass with ice.  Pour in 2 oz. of vodka, add 1 oz. of Kaluha (or other coffee liquor, if you're a cheapskate).  Stir vigorously.  Enjoy.]

The guy: Shelton Benjamin is off on his own after being one half of the critically popular World's Greatest Tag Team.  In just two weeks without his lily-white tag partner, Benjamin has proven that he's not just every bit as good in this form, but he might even have a greater potency.  With his partner, he was able to decisively beat opponents like the APA and Spanky/Paul London.  But on his own, Benjamin possessed the power to level Triple H in a singles match.

The synthesis:  neither the Black Russian or Shelton Benjamin are a case of addition by subtraction, exactly.  Though both lack a pale ingredient from a previous, well-known packaging, both should still appeal to fans of that original packaging.  Although, those fans should be wary, as both are seemingly more powerful in this new form than ever before.
 

The drink: this is one of new-fangled things the kids like. It rose to prominence maybe 2 years ago or so, as Red Bull Energy Drink became a ubiquitous bar/club accessory for those who needed gimmickry to keep them awake and alert when out drinking.  Like all "shooters," it strikes me as a pansified way for poseurs and frat boys to think they are doing shots of liquor.... The drink tastes kind of like cough syrup, which you realize should be off-putting, but does admittedly have a certain unique charm.   [The Rick's Recipe:  go out to some shitty club and order one, because I don't stock Red Bull in my basement.  But if you really have to know... pour half a Red Bull into a highball glass.  Drop in a shot of Jagermeister.  Shoot it down.]

The guy: John Cena's definitely popular with the kids.  His rise to stardom came about a year and a half ago, when he realized hip hop was a ubiquitous part of pop culture and he could use rapping/rhymes as a gimmick when he cut promos.  Like all white guys who rap, Cena strikes me as a bit of a poseur and a fake.  And yet, although I realize the overall vibe should be off-putting, I can't help but to have warmed to his unique charms over the past year or so.

The synthesis: both Jagerbombs and John Cena had all the ear-markings of a Flavor of the Month.  Both have stuck around for significantly longer than I'd have guessed.  In the case of the Jagerbomb, I remain annoyed that the frat crowd has managed to marry an already-dubious liquor with an energy drink that's supposed to boost one's flagging alcohol consumption ability.  Yet, I was worn down and have tried it, and so OK, it's kind of an interesting diversion.  Not as good as you think it is, but OK.  Same with Cena: I railed against the "Vanilla Ice" era of the gimmick, then I made fun of him as an Eminem wannabe before finally realizing the guy was good at what he does.  Now that he's pandering pathetically to the audiences, I'd again opine that he's not as good as you think he is, but still... the guy's OK.  There is also a Red Bull/Cena-shills-YJStinger joke in here somewhere, but I have dubbed that Too Easy.
  

The drink: a staple of classy Sunday Brunches the nation over, the Mimosa isn't necessarily potent.  It's just sweet, tasty, and pleasant.  Unlike other Brunch staples like Bloody Marys or Screwdrivers, the Mimosa connotes a bit of class, too:  it's a drink to facilitate a social function, not to get its consumer all fricked up.  [The Rick's Recipe: fill a champagne flute half-way with orange juice.  Top it with whatever cheap champagne you got lying around.  Sip with your pinky finger help pretentiously out.]

The girl: nobody will ever accuse Stacy Keibler of being "potent."  A waif a girl, she's unlikely to impose her will upon many foes.  And in a landscape of divas who range from psychotic to bitchy and back again, Stacy always seems kind of cheery, classy, and pleasant: a real sweetheart.

The synthesis: Waking up on Sunday mornings is usually not all that pleasant.  At least, not if you've been up to what I usually get up to.  But waking up to either a Mimosa-laden Sunday Brunch (please, let there be a custom omelet bar, please!) or to a Stacy Keibler would sure take the edge off, don't you think?
 

The drink: clocking in at about 110 proof (54% alcohol), Rare Breed is about thirty percent more powerful than your average bourbon.  And bourbon, my friends, ain't exactly a pansy's drink to begin with.  For better or for worse, Rare Breed is bottled at cask strength, and distillers do not see any need to add any water or otherwise dilute the powerful whiskey.  Consumers may find it a bit rough around the edges, but the fact is, Rare Breed can also bring a pleasantly serviceable warming buzz once it settles in.  [The Rick's Recipe: Uh, pour some Rare Breed in a rocks glass.  Add ice if you want, I don't care.  Drink it up.]

The guy: clocking in with 14 years of WWF/E experience, almost all of them at the main event level, the Undertaker carries significantly more clout than your average pro wrestler.  And the company, for the most part, sees no need to dilute Taker's backstage power, instead opting to let him wield that power as a locker room leader.  Fans may look at Taker and see a limited brawler who has not an iota of refined grappling skill, but true connoisseurs will be able to step back and appreciate his ability to still put on a surprisingly serviceable match.

The synthesis: your mother, kid sister, or girlfriend may not appreciate the appeal, but the one-dimensionally bludgeoning force of both Rare Breed and the Undertaker is endearing in a manly-man kind of way.  Taker's undiluted backstage stroke and Rare Breed's undiluted alcohol content may be decried by some as Bad Things.  But I'd argue only the end results matter, and unless you're a moron, Rare Breed can be consumed to effectively produce a quality Inner Whiskey Warmth that much faster than your typical brands, while Taker can be counted on to have solid brawls that will always have a little more crowd heat than usual because he's taken an active interest in managing his persona for so long.
  

The drink: the highlight of this year's otherwise-boring New Year's party was getting to play with fire as I learned a new cocktail.  The "Flaming Dr. Pepper" mercifully contains no actual Dr. Pepper, but utilizes a complicated process to sort of simulate the sweetness of that cola.  A layer of 151-proof rum provides the impetus for the "flaming" part of the name.  [The Rick's Recipe: pour half a beer -- preferably something a little darker or more robust than Bud or Miller Lite, but it doesn't really matter -- into a highball glass and set aside. Fill a shot glass almost to the top with an exact 50/50 mix of Amaretto and Kaluha.  Then, fill the shot glass to the brim by carefully floating a layer of 151-proof rum on top -- this is tricky, but pour it in over the back of a spoon, and you should get it pretty quickly unless you're already comically wasted off your ass.  Set the top layer of 151 on fire, then grab the entire shot glass and drop it into the beer you've set aside.  You're supposed to chug it down all at once.]

The man: the highlight of almost any show he's on, Mick Foley made his name in a career-defining series of interviews that revealed the complex layers of his personalities.  He's a guy who sometimes felt the need to play with fire to impress an audience or beat an opponent. But at the end of the day, we've also learned that the core of that complexity is an underlying sweetness.  Mick Foley is one of wrestling's actual Good Guys.

The synthesis:  When Mick Foley (as Mankind) sat down with JR lo those many years ago, I remember it being a risky proposition to trust wrestling fans to pick up on the subtleties of Foley's narrative.  But it paid off, and now the world appreciates Mick equally for his willingness to put his body on the line as for his genuine decency.  And when my friend John's friends started showing me how to make a Flaming Dr. Pepper, I remember it being a risky proposition to trust a bunch of drunk sons of bitches to correctly mix a complicated cocktail and then set it on fire without bringing the whole house down.  But we managed.  Foley, Flaming Dr. Peppers, it's all the same thing!
 

The drink: you go out for a nice dinner, and you pretty much have to have a bottle of wine. It shows you're classy, it "complements the main course," and best of all, a bottle of wine split two ways has the magical effect of facilitating witty and engaging conversation by the meal's end. But unless you're one of those snooty wine snobs, you don't really know what you're doing when you pick the wine.  So you just randomly pick something from the bottom third of the price list and hope it doesn't stink out loud.  [The Rick's Recipe: Sniff and frown thoughtfully when Pierre the Wine Steward hands you the cork, then sip your test glass and grudgingly accept the vintage as if it just barely meets your stringent standards. This makes you look wise and discriminating.  Let Pierre fill your glasses, then proceed to keep your date one glass ahead of yourself at all times.  This will eventually make you look lots funnier and more charming.] 

The guy: you turn on a wrestling show, and you pretty much have to resign yourself to listening to a team of commentators.  You can't escape them: they've gotta be there to compliment and explain the in-ring product.  It's rare when a commentator is actually so good that he becomes part of the reason to watch a show; the best you can hope for is that he's not so obnoxious that he ruins the entire product.  For all his foibles, Michael Cole has grown into this perfect obligatory, inoffensive compliment to the main course.

The synthesis: I'm not really a wine guy, and unless wine's REALLY good, I honestly can't tell much of a difference.  And it doesn't matter, since I only consume it on specific, prescribed occasions.  I never uncork a bottle of wine on a Saturday night just cuz I'm jonsing for a Pinot Noir; wine just goes with other stuff.  Just like Michael Cole goes with other stuff: he's tolerable, but nobody's ever said, "You know what? I could really go for some Michael Cole right now."  And just like a random choice from the bottom part of a wine list could be adequately replaced by any of the other cheap table wines on the list, Cole is probably quite easily replaceable.  Generic red wine... generic white guy for Tazz to make fun of...  they're a dime a dozen. 
 

The drink: you might accuse me of making this one up.  And you'd be right.  I can't remember if it was based on an actual drink one of us knew, or if it was flat-out the result of a challenge to make the meanest, nastiest drink in all the land, but me and some old housemates of mine crafted a cocktail that to this day remains a surefire way to set me on my ass.  As our basement bar was named "Manny's" (after Immanuel Kant, for reasons that are not likely to become apparent at this time), we named our invention after Kant's widely known philosophical notion that judges the morality of an action on the universality of the action, not upon its consequences.  Or something like that.  My old housemate is the one chasing his Philosophy Ph.D.; I'm just the guy what knows his booze. [The Rick's Recipe: into a cocktail shaker, put a ton of ice, 2 oz. of bourbon, 1 oz. of brandy, and 1 oz. of gin.  Add two drops of Angostura Bitters.  Shake it up.  Let it sit for maybe 2 minutes, cuz trust me, you want some of that ice to melt down and take the edge off.  Strain into a martini glass.  Sip, but carefully.]

The guy: Tajiri also gets me a lot of accusatorial heat.  I like the guy lots better than you do, probably, and have since the ECW days.  I just think his matches reek of plausibility, that his kicks seem debilitatingly stiff, and to me, that's just as much fun as watching Rey Mysterio fly around like a gnat.  

The synthesis: I'd opine that Tajiri's skill set is in complete accordance with Kant's Categorical Imperative, that if it could be adopted as a universal standard, and the consequences would be very good.  And further, I think Tajiri has a lot in common with My Categorical Imperative: both are ultra-stiff, both might take awhile to develop a taste for, but ultimately, both will end up among your personal favorites.  And if you're not very careful, both could leave you (at least temporarily) blind.
 

The drink: trust me, I'm NOT making this one up.  But I did lift it from a 1960s edition of the "Mr. Boston's" recipe book that I took from my parents' house at one point back when I was trying to learn the art of mixology.  So even if this drink is still in circulation, I'm sure it's not with this name.  In short, the XYZ is like one of those lame-ass "Hard Lemonade" malt drinks, except with balls.  It's got some kick to it, and mostly, it's sour as hell.  [The Rick's Recipe: fill a highball glass with ice.  Pour in 2 oz. of rum and 1 oz. triple sec.  Add in about 3 oz. of lemon juice.  Top with either club soda or 7-Up/Sprite.  Stir it up and serve.]

The guy: Bob Holly seems like he's been around since the 1960s... and in his case, I know for SURE he's not going by his original name (Thurman "Sparky" Plugg, anyone?).  And yet he remains in circulation, a hard-nosed throwback with balls of steel.  And the ability to pucker your stupid face with a stiff right hand or the Best Dropkick in the Business.

The synthesis: The XYZ Cocktail is not a drink to be trifled with.  Although it's not particularly debilitating or potent, it's kind of rough going down for the first few sips.  Then you get used to it, and enjoy it as a change of pace.  Bob Holly seems like he might be even more sour (or salty, or bitter) of an individual than the XYZ is sour as a drink; but like the cocktail, you eventually get used to him and look forward to seeing him once and a while as a change of pace low on the card. 
 

The drink: yeah, I made this one up, too.  One time, a friend of mine brought a blender, some ice cream, and some orange juice over, used a few items from our bar, and cooked up a milk-shake-y drink that tasted exactly like a Cremesicle, which sure hit the spot on a hot summer day.  In the ensuing years, I've taken to adapting that idea into a drink that (a) doesn't require a blender, and (b) has a little more oomph to it so it's not nearly as foo-foo.  It sounds like a really silly idea at first, but trust me, it's damned tasty.  And orange.  [The Rick's Recipe: into a highball glass filled with ice, pour 3 oz. of vodka and 1 oz. of amaretto.  Fill ALMOST to the top with orange juice.  Top off with maybe 1 oz. of half-and-half or milk. Stir or shake vigorously.  Enjoy the surprisingly yummy -- and deceptively potent -- result.]

The guy: Tazz was, for years, known as The Human Suplex Machine, and was capable of having outstanding matches in a wide variety of styles.  After an initial push in the WWF fizzled, somebody decided to try Tazz on commentary.  This assignment for a guy whose most memorable promos in ECW often consisted of "I'm gonna choke you out, Sabu.  And then, I'm gonna choke you out.  Choke you out!"...  it seemed like the Fed was completely missing the boat with the orange-clad Suplex Machine.

The synthesis:  just because it looks like a trainwreck on paper doesn't mean it can't turn out with tremendous results.  That goes as much for a bizarre-sounding cocktail based on a favorite childhood desert as it does for turning a once-mostly-mute wrestler into a commentator.  The Orange Russian possesses the deliciousness of a foo-foo drink with the potency of a much harsher beverage; if you're gonna go fruity, this is the way you do it.  And Tazz possesses the quick wit of a comedian, but backs it up with a bad-ass legitimacy of a wrestler who understands the holds and their purposes; you can't ask for anything more in a color commentator.  And he still wears a lot of orange, too.
 

The drink: the second whiskey on our list, Crown Royal actually couldn't be much more of a deviation from Rare Breed and still be a whiskey.  Well known for being smooth and mellow with sweet undertones, I sometimes think of Crown as a "starter whiskey."  I'm more a fan of the Kentucky Bourbon and Scotch, but hey, Crown sure ain't nothing to sneeze at.  It's got all the punch and  respectability of the harsher whiskeys, it just doesn't take a whole lot of effort to develop a taste for it.  That purple velvet bag it comes in also goes a long way towards making the otherwise-respectable Crown slightly less boorishly macho.  But hey, what do you expect from those Canucks?  [The Rick's Recipe: Duh.  Fill a rocks glass with ice.  Pour in about 3 oz. of Crown.  Top with Coke.  Even better, but perhaps for the slightly advanced student of Whiskeynomics: just pour the Crown into a glass, no ice, and sip it, but get it with a glass of Coke back.]

The girl: for years -- well before anyone was strong armed into adopting it for a pun-y column title here at OO -- "broad" has been my favorite term of affection for particularly appealing girls.  You know: can hang with the fellas, but never once lets you forget she's all woman.  Not exactly a tomboy, lightyears away from your typical girly-girl, but more like the attractive manifestation of the "nice girl with the great personality," if you catch my drift.  And most importantly, cool enough to realize that "broad" is a compliment and not some misogynistic throwback to the 50s that gets me slapped.  This label, whether fairly or just because it facilitates my naughtiest of Diva Locker Room Fantasies, has always struck me as an apt one for Trish Stratus, more so than for any of her fellow divas.  If I had to nitpick, Trish's only real apparent flaw: she's Canadian, and flamboyantly so.  She likes hockey and everything.

The synthesis: I've got Trish keeping up with the boys, so she can't be prancing around drinking vodka and cranberry.  I don't think any of us wants to think of Trish tossing back shots of Black Velvet while smoking a foul-smelling stogey, but it would strike me as mighty perfect if she liked to relax with a completely-respectable (yet still suitably-feminine) and distinctively-Canadian Crown and Coke.  Yeah, that'd be pretty hot.
 

The drink: the Martini oozes old school class.  When I want to be a Gentleman instead of a manly man, that's what I go for.  It's crisp and clean.  And if you get spotted with a martini glass, you just look like you know what you're doing.  Like James Bond or something.  And a really good martini can't just be slapped together: it takes a very careful and lengthy process to get it exactly right.  [The Rick's Recipe: let me be very clear about this... a Martini has GIN in it. Not vodka.  For Martinis, I am a huge fan of using Bombay Sapphire.  And it goes a little something like this: fill your over-sized martini glass with ice water.  Pluck a single olive out of the jar and set it in a shot glass, then cover it with some cheap gin.  Into a cocktail shaker, put a ton of ice, a triple shot -- about 5 oz. -- of Bombay Sapphire, and a VERY quick splash -- less than 1 oz. -- of light vermouth.  Shake that up and let it sit for maybe 2 or 3 minutes to get a very little bit of mellowing ice meltage.  While you're waiting, you can probably drain out your now-adequately-chilled martini glass; you can also take your olive out of its gin bath, where its overpowering taint has been washed off, and place it -- either on a toothpick or not -- in the bottom of the glass.  Then drain the contents of the shaker into the glass and enjoy.  If you did it right, you'll have to fight off the urge to run upstairs to throw on a jacket and tie.]

The guy: Chris Benoit also oozes everything that is good about the old school of wrestling.  There's no gimmickry, there's just utter competence.  If you see Chris Benoit in a wrestling ring, you know you're going to be in for a crisp, simple display of wrestling acumen without a bunch of pyrotechnics or other silliness.  It took him the better part of two decades to get there, but today, Benoit stands on top of the wrestling world and his name immediately conjures up images of excellence.

The synthesis: All good things to those who wait... if you're willing to wait 6 or 7 minutes, I can serve you up a Martini that'll change the way you think about Martinis.  And it took Chris Benoit 18 years, but he's finally changed the way the wrestling world looks at him.  Simple, classic, old school style and all, Benoit is now main event, championship material.
 

The drink: the alcohol-free version of the Bloody Mary is also common at Brunches.  I don't know why, since I can't think of any good reason to actually drink tomato juice if it won't get you fricked up...  but I guess some people don't like to get a buzz on at noon on a Sunday.  It actually still TASTES remarkably like the real deal, as the missing vodka doesn't really add a whole lot of flavor; an adequately jazzed-up Virgin Mary, and you might not even know the vodka was missing unless somebody told you.  [The Rick's Recipe: actually, in my basement, we don't serve Bloody Marys.  We serve Bloody Mannys.  Get it?  No pre-mixed stuff, all from scratch.  And even though a "Virgin Manny" is actually WAY more apropos than you might think -- look it up, kids!, just not in the standard Philosophical Texts, probably -- chances are you'd never have much use for one.  So I'll just tell you how to make the full-power version.  If you want it virginized, just take out the vodka...  fill a highball glass with ice.  Add about 3 oz. of vodka.  Fill mostly to the top with tomato juice.  Add three heavy shakes of Worcestershire Sauce.  Add a MINIMUM of five heavy shakes of your favorite hot sauce/tabasco sauce (if less than five, then you've only got a Bloody Mary).  Throw a couple of shakes of black pepper in, and some salt to taste, if you want.  Shake it vigorously, and serve.  You know my stance on unnecessary garnish, so leave the celery at home, Nancy.]

The guy: Shawn Michaels has found the Jesus, which you have to assume has completely robbed him of the asshole-itude that drove him to be the Main Event, the Showstopper, the boundary-pushing leader of DX, and so on and so forth...  but watching him lately, I dare you to find the missing ingredient.  If somebody didn't tell you Michaels was born again, you might never know... well, maybe you would if you paid attention to his promos and noticed that he was using words like "nimrod" where he once would have said "jack-off."  But seriously, it's amazing how driven and show-stealing Shawn can be even without the core of "Attitude" that once drove him and helped redefine the company.  Shawn Michaels in 2004 seems to be almost completely the same performer as Shawn Michaels 1996.

The synthesis: given Michaels' recent penchant for borderline-gruesome Crimson Masks, there could be no more perfect cocktail for him than the de-vodka-tized version of the Bloody Mary.  Michaels today is not the same guy he was 7 years ago, and the Virgin Mary is nowhere near the same drink as the Bloody Mary.  But both hide the missing ingredient very well, and in fact, both are demonstrably healthier in their latter form than in their former.  

And with that, I think I've gotten to the point where I -- the instigator of the Orton/Corona controversy -- no longer care to ponder the issue of my favorite wrestlers and what they might drink.  Thank you, Constant Readers, for indulging me, and for being so easily infuriated by my proselytizing!  Thank you, Randy Orton, for getting caught on TV with that girly drink and spurring two weeks of me having more fun writing this stuff than I have in a while!

And most of all: Thank you, sweet, sweet booze for teaching me so very much over the past decade or so since I started illicitly consuming you my senior year.  You have taught me about my limits while broadening my abilities.  You have given me a prism through which to filter my thoughts about all things, even pro wrestlers, apparently.  And you are the only thing in my life to have always loved me back, fully and unconditionally, even back when I was abusing you badly something like 5 or 6 nights a week.  

See you Monday, kids, with a more standard news and views column.  For now, I think I'm gonna head on out and enjoy the weekend.  Maybe knock back an Undertaker or seven.  Waking up and having a Stacy Keibler staring me in the face would sure be pleasant, but prospects on that front are grim.  I'll probably have to settle for drowning my sorrows in a stiff Tajiri.
 

E-MAIL RICK SCAIA
BROWSE THE OO ARCHIVES

Rick Scaia is a wrestling fan from Dayton, OH.  He's been doing this since 1995, but enjoyed it best when the suckers from SportsLine were actually PAYING him to be a fan.

All contents are Copyright 1995-2014 by OOWrestling.com.  All rights reserved.
This website is not affiliated with WWE or any other professional wrestling organization.  Privacy Statement.