Jackson Black: 8th Entry Up!

Dear diary journal,

I'm doing this out of boredom, I'll tell you that right now. After an hour and a half of smelling some rank redneck ass-rips, anybody would start a journal to get their mind off of them. Hell, I'd take up juggling if I had any room in this old ass Ford pickup.

Oh, how rude of me! I didn't even introduce myself. Hi, Mr. Journal, I'm Jackson Black. That aforementioned Ford pickup (of the old ass, stinky variety) is currently en route to St. Louis, Missouri. In the passenger seat is me, and in the drivers seat is a guy named Bob Wilkes. He's my former boss at the Country Club Carwash back in Warrensburg, and he's the image of what you think of when you think "redneck". But you know what? He's the only one who supported me and my unlikely dream. Every day as I clocked in, he'd ask me "When you startin' rasslin?", or "When're you gonna kick some ass?". As you may see, my dream is to become a professional wrestler.

You see, I went to college back in Warrensburg, the University of Central Missouri to be exact. And after two years of being told that my goal of training to be a wrestler was not only stupid, but a waste of time (among other things), I dropped out. But with good intent. You see during my sophomore year, Bob cut me a deal. If I worked double time at the car wash with normal pay, he'd drive me to wrestling school. So here I am. Riding down the highway with my only supporter (who just happens to be a fat, chubby, bearded hick) on the way to the Dynamo Pro Wrestling Gym, $1,000 dollars to my name.

I'm beginning to become hypnotized by all of these trees. Dang, I need to stop writing. My skinny long-haired ass is struggling to stay awake. Two more hours to go, and I'm out of this methane filled car and jumping into the world of professional wrestling.

Dear journal,

Men don't cry, therefore I didn't cry. If you were there, journal, you would've seen that there was clearly something in my eye. It was windy, and you know St. Louis is dusty. Jeez, stop accusing me of something so feminine.

Okay, I cried. Shut up, let me explain. Bob and I pulled up to the Holiday Inn (my temporary home during my wrestling training), and he helped me unload my stuff: a duffel bag full of clothes, my toothbrush, and a ton of wrestling DVDs. I also brought a separate bag that contained some of my trusty old wrestling figures. I'd watched the Shawn Michaels DVD earlier in the week, and I remember hearing Sherri say that him and Marty Jannetty used to invent moves with their figures and implement them into their matches, so I brought some just in case. Once everything was with me, I shook Bob's dirty hand, thanked him for the support, and began to walk toward the glass doors of the Inn.

Then, I heard a sniffle. I whipped my head around, and what I saw is a sight that few have seen. The chubby redneck was crying. No, not just crying, he was weeping. And for some reason I just lost it, and started crying too. Before I knew it, he wrapped me up in a huge hug, his beard scratching my cheek. Right at that moment, I realized how much he meant to me. He was the only one who I could talk to about my dream that wouldn't laugh at me. I'm gonna miss that.

Agh, anyway, I walked through the double doors and ventured to the front desk. Behind that desk was a woman who oddly resembled Claudio Castognoli. She gave me my key, and I hobbled up to the second floor with my bags. I was surprised to see that my room was quite nice, actually. Sure, there was a brown mystery stain in the upper right corner of the sheets, but hey! It's somewhere to sleep. Gazing out the window, I saw the Gateway Arch off in the distance, the sun setting behind it. The thought of "how did someone sh*t in the corner of the bed?" lingered in my mind.

So now I'm sitting on my bags, playing with a Mark Jindrak and Kurt Angle action figure. By this time tomorrow, I'll have one day of pro wrestling training under my belt.