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Wolfram J. Paulovich
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#1 Posted on 6.12.02 1421.25
Reposted on: 6.12.09 1429.02

THE OBTUSE ANGLE
Haiku's Ugly Return
December 6, 2002


by Jeb Tennyson Lund
OnlineOnslaught.com/CitizenScholar.net


Many weeks ago, I ducked the heady chore of a conceptual column with that greatest bar past-time: haiku! Sure, it's technically a thousands-of-years-old Japanese art form specifically devoted to nature. (If it deals with man or man-made things, it is called senryu.) But to me, haiku begins with a fresh pint and ends with me slaloming my car down the road aiming for Tri-Delt sisters in Mudd hip-huggers. Also my haiku frequently talks about spanking.

Once again, in lieu of a well-reasoned and diligently crafted column, I visit upon readers the muddled ramblings of a man counting out syllables with his fingers in a sticky, mouldering bar. Here are the latest thoughts on the December 1 episode of Raw straight from the International Centre for Haiku Development (Jakarta).

Pre-Match Show
Is that Ashley Judd
On the Next Generation?
She should have stayed there

Triple H
I
Triple H irks me
So much that there aren't enough
Syllables for it
II
Oh wait, there are: that
Donkey-felching job-proof dull
Son of a whore! There.

I
When Triple H shows
On screen, the closed-captioning
"Audience" says, "Ooh!"
II
So that's the source of
His fan-base: people who can't
Hear his long promos

Dudleys Promo and Dudleys v. Three-Minute Warning
In Dudley logic,
Clothes equal titles. Just keep
Them away from dogs

Bubba did a nice
Flipping armbar. There's hope for
His bulbous ass yet!

The 3-D is still
Easily the coolest tag
Finisher ever

Bubba's "crotch-elbow" —
A desperate bid for cheers....
It ain't workin', dude

Screw all these "hot" tags!
Where are the limp, fishy tags?
Wait for Test's match, Jeb

Trish v. Ivory
Trish's finisher
Has a name I forgot. How
About, "Often Missed"?

Trish's forearms suck
She'd miss hitting the mat if
It weren't beneath her

Breasts so inflated....
If they lay on their bellies,
Could I dribble them?

Lance Storm
Lance, you wrestle well,
But I never, ever, need
To see your nuts' shape

Mere half Boston crab....
An underachiever, huh?
Do a whole crab, Storm!

Batista
How do I spell his
Name? Does it have a U? Who
Cares — he's low mid-card

Batista's tits are
Hanging low. Perhaps this is
Why Flair's helping him

Batista reminds
Me of Clouseau's assistant
Cato. Don't ask why

He's like Mr. Bond.
"Batista. Dave Batista.
I'll have a beer — stirred."

Booker v. Jericho and Booker/Goldust v. Jericho/Christian
Jericho's music
Just makes him sound like the King
Of Collectibles

Val Venis stops all —
Then restarts all, at all times.
The Dusty "Middle"

Go Booker T! Shit
Curry! Shit curry! Damn. All
Those germs for nothing....

Goldust goes crazy!
He's like an ass afire! Well,
It is his gimmick....

What's this? A really
Good match on Raw? How long have
I been at this bar?

Bar Interlude...
I can't write haiku anywhere other than a bar. It just seems dishonest. I inherited this tradition from a friend who one day covered every coaster in his local bar with a different original haiku. I don't aspire to this level of production, because I frankly do not run a monthly bar tab costly enough to cover a bar's monthly electric bill — something else that this friend of mine often did. He's since stopped drinking and become much less fun. Also, he doesn't speak to me anymore because my idea of fun still occasionally involves writing haiku in bars. Perhaps the fact that we live 200 miles away from each other also factors in somewhere.

Unfortunately, writing haiku in a bar has a few drawbacks. First, you start to get lazy after a while. (Read: too drunk to care.) Second, there are hundreds of distractions — most of which, if you're a guy like me, are just normal features of the female body... and some of which, if you're drunk, can simply involve the paths of wood grain. Finally, and perhaps worst of all, if you're writing wrestling haiku, you have to defend your affection for the WWE to hordes of inebriated quasi-intellectuals who spend half their time asking you questions and the other half of the time deriding the answers. (It is for this reason that I no longer carry history books to bars: too many unwinnable arguments.) These kindly souls assure you that wrestling is, in fact, fake. They often sit too close to you, speak loudly, spit inside your ear, smoke bad cigarettes and never offer to buy you anything.

Occasionally, however, the distractions can be glorious. Take this Monday night. The bar was jammed with Crombie Zombies and Fitch Bitches. A girl who was barely a biscuit over 20 came in, visibly stumbling. Not wavering, meandering or slouching: stumbling. She looked like she thought she was running the Parris Island obstacle course with R. Lee Ermey screaming behind her all the way.

She immediately sat on a bar stool, and propped herself up on the bar with her arms and ordered a "whiirrrsshhhn." This meant, "White Russian." She repeated this, along with the word, "hey," and incorrect names for the bartenders for over ten minutes. My fiancιe wrote this haiku about it. It's a verbatim transcription of what the girl said:

Hey! White Russsman hey!
Whmm Rusmmn Wmmn Rsssmn He!
Hey! He! WhitRussiannnn!

This girl was a prize. She slammed her White Russian in about twenty seconds, largely due to the fact that it was milk and Coca Cola. She didn't notice. She tried to get another one, but not having paid for the first one (and not understanding that the numbers the bartenders were calling out were in fact prices) severely hampered her cause. Also hampering her cause were her elbows: she couldn't take her shirt off — to show her tits for a free drink — because of those pesky joints. In frustration, she went and danced on top of the pool table.

Dancing is mighty thirst work, though, and as soon as she recovered from getting off the pool table, falling over, lying down on the pool table and waving her bent legs out and in (like she was trying to clap her knees), accidentally walking into the men's restroom (and me) while I was peeing, nearly falling into the women's restroom (from the sound of it) — as soon as she'd done all of this, she was back haranguing for a white russian. Here is my verbatim rendering of that process:

Oignnhh! Meblanta! Nug!
Hey! Bn, befnff! Imma whit
Russintt! Ffank! Gorna!

Eventually, she left in a huff. Later she returned, angrily knocked over four stools and kicked ineffectually at the plexiglass front door. She seemed genuinely surprised that the door didn't break, but then again, she also seemed genuinely surprised that gravity still worked along the same principles as ever. Finally, she left again. I do miss her. So wherever you are, blonde maiden in a John Lennon hat, may the wind always whisper to you: "whmnrssn."

Victoria... Then Steiner
Vickie and Jackie:
Don't wrestle well. You'll blow it
For the other girls

Steven Richards and
Victoria.... Taylor and
Burton you are not

Steiner's so swollen
His belly-button is a
Third eye. Aum shiva

Scott Steiner explodes!
Not really, but you thought he
Might have, didn't you?

Steiner, grope her ass.
No, not her! Victoria!
The one in the ring!

General Thoughts
Bischoff is snake oil
Mixed with kerosene and then
Poured off a duck's back

Test is on my screen,
Talking of testicles. But
He's unqualified

A main event with
That HHHHBK:
Hot acronym fun!

This show is missing
A Hell in a Cell. No, wait,
I meant "corpses." Yeah.

RVD breaks Trip's
Face with a moonsault. Good try,
Chester, but no neck

A Farewell Spanking Haiku!
Sunlit corona
Shines on the glistening ass
Bent, at dawn, for spank


To Readers:
Comments and criticisms are very welcome. Go nuts.

(edited by Jeb Tennyson Lund on 7.12.02 1827)
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socetew
Chourico
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#2 Posted on 9.12.02 1302.10
Reposted on: 9.12.09 1304.23
The Haikus were really funny! At first, I thought the column was gonna suck, cuz I thought it said "Haku's return".

-eocs
mountinman44
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#3 Posted on 9.12.02 1446.43
Reposted on: 9.12.09 1447.48
That drunk chick was a peach, eh? I've known womens like that.
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