I’ve done a lot of horrible things in my day, a lot of mean things. But as I think of things I have done that cause me to hang my head in shame, I remember that many of these things started out as practical jokes. The intent was never evil (well, not usually at least); things just went awry and they became evil unto themselves. Sometimes it has taken years for me to even realize that what I did was wrong and vile in ways I couldn’t possibly imagine.
Such was the case this past week.
As long time Crappers will recall, a little over two years ago I got married. The woman I married was wonderful, a perfect match, my best friend. To this day, each morning when I wake up I look over at her and thank God above that he blessed me in such a manner. Our wedding was awesome, a smallish affair attended by a handful of our closest friends and family. My groomsmen were true friends, men who I feel honored to even know, let alone have the right to call “friend.” All three of them were huge wrestling fans – in fact, that’s how a lot of us met. Eric, my best man, and I are friends from high school, and we even went to our first WWF show together. Casey and I met when we were working together, and I lifted my leg like I was giving him a boot to the fact – “Hulk Hogan!” he screamed. From there, it was show after show, and we even did some independent stuff together. Finally, there was “Diamond” Dan Garza whom I met working for his independent promotion, Pro Wrestling International. We became fast friends, and for almost two years I spend every single Monday night at his place, watching Raw and Nitro as I bellowed “SWITCH!” when I’d get bored by WCW’s antics.
Since they were taking time out of their busy schedules to be my groomsmen, I wanted to get them all a personal gift that they would remember. I’ve been at weddings where the groomsmen received glasses, knives, and other stuff, but I wanted it to be something we all shared in, so I got everyone a copy of Mick Foley’s book, Foley is Good. Everyone except Dan. Because he was always the straight guy that we loved to goof on, I gave him a copy of Chyna’s book, If They Only Knew. Everyone had a good laugh at Dan’s expense.
Mr. Garza, if you are reading this right now, I am sorry. I am so, so sorry.
You see, because last week I found If They Only Knew at Half Price Books for just a buck, so I took it upon myself to actually read the stupid thing. And I was stunned at just how the English language could be used to commit such crimes against humanity.
“I am smiling,” the book begins. Ironic, because the opening three words are basically the final nice things that Joanie Laurer has to say about anyone or anything. Indeed, the book is little more than a hate-filled diatribe against anyone she’s ever run into. Here’s a short list version of everyone in the book about whom the so-called Ninth Wonder of the World has bad things to say:
Her Mom Her Dad Her Stepfather(s) Her Teachers, one of whom wanted to date her (yeah, right) Drug Rehab Counselors Cameramen Gynecologists Nurses The WWF Writing Team Some WWF Wrestlers Students at her high school The FBI Training program Customers to whom she sold pagers (whom she also claimed to beat up, which seems like a counter-productive sales tactic) Guys she talked to while working a 900-line Independent Wrestlers Bodybuilding Judges Skinny women Diane Keaton Goldberg Sable Sarah Jessica Parker Matthew Broderick Joan and Melissa Rivers The cast of the Drew Carey Show
Wow, that’s some list. I mean, yeah, Joan and Melissa are gimmes, but what has poor Diane Keaton ever done to anyone? I mean, sure, I didn’t care for The First Wives Club, but does she really deserve “someone who hasn’t changed her image since 1958 or something…someone who relies on the Frida Kahlo look, buttoned up to the neck and skittish as a circus pony” that Joanie lays into her?
It isn’t just people that Joanie has contempt for – she hates her theme music, too. In fact, the only things in the book that she says kind words about are Vince McMahon (whom she calls “my father”), Hunter (though to be fair, she blasts him at the end too), and Sean Michaels.
Which leads me to another complaint about the book – there are all manner of misspelled names. You’d think this, being a WWF publication, would at least spell the names of their own freakin’ characters right. Wrong. In addition to Sean (sic) Michaels, there’s also Val Venus, Rakishi, and Terry Reynolds (no relation, I assure you – I think that’s supposed to be Terri Runnels). You know, when Lou Albano can’t spell folks names right, I can sort of understand it. But this is a WWF book! I can’t even begin to understand how misspelled names of their OWN EMPLOYEES made it all the way through WWF’s editors and to the printing process.
There’s more fun in the book, too, of course. For example, Chyna gives good advice to those thinking about having their funny bags enlarged: “Now, there are two, and only two, ways to purchase a set of tits: you can go the bargain basement route and end up with cross-eyed cleavage or you can shell out some major bank. I wanted breasts that would look natural…(not) a set of hooters that defied the laws of gravity.” Maybe it’s just me, but when I look at Chyna’s swollen chesticles, the last thing I think is “NATURAL.”
She continues on to explain how they were popped, including this nightmare inducing revelation: “That night Hunter and I made loved. He grabbed my tit and I thought he had pincers.” I’m not sure what is more bothersome – the thought of the two of them going at it or picturing Paul Levesqueas some sort of lobster creature. (And note to readers – for the love of God, please stop sending me your artist’s renditions of Hunter the Lobster Man. I have enough nightmares as it is!)
By far the funniest chapter of the book has to be chapter 8, Only the Strong Survive. Get this: “Rena? Dead! Gorgeous George? Dead! Sunny and Nicole? DEAD AND DEADDER! Madusa? DEAD!! Asya? DEAAAAAAD!!!!” I wonder if in later printings of the book, done after Laurer left the company, if they added “Chyna? DEAD!” That would be funny, and just the kind of thing I could see a spiteful McMahon family do.
Other things I learned about in this book: Chyna is hot, and always has been. You may not have known that, but if you didn’t know just how hot she is, she would be more than happy to tell you just how beautiful she is. And she’ll have others, like Hunter and “Sean” tell you that for her. And you will hear it over and over and over and over again. Another anomaly – while the book is flooded with pictures of Laurer, there are ironically (and by “ironically”, I do mean “intentionally”) no shots of her from her early WWF days, back when she had that big square jaw and looked like a behildebeast. This is unfortunate, as after hearing her advice on breast implants, I personally was hoping for further insight from her into the world of plastic surgery, just in case I ever decide that I no longer want to look anything at all like I have my whole life.
Something interesting I noticed was that the book ends almost immediately after the real-life break up of her and Trips – kind of like her WWF career as a whole. Indeed, for a book about Chyna, Hunter certainly gets lots of ink, such as how he suddenly start putting on all that muscle (Chyna could lift more than he could, so he started really hitting the gym) and he even reiterates the story of Shawn losing his smile (dude, let it go – everyone knows that was a load of crap). It seems like even Laurer herself knows she’s doomed: “(In the storyline) Triple H is married to the character of Stephanie McMahon…Chyna (the character) goes with the flow, rolls with the punches. Hugs her ex-boyfriend for all the world to see. Yeah, I’m cool…let’s milk that storyline for all it’s worth! I mean, it’s just entertainment, right?”
It sure isn’t.
Sadly, Chyna left the WWF, broken heart in her meaty hand. She has unsuccessfully attempted to start an acting career, but WrestleCrappers shouldn’t be sad – she has a forthcoming rap CD coming under the name of Chynna Doll.
So don’t feel bad, Joanie – while the rest of the world may have forgotten you, it looks like you’ll always have a home at The Crap.