The Best in the World

by Chris Jericho

  OZZY OSBOURNE: When I heard Ozzy was going to be hosting Raw, I called Vince and demanded (OK, begged) him to let me do something . . . anything . . . with the Prince of Darkness. I pointed out that I had been his guest host go-to guy for weeks and this could be my reward for all the nerdy NASCAR drivers, weird comedians, and sanctimonious civil rights leaders I’d tried to make watchable. When I arrived at Raw in Worcester, Massachusetts, and found out I had a backstage pretape with the madman, I jumped around the room doing the zombie stomp. Even though I’d been close friends with his former guitarist Zakk Wylde for years, I’d never had the chance to meet Ozzy face-to-face and was pretty nervous. To me, Ozzy lived in the same rarefied air as James Hetfield and I didn’t want to freak out meeting him like I had with Papa Het.

  I showed up in the pretape room and Ozzy and Sharon were already there. She was friendly and chatted my ear off about how much fun they were having. She was so nice that I decided not to bring up our horrendous first meeting backstage at Ozzfest years earlier. Ozzy, however, was disengaged and barely said anything to me.

  I was trying to play it froot, but the camera had some technical issues and it was taking forever to get rolling, so I mentioned to Ozzy that I was close friends with Zakk, and that broke the ice. He told me how much he loved Wylde (who had recently departed from Ozzy) and how great a player he was. Eventually the camera was fixed and Vince came in to run through our pretape, a scene where I was going to admonish Ozzy for losing his edge over the years, before Oz shot me down and put me in my place just like every other guest host had.

  “I don’t need all of these hypocrite fans because I am better than them . . . and I’m better than you, Ozzy.”

  “I really don’t think so,” Oz said, stroking his chin wisely.

  I warned him if they ever crossed me again, it would be the Ultimate Sin, and walked away. Then Vince’s idea for the closing line was Ozzy asking, “Who was that wanker?”

  When Ozzy heard his last line, he stared at McMahon and said, “Oh no, man, I can’t call him a wanker!”

  “Why not, Ozzy?” Vince said in his deep voice.

  “Because it’s a really bad word, man. I mean you can’t say that on national television; do you know what it means, man?”

  Vince didn’t and asked him for the definition.

  “Wanker means a tosser. Like a giant cock that you’re about to jerk off, you know what I mean, man? It would be the same as calling him a fuckin’ jack-off, yeah?”

  Vince contemplated Ozzy’s revelation and replied, “But does anybody know what it means in the United States?”

  Ozzy was exasperated now. “Of course they do! And besides, this show airs in England too, right?”

  Vince nodded his head and thanked Ozzy for the sage advice.

  Kids, you know there’s a problem when Ozzy Osbourne is the voice of reason about what’s acceptable language on American television.

  After I walked out of the shot, Ozzy instead said, “Who was that joke?” and Sharon added, “That was a crazy guy.” It was a totally lame ending on paper but ended up great because of Ozzy’s confused delivery.

  After our pretape was done, Ozzy pretended to strangle me for a photo op and then told me he liked my character. We were just two guys hanging out at that point and I knew it was my chance to ask him all of the questions I’d been building up for the last thirty years.

  “Oz, can I ask you a question? What does S.A.T.O. stand for?”

  “S.A.T.O.” was a song off Ozzy’s second solo album, Diary of a Madman, and I’d always thought it stood for Sail Across The Ocean.

  “Well, whenever I’m writing lyrics and I can’t think of a song title, I just use initials as a placeholder. Some of them stick, some don’t. I had just written this song and didn’t know what to call it, so after having lunch with me and my ex-wife and Sharon and her ex, I decided to use our initials. So it stands for Sharon, Alan, . . .”

  Ozzy paused for a good ten seconds before continuing.

  “. . . THELMA, and Ozzy.”

  I didn’t know what was frooter, the fact that I’d finally learned the meaning of S.A.T.O. or the fact that it took Ozzy ten seconds to remember his ex-wife’s name.

  I pressed on. “So what does A.V.H. stand for from the No More Tears record?”

  “That stands for the Aston Villa Highway, a road that runs past my house in Birmingham.”

  Another mystery solved! But there was still one more thing I needed to know.

  “So what does N.I.B. stand for?”

  “N.I.B.” is a Black Sabbath classic and its meaning had been debated during late-night drinking sessions for many years. Did it stand for Not In Body? Name In Blood? Nazarine Is Burning? Or my personal favorite, Nativity In Black?

  “I don’t even know what a nativity IS, man!” Ozzy said with a laugh. “I thought of that one because the drummer in Black Sabbath [Bill Ward] used to have a really long pointy beard that looked like the nib of a pencil. So that’s what I called the song . . . NIB.”

  The riddle had been explained and it wasn’t as evil as I’d expected, but neither was Ozzy. He was funny, sharp, witty, and having a great time hosting Raw. I ran into him again in the hallway later as Santino was filming a backstage segment dressed like Ozzy from the Diary of a Madman cover.

  “He looks just like me,” Ozzy said, laughing. “I used to look just like that, man!”

  Yeah, that’s the idea, Oz.

  Sharon came over and I told her we’d met before. I told her the story of when she yelled at me and Zakk backstage at Ozzfest for playing baseball in the parking lot (as explained in the classic rock chronicle Undisputed, available at music stores everywhere). When I hit the punch line of her yelling, “WHO THE FUCK ARE YOU?!” she gasped out loud, seemingly mortified that she’d spoken to me that way. However, Ozzy thought it was great. “Who the fuck are you, man?” he giggled for the rest of the night whenever he saw me.

  When Raw finished, I thanked them again and bid farewell. Ozzy walked away giggling and mumbling, “Who the fuck are you?” one more time, as Sharon gave me a hug and apologized again. Then she pinched my ass (hard) and gave me a wink as she got in the limo.

  In case you’re wondering . . . I totally would.

  MIKE TYSON: Mike had a huge part in the revitalization of the WWE in 1998 and hadn’t appeared with the company since. So it was a huge honor when I found out I’d be working with him during his first live Raw appearance in over ten years. Even better, he was going to be my partner in a tag match against DX, which would be his first-ever wrestling match.

  When Tyson showed up in Minneapolis, The Baddest Man on the Planet was also one of the friendliest. He, along with his son (who called everyone sir, at Mike’s insistence), introduced themselves to everybody they ran into before the show. Not only was Tyson ultrarespectful, he was also an überfan who knew more about wrestling history than I did. He kept talking about how Bruno Sammartino was his favorite WWE champion of all time, and when we went into the ring to discuss the night’s activities, he was looking around like a kid in a candy store.

  “There’s Arn Anderthon! There’s Michael P.Sth. Hayeth! There’s Ricky Thteamboat!” he squealed, chasing after The Dragon to say hello.

  Tyson’s famous lisp was more pronounced in person, and combined with his thick New York accent and high voice, it made it difficult for me to have a conversation with him, because all I wanted to do was burst out laughing. It’s that bad. But I held my tongue, for I didn’t want to pith him off before he was to knock me out later. Yeah, that’s what I said . . . Iron Mike Tyson was going to punch me in the face at the end of Raw.

  The story was I’d been getting fired and rehired on Raw for weeks and this was my last chance to stay. If I lost this match against DX, I was going to be banished from Raw for good, so I needed a Bad Mama Jama (yeah, yeah, I know what it means) to have my back an
d called Mike Tyson. He had a history with DX after turning on HBK during the Michaels vs. Austin main event at WrestleMania 15 when he was the guest referee, so story-line–wise, I knew he was the right man for the job.

  We spent a few hours going over some simple spots as HHH wanted him to look good at whatever he did. Even though he had retired from boxing, having THE Mike Tyson work a pro wrestling match was a huge deal and the WWE knew his involvement would get major coverage from mainstream sports media.

  Then we all discussed the best way for him to punch me. Shawn mentioned when Tyson knocked him out at Mania, he’d thrown the punch by stepping in and swinging upward, driving his elbow into Shawn’s stomach, which stopped its momentum just underneath HBK’s chin. That seemed a little risky and I suggested Mike throw a “Hollywood punch” like he had when he decked Zach Galifianakis in The Hangover. Take a swing across my jaw, but miss by a few inches and have the camera shoot it from behind. I’d turn my head just as his fist passed in front of my face and it would look like he walloped me.

  We decided that was the proper way to go and Mike and I went backstage to film a pretape of the two of us sparring in preparation. I put on the special flat-sided gloves but since I’d never sparred with anyone before, I got a little mixed up, causing Mike to start chuckling loudly.

  “You put the glovth on the wrong handth!” pointing at me like he was seven years old. “You’ve got them on the wrong way! Thath hilariouth!”

  I sheepishly switched hands and Mike started hammering the pads with his blows. Even though he was forty pounds overweight and twenty years past his prime, his punches were HARD. He was rocking my hands back with such power that my shoulders were hurting and I felt like my rotator cuff was going to tear in half.

  He was still very fast too, and I could hardly see his hands as they machine-gunned back and forth into the sparring pads. I could only imagine how hard he must’ve hit in his glory days and there was no way I would ever agree to box him past, present, or future. Yet I’d agreed to stand there and let him take a free swing at my face on national TV. What was I thinking?! This was no Mickey Rourke I was going to give a free shot to . . . this was Iron Mike Tyson!

  The main event (there I go again) began and the arena was awash with anticipation of what Tyson was going to do. He started off with HHH for a few minutes, pushing him into the corner and peppering him with body blows. I tagged in and kicked DX’s mascot, Hornswoggle, in the face when he ran in to interfere on behalf of his buddies. Then I stood in the middle of the ring, bragging to Shawn and Hunter that I had the baddest man on the planet on my team as Tyson entered the ring behind me. He slowly took off his baggy black T-shirt to reveal a DX one underneath. The audience roared with approval at his double cross as I turned around to face my fate.

  Earlier in the day, I told Mike to take his time before punching me so we could milk the crowd reaction to the max. Before he made his move, I wanted every fan in the arena sitting on the edge of their seats, slapping their friends on the shoulder in anticipation, saying, “This is going to be great! Jericho is gonna get his ass handed to him!!”

  Now, I’m not the world’s most passionate guy, but when I turned around and looked Mike Tyson in the eye, I was legitimately scared. Here was one of the most feared men on the planet staring at me, ready to attack. I could see every detail—the open pores on his face, the pointed eyebrows, the shiny gold tooth, the tribal tattoo outlining his eye—and at that moment, I felt like the craziest man in the world. I was standing in the ring in front of millions of people, ready to let the baddest man on the planet take a free swing at my face.

  I was a sitting Canadian duck (a mallard?) and was putting my health . . . my very life . . . in the hands of a documented lunatic. A nutcase who could be drunk, high, pissed off at life, in a bad mood . . . who the fuck knew? Maybe he harbored some sort of grudge against me or didn’t like my hairstyle? How did I know for sure? None of that mattered anyway, because as soon as I gave Mike his cue, the iron hammer was going to fall. I raised my hands, palms forward in a defensive position, and time stood still as he pulled back his fist and launched a right hook directly at my chin.

  I couldn’t believe how fast he was and the punch flew by me so quickly that I actually felt a breeze. I barely had enough time to turn my chin in tandem with his swing, but when I hit the mat, the crowd gasped as they thought he legitimately tuned me. I’d seen guys get knocked out back in my bouncing days and it was never pretty. Never did the dude take a perfectly flat bump or roll around in pain holding his chin. I wanted everybody to think I was really KO’d so I splayed out on the mat like a dead bug, with my arms bent up in the air and hands askew.

  It must have looked pretty damn vicious, because the ref came over and asked me under his breath if I was OK. Kevin Dunn was convinced I was out cold and the replays from multiple camera angles (but not the secret one in the corner of the arena) backed him up. The way Tyson timed his punch, and the way I sold it, left no doubt that he had annihilated me. Except he hadn’t even touched me, and I had to suppress a smile as he and the rest of DX celebrated my demise by crotch-chopping over my fallen carcass.

  What a way to make a living.

  —

  AND THE “BEST GUEST HOST IN RAW HISTORY” AWARD GOES TO . . . BOB BARKER!: When it was announced Bob was going to be hosting Raw, I felt bad for the old guy. I was convinced our fans would boo the shit out of him, chew him up and spit him out like a sunflower seed, especially since we were going to be in Chicago, the home of our rowdiest crowd. But I couldn’t have been more wrong. Bob had the crowd in the palm of his hand the whole time, like the fifty-year showbiz veteran that he is, and walked away as the most entertaining guest host ever.

  He opened the show by welcoming the crowd as if they were a live studio audience and had them on his side within minutes. Then he introduced what is still one of my all-time favorite segments of my career: “The Price Is Raw.”

  “The Price Is Raw” was designed to be a knockoff of The Price Is Right, where WWE Superstars would guess the prices of various items, and the winner would get a prize. With the TV show’s famous cheesetastic theme song playing in the background, Bob stood on the stage with his badass SKINNY MICROPHONE, as Howard Finkel, the greatest ring announcer of all time, introduced the contestants. The lucky winners ran through the crowd screaming and waving their arms with joy as the camera panned back and forth through the sold-out arena, looking for them. The first contestant chosen was Santino Marella, who was yelling so loudly and was so excited that he tripped jumping over the barricade, much to the crowd’s delight. Then Howard announced Jillian Hall, Irwin R. Schyster (one of Brian Gewirtz’s favorite characters, who was written into the show as much as possible), and finally . . . Chris Jericho.

  Keep in mind I hadn’t played anything for comedic value (or even smiled) in almost two years and I balked when I first heard I was going to be involved in the segment. I wasn’t sure I wanted to open that door and make people laugh like I had in the past. But Brian convinced me that’s exactly why I was the perfect candidate for the bit. I could play the whole thing completely straight, which would make things even funnier in the midst of all the inanity. I figured if I was going to go there, I was gonna take it all the way and stuck the giant, bright yellow CHRIS name tag right in the middle of my baby-oil-slathered bare chest. It was a slapstick visual that Carrot Top would’ve been proud of, and it still makes me laugh to this day.

  Bob called my name a few times (“Where’s Chris? Chris, where art thou?”), until I finally strolled onstage like I owned the place, complete with scowling face and a bad attitude. Bob was a big WWE fan and knew exactly who my character was, and had no problem taunting me to get a laugh. All of his insults were improvised and it was all I could do to keep a straight face when he commented right off the bat, “Look at Chris. He’s taking his time because he knows he’s getting more camera time that way.”

 
Bob announced the first item up for bid was a SmackDown DVD and we all bid on it. After asking to buy a vowel, Santino looked at the crowd for encouragement and bid 1,465 American dollars. Jillian guessed 75 bucks, IRS (after asking if the bid included taxes) bid 50. When asked for my bid, I just stood at the podium. Bob was unfazed and asked, “Are you awake, Chris? Hypnotic trance perhaps?”

  Annoyed at his sassiness, I sauntered up the stage toward him and got in his grille. The shit was on.

  “Your mother would not be proud of how you’re behaving,” Bob said, his breath smelling of mint gum. The quip took me by surprise and I had to bite my bottom lip.

  “First of all—” I growled menacingly, before Bob cut me off with “The man talks! He’s actually speaking!” The crowd loved that one and roared as Bob went silent, letting the zinger breathe.

  I moved closer into Barker’s face and went into my typical “the guest hosts always disrespect me and I deserve to be pandered to because I am The Best in the World at What I Do” tirade. The crowd was pissed when I ended my speech by calling him Old Man, and booed louder. It was hilarious to hear them react that way, as if they were listening to a verbal dual to the death between Rock and Austin and not a battle for the bid between Jericho and Barker.

  I stared into his eyes menacingly like I was about to spay and neuter him and informed Bob that I was a pretty big deal in the WWE.

  “I am one—” but before I could finish saying I was one-half of the tag-team champions (with Big Show), he cut me off and said that it was official . . . my bid was one dollar.