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Slapstick Saturday presents: You're fired! (Literally)

Ever dance the hot step? Yeah, I don't think it's supposed to go that way.

Hannah Johnston

Welcome to another edition of "Slapstick Saturday," Cagesiders, where your old pal Hulk Holland pokes fun at every botch, blooper and bomb the world of professional wrestling has ever given us.

This week, we're getting a little hot under the collar.

When I was a little Hulkster, maybe 13 or so, the big thing was to have long hair, parted down the middle and feathered back. Mine never stayed feathered and I ended up looking like John Bender in The Breakfast Club. Why wouldn't my hair stay in place?

Because I used my hair spray as a blowtorch.

Yup, the old teenage boy plus lighter, plus aerosol can routine. And in those days, the hair spray (much more flammable than Deep Woods OFF!) came in what resembled a 55 gallon drum with a nozzle. It was particularly useful at sleepaway camp.

Don't ask.

Anyway, one day I got a little too cocky with the can o' flames and whoops! Lit my damn self on fire. It was only for a second, but that shit hurt like the dickens. It taught me to respect the power of fire, but even more, it taught me to respect the power of The Undertaker.

That motherfucker is tough.

If you recall, his entrance at Elimination Chamber back in 2010 called for massive flames to shoot up from the floor. Well, wouldn't you know it, 'Taker happened to be standing right above one of the yellow geysers and was briefly engulfed in flames.

See for yourself.

He suffered first and second degree burns on his chest and neck -- and still spent 30 minutes wrestling in the ring, as advertised. I would have done like Brodus Clay and called my mama.


"You can't kill me Burke ... I'm the Sandman."

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