New Era Wrestling

N.E.W. THOUGHTS
By the Big Guy

It was dark.
My limo driver, (I had to fire the Rock for always taking sharp left turns. I almost messed up my
hair!! But, I digress.) stopped the car under a street light, which was the only illumination for blocks
around. Normally, you’d never see the Big Guy in a neighborhood like this all by himself, but Brother
Ralph was busy negotiating likeness rights for the new Ralph and the Big Guy playset, (available from
Mattel and just in time for Christmas), so there I was, stuck between my dislike for humanoids, and my
journalistic integrity, because I had come to investigate something that boggled my mind.
It would probably kill an average humanoid, but I digress. (Gonna be tough ride, hold your hat!)
I walked down that dark alley, like Duff Doyle walking to the potty, and I followed the sound of a
crowd cheering ahead of me. Eventually, I made my way through the dark, only tripping on one rat, and
I saw white door, with a tall man dressed in a black leather trench coat and a hat that he probably stole
from me when I was off doing charity work, because… I care. There were three people in line ahead of
me, until the door man saw that I had my Vanity Inc membership card, and I was allowed right inside,
given a rum and coke and slippers.
I nodded to the ham and egger who showed me to my seat and I waited for the show to begin.
There was a single spot light in the middle of what appeared to be a warehouse of sorts. Scattered
around this was a wide-open space, with strategically place weapons all around. It looked like one of
the ancient arenas where gladiators fought for their emperor, either that, or Joey Kincaide’s rumpus
room.
But, I digress. (You should really be used to this by now.)
That night, I witnessed some true brutality, as some of the toughest men in the world, not
named Tony Morales, fought like Tyler Durden on steroids. The fights were exciting, although not a
great deal of skill was on display, like in a typical New Era Show, where the greatest and most talented
athletes on Earth compete each and every month for the humanoids enjoyment. That is, until one man
emerged from the deepest darkest parts of Broomfield.
Jason Noel.
Now, as you ham and eggers may remember, (although probably not, you feeble minded fools),
I have written a column already about the amazing talents of this man. I am on record, (along with my
brilliant brother, Ralph), as saying that Jason Noel is just THAT close to being one of the most dominant
forces in professional wrestling. I have gone on record saying that Jason Noel has all the tools anyone
could ask for, speed, strength, agility, toughness, but that there was something missing, some crucial
element that seemed to be holding him back.
I went through my files before coming to this event, because IT’S CALLED BEING PROFESSIONAL,
DAGNABBIT!
Wow… where did that come from?
Anywho, Jason Noel came out, minus Dastardly Drew Steele and his non-stop references to
areolas and “crazy eyes”, without the humanoids and their pedestrian distractions, and he was focused
as I have never seen him before. He stepped into the spotlight, facing four men of various sizes and

skillsets, all more than willing to use the various baseball bats, steel chairs, tire irons, etc. scattered
around the lighted area.
I expected the worst. In fact, I had already started dialing the phone for Deebo to come down
and help Jason out, when I watched what a FOCUSED Jason Noel was capable of. He tore through all
four of those men in less than thirty seconds, (one may have been Mike Tyson, can’t be sure), and the
best thing about it, was that he eschewed the use of weaponry. He beat those four humanoid losers
within an inch of their lives, using moves that would all be perfectly legal in a wrestling ring, (depending
on what mood Streno is in).
Jason Noel emerged victorious and was crowned the World Street Fighting Champion by some
guys who smoked stogies and wore plaid suits. Yeah, I know, not exactly the belt held by B.F.C., but
come on… it was still very impressive. As I left, I saw Jason Noel and handed him my popcorn, (no, not
for keepsies, that’s MY popcorn!), and reached into my wallet, past the rows of c-notes, and gave him…
my business card.
Yes, you heard me right… THE business card. What’s my business, you ask? Well, it’s none of
yours, that’s what it is!! Stupid humanoid…
But, I digress again. (You think it’s easy digressing this much!? Try it, bub!)
I left that night, riding in my limousine, I went over that street fight in my head over and over,
trying to understand the difference. Now, granted, the four losers he beat up weren’t exactly Johnny
Proof or Chris Wrath, but come on… still pretty amazing. The difference is that Jason Noel relied on
Jason Noel. He didn’t look for fans, (not counting the Mafia… we care!), for inspiration or approval. He
didn’t care if anyone chanted his name, or if they cried out, “Duelie Sucks”… okay, maybe two or three
times, that happened… I mean, he does suck, right? It’s not like it’s a flippin secret or anything. People
aren’t walking around, asking themselves, “Does Duelie really suck?”
Damn, digressing again… sigh.
Now, let me just say… I am no manager. I could never… ever do what the lovely and talented
Alexus Vain does, but I knows what I knows, and Jason Noel, I am offering you the services of both
myself, and my equally brilliant Brother Ralph as advisors. Advisors who can tell you when the proper
time to poke an eye is, or when a blatant choke, or even the much-vaunted thumb to the eye would be
effective and appropriate, because it’s a family show and… we care.
We really do care, Jason. We truly do.
So, December 2, at Mile High Comics, when you next step into a New Era ring… I expect great
things from you, because I’ve seen it. It’s time for Jason Noel to be grabbing some much-deserved gold,
and if the Morales Mafia can be of service… just say the word.
Peace.

It was dark.

    My limo driver, (I had to fire the Rock for always taking sharp left turns.  I almost messed up my hair!!  But, I digress.) stopped the car under a street light, which was the only illumination for blocks around.  Normally, you’d never see the Big Guy in a neighborhood like this all by himself, but Brother Ralph was busy negotiating likeness rights for the new Ralph and the Big Guy playset, (available from Mattel and just in time for Christmas), so there I was, stuck between my dislike for humanoids, and my journalistic integrity, because I had come to investigate something that boggled my mind.

    It would probably kill an average humanoid, but I digress.  (Gonna be tough ride, hold your hat!)

    I walked down that dark alley, like Duff Doyle walking to the potty, and I followed the sound of a crowd cheering ahead of me.  Eventually, I made my way through the dark, only tripping on one rat, and I saw white door, with a tall man dressed in a black leather trench coat and a hat that he probably stole from me when I was off doing charity work, because… I care.  There were three people in line ahead of me, until the door man saw that I had my Vanity Inc membership card, and I was allowed right inside, given a rum and coke and slippers.

    I nodded to the ham and egger who showed me to my seat and I waited for the show to begin.  There was a single spot light in the middle of what appeared to be a warehouse of sorts.  Scattered around this was a wide-open space, with strategically place weapons all around.  It looked like one of the ancient arenas where gladiators fought for their emperor, either that, or Joey Kincaide’s rumpus room.

    But, I digress. (You should really be used to this by now.)

    That night, I witnessed some true brutality, as some of the toughest men in the world, not named Tony Morales, fought like Tyler Durden on steroids.  The fights were exciting, although not a great deal of skill was on display, like in a typical New Era Show, where the greatest and most talented athletes on Earth compete each and every month for the humanoids enjoyment.  That is, until one man emerged from the deepest darkest parts of Broomfield.

    Jason Noel.

    Now, as you ham and eggers may remember, (although probably not, you feeble minded fools), I have written a column already about the amazing talents of this man.  I am on record, (along with my brilliant brother, Ralph), as saying that Jason Noel is just THAT close to being one of the most dominant forces in professional wrestling.  I have gone on record saying that Jason Noel has all the tools anyone could ask for, speed, strength, agility, toughness, but that there was something missing, some crucial element that seemed to be holding him back.

    I went through my files before coming to this event, because IT’S CALLED BEING PROFESSIONAL, DAGNABBIT!

    Wow… where did that come from?

    Anywho, Jason Noel came out, minus Dastardly Drew Steele and his non-stop references to areolas and “crazy eyes”, without the humanoids and their pedestrian distractions, and he was focused  as I have never seen him before.  He stepped into the spotlight, facing four men of various sizes and skillsets, all more than willing to use the various baseball bats, steel chairs, tire irons, etc. scattered around the lighted area.

    I expected the worst.  In fact, I had already started dialing the phone for Deebo to come down and help Jason out, when I watched what a FOCUSED Jason Noel was capable of.  He tore through all four of those men in less than thirty seconds, (one may have been Mike Tyson, can’t be sure), and the best thing about it, was that he eschewed the use of weaponry.  He beat those four humanoid losers within an inch of their lives, using moves that would all be perfectly legal in a wrestling ring, (depending on what mood Streno is in).

    Jason Noel emerged victorious and was crowned the World Street Fighting Champion by some guys who smoked stogies and wore plaid suits.  Yeah, I know, not exactly the belt held by B.F.C., but come on… it was still very impressive.  As I left, I saw Jason Noel and handed him my popcorn, (no, not for keepsies, that’s MY popcorn!), and reached into my wallet, past the rows of c-notes, and gave him… my business card.

Yes, you heard me right… THE business card.  What’s my business, you ask?  Well, it’s none of yours, that’s what it is!!  Stupid humanoid…

But, I digress again. (You think it’s easy digressing this much!?  Try it, bub!)

I left that night, riding in my limousine, I went over that street fight in my head over and over, trying to understand the difference.  Now, granted, the four losers he beat up weren’t exactly Johnny Proof or Chris Wrath, but come on… still pretty amazing.  The difference is that Jason Noel relied on Jason Noel.  He didn’t look for fans, (not counting the Mafia… we care!), for inspiration or approval.  He didn’t care if anyone chanted his name, or if they cried out, “Duelie Sucks”… okay, maybe two or three times, that happened… I mean, he does suck, right?  It’s not like it’s a flippin secret or anything.  People aren’t walking around, asking themselves, “Does Duelie really suck?”

Damn, digressing again… sigh.

Now, let me just say… I am no manager.  I could never… ever do what the lovely and talented Alexus Vain does, but I knows what I knows, and Jason Noel, I am offering you the services of both myself, and my equally brilliant Brother Ralph as advisors.  Advisors who can tell you when the proper time to poke an eye is, or when a blatant choke, or even the much-vaunted thumb to the eye would be effective and appropriate, because it’s a family show and… we care.

We really do care, Jason.  We truly do.

So, December 2, at Mile High Comics, when you next step into a New Era ring… I expect great things from you, because I’ve seen it.  It’s time for Jason Noel to be grabbing some much-deserved gold, and if the Morales Mafia can be of service… just say the word.

Peace.