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 fiancée wrote this haiku about it. It's a verbatim transcription of what the girl said:
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:
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) To get to The Obtuse Angle Archive, Click Here
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Chapter Twenty: “What Do We Have” -What do we have? I almost have this Grizzly guy tracked down. I have a lead on a bouncer who uses a cane to get around. He’s been arrested for hitting people with it. -We have a murder, a stabbing.