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.
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.
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.
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.
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.