Message-ID:  

http://www.kayfabememories.com/Stories/mickkarch/mk12.htm

The following story has been posted on the Kayfabe Memories Message
Board, but I have had folks e-mail me about it, asking me to
elaborate. So, against my better judgment,  let's deliver the goods,
troops.

Back in the early 70's, I often took weekend road trips from the Twin
Cities to AWA shows in Milwaukee, Green Bay and Chicago. Usually there
were four or five of us that made the trek, leaving very early on a
Saturday morning, arriving mid-afternoon, taking in the show in the
evening,  partying at Nino's Steak Roundup in Milwaukee or the
infamous Air Host in Chicago, maybe crashing at the Downtowner or the
Red Roof Inn. Glory days, I tell ya.

On one such trip, we decided that we weren't going to be spending the
night in Milwaukee. Rather, immediately after the show we headed right
back to Minneapolis. A long haul, to be sure, but it got even longer
for yours truly as the night went on.

I don't remember who the lovely ladies were in the vehicle (of course
they had some sort of vested interest in "the boys"), but I remember
that the male contingent on the way back consisted of myself, Paul
Perschmann (eventually to become Playboy Buddy Rose).....and one Don
Muraco.

Those who knew Muraco were aware that he was known to enjoy a beer or
two....or three...or four....or.....anyway, you get the picture. On
I-94 headed back to the Twin Cities, Dandy Don was popping open one
after another. I know at least one case was finished off in short
order. As notorious as those Wisconsin cops were for nailing
Minnesotans on their soil, we were very fortunate not to be pulled
over.

A a result of Don's seemingly unquenchable "thirst" this particular
summer evening, our vehicle made several unscheduled, roadside "pit
stops" along the way.  The big man apparently was suffering from some
sort of bladder condition that necessitated his physically "watering"
various ditches, gravel pits, speed limit signs, roadkill and other
unidentifiable landmarks over the course of the 300+ mile journey.

About half way home is where things took a turn for the worse. In my
case, a hell of a lot worse. In addition to slamming down the
brewskis, Mr. Muraco was also stuffing handfuls of chewing tobacco
into his mouth. At one point, as we wre cruising at a speed of
probably 75-80 miles an hour, Muraco is in the front right passenger
seat.

Yours truly is in the rear right passenger seat. Yes, right behind
him. And both our windows are open. This could only spell disaster.

With the speed of a lightning bolt, the impact of a sledge hammer and
the stench of a landfill, a rather significant amount of chew came
flying from Muraco's mouth and out his window, where it was met with a
stiff wind and propelled into my window... and into my face. Wham.
Splat. Siss, boom, bah. My face was covered with Muraco's Red Man.

Perschmann and the gaggle of ringrats in the car are beside themselves
with laughter as I am attempting to cleanse my glasses and forehead.
Humiliation is setting in. I am staring ahead with a blank Jack
Benny-like expression on my face. I humbly ask if we can stop at the
next service station so that I may "freshen up." (As for Muraco, he's
chuckling slightly but my guess is that at this moment in time, he
didn't know if he was in Wisconsin, Minnesota, or Bangkok. He was
pretty well sloshed.)

Request granted. I entered the men's room at some gas station
somewhere in Western Wisconsin. I am rinsing my face with soap, water,
orange juice, battery acid....anything that will free me of this
rotten slime.  I emerge from "the can" slightly the worse for wear,
but at least a bit more tidy. The proprietor of the station asks me,
"who's that big guy out there?" I explain to him that it's "Don
Muraco, the professional wrestler." To which he says, "Muraco or no
Muraco.....I don't want the asshole pissin' on my gas pumps."

Sigh. I guess should be grateful. The way things had gone, it could
have been me instead of those gas pumps.


--- Internet Rex 2.29