Have you ever been involved in a three-month-long feud with a pro-wrestling champion? And no matter how many chair shots you administer, or tables you put him through, you still can’t seem to get the pin? What about when after losing match after match, you are finally forced into a Loser Leaves Town match for the belt?
Well, I lost that match, so about six weeks ago I got in my car and headed out on a road trip. Apparently, over a year ago, Paul tricked me into signing some contract while I was drunk, so I’m forced to keep writing reviews. Here’s one of them.
Houston is a filthy city. According to a 2004 report from the American Lung Association, Houston is the fifth smoggiest city in the country. During summer, the heat beats down on you, draining away any energy you have for the day. It’s also hell on a car that’s been driving around the South.
After having little luck finding a library, or anything other than a store to hang out in, we headed west. Aside from having the opportunity to drive on strange double-decker highways, there’s very little reason to visit Houston.
Last time Jesus H. Crust had been there, he was tackled by cops and charged with felony assault on a police officer. Luckily there was a video that showed the cops were lying (as is usually the case).
We were just outside of the city when we decided to try again to find something to do besides drive. About five minutes away from the highway, we found a rundown roller-skating rink. It was called Roller City, or some such shit.
Now here are some quick fun facts about roller-skating rinks, especially older ones. First, it’s usually pretty easy to get inside of one. Either ask about the restroom, or ask to apply for a job. Asking for a job will get you in quicker, but you’ll probably have to go to the trouble of bullshitting a little longer. Once inside, skating rinks are usually dark enough for you to be able to easily disappear into the crowd. Also, if you want to smoke pot, you can usually get away with it in the bathroom, especially since the ceiling often has holes in it that you can exhale into.
Most roller-skating rinks have an arcade of some sort, full of old videogames that are only played by lonely 10 year-olds and drunken older guys who should be watching their kids. The game that caught my attention in this arcade was WWF Wrestlefest.
WWF Wrestlefest was released by Namco in 1991. Its roster includes Hulk Hogan, Mr. Perfect, Ultimate Warrior, Big Boss Man, The Road Warriors, Demolition, Sgt. Slaughter, Earthquake, Ted DiBiase and Jake “The Snake” Roberts.
Crust and I played the Royal Rumble mode after losing a tag match against Mr. Perfect and Sgt. Slaughter because we couldn’t figure out how to tag each other in. We chose the team of Demolition. Gameplay requires a combination of button mashing and luck, since you only have two buttons to pull off your moves, neither of which seem to want to make your character pin anybody.
It wasn’t long before both Crust and I were victims of Earthquake’s bulbous ass attack.
That left Altered Beast as the only other game that we were willing to play. As some of you may remember, Altered Beast was promoted with the Sega Genesis as a bundle. The Genesis version isn’t much different from the arcade’s. At least the first few levels aren’t.
Basically, it’s a furry’s dream game, in that every level features a different animal that you can morph into. Actually, it would probably make for a better furry game if it also featured excessive masturbation and less of a feeling of loneliness, but that’s beside the point.
After about an hour in the arcade, we stepped back into the oppressive heat of the sun and got back to the highway to continue our journey west. We couldn’t have been on the road for more than thirty minutes when a police car was right behind us to pull us over.
I told Crust to, “hide your pouch, now.” Giving him just enough to put his stash away before the siren lights came on. The cop asked me to get out of the car, and come to his, where he checked my license and insurance and asked me where we were headed. Then he left me in his vehicle, and went over to my car to see if Crust would corroborate my story. After a few tense minutes he came back and said I was free to go with a warning, that my license plates weren’t visible enough under the bikes that we had strapped to the back of the car.
I calmly walked back to my Honda and got in.
“We’re good,” I told Crust. “He only gave me a warning about my tags.”
“Holy shit,” he replied. Positioning his thumb and forefinger about an inch away from each other, he added, “I came this close to eating the pot, and sticking the bowl in my butt.”