Back before cell phones became the norm, every time I rolled someone, I always left them a quarter to call the EMTs. And the time I stuck cousin Gino with an ice pick at my sister’s wedding reception, I offered to let him keep the whole box of Band-Aids. They weren’t mine, but it’s the thought that counts, right?

So, despite what it says on those RICO indictment papers and Megan’s Law posters, it’s not like I lack compassion. Why, I’ve even been known to triple the money thrown at ugly strippers!

[Okay, I use “three-dollar bills” whipped up on my computer printer. Any of those stupid hags catches on, I take five of the bills back and hand her a fifteen.]

Now that weve established I’m a regular Count Compassionate, let me state without any misinterpretation of my demeanor that this Jack Stagger and Mark Heiney warrant no pity following their humiliating TOTAL ANNIHILATION by Rusev.

Imagine how it must have felt–and after all their shameful unsportsmanlike boasting about how they weren’t going to let a highly respected foreign visitor prevail on US soil–facing the hundreds of millions whose fantasies about the American way were forever crushed, leaving them mere husks of their once-proud selves.

Picture all those young brats forced to recite the Pledge Of Allegiance in fascist American schools daily, running into the streets teary-eyed because now the colors of the flag are red, white and blew it. Actually, I like that image, as it’s always been my motto “Children should be seen and slapped briskly.”

Maybe one of these sobbing yoots can answer something puzzling me all along. The American American (translation: loser squared) and the Weapon Of Meal Destruction constantly refer to their America. Umm, exactly to which tribes do these two failures belong? I’ve heard of the Hopi but never the Hopeless Indians.

If anyone genuinely has the right to refer to “their” America, it is noble redskins such as Billy White Wolf and Jay Strongbow. Did you know Strongbow’s great-great-grandfather, Shooting Bull, was responsible for helping General Custer invent the Arrow shirt?

Henry’s DIGRACEFUL LOSS to Rusev may have adjusted his attitude, but I still can’t warm up to the behemoth. Perhaps it’s all in a name.

Marks, as anyone in the profession will privately tell you, tend to be smelly greasy social outcasts hiding in a daydream world where their worthless opinions actually matter and dweebs who have never participated in an activity can declare themselves experts. In fact, whenever I look at–and, of course, down upon–a congregation of wrestling fans, I see little beyond a gaggle of gits who ought to have “MARK” tattooed right across the forehead.

To be fair, they do come in two varieties. Marks who pay for our merch, autographs and Polaroid sessions have always been welcome to approach–as long as they are forking over the cash.

As for the first name of the other flop, I have a bizarre story related to that moniker. Was down my local hangout, giving the video poker machine a whirl. Time after time, I kept getting close to hitting big hands but missing them by a single card.

Finally, I got a 10, Q, K and A of clubs, but the fifth card was a 4 of hearts. Exasperated, I loudly groaned “Damn, I’m one stinking Jack off,” inspiring another regular to reply “You’ve got that right”; and for some peculiar reason, the rest of the crowd started applauding and hooting!

Odd, huh? I make an offhand comment about bad luck, someone agrees, and the natives go wild. Yet when I get up on Karaoke Night to croon love songs dedicated to myself, it’s as though no one ever hears me. But then again, that’s typical Americans for you. Love you one minute, loathe you the next. Disloyal frontrunners jumping from one bandwagon to another with such ferocity you’d think they were part kangaroo.

You want an example? I haven’t bothered to read or watch the news since Uncle Charlie got framed for the mass suicide at Sharon Tate’s mansion, but sometimes I catch snippets while trying to find a decent station on the wireless. Apparently sheeplike Americans have now decided to blame yet another “evil” foreigner for their own shortcomings, some poor guy named Al Kida.

From what I’ve heard, this scapegoat can’t even live in one place, forced to continually relocate due to American military harassment. They’ve sent entire platoons after Mr. Kida, and went so far as to put a contract out on his friend Ben Lodden, just to demoralize Al.

I’ve been moved to stand on my barstool and sob “Why don’t you people leave Al Kida alone?” True to form, the brainwashed always come back with something like “And I guess were supposed to forget 9-1-1.”

Look, I hate ECW mythology more than anyone. However, I’d have no trouble at all forgetting about their big goon IF PEOPLE WOULD STOP CONSTANTLY BRINGING UP HIS NAME!

There they go again, though, trying to change the subject, whining about some retardcore wrestling promotion whose sole claim to fame is being the only mat league in history to kick its own founder to the curb.

It never ceases to amaze me how dimwits like you fall for the phony patriot scam. Did you ever ask yourself, if these grapplers “love their country” so much, how come Duggan, Hogan, Cena, Stagger and the rest of the flag-wavers never spent a minute in the service?

You sure can’t say that about my family. One of my forebears, Benedict Manor, was such a patriot, during the Revolutionary War, he fought for England and the Colonies! (At least until the hanging.)

And what about all my uncles who moved to Canada during the Vietnam era? Although appallingly mislabeled “draft dodgers,” these courageous lads were working undercover, prepared to leap into action should the Viet Cong ever decide to attack the United States from the north. Burning the US flag on television was merely to throw the VC off their scent, that’s all. Same with merchandising toilet paper resembling Old Glory.

As for your narrator, the moment I turned 18, I wrote a letter directly to the President, beaming “You mean I can kill more strangers and actually get PAID for it? Count me in, man!” Never did hear back from the White House. No doubt they must be saving me for some extra-special mission. .

So, you see, I didn’t always “harbor anti-American sentiments,” as it says in my trumped-up FBI record. Sometimes in life you get these moments of clarity, often as uncomplicated as a simple gesture or a phrase. It’s as if a hypnotist snaps his fingers before you, breaking the spell you’ve been under and simultaneously giving you a jolt of energy.

You read about it all the time. Jenny sees a photo of a starving kid, and vows to become a doctor. Channel-surfing Jimmy stumbles upon Kelly Osbourne critiquing someone else’s appearance, and decides never to watch TV again.

For me, the “moment of clarity” regarding the inferiority of puny Americans came in an equally life-altering flash: the first time I got an eyeful of Lana from behind.

Gasping deeply and inhaling feelthy American air, I suddenly realized the wisdom of the great leader Vladimir Putin and superiority of Roosian people. Unlike in United States, where cheeldren stuff themselves with Bairgair King and play thee Playstation all day, my cawmrads in Moscow have yoongsters read boooks and do seet-ups, building brains and bawdies for world domination.

Do not laugh, capitalist swines! Who ees only man ever to peen beeg American hero Bruno Sammartino? Answer ees Ivan Koloff. You go any restaurant in world, they do not have anything called American dressing; all offer glorious Russian instead.

(You take my word. I’ve tossed salads all over globe. Even have people on eenternet and Tweeter inviting me to toss their salads if ever in their seeties!)

Some readers come up to me and say “Stately,”–notice same first three letters as beloved leader Stalin–your Lana lust is getting so carried away, you’re even starting to sound like her.”

And vie not? Lana has greatest bootski from here to planet Uranus! I already foresee wonderful wedding–and even better honeymoon heh heh heh–een Red Square, weeth blooshing bride in tight meeneeskirt pairfectly framing her magneeficent asskovitch and….

What’s that you say? She and Rusev are a couple away from the ring?!?

Ladies and gentlemen, please join me in singing the national anthem of the country I’ve always considered the gosh-darned swellest place on God’s green earth.

O, Canada, our home and native land….

(You were expecting maybe “The Star-Spangled Banner”? Get oat of here.)

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