Bass!! How low can you go? Casey here, with part deux of the grand [slash] experiment. I must say that seeing my last column posted was quite a thrill. I received exactly zero (0) comments by email or on the EZBoard, which is exactly two more than I thought I'd get. Sweeeeet.

December is mere days away, and with the turn of the calendar comes the return of one of the most menacing heels in the bidness today. A former King of the Ring. The WWF's second Grand Slam Champion. One half of the Two Man Power Trip. Yes, if all indications are correct, the twelfth month will bear witness to the return of Hunter Hearst Helmsley. And I for one can't wait.

A lot has been written about HHH in the past year. Popular opinion has him placed squarely at the head of the WWF's backstage political scene. And it doesn't take a rocket surgeon to figure out that as long as he's boffing "Jugs" McMahon, he'll have a job for years to come. But what is it about the man that makes him truly "The Game?"

Is it his unbelieveable improvement as a worker over the past two years? Perhaps. HHH has, no matter what anyone will tell you, has become one of the best wrestlers in sports entertainment. Match after match he continues to raise his personal bar, and I firmly believe that he could carry even me to a **** match if called upon to do so. Bear in mind I smoke two packs a day (Camel Lights for those scoring at home) and at 6'2" 250, I'm hardly what you would consider the paragon of physical fitness. Hee-hee...I said "paragon."

Is it the gimmick? Sure, there is reason to be afraid of a big hunk o' sledgehammer swingin' bacne. HHH has perfected an art lost on many of today's performers. HHH is his gimmick is HHH. Look at Christian. If you were to meet him on the street you wouldn't expect him to parade around in a mesh tanktop and sunglasses roughly the same circumference as Mae Young's nipples. . If I were to meet the modern-day HHH, I would expect-NAY!!-demand that he spit bottled water in my face, use the knee, and pedigree me thru the first available Spanish Announce Table.

True story: About '97-'98 or so, my friend and I attended a show at the GEC in Nashville. He lived over near the airport and, after dropping him off, I proceed to the nearest Waffle House-about a half mile from said airport. And there, eating a steak dinner, sat the future Game along with his future ex, Chyna. This was pre-"I'm proud to be a masculine woman so I'm gonna let Vince break my face, reset it and gimme phony yabbos" era. She freaked me out. Hard. This was also before Tri got on the juice, so he wasn't quite as Gamey as he is now. I didn't want to impose so I walked up, said a quick thank you, and voiced how much I appreciate what it is they do for a living. That was it. Chyna seemed cool with me, but HHH seemed pissed at the world. Or maybe it was just me. I dunno. Either way, I thought I was about to catch a Greenwich, CT beatdown. Scattered, smothered, and covered. Yes, there are people who can validate this story.

Sidenote: About a year and a half ago, my friend and another friend of ours met Test and Albert at that very same airport Waffle House. He was all jacked to have met T&A and freaked when he told me that story.

Him: DUDE!! I just saw Test and Albert at that Waffle House!!

Me: That...that's great.

Sometime I'll tell the story about meeting K-Kwik at Tiffany's Cabaret here in Nashville. I know one cracker who almost lost his life that day, I can tell you.

But I digress.

So what is it that makes Triple H "The Game?"

His in-ring prowess? Maybe.

The gimmick? Perhaps.

The woman at his side, just 'cuz she's got big titties? (Now you're a man...a MANNY MANNY MANNY MAN MAAAAN...) Naah, that's not it.

But I know what it is.

In a word?

Motorhead.

F'n MOTORHEAD!!

When the lights go down. And you hear Lemmy (is God) growl "It's Time to Play the GAAAAAAAAAAME!!!" then you know someone's ass is about to get beat and get beat hard. Think about it. It's not Loverboy. It's not Winger. It's not Krokus. It's MOTORHEAD!! And Lemmy Kilmister doesn't attach his voice to anything that isn't classicly trained to rock your fucking socks off! (Except maybe that song he did with Whitfield Crane for the "Airheads" soundtrack. But, come on, a brother's gotta eat-errrr...drink. And at least that song did have Ice T. Am I rambling?)

Think about it. Back in the day, you knew that your conquering hero had come to town when you heard Rick Derringer open up with something along the lines of "When it comes crashing down/ and it hurts insiiiiiide...." or, worse yet "Here comes the Ax/ and here comes the Smaaaaaasher/ The Demolitioooon/ Walkin' disaaasteeeeeerrr...." which was great for the time. I suppose.

Even recently Vince has licensed music from the likes of Kid Rock, Limp Bizkit, and Uncle Kracker. Lemme tell ya something, campers. Lock Kid Rock, Fred Durst, and Uncle Kracker in a room with Lemmy and a bottle of Maker's Mark for all of about twenty minutes. Then, my friend, you will have learned a new definition of pain. Lemmy would dance with them inside the Six-Sided Ring of Fire! He would rip off their heads and spike them onto the floor of a nightmare they can't possibly imagine!!

I can hear it now:

I....AM....American BadaaaAAAAHHHH!!! I CAN'T FEEL MY LEGS!!

Keep rollin', rollin', rollin' WHAAAAAARRGGGHHH!! OH MY GOD, THERE'S SO MUCH BLOOD!!!

Now that's what I'm talkin' about. And that is why Triple H is The Game. Pure and simple. They say that Robert Johnson sold his soul to the Devil to be God on the guitar. Well, Triple H sold his entrance to Lemmy. Bet Robert Johnson wishes he'd thought of that. If he weren't roasting in eternal hellfire, I mean.