Hulk Hogan is totally blown up after only a few minutes of work. He obviously doesn’t deserve his pay-out from whatever money mark booked this abortion of a sex tape.
There’s a bitter indie wrestler inside of all of us, and that bitter indie worker has a stinging criticism of Hulk Hogan’s sex tape…
Hulk Hogan used to be an inspiration. I mean, his work rate always sucked, but the Hulkster could work a crowd. You can’t take that away from him. He could just cup his hand to his ear and draw the fans in. When he tore his red and yellow Hulkamania shirt off his massive back, we knew who this man was. But after watching Hogan’s disrespect the business during his latest sex tape, I’m not sure I know this Hulkster anymore.
I mean he totally just mails it in. He just casually removes his shirt and pants instead of ripping them to shreds. He doesn’t face the camera and go into a pose down to work the marks. And when the wife of his best friend wraps her lips around his penis to get him hard, he doesn’t even bother to sell the move, to purse his lips and fling the sweat from his wisps of fried hair. He even takes the time to answer his cellphone mid-fallatio. And when he gets on the phone, he could’ve given the fans what they paid for and cut a mad promo about his 24-inch pythons like he did back in the day on “Saturday Night’s Main Event,” but he can’t even do that.
The only reason Hogan is even in this sex tape is because of backroom politics—the kind of Kevin Nash/Hogan/NWO era backstabbing and influence mongering that are keeping talented indie workers out of the bedrooms of their best friends’ wives right now. Hogan is now a cancer in the locker room and the bedroom!
Now when I defended my Solano County Maximum Carnage Hardcore Championship at Nü Star Pro Wrestling’s Gymnasium Arena Wars In Your Face: Total Extreems 2 at the Deer Valley High School Multipurpose Auditorium in Antioch, CA, I left everything in the ring in a way that the Hulkster hasn’t in decades. But even with my gut-wrenching performance in my no-rulz-barred, falls-count-everywhere title defense against Johnny Supremes, I still had something left in the tank later that night when I found myself back in the studio apartment of one Tammy Lynne Trinity, the former girlfriend and ex-valet of my former tag-team partner, the Alameda Assassin.
I have to tell you that the air in that tiny room with a small kitchenette in the Buchanan Gardens Apartments that night was freakin’ electric man. She had just downed a couple of shots of Jager and was halfway through a cold bottle of Smirnoff Ice, but I could tell that she was still at the top of her game. She was dangerous.
Now somebody like Hogan would’ve just seen a second-hand futon that me and Alameda hauled in off the side of the Capistrano Street, but to me this was the squared circle, and that Section 8 apartment was Madison Square Garden. Did I just stand there and let her do the work the way that Hogan did? No. I had Slipknot’s “Disasterpiece” all cued up. I stood on her sofa and flexed every muscle in my arms and neck as hard as I could to let Tammy Lynne and the fans know that I meant business in there—that the same guy who fought to retain his title after being slammed on a bed of thumbtacks in front of a capacity crowd of at least 98 people was going to give it his all.
And once me and Tammy Lynne Trinity locked up, we told a story in there. That’s what you have to do if you want to be successful in this business—you have to work with your partner to tell a story. Hogan just laid there, letting his celebrity do the work for him. Tammy and I traded positions. The fans were totally on edge, thinking I was going to finish when she got on top of me in a reverse cowgirl with her back facing me, and started to grind it, but then I reversed it by rolling her up into a legit doggy style with her face driven into this California Splash Water Park throw pillow that she scored in Pleasanton when she was a kid.
And I could’ve taken it home right there, just like Hogan did, but I didn’t. If there’s one other thing that you have to do in this business, you have to build up to it. So just like I did in the ring that same night, I hit the Cloverleaf Spinebuster, my patented finishing move. Tammy took the move perfectly. She totally put me over in there, which was the right thing to do. Tammy gave back to the business that made her.
Sometimes it’s all about cardiovascular conditioning, so I know to stay away from the fast food, the Jack in the Box. I mostly stick to eating the Buffalo Chicken Ranch Melt at Subway and wash it down with an Orange Dream Machine Smoothie from Jamba Juice. From the three comments on my vid on YouPorn, I know the fans appreciate my total commitment to athleticism. But do I get a shot at the WWE or TNA? Do I get screen grabs of my sex vid posted on The Dirt or Gawker?!? No way. It’s the politics of this business. No matter how past his prime Hogan gets, he’ll always be on top–even when he’s on the bottom. But I’ll tell you this: I’m still the Solano County Maximum Carnage Hardcore Champion. And the only way you’ll take this strap away from me is at Nü Star Pro’s Slaughter in the Stadium: No Return Back next month at the Flamingo Banquet Hall in Vallejo. Be there.
Special thanks to Shane “Doc Atrocity” Hanson and Holzfeuer for ideas and inspiration.