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.
Stately States 