Undisputed_ How to Become the World Champion in 1,372 Easy Steps - Chris Jericho [44]
Over the years, I had been bestowed with the nickname of Drunkicho, due to a complete personality change whenever I got really loaded. Drunkicho was famous for throwing glasses against the wall, insulting anyone who got in his way, and generally acting like a barmy buffoon no matter the situation. Quite frankly, Drunkicho was an idiot.
After a gig in Charlotte, Sneap and Drunkicho went out on the town and ended up in a diner for a late-night grease meal. Covering the walls were dozens of eight-by-ten photos of various celebrities who had eaten there over the years, and much to my amusement I noticed that one of those eight-by-tens was mine. In my state of intoxication, I decided that because my picture was on the wall, I could do whatever I wanted in that establishment. I hopped up on my table and proclaimed myself the “King of the Diner,” and threw my water glass against the wall to christen it. This led to Sneap and me getting into an argument over whether Canadians or Englishmen could drink more. Eventually, I started throwing punches around and preaching from my chair. Sneap tackled me and we rolled back and forth under tables and over the other patrons’ feet, knocking plates off of tables and laughing like imbeciles. Finally, the owner threatened to call the cops if we didn’t stop.
I have no idea where I was or what I’m doing here … which was standard operating procedure whenever Drunkicho showed up.
“It’s okay,” I stammered matter-of-factly as Sneap poured a packet of sugar over my head. “My picture is on the wall!”
“Not anymore,” the owner said, and he hurled the frame at my chest.
The Duke and Andy Sneap onstage live in 2001. Rich loved playing with Sneap and I loved drinking with him.
Sneap and I spent the rest of the night driving around our hotel in circles while honking the horn in time with the radio.
The ridiculosity continued after one of our gigs at the World, when one of the bouncers told us about another club he worked at. It was 2:30 a.m. when Sneap, Willis, myself, and Paul Gargano, the editor of Metal Edge magazine, stumbled into the biggest gay bar in New York City.
Not that there’s anything wrong with that.
So an Englishman, a Canadian, and an American walk into a gay bar and begin to move to the music. It sounds like a bad party joke, I know, but let me assure you that there was nothing bad about the brilliance of the dance that followed.
Surrendering to the beat, we let the music take us away on a magical mystery tour and started performing moves so provocative, even Adam Lambert would cover his eyes in embarrassment. I did an old-school electric boogaloo, moonwalking and pirouetting like Baryshnikov on crack. Sneap spun on his back as Gargano held his legs and turned him. The three of us joined hands and did a chorus line kicking routine that would’ve made the Rockettes jealous—and we had better legs.
We jived when it was time to jive, discoed when it was time to disco, and African anteater ritualed when it was time to African anteater ritual. The three of us were James Brown during the T.A.M.I. Show, Michael Jackson during the 1983 AMAs, and Pee-wee Herman during Pee-wee’s Big Adventure all rolled into one. The crowd formed a circle around us, clapping in unison and hanging on our every move, as haters skulked away realizing they couldn’t keep up with our brilliance. We evacuated the dance floor faster than Cascada ever could, and no man (and there were plenty of them there) could match us. We reveled in our ritual of interpretive blood, sweat, and tears until it was time for the grand finale. While Sneap and Gargano stood side by side in a half crouch, I did a running roll and sprang up with both of my feet landing solidly on each of their thighs. At that moment we were golden Gods; a perfect human pyramid basking in the glory of the standing ovation provided by our newfound fans. Then we took a bow and walked the fuck out