Full Nelson is about the bizarre, yet very real world of indie wrestling. Once we discovered the world, we couldn’t look away. Hopefully you’ll find it just as compelling.

There are 7 episodes total, showing on koldcast.tv in the coming weeks. If we get enough viewers, we’ll get to make more. And then we can pay our cast and crew what they’re really worth.

The response:

9:00 a.m. I arrive at the Sony lot in Culver City to sign in and pick up my free t-shirt. There are no more t-shirts available. I feel stabbed in the back by my own union. I forgive, but I will never forget.

9: 05 a.m. I am assigned to picket Gate 1, the executive entrance. My guild has placed me at the front line, to be the public face of the strike in the eyes of the people who count the most. I consider this my second stab in the back.

9:10 a.m. I can’t remember how many laps of this gate I have made. Four, maybe five. I’ve lost track. There is a burning in my calves like I have never experienced before in my life.

9:15 a.m. The distinct taste of rust climbs up through my throat with every wheezing breath. I desperately check the headlines on my iPhone, hoping against hope that this madness will end. That the people who have signed up for the next shift will not have to endure one minute of the pain I have now been subjected to for over seven agonizing minutes.

9:25 a.m. The brain plays tricks on one who is under this much duress. I think I see my father, who has been dead for 15 years. He smiles and offers me a five-foot cone of cotton candy. But when I try to lick it, I am told I am molesting one of my fellow strikers.

9:32 a.m. An older man stops by to chat, telling us that he worked as a teamster for many years and supports our cause. He reaches out to shake my hand. I have never been so afraid.

10:00 a.m. Every muscle in my body screams for mercy with every step. I begin to marvel at my own naiveté. For years I believed in God. Now I know for a fact that he doesn’t exist. He can’t exist. No God would stand idly by, watching this happen to one of his own children.

10:01 a.m. My momentary panic subsides when I think of the people of Darfur. I feel humble, even grateful, to realize that somewhere in the world there are people who may understand what I’m going through.

10:45 a.m. I find a volleyball, which I decorate with the blood from my own hand. I name it Wilson. I am told I am molesting one of my fellow strikers again.

11:00 a.m. A strike captain arrives with news from the front. The strike is getting great coverage in the press. At the NBC lot in Burbank, Jay Leno has shown his support by dropping off Krispy Kreme doughnuts for the strikers. But where is our Jay Leno. Who will be our Jay Leno? Jay Leno can’t help us here.

11:12 a.m. The minutes blend into one another. I have lost all sense of day or night. A policeman stops by to remind us if we parked on the street, we’ll have to move our cars after two hours. I fall to my knees and confess to the 1996 Atlanta bombing.

11:21 a.m. I receive a supportive text message from my wife. I weep, just like a contestant on Survivor, who wins a reward challenge and is allowed a five-minute AOL video chat with her mother, who, just a week earlier, was told her cancer had recurred, but who, during the video chat, tells her daughter she was right to stay on the show, and that she’ll be proud of her no matter what the result, and then, because the producers are so moved by her story, they give her a Pontiac Sunbird.

12:00 p.m. I beg to have my legs amputated.

12:19 p.m. A rumor spreads like wildfire through the line. Late last night, in a back-channel negotiation, our union leaders were also offered a Pontiac Sunbird. They turned it down. What were they thinking?

12:45 p.m. Some of the replacements are beginning to arrive. I see in their young faces something that I once had, but that I will never regain: optimism.

God, I can’t believe I’m even thinking this, but should I torture her?

At this point, I don’t even know if I can legally tell you why I suspect her. I mean, if I’m right about this, and she is in cahoots with the bad guys, I certainly don’t want to give them my “playbook,” so to speak.

I guess what I’ll tell you is there has been a lot of “chatter.” She has recently learned the word “dirty,” and she has been saying it all morning. She pronounces it with a strange accent which I can’t quite place. But her name is Eliana, which sounds Middle-Eastern to me.

So that’s kind of where we stand with this. Part of me thinks I have no choice. I have to torture her, right?

Or is that crazy? I mean, yes, of course it’s crazy. She is an American citizen, guaranteed certain protections and freedoms under the Constitution. But in a way, didn’t she give up those rights the moment she sided with those godless savages who want to destroy us?

God, this is not an easy one. Even now, I can hear some of you thinking, “But Andy, what if you’re wrong?” And believe me, no one wants that more than I do. But for the love of God, man, what if I’m RIGHT?

Do you want to explain to the tens of thousands of dead and wounded that, yes, we had the baby in our custody, and yes, she knew about the bomb, but no, we didn’t use EVERY TOOL available to get the information from her? Have you ever seen a dirty bomb? I’ll tell you this. Dirty is putting it nicely.

I just think, given the circumstances, torturing my baby is not only the right thing to do, but not torturing her would be tantamount to treason.

God, I am so TORN UP over this. I love my baby. But this is a DIRTY BOMB we’re talking about. I mean, don’t kid yourself. Picture the dirtiest thing you can imagine and times that by ten. Yeah. Welcome to my hell.

I just wish I could be sure that’s what she’s saying. It sounds more like “Ditty Baahhh” when she says it. Jesus, learn the fucking language you foreigner.

Okay, Andy. Think. THINK! What would Jack Bauer do?

Jack Bauer would have no choice. I mean, he would have no choice, but he would be so torn up over it. Like I am! God, now I know exactly what he goes through. He would say, “Believe me, I love you more than anything, but I am not going to let you destroy my freedom!” You’d be able to see the love in his eyes. And the conflict. Oh man, I just hope I can do it as good as he would.

Now where did I leave that vial of Agony Serum? Ellie Honey? Come here…

My suggestion: Democrats should start calling their opponents “Republican Americans.”

It has that same awkward political correctness of “African Americans.” And like that phrase, there’s absolutely nothing technically wrong with it. But used just the right way, it drips with the subtle condescension that says, “Hey, you’re Americans too, just like us, and don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.”

Try it out:

“Last night we had dinner with a lovely Republican-American couple who moved in next door. They’re from Charleston, I think. Really nice couple. But their daughter looks half-Democratic, so we’ll have to get to the bottom of that one.”

“I asked them what’s their favorite Republican-American restaurant, and without hesitating, they both said, ‘Chick-fil-A.’”

“Newt Gingrich, a prominent Republican American and former congressman, was surprisingly critical of his own community after the 2006 mid-term elections.”

“Senator Kerry did his best to court the Republican-American vote, even staging a photo-op at a Chick-fil-A restaurant. But most Republican Americans remained skeptical, saying it smacked of pandering.”

“Most Republican Americans, when pressured, will candidly tell you that white-collar crime is not an American problem, but a Republican-American problem.”

“Police have few leads in the stock fraud case, but say the perpetrator was a Republican-American man, age 50 to 60, balding, of average height and weight. If you see a Republican-American man matching that description, you are encouraged to call the number on your screen.”

“Critics of the tax break say it unfairly benefits Republican Americans, for whom government assistance has become a way of life.”

“President Obama vetoed the earmark, saying ‘The best thing we can do for the Republican-American community is to stop reinforcing the soft prejudice of lowered expectations.’”

“He signed the veto while surrounded by a handpicked cadre of Republican-American supporters at a local Chick-fil-A restaurant.”