SS59—Fan Fumes and Bad Dads

Here are 1000-plus words concerning professional wrestling.  From a man whose tax forms’ Occupation boxes read “Author.”  Not “glorified blogger.” And most certainly not “write for site that publishes anyone who will work for free.”

A recent study verified this makes me 54.7 times superior to all those pretend-journalists covering the mat game. And to you.

With CM Bunk’s long-overdue dismissal, what has been quietly and conveniently swept under the rug is that “ongoing investigation” (Khanese for “my excuse for never commenting on it”) into the whole Punk/Elite brouhaha. 

As pro wrestling’s only true journalist, I still want to know what went down.  On the other hand, Skeptical Stately believes…

Things That Will Occur Before AEW Concludes Their Investigation

*John Lennon returns from the dead and apologizes for subjecting the world to Yoko Ono

*Surprise guest Donald Trump leaps onstage to join NWA on “Fight The Power”

*A blow to the head leads Elon Musk to believe he’s Elton John.  Consequently, Twitter is rebranded again, this time as Candles In The Wind

*Malik Ibadookuza-Lavatzimanamarra is shunned by every NBA team because his name won’t fit on a jersey

*The latest technique to obscure baldness is to adopt a kitten and have it live on your forehead

*Netflix officials declare “Whoa, that’s way too much.  Let’s lower the rate to three dollars a month.”

*A new Olympic sport, drunken archery, is immediately dropped after bitter and blitzed Mike Paffas fires three arrows into the crowd

*Pornhub announces their most popular performer of the month is Katie Vick

*King Charles dumps the traditional ceremony entrance music for a barbershop quartet rendition of “Iron Man”

*Kid Rock joins Neil Young in the duet “I’m Bald Under This Stupid Hat”

*The WWE introduces a full line of new Goldberg apparel—modeled by Bret Hart

*A partially deaf Siberian husky wows the America’s Got Talent judges by crooning “Bohemian Rhapsody” in Portuguese, with a slight lisp

*Folks from far and wide line up to cruise on the just-christened ship Titanic II

*The top-valued stocks for the year are Napster, My Space and Packard-Bell, all companies owned by Kmart 

Wembley And The Wind

Over 70,000, in a country where bathing once a week is considered excessive–albeit fitting right in with the typical IWC wrestling fan’s monthly shower schedule–sweating in the August sun for several hours after eating the disgusting English breakfast of baked beans on toast, while wearing black T-shirts because it’s the only color they own. 

Bless you, Mother Nature, for having the wind blow to the north, south or east, anywhere but towards the U.S., where the combined toxins in the British B.O. Bomb would surely have decimated plant life along the American east coast. 

It’s bad enough a similarly sized crowd will be converging on my birthplace, the City Of Brotherly Shove, for Wrestlemania 40—for two days, no less.

I’ve already begun construction of a large dome over the Manor Mansion, with a pump circulating pre-Mania oxygen, and also added piranhas to the moat to “greet” any pesky autograph-seekers.

Mr. McMahon has personally assured me none of the typical ringside reprobates will be within 100 feet of me during my Hall Of Fame speech, slated to be the briefest one in history, primarily because I have no one to thank but myself.

“wHaT aBoUt Me? I bOUgHt tHE MaGAziNEs?”  Ooooh, you contributed a penny towards the five grand a month I got paid. What a sport.

And how many times did you thank me personally through a letter, postcard, email, DM, text or tweet?  What have you paid into my Ko-Fi account?  When was the last time you bought a new car for ME?

But, yeah, I should waste precious time in a f’n HALL OF FAME speech to namecheck “DJ Trailer Park from the 215” or whatever you call yourself, because you swiped a few bucks from the purse of your mom after she passed out from drinking her newly arrived welfare check.

Oh, I see some of you find that last sentence funny.  Some deprived kid with no father in the picture and a useless mother has to resort to theft in order to get a few hours of escape from the pure hell of his no-hope, prison-bound life.  You sit there in your never-washed $40 T-shirt and the decades-out-of-style backwards ballcap, and think it’s perfectly fine to laugh at the predicament of yoots like this?

Go right ahead—Eminem Junior never thanked me either. 

Look, if poor people don’t want to live in poverty, they can sell of their summer home in the Hamptons, just like I did when in a financial pinch. All those locals starving in Africa and elsewhere?  Hop in the Land Rover and hit the Burger King drive-thru!  Do I have to explain everything to you lot?   

Father Issues

Rey Misterio may have performed the exact same match for 30 years except for adding the 619 ripped off from Tiger Mask Sayama, and be considered “the greatest luchadore ever” by clueless crackers who couldn’t name the father of El Hijo del Santo.  But Midgetstereo did do one thing right—gave the world Dominik.

I remember Dom from when he was just a jovial tyke backstage, always happy to accept my dollar to drop a deuce in his father’s boots and claim Finkel did it.  It was such a blast teaching the lad the life skills his lazy old man ignored.  Like how to get around a deadbolt lock with just one wrench-turn, the proper way to start a warehouse fire, and how to avoid the cover charge at strip joints.  And I never saw a slicker ten-year-old pickpocket!

If it were up to me, Dom would have his own Nickelodeon program, showcasing how kids can overcome being raised by a father who’s too busy chasing glory to be home most of the time.

Kind of like Cody Rhodes did.  Wouldn’t it be great if, upon defeating Roman for the gold, Cody cut a promo laughing at everyone who believed “that crap about me idolizing my tub-of-lard egomaniac old man.

“Daddy dearest—whose father was an accountant, not a plumber, by the way—would stop home once a month and spend more time with our dogs than with his sons.  Why do you think Dustin is so screwed up?

“And you fools couldn’t even comprehend I am the complete opposite of that creep, despite me calling myself the American Nightmare.   Dream, Nightmare, duuuuh.”

But let’s face it, the odds of this going down are verrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrry slim. Because, when you get right to it, witnessing Cody Rhodes in action is about as exciting as watching the wrapper machine at a chewing gum factory.   

SS58 Never Mind That Other Guy—Acknowledge ME!/MehJF

The term “wrestling journalist’ is teetering on the verge of being an oxymoron—due to an excess of morons.

They’re not all terrible.  In their publications’ formative years, popular Dale Metzger and his counterpart Weed Killer published words by SW Manor–and to this day consider me a dear friend and influence, constantly expressing their gratitude for my support when they were nobodies.

Consequently, those two get a pass.  As for the rest of them….

Being brighter than everyone else—which, when it comes to wrestling fanDUMB, is about as challenging as being the toughest guy on Gilligan’s Island—I have devised a completely objective scoring system to determine whether your favorites qualify as “wrestling journalists.”

Have they:

*taken journalism courses at the high school and university level?

*been internationally published in a multitude of newsstand journals not about wrestling?

*six figures in the bank and a fully paid-for house?

*spoken on dozens of terrestrial (over-the-air, not podcasts) wrestling radio programs, including setting Most Guest Shots records on some shows?

*guested on terrestrial non-wrestling drive-time radio shows in New York City and Philadelphia?

*provided material for Wrestlemania, Raw and Nitro?

*done color commentary for an American promotion and Japanese wrestling videos, the former eventually available on the WWE Network?

*performed in-ring “Piper’s Pit” style interviews as well as participated in matches other than comedy novelty matches at fan conventions?

*been asked for autographs by anyone outside the IWC internet bubble?

*consistently been the most attractive person at any graps event?

*been the subject of stories in tabloids with circulation of over one million?

*been repeatedly hired by a variety of total strangers eager to publish their prose?

*spent many many years being PAID to opine?

*been interviewed for the front page of the Sports section and, later, the front page of the entire local newspaper, for their achievements as a writer beyond just wrestling?

*the versatility to Tweet daily about topics beyond the mat sport?

*reported on conversations with movie, TV and music stars?  And have blogs and websites dedicated to those other topics?

Okay, how does the scoring work?  That’s easy…because only one individual qualifies for a “Yes” on every question.

STATELY WAYNE MANOR.

There you have it, inarguable scientific proof I am easily the greatest scribe to ever pick up a pen.  That goes for newsletter nerds, over-glorified photographers who “somehow” always get themselves in front of the camera, fanboys who turn publishers so wrestlers will talk to them, and women who steal column names and think they won’t get busted.

None can touch me. You proved it yourself by completing this totally unbiased test.

Here’s something I don’t do.  Post buttmunch drivel like “Bret Hart truly is the best there ever was” and “TK is a god,” just to get Likes and Retweets. Suck-ups they will eventually contradict, I might add.

You know what else I don’t do though it is popular with the inferiors?  Vanity-search my name, to either pick fights with anyone disagreeing with me or to Block them outright.

Unlike the hypersensitive hotheads—who condemn wrestlers for being the very same way—I don’t need constant validation.  I believe everyone is entitled to their asinine opinion.  Besides I’ve never been wrong about anything (except once, but we’ll get to that below.)

Shutting out the anti-Manors is simply practicing putting mind over matter.  As in I don’t mind that you don’t matter.

Don’t let the above chronicle of my superiority mislead you.  I am very approachable (unless you wear a man-bun) and easy to spot at any public gathering—because I’m the most charismatic man there.

All I ask is that you don’t genuflect too long or attempt physical contact, the exception being if you’re a hot broad and have been granted permission.  There’s not enough sanitizer on the entire East Coast to counter whatever diseases I’d be exposed to via shaking hands with the typical wrestling fan!

The aforementioned only error I ever made in Stately States was presuming MehJF was going to blossom into more than a repetitive one-trick pony who SHOUTS NEARLY EVERY SINGLE WORD of promos others write for him.

Don’t believe the latter?  Look at his painfully putrid Twitter.  “Tiger King sucks” “You aren’t shit.”  Seriously?  Do you really believe the person who wrote this claptrap and thought it was clever is the same one who comes up with those speeches on Dynamite?

We’re talking about someone whose creativity and originality includes putting “The” in front of his name (a la The Miz) and speaking in the third person (a la The Rock) like pampered sports stars have been doing for “only” a half-century or so.

But, hey, wearing the jersey of a hated rival of the local team is edgy.

If it’s 1988.

And you’re Eddie Gilbert.

The reaction to his “provocative” behavior?  “LMAO, you rule, dude.”  Do you drooling dolts have any idea what the term “heel” even means???

Quick history lesson.  They are called “heels” because they’re the despised bad guys working the ringside rubes into a frenzy of genuine hatred.  Not just for the seven minutes they’re performing on TV. But 24/7.

And, no, “wink-wink, play along with me, friends” nonsense.

Now let’s take a look at MehJF—literally.

From the neck up, he looks like something found on Easter Island, or maybe a cross between Buzz Lightyear and a hamster.  I’ve seen better faces on mummies.

However, being an unbiased journalist, I will readily admit, between his height and physique, Maxipad reminds me of another character made famous via television exposure.

Yogi Bear’s buddy Boo-Boo.

Speaking of TV stars, did you know Fraudman’s face got a sympathy card from Barney Fife?

“Yeah, but it’s about more than looks,” you blubber, spittle running down the front of your never-washed size XXXXL black T-shirt.

Do you mean your “greatest heel” who came to the ring in a Star Trek costume?  Or the guy who cut a promo about being bullied as a kid and having a learning disability?

Yeah, those are some inflammatory acts.  Better call the fire marshal, pronto. 

Maybe, in the future, he can air clips of him rescuing a panda cub from a burning building, and discuss the homeless shelter he’s personally constructing and funding. 

Then again, you can’t expect much better from a guy so dumb he once signed a ransom note.

There IS one thing worse that the man who puts the “M” in “Mid.”  That’s Friedman’s supporters.

What kind of testosterone-deficient, zero self-esteem, boot-kissing, worthless and weak simp tells someone else “You’re better than me and I know it”?!?!?

Sidenote:  I’ve been walking around with a “>U” sticker on my leather for over a dozen years.  So, ya boy isn’t even doing anything original, either.

It also means I’m ballsier than you—and you know THAT.

SS57—Manor Mends The Mat Game 2021

Pro wrestling was founded by shady characters of questionable morals bent on conning naïve rubes out of their money via rigged “fights.”  Everyone knows that.

Except diehard wrestling fans.

Wide-eyed bubble-dwellers who wandered into a biker bar and wanted to play hymns on the jukebox, it’s only natural that those who exist in a fantasy world of their own creation would be drawn to another make-believe environment, a comforting escape from the harsh  reality of otherwise being a full-time resident of Loser Land.

With the petulance of a two-year-old with ADD, it is little wonder they fly into a tizzy when even the most trivial occurrence poses a (minor) threat to the dreamscape they’ve created.

Unable to crawl back into the womb—the closest they’ll ever get to sex— to Nerdus Maximus and friends immersed in video games (fake world), comic books (fake world), and movies and TV shows about superheroes (fake world), pro wrestling is a perfect fit, as it too involves other people doing the dirty work while they do minimal exertion.

So, folks, what it breaks down to is this:  Wrestling itself is not “the big problem”; it’s who wrestling attracts. These delusional diehards are irreparable. But that doesn’t mean wrestling can’t be fixed to cleanse itself of that particular element.

*When Eric Bischoff took control of WCW, he phoned me—ME, not you—to get some input and advice.  One of the many things I told him and personally changed the industry as a whole was not to undervalue the cruiserweights.  Thus, I am solely responsible for the career success of Ultimo Dragon, Juvi, Eddie Guerrero, Dean Malenko, Chris Jerko and Rey Midgetstereo—though I apologize for the latter.

But all those men (except Rey) I single-handedly made stars went about 230 pounds, didn’t wear T-shirts to hide lousy physiques like yours, and were athletes rather than acrobats and fluorescent light-tube eaters.

Also, Eric called me roughly a quarter-century ago; and as excuse-makers love to bring up to validate something new and awful, “Wrestling evolves.”

In this case, exactly my point.

Since only the saddest no-lifers watch it anyway, sack the entire 205 Live roster and use the currently wasted airtime for something more entertaining.  You proponents of the dwarf-based promotions worship the bingo hall in Philadelphia—though you’ve never actually been to that dump—so, why not air some exciting bingo action from the Nantucket, RI, VFW post?  It has to be more engaging than Generic Can’t Cut A Promo versus Generic Flippy Guy With Beard.

And this ban on non-heavyweights is across the board, not just for the WWE.  All midgets must go!

That includes those on “the other channel,” such as The Jackson Two, Cringe Cassidy, Micro Stunt, Bunghole Boy, the Loser Brothers, and Private Parts. Let them find jobs they are better suited for, like stocking the lower shelves in grocery stores or modeling children’s clothing in Wal-Mart ads.  Perhaps act as Smurf stunt doubles.

At the very least, Kushida and Ricky Starks can find seasonal jobs building toys at Santa’s workshop, 

*Return to the non-fans attendance system.  What was better than the wildly overhyped Attitude Era?  The Stink-Free Era!

Being an insider—not someone who plays one on social media—I’ve spoken to many bonebenders, and they were unanimous in agreeing it was such a delight to no longer have to be administered oxygen after each match, to clear the audience body odor and unwashed-hair stench from their system.  Popular Seth Rollins told me “Every time Becky changes a dirty diaper, the smell reminds us of when you first do your entrance and get a whiff of the fans’ breath.”

The typically cretinous Chicago-based “fans” repeatedly performing lameass “CM Punk” chant during the thrilling August 2 RAW—the first one with the live crowd back—conclusively proved the “fanbase” is more useless than a pogo stick on a canoe ride.

I am not suggesting everyone be locked out of arenas.  That would be preposterous.  No, I’m saying…you know how you need a “vaccination passport” to get into restaurants, MSG concerts and the like?  To be allowed entry into a wrestling card, one must present a photo of them in the ring during another show.  This excludes the time you paid $90 to have your picture taken with Ricky Morton in a ring set up at a fan convention in Frogs Leap, Louisiana.

*One constant comment from the obsessed, being few have ever had an original thought, is “I wish RAW wasn’t three hours long.”  Putting aside the expected grammar error, I agree with the numbnuts!

RAW should be expanded to four hours

I, for one, greatly miss those 27-minute opening promos where one wrestler badmouths another until—surprise!—the insulted party comes to the ring to talk smack about the first person, who just stands there and takes it without ever even interrupting, let alone throwing a right hook.

I just adore the spontaneity of the pretend-boss interrupting the bickerers and scheduling a completely impromptu match between the tendon-tearers.  And by a stroke of pure luck, even though shows are generally formatted to the minute, that particular one has a spare 18 minutes to kill and accommodate the new match!

Another bonus to running another hour is how it creates an opening for the return of the most spellbinding in-ring interview segments in the sport’s history.

I am referring of course to the Live Stately States segment, hailed by all as far greater than Piper’s Pit on its best day.  For starters, the enormously overrated Roddy Piper couldn’t finish two sentences without doing that disgusting hiccup-inhale thing he used to do.  Let’s not conveniently forget the Scotsman was homophobic, clearly demonstrated by his cowardly sneak attack on guest Adrian Adonis.  His most famous targets?  A black midget, Jimmy Snuka and Mister T—all People Of Color  Do I really have to spell out what that means?

*In the earliest Olympic Games, wrestling was done in the nude.  This practice needs to be reinstated at once.

But only for the broads.

You can stop your “Stately is a sexist pig” cries right this minute, toots.  My record for supporting equality is unmatched.  In fact, I have boldly stated on Twitter that, when your old lady is doing your laundry, you should allow the chick to throw in some of her clothes as well.

I’m all for wrestling women.  It is public knowledge I try to wrestle women every chance I get.  So, don’t worry your pretty little head over me, sister.  You’d be much better-served trying to learn simple arithmetic so it doesn’t take you and “the girls” an hour to work out who pays what on a restaurant bill.

Anyway, naked honeys open up so many fresh possibilities.  A faction of Naomi, Bayley, Maria Kanellis and Marti Belle, their gimmick being they’re only shot from behind.  Nikki ASH being rebranded correctly this time, as Nikki ASS.  The female NWO—Nude Whore Order.

Special remixes of matches, edited to show the best views, if you know what I mean (and half of you don’t.)  A reality show wherein the gals frequently take long slow-motion showers and love to bounce on trampolines.

Breastlemania, All Hanging Out, Starrknakedcade, and Destination XXX would smash every existing pay-per-view buy rate…and give a whole new meaning to “hardcore.”

I hear you Pretend Puritans clucking away, acting as if you are repulsed by the idea.  In the meantime, you and your little buddies in the Three Inch Club have been having “tug team” circle jerks over Shotzi, Britt Baker and Thunder Rosa on a weekly basis all year.

*Being “woke” is a joke.  Bunch of sanctimonious snotballs playing holier-than-thou, feigning concern about whatever is Cause Of The Day as an excuse to pat themselves on the back.  These creatures are even worse than online gatekeepers!

At least imbeciles calling themselves @AEW24.7_69 and @SashaFeetSniffStan are easy to avoid.  Woke tools pop up every freakin’ where.  “Ooooh, look at me, I eat tofu instead of beef.”  Wait right there, the Pope wants to give you a medal.  (And, besides, those cows were asking for it.)

The biggest fix for wrestling today is to run off these pearl-clutching pansies and return to what the sport was built on—bad taste.

“Ethnicity- and race-baiting is not good,” says Sobbing Sally.  She’s right—it’s great.

Some of my earliest cherished memories include the real Rock, Don Muraco, calling Pedro Morales “a greaseball,” while, on another station, Tully Blanchard, taking a rare booking in the Northeast, was fearlessly running down the Spanish-speaking.

Holy shish kabob, they’re saying this on TV?!?  They sure were.  And tickets were flying out of the box office.  Wait, what’s this?  On a third channel, some white trash grappler was telling a Japanese competitor to “go make some egg rolls”?

In addition to moving tons of tickets, TV ratings completely blew away the meager numbers tallied today.  Hardly a coincidence.

Now, before anyone labels me a bigot for advocating the above, understand it certainly shouldn’t be only Causcasians ripping minorities.  Homeboys cutting up crackers is something I 100-percent endorse.

I want to see a black tag team claiming “You honkies suck at boxing, track, and basketball, and especially suck at wrestling.  And you can ask your sister about what else we’re better at…shorty,” while surrounded by fawning blondes.  And an Asian boasting “Sony took over Hollywood and Samsung rules TVs and phones.  Nobody buys a Ford or Chevy anymore.  So, whether you like it or not, we own all you round-eyes.”

Ethnicity-baiting is only one of the many “offensive” options.  Give me voluptuous skank valets constantly following their man’s orders and being put up for “maid service” if the heel loses.  Flip the switch and have a wrestler in the most universally acknowledged cringe position of all, the p-whipped husband or boyfriend.

Screw factions of, um, elite athletes. Wrestling needs a trio of obese slobs who scoff at working out and only win because they triple-team and are too fat for a worn-down foe to kick out on.

The WWE has the slickest production crew the sport has ever seen.  Yeah, and viewership has declined every year.  I need introduction videos that look like they were shot on a burner phone—because they were—with “the new people” getting out of parked jets, lounging by Olympic-size pools at plush mansions, all of which were obviously rented for the day.  The soundtrack is, of course, some song radio stations beat to death two years earlier.

 Also, the hell with Shaq, Bad Bunny, Snoop, Logan Paul et al, each being “some super-rich guy just picking up a paycheck.”  Replace them with that goofus taking over the limelight of Flo from Progressive, the hippie who holds the Guinness World Record for eating Big Macs, and a once-popular singing act with none of its original members.  Why have wealthy celebrities when you can have poor celebrities?

On a related note, if yours truly was “some super-rich guy,” I’d introduce Ambush The Assholes.   It goes like this.

Find the most overbearing, preachy public figures around, being sure they have no interest in wrestling whatsoever.  Promise them some live TV time to talk up their latest project, world hunger, the homeless, or whatever other hopeless cause they are “deeply concerned about” (at the moment.)

Before the show, in an empty arena, demonstrate how the various blows are “fake” and harmless.  Seconds before they are about to walk the aisle on the live show, it’s “Oh, geez, we never got your signature on the standard contract, handing them a thick legal document with the buried clause “the promotion will not be responsible for any injuries.”  

Then, about 62 seconds into their speech, have a four-person run-in and stomp the living tar out of the jiveass.

Week after week, destroy the likes of Bono, Tucker Carlson, Whoopi Goldberg, Paul McCartney, Jenny McCarthy…it will be the best TV to ever air! 

Lawsuits?   Meh, remember, this is based on being super-rich.  (That’s how you get to be booker now, right?)  If I have to pay Fred Durst a million smackers because he can’t “sing” anymore, that’s money well spent. 

Just imagine the magic of the moment when the announcer bellows “The Four Horsewomen have reformed—and they’re beating up Taylor Swift!!!”

Naturally, you’d have to mix it up so it doesn’t get too repetitive.   Like have all the girls take turns superplexing Khloe Kardashian through a table, or a Road Warriors salute in which Neil Young takes four Doomsday Devices.  The men in the ring have a contest to determine who can best chokeslam Howard Stern.  The possibilities are endless!

SS56—Mat This ‘n’ That/I’m Back, Jack

To the tearful dismay of the masses, it’s been quite some time since Wrestling’s Only Unbiased Columnist posted a fresh Stately States.  Rejoice, girls and buoys, I have returned, to once again be The Rage Of The Digital Page.

I was going to continue last column’s theme, explaining how self-described “REAL Wrestling Fans” are less useful than sunscreen on a scuba diver, and such imbeciles they think a salad bar is where lettuce goes to get drunk and fishcake is what they serve on birthdays at Sea World.

But since there’s so much to cover, I’m going to opt for something I used to do in my Power Slam column, stringing together brief thoughts on recent developments.

For the unaware, PS was published in England from 1994 to 2014, I being the only member of the writing staff onboard for the full 20 years, penning Manor’s Mat Musings.   This is not to be confused with the newish UK mag wherein Mat Musings was STOLEN, its far-inferior author and gutless publisher rudely ignoring my inquiries about the blatant rip-off—twice.

Accept no substitutes.

First, a quick quiz:

Who are The. Worst. Fans. Ever?  You make the call.

A.  Doesn’t live-tweet a single sporting event the rest of the week but will do so when a certain wrestling show is in progress to “subtly” prove he’s not watching it.

B,  Constantly opines “The WWE’s current product is abysmal,” brings it up daily, then one day casually notes “I haven’t watched it in ten years.”  (Probably lying, anyway.) 

C,  The malcontent who rips on WWE non-stop but has a podcast or YouTube show solely dependent upon viewing content on—where else?—the WWE Network.

Now, onto the ramblings.

If Chris Jericho came down the aisle with Ralphus now, could anyone tell them apart?  Defeating Jerko in that champagne pool match has done wonders for Orange Julius, er, Cassidy.  Now when they say “He sells a lot of T-shirts,” it means he’s working at the merch table….Where are all the “Ronda didn’t pay any dues” moaners when it comes to Dominik Mysterio?  I’m waiting for Rey’s daughter to begin wrestling so I can claim “She moves in Mysterio ways.”  Because I’m a freaking genius….The makeover has exposed that Ruby is much hotter than Sasha WHO IS MARRIED AND WILL NEVER GET WITH YOU, SO QUIT DROOLING OVER HER, LOSER….Must be exciting being a fresh team in AEW.  You get the biggest hype imaginable, for four straight weeks—before losing to the Bucks and getting relegated to midcard limbo.  Which has happened to EVERY SINGLE TEAM.

Let me see if I have all this straight.  Certain championship matches every few months require a contract signing but all the other matches don’t.  Those in certain sensitive circles get upset when someone uses “IWC” to describe them.  All the while calling themselves the Wrestling Community.  Which is what the “WC” in “IWC” represents.  Tony Khan’d playing a rich creep on “purchased” Impact time does not contradict the whole “He will never play a character on television” because it’s on Impact rather than Dynamite.  And people gleefully paid to see Joey Ryan have others fondle his junk (and encouraged more of such antics) yet allegedly never suspected the man is a little odd.  Enablers turned virtue signalers sure like to play dumb.

Isn’t it odd how Zelina Vega never expressed a single care about a wrestlers’ union until she got fired?  Weird coincidence, huh?…It says a lot about fraud Josh Matthews when being replaced by Matt Striker is considered an upgrade…. Reby Hardy has many important connections.  Perhaps one day she’ll introduce Matt to hair conditioner….I hear Shayna Baszler is determined to lick every woman in the WWE locker room.  Even if it means hopping on them in the showers!  Some aren’t going to take that lying down….Did you know, on Halloween 2019, Micro Stunt trick-or-treated in a suit of armor, but people kept mistaking him for a fire hydrant?…Unconfirmed, but I’m hearing reports that there was one 24-hour period in which Jim Ross didn’t release a public statement concerning the opinion or history of Jim Ross….Gary Heltz of Pine Bluff, Arkansas, will be missing 205 Live next week.  There goes half their viewership.

All these weeks with Smackdown not having a live audience.  A shame they didn’t also go without a live color commentator….Ever notice Tom Phillips has the same initials as “toilet paper”?  That may be why Samoa Joe told me Phillips is an asswipe….The Grizzled Young Veterans keep the company’s streak going—the streak of Worst Ring Names Ever.  Empress Of Tomorrow, Forgotten Sons, Genius Of The Sky, Archer Of Infamy, Authors Of Pain:  Will whichever comic-book nerd who came up with this dross please explain to me how an era can be “undisputed”?… Mia Jax yells “My hole,” and is instantly transformed into the darling of the IWC—who had ripped her mercilessly since about nine minutes after her debut.  Then again, for 83 percent of those gits, it was the first—and last—time they ever heard a woman reference an orifice below the waist….”Elimination Chamber” sounds like something NASA came up with to name a space station toilet.

If you’re wondering where Jimmy Uso has been, he’s opened a driving school with Jeff Hardy and Nick Hogan.  Putting the “high” in “highway”….I’m delighted to see Naomi’s back.  She looks great from that angle….Hearing rumors about an all- Lana-fan cable channel.  Instead of “television,” it’s going to be called “Incelevision”….Taz’s “wearing shades inside” thing is really cool—if it’s 1967 and you’re the lead singer of Steppenwolf….I am looking forward to the Impact episode in which Tommy Dreamer performs a teary retirement speech.  I bet it will be better than the 47 he’s done before.

Okay, that’s enough.

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…although you’re probably too cheap to do either.

SS55–The Outsiders’ Guide To REAL Wrestling Fans

It goes without saying that those who don’t follow professional wrestling are very contrite about this shortcoming and wish to apologize to me personally.  Nonetheless, the chances are you know someone you’d describe as a “real wrestling fan.”  But do you know a “REAL wrestling fan”?

What’s the difference between someone who’s a dedicated enthusiast and a self-described “REAL wrestling fan” besides the latter’s choice to capitalize the first word for accentuation on it (and an unwarranted feeling of superiority)?  That just happens to be the topic for this particular column.  I’ll be using the abbreviation RWF frequently, primarily because I’m lazy.  Er, I mean so as to not eat up so much column space.

 

RWF is the only segment of fandom wherein the member’s neck size matches his SAT scores.  With an aroma resembling a skunk that was run over outside a sulfur factory explosion, these moralists regularly look down their freshly picked noses at those who merely watch a television program or attend an event to be—GASP!–entertained.

So what, if under two million Americans watch the most popular wrestling TV show?  That’s practically everyone in the world, because wrestling is really important in the grand scheme of things—which, in turn, makes REAL fans important.  This is the bubble RWFs live in. Among other delusional doozies, these sad sacks think they represent the majority of the mat sport’s fan base rather than the “casual” fans they despise.  (Not even close.)  And believe they have great influence over the wrestling offices’ decisions.  (HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA—not to mention HA.)

You’d have a better chance of winning the national lottery by choosing numbers via a blindfolded pigeon tap-dancing on a solar calculator than one of these “experts” actually getting something right.  Yet they persist, unfazed over batting .000 for life.

I would rather take fashion advice from Guy Fieri while snorting a line of his earwax dunked in year-old cream than pay the slightest bit of attention to the RWFs endless sanctimonious yattering.

First off, let’s take a look at the standard RWF—quite literally.  On the average, these are beefy lads and lasses; and, it is reasonable for an outsider to wonder if the devotees have ever tried their hand at the sport.  This is how a typical conversation goes.

RWF:  Wrestling is my LIFE.

SWM:  Really?  How many matches have you been in?

RWF:  None.

SWM:  Okay, then where are you training to become a wrestler?

RWF:  Nowhere.

SWM:  Why not?

RWF:  I’m a pussy afraid of pain.

SWM:  Then why not train to be a ref?  They rarely bump.

RWF:  Well, um….

SWM:  Ring announcers take no bumps.

RWF:  Yeah, but….

SWM:  Have you ever approached your local indie promoter and volunteered to do anything, such as set up the ring or the folding chairs?

RWF:  No, but….

[Let the record show the author is a 5’8” middleweight but has participated in matches, including being on the receiving end of contact and knocked to the ground.  Because he’s not a windbag coward.]

 

The standard RWF is not only a business and television programming expert (despite having no experience in either) but is also a master of in-ring technique. After all, he has watched thousands of matches on TV.

Fortunately for the rest of us novices, these enlightened souls generously share their knowledge. A common social media occurrence is the posting of a brief video clip showcasing a move that went horribly wrong and/or appeared to be very painful.  Fulfilling his duty as an educator to the masses, the RWF will reply with an explanation along the lines of “He should have tucked his chin on the way down,” even if the person posting—and I swear I’m not making this up, folks—is a veteran professional wrestler.

It’s a shame Jimi Hendrix isn’t still alive.  Although never having held a guitar themselves, these same nincompoops could advise him on how to correctly play a C-chord.

Yes, the standard RWF is so oblivious, he doesn’t even grasp how ridiculous he comes off, and will continue to make a public fool of himself for eternity.

But don’t you dare laugh at them!

Oh, yeah, it’s all fun and games when a wrestler or company on their official Hate List gets knocked.  But call out the RWFs with a very valid comment, and it’s a one-way ticket to Sulk City.  “Boohoohoo, our skin is thinner than a butterfly wing.  Just for that, we’re not voting for you in our self-aggrandizing annual polls, the results of which are unseen by anyone in the industry.

“You should be more like _____, who dutifully tells us exactly what we want to hear, we being far too thick to recognize we’re being conned.”

You may think Swifties are overbearing tunnel-visioned dimwits.  And you’d be right.  But they are a flock of 13-year-old girls who have never been kissed.  Other than their ever-expanding waistlines, RWFs are full-grown (chronological) adults—who have also never been kissed.

Stans, regardless of the genre, are pathetic little beings who have to get their thrills vicariously, knowing full well they will never be more than a mosquito squashed on the windshield of life.  REAL Wrestling Fans up the ante by griping over how Favorites A, B and C are not current champs—as in carrying around a championship belt RWFs know is REWARDED as a PRE-DETERMINED result of a STAGED contest no one has ever actually “won.”

To put this into perspective, picture a gaggle of goofuses whining to the USA Network daily and for months because Ice T’s character on Law And Order:  SVU has never been elected mayor of New York City.

REAL Wrestling Fans are not entirely useless, however.  For instance, they could serve as highly effective mulch, if properly buried (meaning alive.)  Or tossed in wood-chippers as test material rather than wasting precious natural resources such as trees and old sneakers.

Polar bears have it tough enough, confined to small zoo pits, in weather dozens of degrees warmer than their natural habitat.  Why not cheer up our furry friends by tossing them a RWF or two for lunch?

Feeding REAL Wrestling Fans to bears is also a money-saving opportunity for zoos.  But how’s this?

Cities are constantly under budget strains and searching for new revenue streams.  Parades, outdoor concerts and the like are always a boon for the local economy, since they boost retail sales, eatery attendance, parking lot use, and other taxed enterprises.

The more spectacular and crowd-pleasing, the higher the attendance.  I say let’s march out some RWFs for good ol’ public beheadings.

What’s their offense?  Why, being a REAL Wrestling Fan is as offensive as it gets!

To Be Continued

 

 

SS54—Social Media Wrestlingese Codes Revealed!

Professional wrestling has long had its own language and codes—and it appears that wrestling fans have followed suit.  If you are new to social media outlets covering wrestling (or even a veteran on the scene, for that matter), here is a glossary of common expressions, along with their REAL meanings.

 

*”S/he is better off staying in NXT.”  Working for less money is a blast.  That’s why I’m sticking to running the french-fryer instead of trying to be assistant manager at my Wendy’s job.

*”That balcony dive onto a burning table was awesome!!!”  I pretend to “love” wrestlers, but couldn’t give a crap about the permanent damage they suffer.  The only thing that matters is entertaining me.

*”Dave Meltzer doesn’t have any sources.”  I, on the other hand, have loads of insider info I get by reading sites that copy their “news” directly from Dave Meltzer.

*”(Disliked person) is an old man.”  I righteously make public stands against racism and sexism—primarily, to look cool.  Ageism?  I am fine with that…boomer.

*”MJF is a tremendous heel.”  I define a heel as someone to cheer for because he’s fun and doesn’t really mean anything he says.  A heel shouldn’t do anything that makes people hate them.  In other words, I’m as clueless as a popsicle salesman in Antarctica.

*”I missed CM Punk.”  I missed being conned by CM Punk, the multi-millionaire who sued his “best friend” and pretend-rebel who changed absolutely nothing about the business.

*”Impact Wrestling has been a joke for years.”  I’ve never actually watched it, but I’ll cheer the hell out of the Lucha Brothers and LAX now that they’re with AEW.  And, hey, that Eli Drake is the best talker on NWA Powerrr!

*”Ratings do matter to fans, because ratings are a barometer of the health of the industry.”  I’m just repeating an excuse devised by someone smarter than me, while, in reality, I only care that my favorite promotion is “beating” their rival, so I can gloat about it.  Also, the lower the RAW viewership, the better I feel.  I’d like to see the WWE go out of business.  Screw the 900 people losing their jobs.

*”The Attitude Era ruled!”  Wasn’t watching WWE then.

*”The NWO was too sweeeet!”  Wasn’t watching WCW then.

*”Rey Mysterio is the greatest luchador ever.”  Never heard of Lizmark, Atlantis, Perro Aguayo, Dos Caras, Karloff Legarde, Santo, Blue Demon, etc. because they weren’t on Lucha Underground.  [Thinks Triple-A is a roadside assistance service.]

*”50-50 booking sucks.”  Everyone I like should never lose and all the wrestlers I hate should never win.  Never mind that mean the only serious contenders will be other undefeated wrestlers, then one will have to lose in the end.  Oh, wait.

[Closely related to…]

*It’s so unfair ____ is getting buried.”  My favorite lost one televised match.  I have no access to the long-term booking plans but will just shoot my mouth off like a spoiled brat.

*”I was only joking.”  I totally wasn’t but am saying this because I got busted over something idiotic I earlier claimed.

*”The women should have been in the main event.”  Maybe a real live girl will see this and LIKE ME!  Then she’ll become my official girlfriend and and and I’ll finally get kissing by someone besides Grandma Jenkins.  Whoa, all the other guys will think we’re actually “doing it”!!!

*”sports entertainers”  My condescension for those who don’t have 352 moves and dives stolen from Mexico and Japan has no limit.  But I’ll cheer a guy dressed as a dinosaur taking on an invisible man who kicked out after a hand grenade attack.  That’s different.  The dinosaur did a 450 twisting springboard tope makiwara off a 60-foot ladder.

*”Mauro is the greatest.”  Shouting catchphrases and a long prepared list of pop culture and hip-hop references to get YOURSELF over is a play-by-play announcer’s role.  Even though he vanity searches and calls detractors “troglodytes” and such, never ever call him names.

*”organic”  A mega-pushed talent I like, otherwise I’d be whining about them being shoved down our throats—even though they are getting the same amount of airtime and high-profile matches as Roman Reigns did when he was being shoved down our throats.

*(female wrestler’s or commentator’s name) followed by heart and flames emojis.  Oh boy, oh boy, oh boy, a new girl to drool over as I rub my wee-wee under the sheets each night!  I’m going to tag her in Tweets and call her “Queen.”  Don’t know what I’d do if she flirted back.

I mean that literally, since no woman has ever shown interest in my lard ass.

[Often followed by…]

*”(female wrestler) is so overrated.”  My cream dream Blocked me on Twitter after my Tweet asking if she’d sell me her dirty panties.

*”_____ of all time.”  (Most frequently used with lists such as The Top Ten Brawlers Of All Time.)  Since I became a fan, because I’m too self-centered to recognize great things occurred before I got interested.

*”The @NWA has the most perfect show ever, #NWAPowerrr. @Billy and @Lagana are geniuses!!!!!! #IntoTheFire”  I am desperately trying to get my name onscreen during the pre-show crawl of flattering posts.  This is the only shot I’ll ever have of getting on TV, until my arrest for trying to have sex with a 14-year-old.

*”I met _____ and s/he is really cool.”  I stood in line for twenty minutes to pay for an autograph, and s/he didn’t call me a sucker to my face during the three seconds it took to sign.

*”(Promotion) should sign (Wrestler X, Y and Z.)”  I don’t even begin to comprehend how budgets work or care if a company turns a profit.  I also have no comprehension of how time works, and thus demand these three and the existing 57 roster members get many minutes on a two-hour show.

*”outlaw mudshow”  A rare few who actually understand what the expression means and its origin throw it around, so I will, also.  Okay, I’m too lazy to research what it means.  But, luckily, so are 98-percent of my fellow geeks impressing each other with our vast knowledge of insider terms.  It’s like a signal to each other, saying “I’m cool and in the know, too, dude.”

*”Wrestling has evolved.”  My all-purpose excuse for blowing off valid criticism from anyone over age 35.  Somewhere around 2015, this big invisible ray from outer space completely changed human nature, so things like “good guy gets revenge on evildoer” no longer register with anyone.

[Often uttered while the latest superhero movie is grossing hundreds of millions.]

*According to Reddit user”  “There’s a sucker born every minute” was never any more true than at the moment of my birth.  Why not trust an anonymous individual with no credentials to validate any claim he makes?

*”I’ve watched 36 hours of wrestling so far this week.”  My life is so empty, this is the one thing that stops me from crying myself to sleep.

Sometimes.

SS53–Deserving…to be an imbecile

I couldn’t imagine living in a nothing-happening, inbred-infested, bad hair life, junk cars out back, hick haven that is the American Deep South.

Parking your pickup truck next to the “fillin’ station” to say Howdy to Floyd and Earl “setting” on cheap folding chairs by the entrance, the sea-ment of the floor stained by spat tobacco.

“Y’all gone huntin’ this Saturday, Virgil?”

“Oon-huh. Soons I git back from my cousin’s wedding to my brother.  Ah done got my best T-shirt all washed up and everything.  Had to dunk it in the crick four dang times to git the stains out of the armpits.  Well, most of ‘em, anyways.”

Yeah, I would rather do a bellyflop onto a corral full of porcupines than live in the collection of trash towns known as The South.

Nonetheless, I will give one of the hillbillies credit.  That Jethro Farnsworthy guy made a fortune ridiculing fellow yahoos with his “You might be a redneck” routine.  He got so rich, in fact, he can now easily afford his daily ritual of burning a Confederate flag outside his condo in Bridgeport, Connecticut.

And now I proudly present my spin of JF’s routine, tailored to match the pro wrestling audience.

 

You might be an imbecile…

…if you ever publicly claimed someone “deserves”…well, anything.

Just because your pampered ass once got a Participation Trophy after being the first one eliminated in a dodge ball game, it doesn’t mean everyone who eats all the vegetables on their dinner plate should get a Congressional Medal Of Honor.

The Pulitzer Prize committee eliminated the Best Wrestling Column award after I easily won it three straight years; but, you didn’t see me writing a 3000-word teary-eyed “That’s so unfair, boohoohoo” essay on Facebook, did you?

The way you Fantasylandlubbers want wrestling booked, they may as well have that Orca Winfrey broad come out to a roomful of seated grapplers and tell them to look under their chairs, with her chirping “There’s a championship belt for you.  And one for you.  Everybody gets a championship!

“AND A NEW CAR!!!”

Did you ever stop to think, every time you say “Wrestler A deserves the title,” you are also saying that not only the current champ but also everyone else in the locker room doesn’t?  Do you ever stop to think at all?

Every single person on the roster of a nationally televised program spent several years working for chump change, sacrificing their personal lives, rehabbing from injuries, honing their craft, and so on.  Every.  Single.  Person.

But, no; you, the Great Imbecilicus, think you can look down from your ivory tower and proclaim someone warrants a title shot, then spout a bunch of feeble excuses as to why, rather than admitting the wrestler’s chief “qualification” is that you are a big fan of theirs.

In short, you are playing god.

“But but but, Stately,” you wimper, “Wrestler B has been with the promotion five years.”

So what?  Heath Slater and Curtis Axel were with the WWE w-a-y before Becky Lynch and Charlotte Flair yet you never once mentioned how they “deserved” the title shots those bimbos got!

To summarize, by using “deserve,” you are a liar and a hypocrite.

And an imbecile.

You might be an imbecile…

…if you still knock fans by using the terms “mother’s basement” “Cheetos-eating” and/or “neckbeard.”

Are you really claiming the non-Manormaniac fan base is a bunch of no-life odorous malcontents?

Well, you’re right—but let’s see some creativity in place of those shopworn descriptions.  There are loads of better expressions for them collectively or as individuals.  A few that come to mind are Panty Poopers, Los Ignorables, SwampButteers, The Nope To Soap Squad, The Filth Element, Bayou Breath, Razorless Ramon, The Notorious P.I.G. and the NWE (No Women Ever.)

Don’t laugh too loudly at Bray NoDiet and his peers, you superior-feeling “I know all about wrestling because I pay for a news service” chumps using the “mother’s basement” lines to begin with—aka The Snob Mob, Bubble Boys, Smart Farts, and Condescending Cucks.

You spending 85 percent of your free time watching, collecting, conversing about and buying merchandise linked to one topic says more than we need to know about your otherwise empty existence.

You might be an imbecile…

…if you virtue signal on social media.

“There are so many promotions doing wonderful things today.  Why not enjoy them all?”

OOOHHH, SHHHHUUUUTTT UUUPPPPP.

First off, Reverend Retardo, doctors at the University of New Mexico have determined that 97.4 percent of those providing “motivational” chatter are no more qualified to do so than they are to give tap-dancing lessons to drunken squirrels.

Secondly, to answer your stupid question, unlike lobotomized primates such as you, most people do this remarkable thing called “having preferences.”  It’s why, if you enter a building with a sign reading “Restaurant” outside, the waitress hands you a list known as “a menu.”

Granted, after a hard day changing oil filters at Jiffy Lube, it may be too challenging for you to decide upon such difficult, world-changing questions as “Which pro wrestling promotions appeal to me?”  But the rest of us manage—and without your putrid, preachy, pompous, puke-inducing “life-coaching”

So, stick your pulpit up your pooper, pal.

You might be an imbecile…

…if you, someone not in the business, fuss over TV ratings and demographics.

Let’s see.  Do you own, operate, wrestle or ref for a televised promotion?  No?  How about serving as an executive or shareholder in a network televising wrestling?  Ring announce or do commentary?  Involved with the cameras, lighting or sound in any manner?  Cover the sport for a living?

Still no?  Oh, dear.  Do you at least run a merch table or concession stand at the venue where the tapings occur?  Set up the folding chairs, then sweep up after tapings?

None of the above, eh?  Maybe the timekeeper pays you to wash his car.  Hmm, not even that.

Then WHAT THE HELL DO TELEVISION RATING HAVE TO DO WITH YOU?!?

Watch the shows and zip your damn lip.

You might be an imbecile…

…If you fail to repeatedly watch the greatest footage ever added to the WWE Network.

In late August 2019, looking to make the biggest splash as the revamped Network was about to launch, the geniuses in charge of content selection went with a sure thing in the highest demand.  The result was the Hidden Gems found by Searching “ECW 1992.”

Although the third is trash, the first and especially the second are priceless treasures.

Breaking the pair down individually, the very first and very last words you hear on Volume One are “Stately Wayne Manor.”  In between, you actually get to hear my voice on color commentary, absolutely destroying the drivel of Bore-Me Graves and his contemporaries.

I’m only in about half, making it perfectly acceptable to skip over the rest.  The benefit of this is, it get you to Volume Two sooner, wherein you can earwitness me single-handedly carrying the entire promotion on my back and establishing the initials E-C-W, due to my sea-deep credibility and the enormous respect I have among fellow insiders.

While your mind is being blown by my unmatched performance, here’s some other info to take into account, it applying to both volumes.  These were one-camera shoots with no monitors.  There was no director or post-production polishing done.  I had never met either commentary partner until a moment before we started calling the matches.  And some of the BEST stuff—for example, me reciting limericks years before anyone else did them and acted like they originated them—was excluded from the material uploaded!

I am truly amazing.

This may be controversial in some circles, but I will go out on a limb and state “Best Of ECW, Volume 2” is even more must-see than these two legendary collector’s items.

Although Bruiser Brody Memorial is the sentimental choice due to his brutal murder just before the (consequently renamed) tape was released, if I’m being fair-minded, I have to say Bam Bam Bigelow And Friends is the superior effort, and gets my vote as Best Video Of The Eighties.

Yes, you read that right.  These tapes were recorded consecutively in early 1987, lonnggg before Good Old J.O. was slaughtering the pronunciation of Japanese names, and at a time when today’s “puro experts,” asked to name one Japanese wrestler, could only reply “Mr. Fuji.”

The twosome is also historic for being the first time English-language heel color commentary was heard on shows recorded in the Land Of The Rising Sun.

And, wow, what hysterical-yet-blistering commentary it is!  Hey, whattaya know.  Turns out said announcing was done by Stately Wayne Manor as well!!!

Little wonder why this describes me but not you.

 

SS52—Official New Rules For Wrestling-Related Social Media

Examine the statistics any night there is a broadcast or PPV, and one topic thoroughly dominates the Trending charts—professional wrestling.  To bring some organization and decorum to the scene, the Federal Communications Commission assigned me to catalog the Official New Rules For Wrestling-Related Social Media.

They are, in no order of priority, as follows.

Rule #1—Remind us daily:

a) How you don’t watch the WWE—but it’s “trash,” which you know because, um….

Not to be confused with Person Who Claims They Never Watch The WWE–or Person Who Says They Only Watch Vintage Wrestling–yet very accurately cranks out 122 tweets per week about current WWE roster stars, who is and isn’t good on the mic, the latest storylines, etc.

b) There are many options nowadays. None of us is bright enough to have figured this out yet.

c) Vince McMahon is senile, when there’s one stinker of a match, but ignore the claim when wrestlers you like go over, e.g. all the fan faves winning straps at Wrestlemania 35.

Rule #2—Behave as though you “have to” watch a show as it airs live.

The world is breathlessly awaiting your expert critique, entire continents populated by those on the edge of their seats in anticipation of your every thought.

Oh, the sleepless night all will have if you opt to wait until tomorrow to enlighten the unwashed masses.  This is especially true of the show’s performers, each deeply concerned about earning your approval and absorbing your advice regarding what they can improve upon.

“Oh, no, Denver Danny says my moonsault “looked weak.”  That does it. I’m cancelling all my bookings and returning to the training center for three months. Thanks, Danny, for saving my twelve-year career.”

This rule is triple-important for those who have an ocean between them and the event site.  You being up until 4 a.m. local time is providing an invaluable service to the dozen of your countrymen who just watched the same show.

Rule #3—Start or join a Closed Facebook Group so you can ridicule everyone associated with the business on a site they can’t actually see, and thus you can still suck up to them publicly and also not be afraid they’ll tune you up.

Rule #4—It is silly to wait until the follow-up show after a dramatic angle, before condemning the booking decision.

It isn’t as though they book these things with any thought given to what comes next.  Or a “screwed” wrestler has ever been positioned for a major victory on an even bigger card.

In your infinite wisdom, you KNOW exactly how everything is going to play out and that it is going to “suck.”  May as well pounce all over it now.  After all, you’ve never been wrong jumping to a conclusion.

(Hey, remember how you peed all over the intro of the 24/7 belt?)

Rule #5—If your illegal stream of a PPV event is acting up, by all means gripe about it online. Crashes altogether? Can always go back to brag-posting about how much you support the promotion.

 Rule #6—Quarter-star ratings are vital.  No doubt you can thoroughly explain the difference between a 2 ½ and 2 ¾ star match, right?

Rule #7—Should RAW ratings continue to sputter, blame Mr. McMahon, not Teflon Paul Heyman, claiming the former Mr. Dangerously has his hands tied.  Should RAW prosper, “Heyman proves once again he’s a genius.”  It’s not like Vince had a say in hiring him, or anything.

Rule #8–Television ratings and buyrates make matches, angles, promos, vignettes, finishers and commentary good.  Keep harping on them!

Rule #9–Proudly fill your Profile bio with a list of wrestling personalities who have Blocked you.

Out of the millions online, these celebrities selected YOU to single out (as an asshole.)  Congratulations (dickhead)!  It takes a special breed (of jerkoff) to offend someone who forgot your fake name with ten seconds. I bet some of the other seventh-graders think you’re super-cool, bro!

Rule #10–CHOOSE SIDES.  Do you prefer AEW?  WWE?  Japanese?  All-Women promotions?  Small-scale indies?  Or maybe a rising British federation?  In that case, consider all other companies and their fans “the enemy” and, of course, “wrong.”

Why should anyone enjoy wrestling that’s not your favorite?  Gentle persuasion never succeeded as a method to educate fools to the error of their ways.  Shouting at total strangers, harshly mocking every misstep “the opposition” performs but ignoring when your team does the exact same thing—that’s what being “a REAL fan” is all about.

Who knows, maybe someday, out of recognition of your tireless efforts, one member of an undercard tag team will wave back at you as he leaves the arena!

You can’t half-ass this, though.  When you see some loser in the shirt of a “rival” company, briskly slap him or her right in the face.  Drop a couple hundred on a front-row ticket to “invade” an enemy’s TV or PPV and disrupt the mindless-sheep fans by chanting the name of your superior promotion.  And who not get a huge neck tattoo of the latter’s logo?

Being a hardcore loyalist who very vocally and publicly sneers at and derides other promotions always pays off, never backfires.  Just ask those who were meta-fans of ECW and WCW!

Rule #11–Butt into convos of noted wrestling reporters to name-call either them or people disagreeing with them, adding nothing to the debate itself.

Rule #12—Continue to sign up for services that create hundreds or even thousands of “Followers.”  No one can click on your Follower list and see 472 accounts that don’t even tweet in English or ever post anything about the one subject you obsess over.  Probably just a technical glitch, the way you have 7419 Followers yet your live tweets and general opinions average three Likes each.

Rule #13—Retweet the videos of that mentally challenged juggalo untrained “stunt man” legitimately hurting himself for approval. Ditto harsh neck bumps, dives from insane heights that disastrously misfire, and apron bumps.  Only a snowflake thinks those seen in these clips are human beings.

Rule #14—Quote-tweet EVERY time someone compliments you.  Extra credit for calling them “sir” when adding a butt-munch “thank you” line.

Rule #15—Write off anything with “Wrestling has evolved.”

Big deal, you don’t understand the difference between “evolved” and “changed” and how one is subjective and therefore debatable.  All the other “knowing fans” are using the phrase to alibi for their pets.  And that’s good enough for you, Buckaroo!

Rule #16—If you run a “news site,” feel free to fabricate allegations and outright lies, to add a seamy layer to any story.

Wrestler A no-shows an indie date?  It couldn’t possibly be transportation trouble, illness, or the promoter reneging on the agreed-upon appearance fee.  Nope, A is back on drugs.

Wrestler B asks for September off?  It’s not that she’s getting married and moving into a new home in another country that month.  Naaah, she hates her lack of a title shot.

Tag team C turns down the first re-signing offer they’re given, four months before their current contract expires?  That’s not a smooth negotiating tactic to get a better offer.  They are counting the days until they can leave for Japan.

You can also opt to “balance out” the nabobs of negativity by establishing a nice friendly bootlicking news account instead.  Just scan the web for the most popular opinions—even if they are harebrained—and mix in some editorial asides with your news updates.

“My dream match is POC vs Walter.”

“Rey Misterio is Mexico’s most beloved luchadore ever.”

“There has never been a wrestler with more natural charisma than Kenny Omega.”

Don’t forget the occasional pretend-bravery keester kiss.

“This may ruffle some feathers, but I’m okay with Ronda Rousey being gone.”

“Unpopular opinion:  Baron Corbin’s big push has run its course.”

“You may not agree, but I say Samoa Joe would look good with the Universal championship around his waist.”

It’s okay to sprinkle in these gutsy, provocative prose once in a while.  Controversy Creates Clicks.

Rule #17—Here’s a slick trick.  When a mutual or fellow FB group member posts something extremely clever or astute, give it a minor tweak then tweet it as your own when applicable in a week or two.  Granted, the irate originator will think you’re an a-hole (and be right.)  But you got over, and that’s all that matters.

Let’s be honest:  The number-one priority of two-thirds in the “Wrestling Community” is to push themselves; discussing the matches and so forth, a very distant second.  Screwing one person to impress thousands is a no-brainer.

 

ADDITIONAL RULES FOR CELEBRITIES

Rule #C1 —Tweet pandering questions you have neither genuine interest in nor intention of reading responses to.

“Who drank water today?”

“What do you think of inhaling oxygen?”

“Who’s having a birthday in the next twelve months?”

And don’t forget the motivational speaker/philosopher routine.

“If you really want something bad enough, think about others who also share that desire. Striving for goodness will amplify your journey, like salmon swimming upstream.”

Rule #C2 —It’s REALLY important the world knows you are in love.  Posts scads of pix of you and your sweetie, destroying any tenuous fantasy of availability that’s paramount to your appeal to millions of fans.

Sure, your merch sales will go in the toilet and the heartbroken will sit on their hands during your matches.  But you have a soulmate who will be by your side FOREVER (or until March 31^st, whichever comes first.)

Rule #C3—Heels, tweet or IG about taking orphans to the zoo, rescuing puppies from floods, etc.

Additionally, heels or faces, if your Twitter gets hot doing shtick in-character, be sure to post incessantly.  NO WAY will you run out of steam and fresh ideas within four weeks.

Rule #C4—Quote-tweet reply, acting all bubbly with fellow stars, while never ever responding to sincere questions or replies from average Joes.  Reminding people “There’s a clique, and you ain’t in it” won’t alienate a soul.

 

SS51–YouTube Boobs

Want to win a pair of tickets to Wrestlemania?  Airfare, front-row seats and a meet-and-greet for any All Elite Wrestling or Ring Of Honor event in the United States?  A deluxe prize package allowing you to attend a New Japan show IN PERSON?

You’ll get none of those here.  But, since the first few sentences of each column appear when I post the link on social media, I figured I could lure in a few saps with the above.

Welcome, suckers!

But don’t pout.  Because you do earn the greatest prize of all:  The opportunity to read my words.

Even if you do need some help with the bigger ones.

For the rare unaware, there is no disputing the well-documented fact I am the Mat Messiah.  It’s mentioned repeatedly in my autobiography.

Sure, there are a bunch of little twerps opining on their YouTube channels—and getting about 20 cents a week for their monetized accounts.  FYI, YT pays an average of $38 a day…if you get SIX-HUNDRED-THOUSAND hits per month.  Yeah, right, as if any of the whine-and-cheesers come remotely close to that.

As per https://influencermarketinghub.com/youtube-money-calculator/

Ask yourself this:  How many of the self-proclaimed hotshots have ever convinced a total stranger to pay them to express opinions?  And not just once, but rather on a regular salaried basis.

Answer:  Zero.

I’ve succeeded at it for 30 years, and have six figures in both my bank and mutual fund accounts, as well as owning a fully paid-for house and two cars, Jackson.  And before you moan “Yeah, but you got that from working a regular job,” let me add:   Nope, haven’t had one of those since 1990.  Gained all my goodies by being the King Of Columnists.

Besides getting paid—a LOT—I have also brought women to orgasms—making that two things the wannabes never achieved.

I also bathe and wear clean clothes daily, have a 32” waist, own T-shirts in colors other than black, and can talk about more than one topic—even more for the yo-yos to catch up to me on.

Imagine how delusional the Tuber Turds must be, not only believing their babbling bellyaching has a molecule of validity, but also that people want to see them.  Jumping G-zuss, most of these bearded bozos look like the inside of a discarded diaper with a Brillo pad stuck to it.

Ever notice how they’re usually only seen from the blubbery waist up?  That’s so you can’t see what their hands are up to beneath the table.  Hint:  They’re bare down there.

(And need tweezers to do it.)

White Urkel, sometimes joined by a bulbous blob, spouting non-stop negativity to a flock of trained parrots who also can’t offer up a single constructive idea, having never had one.  Now THERE’S something I really want to witness—never.

At least there’s one upside to these series of tired tirades.  We can’t smell the practitioners.

According to an Environmental Protection Agency report, every time the organizers flung open the doors to air out the stench at Nerdstock, er, Starrcast, the fumes melted another iceberg.

It is a known fact, whenever one of these geek gatherings is in town, the hotels suspend laundry service, knowing none of the guests will ever request it.  Then, of course, they have to fumigate each of the beds once the dorks depart.  Naturally, the sheets are tossed into the incinerator, as it’s too difficult to get all those flatulence-induced skidmarks off them.

I wonder how many of the Tuber Tubbies return home to discover their entire family has moved to another state and left no forwarding addresses.  Oh, well, at least when the “important wrestling personalities” return to work, the Arby’s manager will hook them up with new uniforms.

Can’t have an “influential internet star” cleaning the toilets in the NJPW shirt he’s been wearing all week!

What’s that, buffalo breath?  You have a YouTube channel and take exception to being described as a mouthy malcontent who has less knowledge of the stretchin’ profession that a three-toed sloth does of Sir Isaac Newton’s take on soft-boiled eggs?

Well, then, Mister “I Actually Think I Look Really Cool In My Profile Picture, Wearing A Headset Any Schmoe Can Buy On Amazon,” let me put it another way.  I was going to list the name of everyone who understands more about wrestling than you do, but the WordPress word limit prohibits me from naming every person on the planet.

Your tenuous grasp of the bonebending business is only matched by your tenuous grasp of reality, Ace.  Now, go sit before your highly original backdrop of wrestling toys, and cry about that for two hours.

Shoo, shoo!!!

 

Random Numskullery Recently Encountered

*Before Money In The Bank, pinheads were predicting Sasha Banks would not only somehow weasel her way into the women’s ladder match, but also cop the briefcase.

Right.  Someone who got sent home for disciplinary reasons including publicly moaning about the company’s booking decisions—which she was okay with when they chose to make her singles champ four times—is going to get REWARDED…and with a world title shot, no less.

Even if Vincent Kennedy McMahon finally made his first bad decision, the prissy prima donna would probably get injured three more times between MITB and SummerSlam. May as well change her name to Miss Sterio, as often as sloppy Sasha in out of action.

*AEW apologists and stooges are going around declaring “I’m all for many promotions doing well, because it creates jobs for wrestlers and others, and creates healthy competition.”  All true, and thoughts I’ve expressed myself.  Though without a finger up one nostril.

HOWEVER, these are the same “open-minded” mollusks who have publicly gloated every time TNA/Impact hit a bumpy patch, never supporting that company or Ring Of Honor except for the period when their Bullet Club buddies were with the latter.

Additionally, they’re now staunchly against the biggest promotion in the world and have been stupid enough to constantly “choose sides”—instead of simply enjoying all promotions—dating back to the Monday Night Wars (and beyond, in some instances.)

Tony Khan’d opens his wallet for Cody and clique, and suddenly these hypocrites have turned hippie, expressing love for the health of the entire industry…as long at it excludes the “evil” WWE.

And they’re still not supporting Impact, ROH, Shimmer, MLW or anything else perceived as competition for AEW, and are attacking anyone who dares to casually mention that All Elite doesn’t appeal to him or her.  “We are all for competition…just not against us.”

“Better” still, this biased BS is coming before AEW has aired a single television episode.  In other words, they’re twisting themselves into pretzels, white-knighting a product they are guessing is going to be good.

That’s as idiotic as hearing that Steven Spielberg is making a movie with a few popular actors, and giving it a rave review before it is even produced.    And the two-faced fans’ level of hypocrisy is the equivalent of, say, a new promotion starting up—billed as “changing the world,” innovative and fresh—then hiring an announcer who is the most identifiably WWE non-wrestler alive and the stalest symbol of the Old Guard.

That would be Just Ridiculous.  Or J.R., for short.

SS50—The Man Who Saved The World(WE)

The Road To Wrestlemania and its related hype get WWE fans excited about certain matches; however, overall interest in the product as a whole has been in decline, as reflected in record-low TV viewership numbers.

“Superstar Shakeups” have had no lasting effect.  And some pundits have wondered if eliminating the brand split will cure the woes.

But wrestling is a character-driven sport, and no change in the structure is going to reverse the spiral.  Just as in previous booms, the WWE needs an individual to lead it back to the Promised Land.

This man must possess the versatility the modern market demands, top-level communication skills, major-league experience and proven fan appeal.  Am I suggesting they bring back Stoned Old Steve Austin?  Somebody give me a “Hell, no.”

There is only one available athlete who checks all the above boxes, possesses the necessary youth and lacks the overexposure of Austin, Goldbrick and fellow has-beens.

Manormaniacs, I present to you the charismatic individual who can not only resurrect the WWE, but also save wrestling across the board.

That man is Damien Sandow.

Before you give me a well-deserved standing ovation, please absorb all the details.  Because The Miz has turned into The Miss since marrying that Canadian chick and becoming a whipped wimp changing diapers in his high heels and Wonder Bra, Damien will NOT be returning as “Mizdow.”

No, no, no; no more carrying the Cleveland Clown and distracting audiences from Frog Face’s many weaknesses.

The Savior is far too versatile to be stuck in one role.  In fact, my long-time dear friend David Bowie dropped by the Manor Mansion to catch Sandow vs Cena on RAW and remarked “I wish I had the ability to change personas as well as this remarkable Damien fellow does.”

This time around, the bonebender’s chameleon-like qualities will be utilized to their fullest.  Be awestruck picturing the following scenarios over the next two years.

 

The WWE is presenting RAW in the loser capitol of North America, Chicago.  As per usual, the local yokels chant for their hometown zero—but this time, things go very differently.  Suddenly, “The Cult Of Personality” blares over the sound system.  And as the crowd collectively wet their panties, out comes OH, MY GOD, HE’S HERE—C.M. Punkdow.

Punkdow sits on the stage, holding a symbolic pipe—a tobacco pipe, that is—and rattles off a list of “woe is me” petty gripes about the temperature of the mashed potatoes in catering, his chauffeur insisting he wear a seat belt, and the state taxing country club membership fees.

Then it’s time to really “shoot.”  Punkdow has had it up to here with the business that’s made him a famous millionaire, and is going to see to it that all wrestlers get free health coverage, their road expenses covered, annual vacations, double-payment for working on holidays “…and the formation of the best damn union this country has ever seen!”

None of which he has even the slightest intention of ever actually doing.

Due to CM’s “extended absence,” the WWE decides to refresh fans’ memories via weekly video clips.  The first three are:  Punkdow being thrown off a rodeo bull before the gate is even opened; him becoming the first person to score a zero in Super Mario Party; and, hidden camera footage of the “straight-edge superstar” and very vocal vegan puffing on a joint while at a McDonald’s drive-thru window.

 

The Nature Dow.  The “Rolex-stealing, limousine-kissing son of a bitch” is in the best shape of his life.  Everything seems to be going right for the “sixteen-times married” veteran.  Fans love his entrance and trademark “Whoa!”  But every time the ring announcer introduces his opponent, Naitch starts crying, forcing each match to be ruled a No Contest.

Pressed on this backstage by Charly Caruso (who’s also in love with me), The Nature Dow vows to work on overcoming this issue, begins trembling and excuses himself, dashing to his dressing room.

Concerned, Charly waits outside the door.  Ten minutes later, it opens, and instead of The Nature Dow, out comes Tommy Dreamdow, clutching a kendo stick in one hand and a cannoli in the other.

This stunning transformation is indeed effective. The Innovator Of Violins is now capable of competing, each match ending with (A.) him losing as per usual and (B.) a teary-eyed speech announcing “my retirement, effective immediately.”

Which he repeats every night from the very next one through to SummerSlam, including throughout the WWE’s 36-city European tour.

 

What’s next for the dynamic Damien?  Time to try out a number of short-term gimmicks.  There’s…

*Matt Jackdow, who wants to be thought of as a fun-loving free spirit but is, in reality, a hypersensitive twit who spends nine hours daily vanity-searching his name on social media, getting butthurt when someone doesn’t fawn over him.

[backstage]

Zack Ryder:  I prefer ketchup over mustard on hot dogs.

Matt Jackdow:  Hmm, that’s interesting.

[Zack walks away.  Matt pulls out his phone, Blocks Zack on Twitter.]

*Dwayne Johnsdow  Cuts an in-ring promo that’s just a string of sorely outdated catchphrases, finishing with “The Crock says this.  The WWE is my home, and I’m never leaving again.”

Does no more appearances thereafter.

*Brie Belldow. Groundbreaking WWE’s first transgender competitor wears a Dow Mode shirt and booty shorts, but never wrestles or speaks—which makes him waaaaay better than that other Brie.

*Color commentator Corey Gravedow  Finds the worst-fitting suit Goodwill has to offer, vacillates between being a heel and a babyface a dozen time per match, and never says anything of consequence.

No one at home notices the difference between him and the adulterer he replaced.

*Indie sensation Zackdow Osprey, Junior  The bell sounds, he flips, rolls, somersaults, does a 720 dive off the top into a series of cartwheels around the entire ring, and rebounds off all four ropes into a triple-handspring, for two minutes non-stop, gets dizzy and immediately pinned.

*Reverend Hacksaw Jim Duggdow  Rather than the friendly patriot of his predecessor, Rev. Duggdow is a self-righteous religious zealot toting a Bible in place of a 2×4.  His pre-match ritual is pointing out a stylishly dressed woman in the crowd and shouting “You’re a ho-o-o-o.”

 

All of the above are but merely a warm-up for when Damian goes for the Big Kahunas.  First up is….

…Hulk Hodow

Imagine the classic confrontations HH2 will have with the current members of the WWE roster.

Praising impromptu tag partner Nakamura:  “I fought alongside a lot of gooks when I was a Green Beret in Vietnam.  Maybe we can go to Chinatown after our victory.  You like-y shlimp flied lice?”

Hogdow to Rey Mysterio:  “I loved Eddie Guerrero as much as you did.  In fact, I love all beaners, dude.  They’re great at cutting my lawn, brother.

“You know something, Mean Mysterio?  We never had a match.  I say we hook it up—once you show me your green card, little man.  Whatcha gonna do when ICE agents run wild on you?”

Hulk Hodow will have an extended run, until he’s indefinitely suspended for refusing to tag in during a six-man match against The New Day.  (Because…well, you know.)

But what supreme hero of men, women and children can Damien transform into next?  Who is the one man whose achievements dwarf that of not only the Hulkster but also of every grappler ever to set foot in any ring, any promotion, any date, anywhere?  An iconic ringmaster every single fan loves more than life itself?  The personification of achieving the ultimate reward for hard work?

HOLY CRAP, IT’S IT’S IT’S TRIPLE-M!!!!!

Our television sets will never be the same.  As it turns out, Munter Mearst Melmsley is married to Vince McMahon’s heretofore unacknowledged other daughter, Bethany—a connection the Cerebral Ass is not above making well-known, including spraying champagne out of his mouth while on the ring apron, pre-match.

In a move that would make Dusty Rhodes proud, every promo, including those by the women and two weirdoes on the Sonic ads, will contain a mention of Triple-M’s unmatched influence, charm and rugged good looks.

Renee Young will finally contribute something to RAW, by lustfully purring her new catchphrase “What a hunk!” before fainting every time the Tripper is within sight.

This completely sincere and not just protecting their jobs adulation will crescendo at Wrestlemania 37, when MMM and Bethany perform a 45-minute entrance, an elaborate thematic mix of Game Of Thrones, Thor Ragnarok and The SpongeBob SquarePants Movie.