Tuesday, September 13, 2011
Inspired by this post at a delicious blog. It is based on the professional wrestling "jobber" (="always gets beat up") character. He is a staple of old-school TV and indy fed wrestling.
The blogger proposes a "Jobber-Con." A convention like Comic-Con, but for "jobbers, the heels who crush them, the fans who love them, the folks who mock them and everyone in between."
Jobbers will be the star attractions. And jobbers will be a big part of the exhibits, where heels dominate and embarrass them and offer fans the opportunity to do the same. Show off for your date! Beat a guy up with one punch!
Of course there are other things, like panels where jobbers sit in front of thousands of fans, who grill them on their most famous – and embarrassing - moments.
Fans enthusiastically elaborated in the comments: One suggested allowing (perhaps at no admission) in groups of frat jocks or high school bullies who were bringing their personal jobbers victims, wimps they love to torment, to beat, dominate and humiliate in the rings.
One suggested a fundraiser idea. The jobbers (or bullied wimps from the patrons) take hours-long shifts restrained. Some with arms tied in ring ropes, some tied in the ropes facing outside the ring so their legs are hanging off the ground. Patrons line up to pound them. Work over the jobber for a few minutes, five bucks. Get your photo taken with him and signed, another five.
I knew I would be one of the older jobbers. I had stopped wrestling 23 years ago, and I never did much of it even when I could call myself a fighter. Still, I had my niche, my specialty, as a soft-bellied punching bag. I did that sell for a number of promotions and feds. I could be good guy, bad guy, heel or pretty boy. But whatever I showed off on my way to the ring, once the fight began the only thing I did was make the other fighter look good by taking his fist in my belly.
It's an important job, but not a common one, so there never were more than a few of us at a time.
So naturally I wasn't given any star turns at Jobber-Con (or "Lolla-pa-Loser," as some of us called it). Instead, the promoters found plenty of work for me on the fringes, and I don't doubt if I saw more action those three days than most of the stars.
There's so much I can only give you highlights. It's all still a whirl in my head.
I took a turn in the "tavern," the refreshment pavillion, which had an Old West theme. To fit me into it they gave me a pair of tight, low-waist jeans and a black leather vest that looked like it had been made to fit a 13-year-old girl. Then they strapped me back to a big wagon wheel mounted on the wall behind the bar, feet off the ground, and any woman could spin a gambling wheel at the end of the bar. Whichever number it landed on, from 1 to 20, that's how many bellypunches her boyfriend -- or the bartender of her choice -- got to give me. If it was under 5, the management always was generous and let her spin again.
I did get into one ring, and quickly got dumped out of it. It was the Sunday "battle royale," and they mainly needed me for chum. I did my part, wandering blitheringly out into the middle of the ring, and promply got my belly whomped.
I stood there doubled over, waiting for someone to decide to give me more. Instead I was grabbed by the belt and tossed out of the ring, over the top rope. Not so fast! I managed to curl up so that I landed sitting on the edge of the ring, then fell back, arms spread, and let myself drop. I had practiced this and practiced it, anticipating this moment.
As I dropped I let my arms catch in the ropes, and with a quick twist of the elbows I got myself wrapped up in the ring ropes, facing the audience, outside the ring, arms spread wide, feet off the ground, belly thrust out right at face level. I was the perfect belly punching bag!
I drew trouble right away. A couple of beefy bad guys who had been ejected by the other bad guys, were stalking outside the ring in a sour mood. They took to me like wolves to a lamb.
They stood on either side of me and took turns mashing my belly with their fists. With each punch I jerked spasmodically and kicked feebly, and clenched my fingers helplessly. My face glistened with the exertion of expressing such cruel belly-aching.
I was tickled to learn that many people remembered my most famous -- or infamous -- scene: The studio booth beating. I was being interviewed before the fight, by the glamor-girl "hostess" of the program (who went on to be a big thing in the WWE soon thereafter), and my opponent takes offense at something I've said, and he bursts in and beats me up right in front of her, under studio lighting and with cameras close up.
Most of them also wanted to see me re-enact it. So of course I let them beat me up, flailing helplessly while they slug me in the gut. Girlfriends standing by.
Friday, September 2, 2011
Let me tell you how I lured that older neighbor of mine, the perv, into a trap. And as icing on the cake I got to see him get totally beat up. Nice and slow.
You remember the dump where I live? He lives in that nice place next door. He would stare at me when he thought I wasn't looking. Just newly married himself, too. But he was home a lot when his wife wasn't. And whenever I was outside, he found a reason to be outside. Otherwise, I never noticed him to be fond of yardwork.
We hacked his computer, just for kicks, and that's when I realized why I was so hot to him. He had a belly-button fetish. Bare bellies. Really turned him on. Well, that was my "look" that summer: Low-slung hiphugger jeans. And a very short, tight, girly belly top. Bare-bellied. All the time. All the girls were that summer. But especially me. Belly-Button Girl. No wonder I gave him fits.
So if that was his bait, then I would use it to give him a beatdown he'd know he deserved. Because I could, and because I was bored. And because it sort of aroused me to think about it. The power I had and what it could do.
I literally flaunted my belly at him. Went right up to him and talked to himin his driveway. My hands on my hips, relaxed, laughing. I could watch him slowly explode inside. [laughs softly] He was my slave! If I wanted him. He'd have doen anything to kiss this belly-button. My pretty belly and my outfit owned his eyes. It was funny!
I told him right out he had a date with me. The next afternoon. His wife would be gone. I got him all but drooling on my belly-button, then said I had to go, but he could meet me next day at 1 down at the biker club.
Belly boy didn't have a choice. There was no way he was going to say 'no' to that. Yeah, I'm a tease.
Well, all the bikers know me. They better. I'm the baby sister of the chapter prez. I found more than enough of them lounging in there the next day -- five -- to get the job done. I hired all five. Cost me five cases of beer, but it was worth it. Their five girlfriends came in the bargain.
I told them what I wanted done to him, and exactly how. Made them demonstrate a few times. Then told them to go back to playing pool and wait for him.
I went out to the front room, where he'd be coming in. I had on my lowest hiphugger jeans and my skimpiest belly top, you bet. When he came in, I leaned back casually on the bar. Just to give him a nice long stare at my belly.
[laughing] Did he ever fall for it. But before I took him into that room, I handed him a men's T-shirt I had hacked the waist off. I told him he would have to wear this because he wasn't a club member. So of course he did. Then I took Belly Boy by the hand and led him into that room, where the five thugs I had hired waited to beat up his bare belly, one after another, according to my instructions. While the mocking voices of their slut girlfriends branded him with humiliation. For my pleasure.
The setting of a pool hall was mere convenience, but the thick, thumping butt-ends of the pool cues turned out to be an advantage I had not anticipated.
Did we film it? You bet!