August 15th, 2010

Best Wiest Ever, #29 - The Galactic Noodle Headache, 8/15/10

Join Reinwell Wiest, the lionized letter-man, as he lauds literature’s 100 Greatest Fictional Characters!

Dearest Reavers,

My job only grows more difficult as the days grows longs. A man came in the other day with a sore Hibiscus (he is a Flower Charles), which was revealed, after some consultation, to be a contraction of vorpal, a virus which opens up a stunning pit that resembles a black hole in name only, assuming the black hole is named “Kevin”. This void now yawns its jackass maw from the children’s ward straight over to oncology, engulfing the in-between and reducing it to a hobby horse with a smart rictus and a shredded rake (In other words, everything has been swallowed up into the shitmouth of existence…where the things have gone, I have no idea. The pit (Kevin) that opened up could be like a black hole maybe, ripping everything that enters it apart, like a shark attacking a homemade stew. Maybe, like in that one movie Time Snatch, they’ve entered another dimension. Maybe a comet is raping them. Who knows?).*

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April 14th, 2009

Best Wiest Ever, #92 - Little Pismo, 4/14/09

Join Reinwell Wiest, the lionized letter-man, as he lauds literature’s 100 Greatest Fictional Characters!

[Mark and I received the following note through a drop box we’ve been using ever since The Washington Post discovered we are actually Julius and Ethyl Rosenberg, forcing us to go into hiding.]

Dear McDreary,

McScreamy here delivering some fateful news with a fistful of dullards. The former mcdream team that had been double-teaming Mr. Weist’s condition have been revealed as frauds afraid to face the music or hear the writing on the wall we’ve all already seen. And reviled as quacks trying to duck their responsibilities, the former alive Dr. Chowderclaus and current a-hole Dr. Scrapes have had their job tombs exhumed of occupancy. To wit, the fuck-ups have been fired or murdered and now I, Grand Consul Doctor Majestrix McScreamy, King of All Doctors, Dominar of Healdonia and contributing editor to a book of Grey’s Anatomy steampunk stories am on the case, and since the case is closed in order to allow me to stand on it, consider your fffriend Mr. Weist cured of all ills, swills, and bills. Except not the bills. They are quite large. And past due you think you’re going to pay them?

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September 29th, 2008

Best Wiest Ever, #56 - Pussy Preslin, 9/29/08

Join Reinwell Wiest, the lionized letter-man, as he lauds literature’s 100 Greatest Fictional Characters!

Dear Wrestling Team,

I’m sorry to have to deliver this news, but Mr. Wiest is alive and well, or at the very least alive. I’m not sure about that well part, but I’m just a doctor, so what do I know, except that he’s alive and well, doing not badly. The facts of the Wonderful Mr. Wiest’s case are as such: after Dr. Chowderclaws sent you that last missive, he slipped into the same kind of coma as Mr. Wiest, except with one difference: while we’re indifferent to Reinwell’s fate, no one here at the hospital likes Dr. Chowderclaws, so we broke his neck and dumped his body into a pit out in back. Where does the pit lead? Beats the beets out of me. All I know is that if you throw shit in there, it ain’t never coming back. You won’t believe the kind of savings The Empty Pit delivers to our HMO. Biomedical waste? Old MRI machines? Incompetent doctors that we conspiratorially murder? None of this incurs the slightest fiscal burden upon our constrained backs and thus we’re free to operate with impunity. In these days and agents, it’s quite the handy tool. I don’t know if comedians have a large overhead, but I suggest investing in one of these shitheads tout de suite because it’s a sweet ass piece that’ll pay for itself in a heartbeat.

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June 25th, 2008

Best Wiest Ever, #82 - Zeke Grombies, 6/25/08

Join Reinwell Wiest, the lionized letter-man, as he lauds literature’s 100 Greatest Fictional Characters!

Uh, hi, is this…is this the Wrestling Team? Hi, yes, how are you this evening? Ah, good, good. No, no, I’m no telemarketer; my name is Dr. Moray Chowderclaws; I’m a resident over at What Me, Mercy? Hospital. Yes, yes. Anyway, I’m sorry to have to deliver this news in the form of a letter but the “contact in case of emergency” information only included this address. So hopefully this will arrive in time before the bill does. Ha ha, just kidding. It will arrive well after the bill which was generated the moment Mr. Wiest was admitted. I mean, after he admitted that he had no insurance and that to foot his employers with the bill. Well, he didn’t say it so much as not say anything so we devised that little strategy on our own. I didn’t go to three hundred years of medical school to let some simpering dickfreak off with free coma care. Oh, right, Mr. Wiest is in a coma.

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April 30th, 2008

Best Wiest Ever, #42 - Crank Glitchstein, 4/30/08

Join Reinwell Wiest, the lionized letter-man, as he lauds literature’s 100 Greatest Fictional Characters!

The sewers, my friends! The sewers.

That is the answer to the question you were asking, or am I confused to what I assume it must be: where have I been these many months? Or was it: why do you smell like a drunk hausfrau draped out on the couch wondering if her inattendant hubby will take her to the Fancy Face Wins the Moon revival at the local cineplex as she shoves another syringe filled with Chinese heroin into her solar plexus and drifts off into a state made of feathers. Mayhap I am solar perplexed though as I have not seen the sun in ages. “Life below is no life at all,” said the dude from Jane’s Addiction in Mourning Becomes Carmen Elektra, and I quite agree as a diet of filth and half-eaten ham-burgers is unbecoming all over my tits, and there’s nothing to clean up this constant mess as the Hobos and I traipse around trying to find the remnants of metal shells with which to make a living, reconditioning them as a liquid paste to sell to hobby stores at a discount. Yes, you fucking freaks, the model airplane you made with your stingy kid, you probably pasted that wastrel together with glue made from the skeletons of alien creatures that died down in New Boonesville’s sewers and that me and my homeless clan melted in a fire barrel and then rendered into motorized come.

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November 18th, 2007

Best Wiest Ever, #4 - Pleasant Valley Sunday, 11/18/07

Join Reinwell Wiest, the lionized letter-man, as he lauds literature’s 100 Greatest Fictional Characters!

Dr. Benjamin Manchild,

Let me begin by saying, I address you with the utmost respect a man of your position deserves. To have graduated from so shoddy a psychiatric program as Cripes U’s (such therapeutic focuses as “Freudian Telemetry” and “Postmortem Superego” are regarded by whom as worthwhile? My butthole?) and yet to attain the heights of grandeur as you have must mean that your blowjobs are thee finest in the entire land. Oh, what generous ministrations of thine mouth must tremble forth and delight all as you bring them to the heights of ecstasy. Oh, the height of impropriety! What a gentle touch and soft tongue must thou art have, what hands of fine silver but warm as if gently steamed in a crock pot…what manicured fingernails so obsessively kept and what teeth filed down to nubs of finely-shaven nothingness! But surely not all the powerful have been men, so let the cunnilingus abound and let the women who stand in the halls of power line up for whatever sad tips you read in the latest Cosmo about what women want. Why, you conniving ape, it’s the same thing men want! To be left alone for once without the prattling on of their magician boyfriend who only wants to show her his latest trick that he will later display at The Magician’s Ball.

To wit: I think thou doth protest too much!

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September 23rd, 2007

Best Wiest Ever, #53 - Carrie Grant Nation, 09/23/07

Join Reinwell Wiest, the lionized letter-man, as he lauds literature’s 100 Greatest Fictional Characters!

Dearest Reagers,

Ah, the ever-electric life of a destitute ragbag! Vagabond, James Vagabond. I used that line at the soup kitchen last week to great reverie. The other hobos are quite fond of my - how do they put it? - “Your fancy, shitty words make us feel the right fool, and we, as intellectual masochists derive great enjoyment from feeling like pieces of horseshit. Keep ‘em coming, you great fucking cunt! Or we’ll drape you in blankets made from The Breath of a Criminal and cut off your fuckin’ feet, skunktooth. Dance for us. Let us see your dreams dissolve into screams. We want to hear you howl!”

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September 13th, 2007

Best Wiest Ever, #78 - Faustus Tiedmann, 07/13/07

Join Reinwell Wiest, the lionized letter-man, as he lauds literature’s 100 Greatest Fictional Characters!

Dearest Readeys,

I mean readers. Why do I keep misspelling that?

Since I last left you with my introductory column Lady Luck has been not-so-kind to your most auspicious author of note. In fact, she’s basically cut my balls off and stuck them in a brinery jar along with my dignity and my desire to kill myself. However, she’s not the only fictional personification that somehow became real (not unlike that movie Mannequin) and that is out to jam a sharp implement in my johnson. King Paycheckov and Archduck Franz Ferdyduke and Miss Match and Sir Rent are all out to tear my frakking head off, (metaphorically), and build a small pyramid with an eye in it to shove up my butt and colonoscopy the shit out of me. You see, I have no money, or really, just enough money left over to pay those blithering nerdstils at wrestlingteam.org to publish this column, and by some leap of maltreated logic, the Davenport area Junior High School marching band has repossessed my apartment by opening up an Ecto-Containment Unit that was housed in my basement. Apparently, the school is merely a front for a cult of Huerlins who worship an ancient seagod named Tynedaly. They thought it would be a lark to screw with me while they waited for the Sixth Day of the Ascension which is supposed to happen a few weeks from now. Their scripture foretells of an wrathful plague of seawater that will infect the land-dwellers and change their lives into sandstorms. Well, that day will have come and gone by the time this is published, so maybe a dozen or so sentient sandstorms are reading my words. Maybe if I can become one, I can finally get laid, because I’m sure mixing my sand particles with a female storm will be easy. Or is that rape? I better find out before the Heurlins wreak their arenaceous dustaster on us.

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September 9th, 2007

Best Wiest Ever, #65 - Corporal John Consideration, 09/09/07

Join Reinwell Wiest, the lionized letter-man, as he lauds literature’s 100 Greatest Fictional Characters!

Dearest Prince Woul,

As the head of Woul Publishing and as my editor, I hope this greeting finds your health in working order and that all of your gears are greased, especially, if you get my drift, your wiener gear, and by greased, I mean, with female charms. Changing gears, I write your esteemed personage in the hopes that perhaps, I might get some of that royalty money you owe me, dickjeans. What the fuck? I sold at least, well, I forget how many I said I sold in the first column, and also what the title of my book was. So lets say tweenteen copies of my wonderful, genre-smoking novel Turd Perps, about a magic prison where the prisoners turn into categories of…ah, you thought I was going to say “turds,” right? How crass of you, you jaguar-bum! No, they turned into categories of trash (rubbish, fodder, etc.) - “etc.” is not a type of trash, but I could only think of two at the moment, so you know. And I know I am owed at least sixteen Romanian dollars, the equivalent of one Delorean Rumor. Too bad it’s not spelled as “the Dolorian” because then it would be the saddest car ever.

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May 28th, 2007

Best Wiest Ever, Prologue, 05/28/07

Join Reinwell Wiest, the lionized letter-man, as he lauds literature’s 100 Greatest Fictional Characters!

Dearest Reabers,

I mean readers.

What fortune brings you upon the shores of my fortunate writing, I ask? And to question your act of reading, why, what kind of Klingon am I? That Worf one? Or some other? (I am afraid, gentle giant of a readership that I have only seen one episode of The Star Trek and that was when I had food poisoning and was stuck on the bidet cleaning my fortuitous rectilinear region.)

Obviously, you have come from near and nearerer at the siren’s beckon call of Lady Literature to read my the words of the ages, and although my books have sold naught but one single copy and the 150 copies that were sold mysteriously disappeared in a Skull Accident that shattered the eardrums of every villager in the village of South Hampton, you are still here at the end of the day to greet me like a loyal pup, my newspaper in your mouth and a glass of fine Scotch in the metal basin fused to your spine by the evil Dr. Frunchy. Yes, the same Dr. Frunchy that is up on ethics charges for magnifying the sight of beetles until they could glimpse atoms, and also for raping people, operated on my analogy, and also, on my actual dog so that Scramps now has the wings of a day-old buzzard and the intellect of The Gleaming Sphere.

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Wrestling Team is an ongoing collaboration between overall creative types Mark Bisi and Andy Beckerman.

This website will update you on Mark and Andy's own individual projects, as well as the projects on which they occasionally collaborate.

You can contact them at jokes@wrestlingteam.org.

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