20130911-231717.jpgSeriously, guys.

For the past while I’ve been reading and enjoying a little wrestling fanzine called The Atomic Elbow. TAE is the whole reason I got the urge to buy a sealed box of WCW cards (which led to my short-lived blog adventure, Two Packs a Day), because the awesome dude who makes it — Robert — was packing random cards from that series in with orders when he mailed them out.

So, if you don’t already know, I love wrestling. I love writing. And here was a place where I could potentially get some thoughts down on paper about wrestling topics that interested me. It seemed like a natural idea to submit something, anything, to Robert for his publication.

It took some work, but I managed to put together an essay that I think is worthy of being in The Atomic Elbow. And guess what? Now you can read it in this week’s The Atomic Elbow #7.

How do you get yourself a copy? Well, just follow the link! It’ll set you back a whole $5 in the US, and probably slightly more for international orders?

And guys, this is the only way you will get to read the essay I wrote. Did I mention it includes an illustration by me? Well now consider it mentioned. Neither of these items will be found on this blog. Print exclusive, bitches.

And just in case, here’s a direct link to the Atomic Elbow store front.

Presenting my almost-daily thing that I do just for the hell of it, Two Packs a Day! Every weekday, I open two packs of WCW trading cards from 1991 and share my findings with you, complete with cheap, lazy jokes at the expense of the professional wrestlers involved. Enjoy!

Hey there. I’m Mac. Now don’t none a y’all get yerselves all excited or nuthin, I just been tasked by Corwin’s agent (some four-eyed jackass named Mr. Ledbetter) with sharin what’s goin on with ol Corwin.

See, the sumbitch up and ran off. Last time I seen him, he wasn’t lookin so hot. it was a lil over a week ago when he come knockin on the door of my Airstream. When I answered, I could see he hadn’t been doin good, cuz his hair was all over the damn place and his neck beard had grown like a patch of weeds or somethin, just hair all over the damn place. And his eyes. See, I know Corwin’s not all there in his head, but he just looked crazed. Not even the meth heads out in Chino Valley look that nuts.

I gotta admit I didn’t want none of it at first. I took one look and I told that bum to fuck right off. I slammed the door in his hobo-lookin face and grabbed me a beer out of the cooler. But Corwin just pounded the door harder. He was yellin, too. Now, ya know, I watched me some wrasslin in my day but I ain’t all intellectual about it. I know me some Arn and Ole Anderson, I know me some Buddy Rogers, I know me some Harley Race, but that’s about it. Every once in a while Joey down the street has me over to his momma’s trailer in Cornville for the big pay-per-view, but shit, that’s about it. Corwin on the other hand, he damn well lives for the weird shit. He knows the name of wrasslers I didn’t even know existed.

And that night when he was poundin on my door, he was rantin and ravin about Steiners and Genetic Freaks and Dirty Dutch people and El-Gee-Gan-Tays. Fucked if I know what hell was goin on in his head. I finally opened the door again and there he was, just sittin on my steps, the pockets of his cut-offs stuffed with plastic WCW wrappers. He stunk of pipe tobacco and bathtub gin. He was forlorn.

So I asked him what the hell was up. He said he just couldn’t take anymore of them there cards he was writin about on his blog, and some shit about him tryin a be a “real writer” and write books and respectable shit and really I wasn’t paying a whole lotta attention no more cuz i noticed it was almost time for So You Think You Can Dance and I never miss that shit and now here was this highly educated in-tuh-lectual type cryin on my linoleum floor about figure four leglocks and Boston crabs and I can’t even make heads or tails because I’m allergic to seafood anyway.

So I smack the moron upside the head and tell him to man the fuck up and he wipes his nose on the sleeve of his lil wussy-ass Quantum Leap tee shirt and stands up and says I’m right. And I’m like, “well shit, Corwin, I know that.”

And then he straightens himself out and takes a beer out of the cooler and takes a big, cold drink of that beer and he asks what I’m up to and I tells him So You Think You Can Dance is comin on and I ain’t gonna miss that shit for what and he says cool and everything seems alright. I sit in my lay-z-boy with a pile of cold ones on the floor next to me and he leans against my shelf of Hustlers and we watch the show. And then he goes into the bathroom to take a leak. When the show’s over I notice he’s still in there and I tell him to hurry up and pinch that shit off. And then a whole ruckus kicks up in there and by the time I kick down the door he’s halfway out the bathroom window with his shirt peeled off and his face covered in my old lady’s lipstick like some kind of indian war paint and he says “Load the spaceship with the rocket fuel” and then he’s gone in the darkness. Next I hear the crash of glass and when I finally get my tired ass out the front door he’s peelin off in my old Maverick. Thats when I notice he stole my keys and then I’m just pissed off cuz my Basha’s card is on that keychain and now how am I supposed to get my member savings?

It’s bullshit, I tell you. I hate payin full price for my vegetables. The Maverick is kind of a prized possession as well, but only cuz I won it off Pete Slater in a game of quarters. We ain’t got a whole lot to do in the middle of December round here unless you like skiin. I hate the shit. Don’t ask me why I live in a mountain town that gets snow.

And that’s the last I seen of Corwin. I talked to his agent and he says Corwin just needs some time off to recuperate after all the hard work he was puttin in at the college and he and his buxom lil lady are just gettin some R&R. But I know that’s bullshit too.

The man’s lost his mind. I looked over at his tweeter account or whatever it is and he’s still talkin on it. Looks like he hit Tucson, which baffles me cuz nobody but crazies even wanna step foot in Tucson. But his agent says Corwin is back in town again, so I been tasked with tracking the little fucker down. I got a hot tip from one of the hoboes that hangs around Corwin’s neighborhood, so I’m gonna follow that up.

I’ll let you know. Until Corwin gets back, his agent has left me with his blog password and I’m gonna keep you up to date on my hunt.

Wish me luck,


It was as I began peeling away the plastic wrapper on the first of today’s packs that something hit me: I can’t take much more of this. I’m feeling my lowest, guys. I had a thought, back when I first came up with this sorta-daily bit, that this might happen. How little I knew, my friends.

Damn you, Ted Turner!

I haven’t organized all the cards I’ve gone through just yet, so I don’t know if I have a complete set here, but it’s certainly starting to feel like I’ve seen all there is to see in this series. This is a card set consisting of 162 cards, with only 13 individual wrestlers, 4 tag teams (making that a total of 21 wrestlers represented), and 3 non-wrestling talents (two managers and an announcer). You’d think they would’ve tried to do more than just make 13 individual Sting cards, but alas, here we are with 13 cards devoted to the Stinger.

Now, I did a little research, and using Mike Rotunda (Mr. Wallstreet) as a marker, I was able to figure out that the period of time represented on these cards must be between roughly June 1990 and January 1991. I came to this conclusion upon learning that Rotunda turned heel and became Wallstreet in mid-1990, and then left WCW for the WWF in early 1991. By January 1991, any WCW rosters I can find online do not list Rotunda or Wallstreet.

If we can go off of this, we can determine during the period of time represented in this set, there were between 36 and 44 wrestlers on the WCW roster. Guys like Junkyard Dog, the Iron Sheik, the Nasty Boys, “Mean” Mark Callous (the Undertaker), and Vader. If you have Vader on your roster, why the hell do you not include him in a card set? Were there legal issues involved?

Now here’s what throws my theory about the time period into complete disarray: Dutch Mantell doesn’t show up on a WCW roster until March 1991. Now, if I am to believe the rosters I am finding online (which of course is risky, since it’s, you know, the internet), that means Dirty Dutch and Mr. Wallstreet weren’t even in WCW at the same time! Fuck!

So I don’t know what the hell was going on with these cards, obviously, but for some reason they only had 21 wrestlers they could use. That does not seem like a particularly good thing if you want to put out a set of trading cards.

Impel could’ve done something they had previously worked into the Marvel Universe trading card series by devoting cards to famous matches, or perhaps big feuds or stables or even showcased more of the non-wrestling talent, but instead this is what we got.

So I’m feeling it, friends. I’m feeling my lowest. I’ve seen it all! And if I haven’t, I have yet to encounter a sign that I’m wrong.

I can’t look at another card of Ricky Morton’s sad, disheveled face. I can’t handle another poor attempt to make El Gigante seem like a serious competitor. No more, I say. Please.

But I must finish opening this second pack. I have to.

Folks, while the title of this blog series is a clever joke referring to smoking cigarettes, I have to tell you that I’d rather risk lung cancer than open this pack of WCW cards. But here we go.

First, let me make a sacrifice to the deadly Black Scorpion, so that he may bring me good fortune in this pack…

Where’s Robocop to save you now, Stinger???

Okay, pack opened… Nothing, nothing, nothing… wait.

Legolas! What do you elf-eyes see?!

It can’t be! It’s impossible!



It’s me, Gibson! It was me ALLLLL ALONNNNG!!!!

Dutch Mantell, you sonufabitch! You magnificent bastard! You dirty scoundrel! You and your glorious poncho have saved me from certain doom, just so you can prolong the torture? To what end? To. What. End???

I will play your game, Dirty Dutch. But to defeat you, I must learn your secrets! I must become you!

Hm, it appears I need to pluck my unibrow again…



Bonus stuff:

  1. Sting vs. the mysterious Black Scorpion
  2. Sting gets a helping hand from Robocop
%d bloggers like this: