Don't you just love roommates? I mean, everyone can recall memories of that one guy in college who would crank gangster rap top volume in the middle of the night, when you're trying to either sleep, cram for the next day's French exam, or unsuccessfully attempting to do both of them at the same time, though not in that particular order. Oh, the rooms have gotten better now that I'm out of the twenty-five-bucks-a-night indies and with the WWE; at least here you don't have to flick roaches out of your dingy mattress before going to bed, and room service's always open specially for the wrestlers at all hours of the night. But the roommates, unfortunately, have most definitely not gotten better. Take Chris Jericho, for example. Now, no offense against the guy, but he seems to think he's the next Mick Jagger. Which shouldn't prove to be a problem, after all; I mean, what good is life if you can't dream? Of course, Jericho doesn't just dream of becoming a rock star, he's damn outright preparing to be the next Jim Morrison or David Lee Roth, and unfortunately, part of his preparation ritual is to try to stretch his vocal chords to match the highest octave Axl frickin' Rose can hit! It's bad enough when you're trying to talk to a loved one on the phone, and he or she keeps inquiring whether all those horrible screeching noises are due to the fact that you're butchering a small cow in your damn room; what's even worse is when you've just finished one hell of a, well, Hell in a Cell and are trying to get some well-deserved rest, but your roommate's too busy preening and striking rock star poses and singing into his shampoo bottle and pretending to be the next Jon Bon Jovi!
I roll over in my bed and irritably mutter some very unflattering things about Axl Jericho under my breath. At least he's not pretending his hairbrush is a microphone at this moment, so I can rest assured that I've got a few hours before the Robert Plant imitations begin. I yawn and close my eyes, and begin counting sheep in an effort to go to sleep.
*SNORE*
I instantly shoot out of bed, upsetting the blanket I'd thrown across my body as I glare into the darkness. My roommates for the night are Lance Storm and, of course, Jericho Lee Roth. Irritably, I get out of my bed and stalk over to Jericho's, before rolling him over onto his side in an effort to stop his snoring. Yawning, I begin to head back to my own bed...but then, the dry, booming sound echoes again.
*SNORE*
I don't know whether to slap my own forehead in frustration, or go over to Jericho and slap him to take out some of that frustration. Finally, I decide that a. I don't want to hurt myself and b. Jericho's all too happy for a chance to start showing off his whatever-octave vocal range, and I most certainly don't want to give him the excuse to start screeching in that keening, abrasive shrill that would make even Stephanie McMahon cringe. Padding over back to Jericho's bed, I grumpily roll him over to his side, a bit more roughly this time, before starting to head back to my own bed. I snuggle underneath the covers, pulling the blanket all the way up my neck while punching all the lumps out of my pillow, and close my eyes.
*SNORE*
I stir slightly, but force myself to ignore the sound, even as it grates my ears for the thousandth time in one lousy night. Stay cool, I instruct myself. After all, you're R...V...D.
*SNORE*
Ugh. But sometimes, even RVD needs the aid of certain odds and ends--it's like Batman and that hardware store he carries in that utility belt he wears over those Speedos of his. I dive under the pillow and pull it tightly over my ears, trying to shut out the noise.
*SNORE*
All right, that's it! I can't stand the sound anymore. But I'm also too lazy to get out of bed to roll Jerky over onto his side for the third time in less than fifteen minutes. Turning over to face the third bed in the room, I call over to the only short-haired wrestler bunking with yours truly and the human banshee, "Hey, Storm, do something about Jericho!" Naturally, I get no response from him--the dude can sleep right through a hurricane...or a storm. Okay, I know that was a bad pun, but give me a break, I'm a lousy thinker at one o' clock in the morning! Besides, who isn't? I grope around my nighstand, searching for any projectile I might be able to hurl in Storm's direction. My hands close around the stuffed dragon some crazy chick had shoved into my face back in the parking lot, and I promptly use it to smack him squarely in the jaw. Storm's eyes fly halfway open as he growls something really not fit for children under eighteen to ever hear, but before he can start lecturing me about the marvels of what a good night's rest can do to one's body, I interrupt him to whine, "Dude, Jericho's snoring again, do something, will ya?" Storm mumbles lazily under his breath, "Why me?" I let out an annoyed huff, as I inform him, "Because I just made two trips in ten minutes to roll him onto his side, now it's your turn!"
*SNORE*
I give an exasperated sigh.
"You see? That's what I'm
talking about!" I hiss. Storm mutters something into his pillow. It sounds
like, "Blah blah blah, mmph!" Great, if the dude's going to ignore me to
warble nonsense, the least he can do is do it to my face!
"Come on, Storm,
do something! Jericho sounds like a human boom box!" I prod, deciding to
drop the whole ignoring me crap. Storm rolls over, and yawns.
"Too tired," he murmurs,
and closes his eyes. I look around for something else to throw at him,
but I've run out of stuffed animals, and am not willing to give up my nice,
comfy pillow. As I sit there trying to think, meanwhile, another snore
tears through the room.
*SNORE*
I shoot one last desperate
look at Lance Storm, but he's already asleep, a blissful smile on his face
and his blanket pull up snugly over his chest.
"Oh, all right, already!"
I throw up my hands in exasperation and grumpily get out of bed to head
over to Jericho once again. Tripping over the various items that are cluttering
the floor (including Jericho's hairspray and Storm's many books), I reach
Boom Box Bon Jovi and jab him in the ribs.
"Shut up!" I hiss. Jericho
mumbles something (it sounds suspiciously like, "I am a rock god!"), sighs,
and falls into silence. A goofy grin appears on my face, as I close my
eyes and hold out my hands in a Titanic/King of the World pose. Ah, the
blissful silence.
*SNORE*
My eyes fly open, as I snarl, "Oh, that is it!" before reaching toward the bed and turning Jericho over so hard, he promptly flies off the bed and lands with a thud onto the carpeted floor. And somehow, Mr. Rock God manages to sleep through it all. I shake my head. Good grief...At least he's quiet now. I begin to head back to my own bed, yawning and wondering how much sleep time I have until I have to catch tomorrow morning's plane.
*SNORE*
Okay, if this were a Roadrunner
cartoon, then I am sure by now my face would be red as a fire engine as
steam shoots out of my ears and smoke out my nostrils!
"Oh, that is it!" I hiss
under my breath, as I storm over to Jericho's bed, yank his pillow right
from underneath his huge blonde head, and stuff it over that boom box he
calls a mouth.
"Mmph-gahck!" A muffled
shout erupts from ye mighty black hole as I smash the pillow against Jericho,
and he promptly begins thrashing and kicking underneath me.
"Come on, be quiet!" I plead,
getting only in response a faint but still audible stream of curses from
underneath the pillow.
"What the hell is going on
here?! It's one a.m., can't you see a brother needs his beauty sleep?!"
The lights snap on in a blaze, and standing at the doorway are Booker T
and Goldust. Briefly in the back of my mind, I wonder how these two suckas
managed to find the key to the hotel room, and then realize that, despite
Lance Storm's nagging, I'd probably left the door unlocked--as usual. Goldust,
sans his makeup but still managing to look bizarre nonetheless (I wonder
how he does that!), mutters something under his breath that sounds suspiciously
like, "And they call me weird!" I reach up to pull my hair back
into its usual ponytail, and quickly explain, "It's not what it looks like,
honest!"
"Uh..." Booker's gaze trails
down to Jericho's suddenly limp figure, and I look over to the self-proclaimed
rock god and realize that his movements have weakened since Booker and
Goldust have burst into the room.
"Oh, shit!" I quickly take
the pillow away, and Jericho draws in a series of quick, croaking mouthfuls
of air. While the angry blonde Canadian continues to hyperventilate away,
Booker questions, "So, Rob...Van...Dam, what exactly where you trying
to do here?" I open my mouth, about to reply, but just then, we both find
out that Canadians tend to recover from asphyxiation rather easily, as
Jericho proceeds to holler at the top of his lungs.
"What the hell do you think
you're doing, Van Dam?! You nearly killed me!" he screeches. I wince and
reach up to rub my busted eardrum, before grouchily snapping back, "Yeah,
well you deserved it, you damn howler monkey!" I was promptly replied with
a pillow to the face, as Jericho haughtily declares, "Do not mistake this
gorgeous face for that of a friggin' monkey's, Van Dam!"
"All right, cut it out you
two suckas," Booker intervenes, trying to play peacemaker. "Kill yourselves
if you must, but do it in the morning--some of us are trying to
get sleep, you know?!"
"I'm telling you, I was
provoked!" I declare. "Jericho was snoring so loudly, he sounded like an
elephant stampede!" Jericho huffs, looking insulted.
"I do not snore!"
he exclaims through clenched teeth. "I am far too pretty to do such a disgusting
thing!"
"Yes, well somebody
here's been snoring," I inform him hotly, "and so far, you're the only
suspect, Mr. Banshee Rose!"
*SNORE*
A sudden silence settles
into the room, just as Jericho and I are about to have an impromptu...well,
Doom in a Room, I guess. All eyes have now turned to the third occupant,
Lance Storm, who's sleeping peacefully on his bed.
"Oh, will you look at here,"
I mutter nervously. "Guess what they say is true, it is always the
quiet ones." Jericho, meanwhile, is glaring at me like I'm the lowest form
on the food chain.
"I'm going to count to ten,"
he seethes in a deathly quiet voice, "and when I'm done, you would have
gotten the hell off my bed, and I would have begun to kick some serious
Yankee ass!"
I impatiently raise my hand to knock on the hotel room door next to ours, while keeping my free hand fixed at my left cheek, which has now been permanently imprinted with Jericho's so very gorgeous handprint (well, if not permanently, then at least until the next morning). Boy, for a guy who's supposed to be such a macho rock n' roll star, Mr. King of the World certainly knows how to throw one mean bitch slap--must've rubbed off from Stephanie from their partnership way back when he was Undisputed Champion, I guess. I swear under my breath as I wait for the slowpokes on the other side of the door to answer; I'm pretty sure this is the room that Christian and Hurricane are sharing with Test, and Lord knows how slow they can be, but the time that's taking them to answer is bringing back rather unwelcome flashbacks of how long it used to take for Dawn Marie to get the door! And here I was thinking that one of the Hurricane's many hurri-powers was super-speed; guess I was dead wrong. I hear somebody holler grouchily from the other side of the door; huh, Christian's voice has certainly taken on a much more feminine tone to it overnight.
Before I have time to ponder
what exactly is wrong with Christian's voice, the hotel room door is slammed
open, and a tall redhead who is most certainly not Christian greets
crossly, "What?!" I lean back in surprise; this isn't exactly the one that
I was expecting. She looks surprised as well, as she hurriedly pushes her
tangled hair out of her face and squeaks out, "Rob?" I manage to crack
a guilty smile, as I greet, "Erm...hi, Lita. Look, I'm sorry, I thought
this was Christian and Hurricane's hotel room." Lita darts me a wary look,
what she's thinking I have no idea, but she finally opens her mouth again
and informs me curtly, "That's down the hall. The only blonde Canadian
you'll find here is Trish Stratus." Oops, guess I did it again--dude, how
come I'm always mixing these things up? And great, now I'm standing here
quoting Britney of all people!
"Listen, I'm sorry for my mix-up,
but Jericho's kicked me out of our room we're sharing for nearly smothering
him by mistake, and I thought I might be able to bunk with the other guys,
but--" I begin to apologize nervously. For the first time in the night--or
very early morning, I guess--Lita smiles, as she drawls lazily, "Here,
rather than walking all the way down the hall, why don't you just spend
the night with us?" My eyebrows nearly fly off my forehead.
"You sure?" I hear myself
asking. Lita smiles again.
"Why? Can't you be trusted
to keep your hands to yourself in a room with two gorgeous ladies?" she
teases, playfully punching me in the arm.
"Of course I can!" I inform
her, as Lita opens the door wider and motions for me to get in.
"Here, just to let you know,
Trish always sets her alarm clock to some radio station, so you'll have
to get used to waking up to Nickelback singing about the evils of divorce
and long-term relationships," she warns me, and I shrug.
"That's okay--believe me,
it's a lot better than being treated to an early-morning Led Zeppelin tribute
from Chris Jericho," I reply, as Trish mutters some protest from her bed
concerning the whole divorce song crack.
"Great," Lita says, as she
heads over to Trish's bed and pulls her up. "Trish here will show you your
sleeping arrangements." The blonde diva groans, but allows herself to be
raised from her bed.
"Why me?" she complains,
rubbing the sleep from her eyes.
"Because the deal was for
us to each handle five minutes, and I've already completed mine for the
night," Lita reminds her, gloating as she heads back to her own bed while
Trish whines some more protest but concedes. Pulling on a bathrobe over
her red-and-white striped pj's, she covers her mouth as she yawns and leads
me over to where I would be spending the night.
"Here you go, Rob," Trish
mumbles. "Sorry there's no mints on the pillows--in fact, there aren't
even any pillows. You want to go back and get yours from your own hotel
room?" I shake my head.
"Nah, they got shredded
in half when Jericho used them to try to knock me out for nearly suffocating
him," I admit. I then finally get a good look of where exactly I'm supposed
to spend the night, and my eyebrows shoot up in indignation.
"Wait--hold on a second!"
I whirl around to protest, but Trish has already slammed the door shut--in
my face, I might add--and is now heading back to her own bed. I shrug,
and decide that at least it's better than being kept awake all night from
Jericho's complaints and vocal exercises, and settle myself into my makeshift
bed for the night, trying my best to make myself as comfortable as I can.