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A few days later, I got an official letter from TBS saying that it was their position that Anderson’s 900# segment did not constitute a binding offer and that, obviously, they didn’t want employees offering themselves up for cash fistfights. So, no deal.
My subsequent position – in several Torch columns and a few dozen 900#s – was that Ole Anderson was an egg-sucking yellow dog, a lying coward who owed me either 10 grand or the opportunity to whip his craven ass in the middle of the ring just like he promised, then reneged on. I forget the exact verbiage, but I stole most of it from Terry Funk interviews. Terry’s great at that kind of promo.
After a while it died down. But when I later worked for WCW – and Anderson was long gone, thank God – Weber told me that Ole read every word I wrote and listened to every 900# I did, and that he once witnessed tears of rage rolling down Anderson’s cheeks as he heard one of my 900#s. Anderson repeatedly asked TBS for permission to fight me, which didn’t do much to discourage the corporate notion that he was not only a bully who believed his own BS, but nuts.
Sure, Ole would have kicked my ass. But he obviously wasn’t sure of that, or he would have found a way to try. He’s like every bully I’ve ever met: He won’t shut up and deep down, he’s gutless.
Torturing Ole Anderson was one of the rare pleasures of my wrestling “career.” He deserved to look like an ass, and did.
I loved those days on the periphery of the business. I enjoyed torturing DDMe when I got a spot on WCW’s 900#. Disco Inferno said the boys used to get him to listen to my segments just so they could watch him flip out. When Mickey Mantle was ill, I suggested that he and Gene Okerlund switch livers. Eric Bischoff said it was one of the most tasteless things he’d ever heard but so funny, he didn’t ask me to change it. It cost me a lot of deposition time later, but when Scott Hall and Kevin Nash were near the end of their WWF tenure and preparing to start with WCW, we weren’t allowed to directly refer to WWF. So on the 900#, I dictated bogus reports from the World Wildlife Foundation (WWF, get it?) that predicted the migration of two rare birds from New York to Atlanta, namely the spit-curled razor bird and the big daddy condor (or something like that).
If only I’d learned to channel my creativity into something that could make money. Then again, at $1.99 per minute…
