The Agony and Ecstasy of Chick Donovan...Well The Agony Anwyay

Here at Arabian Facebuster, we watch wrestling so you don't have to. That's not just a hollow promise or some glib slogan utterly devoid of meaning or practical application, it's the guiding premise of this entire enterprise and theoretical foundation upon which our blog postings rest...although I don't want to speak on behalf of or speculate as to the purpose, point of view, or programming content of Von. Fury TV (which is coming soon to Arabian Facebuster from what I've been told)!!!

But once in a great while there comes a clip so disconcerting, so humbling, so self-reflection inducing that it compels you to reassess the assumptions you hold about the nature of man, the role of the individual in society, and the reverential qualities of professional wrestling. This is that clip -- one part salacious expose into the seedy underworld of blackballed male strippers and the lengths that they will go to put food on the family table and red hot knife hits on the lone burner of the Tappan Range that's still operational, two parts cautionary tale of how tentative and discombobulated their dance routine looks when not camouflaged by strobe lights, disco balls, and the sounds of some generic 80s synth-pop blaring from the PA.

Ladies, gentlemen, and Hulkamanioids, I implore each and every one of you to put down the latest WWE Shopzone catalog, turn off Access: Hollywod's coverage of the Nick Hogan verdict, and gaze your eyes on this circa 1987/88 footage from the CWA/Memphis territory featuring the focal point of my ramblings above, "Golden Boy" Chick Donovan, joined by his tag team partner "Stretcher" Jack Hart (aka longtime WWF and WCW jobber to the stars and notorious serial self back patter Barry Horrowitz looking much like the inept evil doer du jour on TV's MacGyver), and his manager a young Paul E. Dangerously (or "Dangerly," as Lance Russell prefers to call him), who looks like a cross between a malnourished Wall Street tycoon with a cocaine problem (as opposed to a coked up Wall Street tycoon with an eating disorder) and NBA coach Pat Riley's oft in trouble younger brother (think Roger Clinton with better hair and a East Coast accent).

The luxuriant mullet with the center faux part and bangs, the sequined vest, the bow tie, the weathered and wrinkly skin, the southern accent dulled by two packs of Benson & Hedges a day for 25 years, the dentures in desperate need of a bath in some Super Polident, the face paint (or are those matching band aids on his cheeks), and of course the hip gyrations, pelvic thrusts, and tassel throws...oh, the hip gyrations, pelvic thrusts, and tassel throws...these are the trappings, artifacts, and mannerisms "The Golden Boy" acquired during his years entertaining portly woman and gay men at Beefcake's Saloon and Good Timey Emporium -- Murfreesboro's finest male adult revue and pull tabs parlor -- prior to being terminated for increasingly erratic and belligerent behavior, not unlike the the brutish apprehension tactics of Dog The Bounty Hunter or the paranoid, quasi fascist, non sequitur filled ramblings of The Ultimate Warrior, both of whom happen to bare a striking resemblance to Chick.

Sweet Jesus, I've watched this clip in full six times since sitting down to compose this post. I need to retreat from my computer, post haste. If anyone needs to reach me, give me a ring on my cell phone. I'm heading down to Augie's to catch Monday Night RAW and watch some girls take their clothes off for my enjoyment. I'll be tipping an extra $50 to each and every one of them that can recreate the dance that will be heretofore referred to as "The Donovan."

I better stop by the ATM.