Home alone

I'm not in the best of moods this week. My wife (a.k.a. - the person who cooks dinner) is out of town and I'm left to fend for myself. I'm cranky, hungry and may very well be the first person alive to ever suffer third-degree burns while trying to figure out how to use a microwave. Needless to say, her vacation can't end soon enough.

As if that wasn't bad enough, I just found out that the average cost of beer has gone up three percent nationwide since last year - higher than the inflation rate. I have come to grips with the fact that we get screwed on taxes, the price of gasoline and ticket prices to sporting events, but you start messing around with the one thing that makes me tolerate all of the day-to-day bullshit and I can promise you, it won't be pretty (especially if my meal ticket doesn't get home soon). So I apologize up front for my harsher than usual tone this week.

Let me pose a question to you, the loyal and faithful reader - you ever have a friend who you just want to beat the hell out of because you know how much they are capable of, but they're too much of a slacker or screw-up to ever truly get their act together? I'm pretty sure you have. Actually, I'm pretty sure everyone has.

We'll call my buddy who best fits this description Viggler. I first met him back around 1998, when I was still in the Army and was sent to Fort "Boyz in tha" Hood, Texas. He was a couple years younger than the rest of us and was pretty quiet and reserved, but when he did talk people paid attention. The guy was clearly smart, and clearly had a different perspective on life. We got deployed to the Middle East for five months in 1999 and he was the only person on the team I could even tolerate, let alone hang out with.

Fast forward a year or two and I (thankfully) was granted parole and allowed to leave Texas. I headed back to Maryland and Viggler ended up landing an assignment in Hawaii. That's a dream for most people, right? Not Viggler. Turns out he's not much of a fan of beaches ... or sunlight. Never really meshed well with his Columbine trenchcoat look, I guess. At any rate, instead of spending his free time surfing or hitting on beach babes, Viggler basically never left his barracks room. For seven months he worked on a secret project that turned out to be one of the most fascinating things I've ever come across in my life - a movie made with G.I. Joe action figures.

If anyone ever wondered how crazy-talented Viggler truly is, they need only to watch this little movie. Using his collection of G.I. Joes, a webcam and some basic editing software, this guy put together something that very few people in this world are capable of pulling off. So where is Viggler today? Is he working for some big studio like Pixar making the next "can't miss" movie? Is he a self-employed Hollywood big shot running his own company? Is he snorting lines of coke off of expensive Vegas hookers? Actually, no - he's working as a screener in an airport. I die a little inside when I get to that part of the story. You see, just because I see how talented the guy is doesn't mean he's automatically got the drive or motivation to achieve that level of success. Sometimes, working in an airport and playing in a band is more than enough to help the days go by.

That brings me to the focal point of this week's column, Vincent Kennedy McMahon. Yes, that Vince McMahon. The one who is making the rounds this week because one of his professional wrestlers, Chris Benoit, killed his wife, his kid and himself down in Georgia. To me, even though we're dealing with a few different details, there are definite similarities between Viggler and McMahon.

When the bossman of World Wrestling Entertainment is left to his own devices he's not capable of getting much right. Just remember; before there was the XFL, there was the World Bodybuilding Federation. And one week before Benoit's death, there was McMahon faking his own death in hope of drumming up some attention and better television ratings. And I'm just skimming the top of it - if my brother and I sat down and attempted to recount every time Vince did something dumb or used poor judgment ... well, let's just say we'd be there for a while.

While Vince obviously has the drive and motivation that my good buddy is lacking, you'd think by now he would learn that the national media is always going to look down at Vince and the traveling circus that is the WWE. They're never going to show up and say good things about him, even if he truly deserves it - like, for example, when he goes out of his way to show support for our military service members. They just freeze one frame of Vince spazzing out with a dumb look on his face while getting his head shaved by Donald Trump and laugh at him - all while he's just happy to be relevant.

And like Viggler, there are times when you can see how much potential Vince has. You don't get to where he is and make the kind of money he has without having some sort of clue. Not to mention he's the man who was running the show when the WWE put both World Championship Wrestling and Extreme Championship Wrestling out of business. But now that he's left alone to his own devices, he's back to screwing up every chance he gets.

He says the WWE has one of the best drug-testing programs, but then we hear about Benoit's shady doctor, Dr. Phil Astin, prescribing a 10-month supply of anabolic steroids to the wrestler every three to four weeks between May 2006 and May 2007. Call me crazy, but when a person is going through steroids that frequently for that extended amount of time it's difficult to believe his employer has a legitimate drug-testing policy in place.

I guess both Viggler and McMahon need a swift kick in the ass. Viggler needs it as a motivational push in the right direction, while Vince needs it to remind him to cut the shit. They both need to get their act together and I need to stop writing this column because the pizza guy is here. After I enjoy this wonderful "home cooked" meal with my one non-burned hand I'm off to the beer store to kick three percent more ass and show them what inflation is all about.

Brian Murphy is the 2005 Defense Department's sportswriter of the year. And he still doesn't know what the hell he's talking about. Contact him at murf@the5holes.com.