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!