I received an email from Samantha, a reader who was hoping to have her wrestling party featured in “Party Crasher” in an upcoming issue of The Stranger. Paul Constant couldn’t make it and Samantha begged for me to come and wrestle with her in Paul’s place.

I drove to Samantha’s house in South Seattle and walked into her backyard. As she didn’t send a picture with her email, I wasn’t sure how to find her. I asked around and finally someone led me to a young woman jumping up and down in red tights with a cowboy pistol graphic on her crotch.

Samantha hugged me and almost fell down. “You’re the Public Intern!” she exclaimed. “We need to get you into tights!” She playfully slapped me on the tummy and led me into a bedroom where a pair of aquamarine long johns and green-stripped boy shorts were waiting for me on the bed. The crotch pouch on the long johns was so large that it was was literally drooping (think Gonzo’s nose) out of the tights. I went to the bathroom and pulled the long johns over my legs, keeping my boxers on. Just as I was thinking about how the long johns were warm and felt like someone had recently worn them, I heard a woman outside the bathroom yell “I gotta go peeeee!” The door flew open and the woman berated me for tying my shoes in the bathroom while there were people in line waiting to urinate.

Samantha proclaimed that my t-shirt wasn’t gay enough for a wrestling match. She reached under her shirt, removed her tank top and instructed for me to put it on. Then she led me outside to the backyard where a large tent had been erected, lit by spotlights and strung with paper ribbons. Samantha tore through the paper ribbons like she had reached the end of a race and started running in a drunk half-ass way around the corners. By this time, a small crowd had gathered. “Take him down, Sam!” someone shouted. “That’s the boy who was tying his shoes in the bathroom!” another woman yelled.

Samantha and I circled each other a few times, making intimidating expressions. Finally, she let out a deep grunt and lunged at me. I twisted her arm. She pulled my leg and my head went down. My face was smashed into the grass. Somehow I reached my leg over Sam and pinned her to the ground. I pounded my hand on the beer-soaked grass three times to symbolize that I’d won. I hoped that someone in the crowd would turn to his neighbor and go “Oh wow. Even though that boy is a terrible wrestler, it is obvious to me that he’s at least seen wrestling before. Just look at how he pounds the ground.”

Then, I saw something gray dart in front of me. I sat up and looked across the circle, and saw a pit bull running loose. I got off the ground, climbed out of the ring, changed my clothes, and left the party. Gardening, protesting, cleaning buses, wrestling—I’m fine with all of those things. But not pit bulls.

Steven Blum
Public Intern