Punching Day: Rope Opera

Today, we’re learning Russology. The method that turns watchable TV into real TV. Meet America’s finest Vince Russo scholar: Vince Russo.

A man of many near-talents, once caged by wrestling/steel cages. Rope Opera brought Vince Russo’s signature clarity and restraint to the page, covering his stint as WCW head writer. And WCW’s unrelated collapse. The book is genuine treasure for Russologists. We’re studying car-implosion television with the best.

Win or lose, that’s a quality subtitle. The title sucks, and someone should have told him. But that’s a running theme. The artist’s signature. The mark of a virtuoso.

Master Russo: how do I get the FCC off my ass?

A run-in, in the opening, in print. Vince knows he’s holding dynamite, and takes his time.This book should be half memoir, half criminal defense.

I can’t wait. Let’s hop ahead.

Odd line for a combat shock jock. You know what else puts glamor, physique, and fan armies first? Cape comics. Russo loves superheroes, and rehashes jokes about Hulk’s pants from the mesozoic. You can see why he brought that to wrestling.

Late WCW was low-calorie media by wrestling standards. But you can’t write three hits without a sense of irony. And hints of mastery are trickling in. Keep those pencils ready: class is in session, and someone just mentioned the news.

Nice pull! Humor’s all about surprise. We expected wacky bro lust, and got angry pastor lust. That eye for structure turns humble writers into combat sport champions.

His mastery of the twist also touches the personal. Take Russo’s reflection on his first firing.

Wait. I know this tone. Anger, evasion, and purity. It’s less weekday night, and more ruined weekend. Russology’s evolved in my absence.

Amazing. I dicked up the math. Rope Opera is half memoir, half defense, and all Jesus.

You might not know him. Vince Russo’s cursed with everything writers want. He’s distinctive, quotable, knows Booker T, famous, prolific, wrote dialogue for Booker T, widely imitated, retired, and wrestled Booker T. Vince earned these boons writing WCW Nitro, WWE Raw, TNA Impact!, and Jim Cornette’s eulogy. All without an atom of ability.

If that seems harsh, your eyes are clouded by talent. Witness another way.

You may have noticed his focus issue. Today, it’s a feature:

This lets me sleep easier. Not because it’s richly self-indulgent/audience-hating/stupid–which it is–but because I’m using Rope Opera as intended. Born-again delirium filtered through wrestling jargon is grass-fed Dennard-bait. I don’t need stale gossip. I need fresh manifestos.

If you’re Christ-curious, take Vince’s hand. You’ll never have a funnier shot at redemption. Why not have the best story at the divinity retreat? After decades of the same seven sins, I’m ready for a change.

For the rest of us, Chapter 3’s an early lesson in Russology. Try finding another Bible adaptation this efficient. Russo knows all that begetting and forsoothing isn’t real. He sticks to the action:

Ah, Eden. Even when a legendarily unfocused New Yawker yanks a lucha mask on theology, “blame women” shines through. That part isn't Vince’s fault, I’m just an unfocused New Yawker too. Keep me away from any show you enjoy.

“Relatable” gets too much credit. A down to Earth, wrestling slang version of myth makes both look dumber. “Persephone was a happy referee until Hades noticed her. They settled out of court.” Not too inspirational.

I could be wrong; let’s give combat theology more effort. Russologists don’t give up when a few ratings, critics, fans, performers, or memories turn on them. They push until the world moves. Here’s a genuine attempt:

Nevermind, that’s fucking nonsense. My own dumbass paragraph made me agnostic. It’s easier for scripture to survive thirty holy wars than one wrestling metaphor. Covering the whole Bible this way is a fool’s errand.

.

Normally, I’d translate for people that read. But this segment works best as gibberish. Every time you hit an unknown word, blow a raspberry. Yes, even in public. Tell your boss you’re learning job skills from the best.

Anyway, it’s Jesus. I have a second layer of madness to get to.

And thank you, Vince. I now know less about God, wrestling, and language. And infinitely more about stories.

I think you’re ready. Rope Opera isn’t all hard-selling God, though that’s Vince’s stated goal. There’s also a hint of professional resentment.

Alright, 250 pages of cursing fate. But none of that’s my point. Everything above’s foundation. I need you to know enough Russology for BitchSlap. Taste, structure, and restraint mean nothing. Only getting the strongest reaction you can without prison time.

BitchSlap isn’t wrestling jargon or an obtuse reference. It’s the only wrestling promotion. I thought I’d seen wrestling in American basements and Japanese stadiums. All delusions from the sin gene, while my soul searched for BitchSlap. The purest expression of Russology.

Only Chapter 34 matters.

You can get lost in career defense weeds if you want. Not my scene. If you need a take, I’m sure Bischoff could have crashed WCW in a duller, less embarrassing manner. There’s a fun chapter denying Asian bias because Vince likes Booker T, which is like saying I like books because I’ve read this. I know it’s there to distract me from BitchSlap.

Earlier, Vince took a few swings at modern vacuity. But what’s his vision? What would he, unshackled from billionaire backing, an international platform, a full cast of virtuoso actor-stuntmen, and negligible oversight, create?

BitchSlap.

Vince isn’t fucking with you. I am, but in nonfiction. When reality melts, we just describe it.

There’s a nostalgic nod towards GLOW, but you know what this is. Vince Russo’s women’s wrestling promotion. Stardom in hell. Dead or Alive, minus ninjas. Rumble Roses but Rumble Roses. Thirty Trish Stratuses, all written by Vince Russo.

Obviously, a disaster. But one perfect for the time, like a live feed of Pompeii. This decade funded Girls Gone Wild, Operation Iraqi Freedom, and everything else Vince Russo produced. Yet we lost BitchSlap. I know nerds resented Russo, because this article exists. But you have to respect genius wherever it blooms.

I know, unreliable narrators are a pain. You shouldn’t believe Vince because he’s a defensive, born-again wrestling writer covering his ass ten years after the fact. You shouldn’t believe me because I promoted SpreadCon, a fake 2020 event. But this is in Russo’s book. If nothing else, he thought of these words and sent them to ECW Press.

More importantly: you’re now a trained Russologist. You know he pitched this.

Here’s where I pretend the next image isn’t insane.

Here’s where I pretend this isn’t art.

Here’s where we escalate. I can’t join Vince Russo on God, because God denied us BitchSlap. So we’ll have to finish it ourselves. We’re making BitchSlap a proper wrestling promotion.

Starting with a logo.

Close. Maybe on press releases.

Perfect. I regret that I have but one career to give to BitchSlap.

As our inspiration, our muse, and a human, Homeless Heather deserves respect and a roof. As Russologists, all we can offer is the midcard championship. Dignity and a social safety net would be nice, but not much has changed since 2001. Check the headlines.

Now our TV champ needs stats.

Alright, Vince. Let’s give Homeless Heather some competition.

Thank you for supporting web comedy. Your punishment: dying with the Webster-confirmed word “bimbette.” That neuron’s torched. You’ve forgotten a beautiful, welcoming, retiree-friendly island for “bimbette.” You’d have loved it, along with the giving, life-affirming love waiting on the shore. You won’t know what’s missing, sleepwalking through identical days in a dead city. But there’ll be a weight you can’t shake. Enjoy knowledge.

Back to the prehistoric incest joke.

Meh. The wanton cruelty lacks the fresh sting of a Homeless Heather. The Elvis deep cut is nice, but this grooming victim isn’t filling stadiums anytime soon. And I’ve seen enough wrestling to know every fucking match ends with her father jumping in. It gets old.

Nice. But the tag league’s looking a little sparse.

He…he named them after a slur for another group. I get the pun attempt, but it’s reduced to fucking nonsense. These are just sounds. It’s like a bigoted Bop-It. Do you see why Russology is an entire field? Do you know how many ivy washouts one study takes? Sure, just me today. But we’d normally need ten lunatics.

You know what? Forget the tag teams. They clearly unlock something unspeakable in Vince Russo, and I need this to see television before I die.

There will never be another Vince Russo.

I guess these are our tag champs. Rope Opera’s born-again angle makes sense now: it’s impossible to type “Stumpy and Gimpy” without feeling God’s furious eyes upon you. Vince and I aren’t going to normal hell. We’ll have a direct view of the black throne and impact craters from the Great Fall.

Could we give the people something to cheer for?

That’s a champion.

We’re building this company around Toxic Shock. Whatever else Vince has up his sleeves, this medieval malpractice survivor is our world champion. Toxic Shock is holding this title longer than Roman Reigns, with half the defenses. Russo aimed for a crass joke, and hit dead center. But he’s also created someone that can’t be killed.

Truly, the spirit of the company. She just needs a suitable rival. Shame we’ll get the lamest shit possible instead.

I’m lost.

Help me out here. Am I missing a stereotype, or is this three stupid concepts welded together? If “angry closeted giant golfer” is a stock joke, Birdy can wait in the back with whoever Tony Khan forgot exists this month. If this is a bold new frontier in hate speech, Birdy can enjoy two main event matches before the show dies.

If no one knows, we’ll use both of them. They can tag together, or start a faction of muddled bullshit nonsense. With golf carts, either way.

Really though, wrestlers spend more time injured than awake. We need someone bankable if/when Toxic Shock breaks her everything.

Like bestiality! That’s great. She can finish that joke in the back.

We’re back to anal, which fits Freud’s model. Think back to high school. Freud explored and/or made up fixation with the genital, oral, and dumbfuck stage of sexual development. This is a classic dumbfuck fixation.

Gotcha, Birdy Hole-for-One did nothing wrong. Every non-competitor in BitchSlap should be beaten with sporting goods, it’s just good HR. I’ll take my lumps for the greater good.

Awesome. Any wrestler with a concept this thin must have moves. BitchSlap can poach a Japanese company’s ten-year champion. She’ll miss telling stories in the ring, but all of that flopping around’s fake. Real wrestling is Nurse Hershey probing her fellow sex pests. This may be the first show made entirely of defendants.

Hopefully we get a few matches out of Nurse Hershey before self-respect kicks in. Otherwise the ass half of our roster looks weak. There’s too much ass for a tag team, but not enough for a faction. It might be best to cut the anal concepts entirely.

Stop. This 737 isn’t going to make it. No Russologist can generate a paragraph of Grandma Gas content, let alone a year. Even the original Russologist. You’re just going to sink the company and let Triple H poach Toxic Shock. Don’t destroy my dreams twice, Vince.

Welcome to superstardom, Grandma Gas. And the main event of BitchFit III. You’re going to lose us slightly less money.

Your training is complete. Welcome to the family. As a master of Russology, you’re now unqualified to work anywhere. In some cases, banned! Three-digit numbers and solid food are beyond you as well, and your Bible’s written in Webdings. But you’ve gained reality. And if pro wrestling’s about anything, it’s reality.

Bitchslap has a big year coming up. Tune in:

This article was brought to you by our fine sponsor and Hot Dog Supreme: Aaron Croston, who illegally wrestles under the name Queen Hammertwat.

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