“Why I Quit” by RIC FLAIR

“Why I Quit” by RIC FLAIR

WOOOOOOO!

Miss that sound? Well get used to it, because you’re never going to hear it again.

No matter where my limo takes me these days, all I hear is the same single question: “Hey Ric, why’d you quit WWE?” Everywhere I go, every day, every night, every bar, every hotel, it’s “Ric, why did you leave?”

Well, rather than waste 10 seconds telling each and every one of you that could better be spent with in bed with Tiffany, I decided to pen a guest column for my very good friends at The Armpit. This way the whole world can read it while I ride Space Mountain a few more times, just for good measure. After all, it was The Armpit that broke the story of my breast implants in 2005, so I wanted to return the favor to the ‘Pit.

You see folks, I have evolved. In my teens and 20s, I idolized Dusty Rhodes and Dick Murdoch. Eventually I came into my own, surpassed them, and became the NWA world champion, touring the world and rubbing shoulders with people all of you can only watch through your television screens. This was my life for 20 straight years: chasing down shots with Charles Barkley, pal’ing around with Kevin Greene, and pumpin’ iron with Brad Muster while Michael Jordan spotted our bench press. It was limousines, private jets, nonstop alcohol, parties that lasted all night, and a loooooong line of women that never seemed to end.

Being Ric Flair was a 24/7 job, and I lived it and loved it.

Then came Eric Bischoff, and my life changed. I went from being top dog to being a whipping boy for the nWo and that blond guy from Venice Beach, CA (Sting, Hogan, take your pick). It was a very stressful time in my life, and really, my entire time in WCW under the Turner organization was rough. I worked hard my whole career to create the Ric Flair persona, and now it was being tarnished by men like El Gigante and the Junkyard Dog.

Believe it or not, joining WWE in 2001 was a re-birth for me. Vince treated me great, and the entire locker room and staff treated me with the respect befitting a legend. Am I a legend? I’m not the judge of that, but if you ask anyone who follows this business, I think the answer is obvious.

Unfortunately, the respect was not universal. Just as I was starting to feel good about myself again, a little fellow by the name of Brian Gewirtz reared his ugly little head. Ok… give me a minute here, because I get worked up just thinking about this guy.

(Breathe slowly, breathe deeply. Innnnnnnnn, whoooooooo (that’s a breath, not a WOOOO!), oooooooout, whooooooo. One more time. Innnnnnnnnn, whoooooooo, oooooooout, whoooooooo.)

Ok, sorry about that. I’ve been practing some relaxation techniques to cope with the stress Brian has caused me.

So this past Spring, just before WrestleMania, Vince got behind an idea to give me one last big run. The Rocky Balboa movie had just come out, and Randy Couture was flying high on his UFC title win over Tim Sylvia. The mood was right for a legend to be champ, and with me in my mid 50s, the time seemed right. One last run for the Nature Boy. Things were looking up, and with my own personal problems at home (the divorce was hard but I’m happy now with Tiffany), I was looking forward to ending my career in spectacular fashion.

But…. it never happened. Vince was all for it, but the guy who kept shooting it down was that little twerp Brian Gewirtz, the head writer of Raw. I’m sure Dusty wasn’t much help, either.

Finally one night, everything came to a head. Vince told me the plan for my big title run was off the shelf, and like a runaway train, all the crap I had put up with my entire career came back to me in a matter of seconds. I went from envisioning myself as Ric Couture, to remembering how the arena lights looked when I laid down for Hogan 100 times. The powder keg of Ric Flair the Jobber exploded instantly, I blew my top, gave my notice, and haven’t talked to anyone in WWE since that night.

Oh what the Hell. F*CK RELAXATION TECHNIQUES. Time for an old fashioned Ric Flair promo, HORSEMEN STYLE.

Let’s start with DUSTY RHODES. You know, the guy I used to worship, and then surpassed by 50 miles as he ate his way into oblivion? The guy who was a legend in a few sh*t states like Florida that no one cares about, and then ass-f*cked his way into being head booker of Jim Crockett Promotions? I worked hard to be NWA champion and have awesome matches in the main events, not the slow, prodding, boring ass snoozefests that fat f*ck dragged me through at Starrcades ’84 and ’85. And then his ego, which is almost as big as his 27th chin, had me doing jobs for the rest of the decade to no-talents like Nikita and Luger. All I can say is F*CK DUSTY RHODES.

And now let’s talk LEX LUGER. Here’s a guy with nothing going for him except a store-bought physique and some genetics he borrowed from Mommy and Daddy in the womb. How this bodybuilding dud got a job in wrestling is anyone’s guess, but if I’m voting, I’d say it’s because he shot a few loads all over Dusty’s pumpkin-headed face. Let’s just a say a needle wasn’t the only thing he was shoving up his ass. Oops, did I say that? Sorry Lex, consider it payback for all the millions of jobs I did for you over the course of 15 years, you miserable prick. How about those 45-minute matches I carried you through, bumping my ass off as you huffed and puffed, honked and wheezed, and posed and flexed your way through? You think it’s easy to beg in a corner, tell everyone in the front row I banged their mothers to get cheap heat, and make you look good while I broke every bone in my body trying to make the match passable? All that for a few lousy stars from Dave Meltzer’s rating system? Kerry Von Erich was easier to work with than you, and he had sh*t for brains. You, sir, are a no-good, no-talent, arrogant little poseur who made millions of dollars off my blood and sweat. My only consolation is that you’re broke and damn near homeless. I’m glad you’ve found God, because you sure as Hell couldn’t find a good match if it came falling from the top turnbuckle, as I often did. Hey Lex, F*CK YOU.

Speaking of sh*t for brains, that brings me to the Bladerunners: THE ULTIMATE WARRIOR and STING. Hey Jim, you’re only redeeming value is that you’re a Republican like me, but the similarities end there. After all, thanks to the talents you shared with your boyfriend Kerry Von Erich, you gave me vertigo, screwed up my inner balance, and damn near made me dizzy for the rest of my stinkin’ life. Is that why I worked my ass off in Verne’s wrestling camp, so I could job to drugged up psychopaths like you two? The Bladerunners was a good name for you: I’d blade, I’d run, and you two would just stand there like nincum-f*cking-poops, posing for the fans as I bled to death in the corner. Hey Sting, you think it was easy carrying your fake-tanned carcass through 45 minutes at the Clash of the Champions? I made you a star in one night, surfer boy, while JJ Dillon stood above the ring in a cage holding in his piss all night. I had to entertain that little twerp Jason Hervey as he judged the match, with the only consolation being that I banged that Penthouse Pet while you and Lex made out with each other in your hotel room. Sting, if I had a muscle for every time I carried and jobbed for you, I’d look like f*cking Bobby Lashley on steroids on steroids (that’s not a typo). As far as I’m concerned, you two can go to Hell. F*CK YOU.

Then there’s EL GIGANTE, the 7 foot, jolly green (and I do mean green) giant who couldn’t even play basketball, let alone step over the ropes of a wrestling ring. The less said about this freaky goof, the better. Do you have any idea what it’s like to look at the house show schedule and see your name on the sheet paired up against this guy? A behemoth-sized non-athlete who moves like his legs are stuck in cement. He raises his arms and growls like a f*cking idiot, and I’m supposed to have a good match with this guy? You try going into the ring with a humongous redwood tree and see how much luck you have. All I could do was bounce off the ropes, run into him, and fall flat on my back like a glorified stunt man for hire. Whoopee, that doesn’t get old after 5 seconds, does it. To think I bounced my skeleton around the canvas for this turd. Hey Giant Gonzales, F*CK YOU TOO.

And speaking of overrated, no discussion on frustrating career matches can be complete without the man with the world’s biggest ego, BRET “HIT MAN” HART. You know, the guy who has badmouthed me for 15 years, saying I’m overrated, only knows a few moves, and has the same match over and over again? That’s funny, considering every Goddamn match we had, you pretended to injure your knee, ran face first into the turnbuckle, did a backbreaker, did an elbow drop off the 2nd rope (wouldn’t want to go off the top rope, would we? No, that would be too much work), held me in a chinlock for 10 f*cking minutes, and put me in a sharp shooter so I could submit to your greasy headed self. Sound familiar? My only regret in wrestling you is that I didn’t get to screw you over the way Shawn Michales did in Montreal. Get over it already. Hey Bret, one more thing: F*CK YOU.

And finally, how can we forget everyone’s favorite aging, limping, balding beach bum, HULK HOGAN? Well, he’s hard to forget, because he’s on every Goddamn 3rd rate cable channel with that sh*t show of his, parading around his c*nty wife, obnoxious son, and bimbo daughter of his who can’t sing to save her life. Hey Hulk, how does it feel to spoil your brats with all the money you stole from Turner, leg dropping me and pinning me while I laid down for you like a f*cking idiot, thinking I was doing the right thing for business? I lost a career vs. career match to you, and not a second goes by every day when I don’t think about how you humiliated me from the very first day I stepped into the WWF, and then WCW. Who do you think convinced WCW to bring you in? Yo, me, right here. You’re welcome, Terry. Thanks to me, you can sell homes that list for $20 million but are worth 20 cents, and you can buddy up to fat ass rednecks like Bubba the Love Sponge. Thanks to me, you can walk the red carpet as a Z-list celebrity, campaigning hard for your daughter’s records that no one buys. Thanks to me, you can lay in the Florida sun, wrinkling your skin like a prune trying to be a raisin, baking like hot leather and looking like a dried up saddle that’s been sat on by Terry Funk’s branding iron. For all that hard work I did for you, Hulkster, I say F*CK YOU.

So there you have it, fellow Armpit readers. You wanted an explanation, you got one. Thank you for bowing to me, cheering for me, buying my book, and letting your mothers ride Space Mountain whenever I came to town. You fans are the only ones who ever respected me, and it’s you guys who made me want to write this column. I think now you understand why I quit WWE.

So please, stop asking me. And while you’re at it, if you need to finance a car or house, make sure to call Ric Flair Finance.

WOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!

Disclaimer: Ric Flair didn’t really write this. The Armpit did. But we know it’s what Ric would say.

 

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