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

YouTube views money HIGHLIGHTED calculator stats

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.

SS 41—My GIFt to wrestling

I must admit, I’ve done it again.  If you’ve had the good sense to read my shoot interview profile, , you already know about the myriad innovations I introduced to the King Of Sports, the very reason I’m being inducted into the WWE Hall Of Fame next year.

So, add this to the list:  You have seen countless wrestling GIFs on social media; but I’ve come up with an entirely new wrinkle—Wrestling GIFs Without Wrestling!

As with most of my incredible creations, this is bound to be copied elsewhere in short order.  But remember, you saw it here first, Manormaniacs.


The ultimate way to watch Total Divas…

react to Total Divas


The average IWC member when he finally gets near a pretty girl…

Asian crazy bananas GIF


The WWE announces the return of David Otunga…

Slime People return of Otunga


Typical “puro” snob watching the GI Climax tournament…

animated guy cumming


Listening party for the new Fozzy album…

family guy mass vomit


Whenever I hear updates on CM Punk…

Princess Bride shrug


Every time Enzo Amoron’s entrance music hits…

python Run Away


The Young Bucks face each other in singles competition…

kid kicks pal GIF


Desperate Toad Gordon launches his new promotion, ECW2…

total IDIOT backyard GIF


Latest Will Ospreay footage…

B Lee New Guinea


Originator of the DELETE gesture revealed!

Shatner original DELETE doer


Lucha Underground Season Four sneak preview….

Lat Zero Lucha Underground


You claim you’re going to cancel the WWE Network or not watch their product again?

girl waves goodbye


Doctors release X-rays of Dean Ambrose’s skull…

tumbleweed GIF


My message to the Night After Wrestlemania/SummerSlam and all Full Sail audiences…


SS31–Mark, My Words

People often come to me and ask, “You are the official longest-running wrestling columnist ever, in REAL magazines sold worldwide, a TRAINED journalist PAID to opine; so what is your take on the multitude of so-called ‘hardcore’ fans who constantly go online and to great lengths to impress each other with their deep insight, the Internet Wrestling Community, also known as the IWC?”

Ah, the sophomoric “smarts.” They’ve always occupied a very special place in my heart. In fact, you know what? I feel a song coming on!

Oh, look, everybody, it’s Mister “IWC”
Whose official scent is known as “faint odor of pee.”
Drool stains and mucus dot the front of your sweater
Claiming you’re an “expert” because you read a newsletter.

Host a podcast, call all everybody “brother”
Only have one listener, and that’s your mother.
Your mom gets all squishy when you mention Bobby Roode
And she’s the only female you’ve ever seen nude.

Never climbed through the ropes, never been in the back
But your cousin knows a neighbor of Outback Jack.
Telling all your buds you’re tight with Terry Funk
Hey, aren’t you the guy who bought that house for Punk?

Got in a picture with Batista ‘cause you gave him forty bucks
Now you claim to be “best friends”; he couldn’t give two f*cks.
Blew your whole life savings on a beat-up old car
Because the dealer said it was once owned by J.R.

Hop onto your mattress pretending you’re with Bayley
Have a photograph of her you “tribute” twice daily
Last month, it was Asuka who was all the rage
Now regrettin’ gettin’ that tattoo of Paige.

No girls know you exist, so you head to Porn Hub
Drop your pants to the floor and rub rub rub rub rub.
Yanking away on what you call “my lady-pleaser”
Doesn’t fill your palm, so you have to use a tweezer.

After you’re through with two hours of fappin’
It’s back to bashing matches that haven’t even happened.
Been a long day of griping, so now it’s off to bed
And your recurring dream of giving The Rock head.

Due to corporate rules at your job at Arby’s
Boss had to invite you to the Christmas party.
Bored everyone to death talking Jushin Liger
Asked to pick a song, you chose “Eye Of The Tiger”!
Went home after the bash, popped in “One Night In Chyna”
Hey, may as well, you’re NEVER gonna touch a vagina.

Tried to act cool with Latinos, told them “I watch ‘LU’”
They grabbed a broomstick, made a piñata out of you.
It wasn’t just that statement that sealed the deal
Was when you said “I know you love to lie, cheat and steal.”

You’re the Boldest Of The Bold, a true Opinion Lord
Behind a phony name and a computer keyboard.
Numero uno, king of the fanboy scene
Claiming “Kayfabe is dead,” don’t even know what it means.
The phrase “New Japan” sends a tingle to your crotch
You’re the “superfan” who’s never heard of Karl Gotch.
Bashing Roman Reigns, Dixie Carter and Russo
When nobody’s around, paint your face up like an Uso.

Rip on the promos (though you’ve never done one)
Rip on the announcing (though you’ve never done one)
Rip on the bumping (though you’ve never done one)
Rip on the booking (though you’ve never done one)
Hmm, starting to see a pattern here, son?

SS29—The Good, The Bad and the REALLY Ugly

I occasionally lose track of my many achievements in life: Thank You notes from Presidents and Queen Elizabeth for being a role model for youngsters to emulate both in the U.S. and overseas; destroying Neil Peart and Dave Grohl in a lopsided “drum battle” before refusing to accept my Rock And Roll Hall Of Fame induction later that evening; holding Michael Jordan scoreless during a practice game with the 1992 Olympic team in Barcelona. The list goes on.

Of course, this column being devoted to pro wrestling, there are scores of accomplishments people like you could never dream of achieving. Such as the phone calls from Hall Of Famers and heads of promotions, seeking advice; and actually touching a female breast without charges being filed.

(Touching your sister’s boobs doesn’t count. Hell, everyone has fondled that slut.)

But my least achievement in the King Of Sports is being it’s smartest and cutest participant. Shouldn’t that read “greatest achievement”? Not really, considering the so-called “competition.”

First off, we can eliminate all fans. When I survey the crowd at a wrestling card, the typical audience looks like they held an Ugliest Person In Town contest and everyone in the arena tied for first place. This is especially true in the Mid-South region, where the average crowd is 12. That’s not the average age or ticket sale total—it’s their average number of teeth.

Having eliminated all of you horrors from the mix, let’s turn to people who don’t spend every night on the internet, complaining like little bitches.

The wrestling industry is divided into two distinct segments: (A) the Brilliant And Beautiful, such as myself, The Authority, Tyrus, Bray Wyatt, Jay Lethal and The Miracle; and (B), the Halfwits And Homely.

Take Roman Reigns. (Please) You know why he enters by coming down an aisle? Because the guys won’t let him in the locker room!

Nicknamed “Roman Reeks” due to the terrible stench he emits, Double-R once raised his arms to join in a “Yes” chant, and the first three rows passed out from his armpit odor.

He used to be allowed in the back. But when he took off his boots after the Shield debut match, the arena manager went into a panic, thinking the sewage system had backed up, and stuck the WWE with the Roto-Rooter bill.

Fake SWAT vest to hold in his beer belly, hair greasier than a McDonald’s French fry vat, Rank Roman may be the most repulsive man in the WWE.

Not that he lacks competition in that regard. Look at John Cena—if you can stomach it. “You can’t see me”? If only that were true!!!

This blowhard is always boasting about his Make A Wish record. What he fails to mention is that those poor kids’ number-one wish is that he would leave them alone before his face wilts all the flowers in the room.

When a newborn baby is about to leave the hospital, a nurse presents the parents with a blanket in which to swaddle the brat. But when baby Cena was sent home, the nurse gave his folks a leash.

The future-sixteen-time champ was a problem child. While the other kids attended kindergarten, little John attended kennel. Most boys bond with their father by playing catch; in the Cena household, they played fetch.

Did you know, when John Cena’s ear itches, he scratches it with a hind leg? And he still can’t walk past a fire hydrant without peeing on it.

I’ll give John Chihuahua, er, Cena this: For a muscleman, he’s not a total imbecile. Unlike the similarly jacked Ryback.

The Feed Me Moron is one of those people some may be tempted to describe as “a million-dollar body with a fifty-cent brain”—but I strongly disagree.

It’s 40 cents too high.

Those who Follow my award-winning (2015 Twitter Rookie Of The Year) antisocial media account know I revealed that Ryback is so dumb he thinks a kaleidoscope is something you look into to view collisions, and a strip mall is where nudists shop. But there’s more.

On a WWE tour of Italy, Ryback phoned the Leaning Tower Of Pisa to ask if they deliver. He also thinks “Oregano” is Italian for “Oregon.”

Speaking of Europeans, that Becky Lynch sure looks like she was dipped in ugly sauce then coated with powdered hag flakes. As a child, Becky aspired to join the singing group The Irish Rovers. She never developed the voice for it—but, today, lots of guys call her “Rover.” WOOF WOOF!

I’ll never forget the time Jason Voorhees came up to her, removed his hockey mask and said, “Here, you need this more than I do.”

Clearly, hardly anyone of Irish descent has the striking good looks of Vincent Kennedy McMahon. Get a gander at Finn Balor, for example.

According to his biography, “Balor leaves a mark wherever he goes.” Yep—a grease stain. That bio description equally applies to Finn’s NXT colleague Sami Zayn. Between his notorious flatulence problem and refusal to do laundry, Zayn is also known for leaving marks. That would be skid marks in his shorts.

Of course Canadians have always been sleazeballs. First, there was Bret Hart, the only wrestler who got his hair done at Jiffy Lube. He was followed by Edge and Christian. It is a documented fact that, when E&C were young men, the only blind dates they got were with blind women.  It’s also well-known that their trademark “five-second pose” came into existence because that’s the maximum length of time you can point a camera at them without the lens shattering.

TNA has its own Canadian infestation in the form of Robert Roode. Just imagine what it must be like taking a long car ride with Beer Money.

In one seat, you have Booby Bobby, who thinks a yeast infection is when bread gets sick and a semi-colon is half of a body part. In the other seat sits James Storm, who thinks Godzilla is a monster that attacks atheists and a blog is made out of bwood.

However, when it comes to the Most Brain-Barren Bonebender of them all, NOBODY can compete with AJ Styles, the only person to go on Jeopardy and ask to buy a vowel. The man who had his initials tattooed on his ribs because he kept forgetting them.

Oh how the TNA wrestlers used to make fun of Styles constantly asking incredibly dumb questions. “When is Saturday Night Live taped? Where does the moon go during the daytime? How many members were in the Jackson Five? If you drive backwards, does your gas tank get fuller? In what city is the Brooklyn Bridge?”

I’ll never forget the conversation I had with the dimwit when he was with Ring Of Honor.

AJ: I want to buy a rocketship and fly it to the sun.
SWM: The sun is ten-million degrees. You’ll be burnt to a crisp!
AJ: Naah, man, I’m going to go at night.


(Hmm, I guess that explains why the “WWE Universe” and “indie” fanboys so strongly relate to him.)

SS15–Pity Poor Bully Ray/JR = Just Rotten


Ah, the power of your King Of Columnists. In our last installment, I chewed Mickie James out and, whattayaknow, after one tongue-lashing from Mr. Manor, Miss James realigned her whole outlook on life. Gone is the “Hey, hi, y’all” chirpiness–strictly a put-on to con dumbbells like you into buying her recordings of that awful hillbilly racket known as country music–replaced by the correct attitude.

Not that any of you people will ever be in a position to experience it first-hand, but when one is a clear-cut superior being like myself and Mick, it is his or her duty to remind all at every opportunity. Whereas while most of you think condescension is what makes steam turn back into water, for us, it is a calling, patriotically serving the community by pointing out the inferiority of its members. Besides, it’s fun proclaiming “Besides English, James Storm speaks two languages: Gaelic and Alcoholic” and “Hulk Hogan’s very first tag match was indeed historic–because Napoleon was timekeeper.” (I was going to write “Caesar” but 97% of you lunkheads would go “Caesar, ain’t he the guy who invented salad?”)

Speaking of Hogan, how about his son Ed–yes, I know his legal name is Nick, but I call him Ed, short for “Failed Drivers Ed”–breaking news that sis Babbling Brooke got engaged to some football player despite the fact the two-timing trollop was already married to Bully Ray?

Then again, the dizzy doll might have just plain forgotten she was already hitched. After all, if you add up the combined brain power of her, Ed, Mommie Dumbest and the Immoral Hulk, it wouldn’t be enough to charge the light on a termite’s mining helmet.

Still, pity poor Mister Ray, a sensitive caring soul who no longer has a bride to fetch beer, polish his boots, spray Glade when he cuts the cheese and obey his every command, like any good wife owes her man. In fact, two days before the tragic news broke, we were discussing how, once you’ve got a bitch properly trained, you hardly ever have to slap her around anymore.

(Unless of course she expresses an opinion or wants to vote or something. If you let that slide, next thing you know, the ho will be asking you to pay part of the rent!)

A gentleman to the core despite the hussy’s shocking betrayal, Bully told me he has decided to only post a portion of their honeymoon sex video and just a fraction of the Brooke nudie snapshots he covertly photographed with a nanny cam, and limit it to a private website he set up ( rather than his original plan of a 3-disc DVD box set–that’s the kind of honorable fellow the New Yawker is.

Despite being backstabbed by the sickening jezebel, the TNA champ waxed philosophically about the failed marriage, sighing, “Ah, well, I was going to ditch her on her 30th birthday anyway. I figured the old man would’ve croaked by then, I’d be entitled to half his loot and wouldn’t need Brooke ragging me about blowing it on hookers and Jack Daniels.”

Splendid words to live by for anyone considering betrothing a twenty-something, otherwise known as The Conniving Whore Age (to be followed by The Sagging Desperate Pig Age.)

Bully, a naive young man, failed to realize dames in their twenties are nothing but trouble. Plus, the age difference of about a dozen years is always a massive stumbling block. That’s why all the girls I, um, “date” are about 14 or 15 years old.

Yeah, boy, half-price when you take ’em to the drive-in; you can have them do all kinds of crimes for you because they’ll get no time since they’re juveniles; get drunk on half a can of beer; buy them a little Sponge Bob handbag to hold your piece in and the cops never think to look in there; tie their hair in pigtails and they panhandle about 90 bucks in an hour–pre-women, as I like to call them, are the greatest. And the amount of sex you get is….Hey, what’s with the hissing and chair-tossing?

OH, COME ON NOW, I wasn’t talking about doing the dirty with the tenderonis. The thing is, nearly all of them live with their divorced mothers, and those broads are so amped up to have a certain itch scratched, they’ll go along with anything as long as you slip them the stromboli on a regular basis.

ARGUABLY THE worst aspect of the internet is that it allows any bubble-brain to declare himself a writer and expert when he is neither. Oh, yes, I believe in Freedom Of Speech–but only my own. Here’s my message to everyone else: SHUT UP.

My cousin Sal recently acquired a large box of wrestling DVDs very shortly before a heavily insured warehouse somehow caught fire during a torrential rainstorm. And if there’s one thing that became crystal clear upon viewing these backdate discs, it is that Jim Ross has rightfully earned his unique status in the mat business…as the absolute worst.

Of course, you cant expect much from people who live in places like Oklahoma, Kansas, Missouri, the Dakotas and similar regions I call the Nowhere States. In fact, when the Monkees play places like Tulsa and OKC, in order to allow the locals to sing along, the lyrics to “I’m A Believer” are changed to “I’m A Big Loser.”

Jumbo Jimbo wasn’t always atrocious, Ill grant him that. Back in the UWF and WCW days, I’d rate his as highly as “adequate” and “occasionally close to average.” But the worm turned when he went to WWE and later vehemently insisted on wearing that ridiculous cowboy hat and being referred to as J.R. In no time, he had his head so far up the boss kiester, when Mr. McMahon yawned, you could see Ross’ face besides Vince’s tonsils.

If there’s one thing I can’t stand, it’s someone who sucks up to the extraordinarily handsome and talented Vince McMahon, as if this exceptional he-man doesn’t already know he’s a supergenius and the closest we have to Jesus in the modern world. You’ll never catch ME singing the praises of the impeccably dressed Chairman’s limitless and unmatched intelligence, that’s for sure.

Getting back to “gold old J.O.,” can you believe the man–seriously, I am not making this up–fancies himself a writer these days, authoring one of those blog things, like a zillion other clueless schmoes?!? What kind of buffoon goes on the web to post a series of unsolicited half-baked opinions, all of which are clearly biased and thus have no credibility whatsoever? (I bet eight sevenths of these goofs dont even know you’re not supposed to use a preposition to end a sentence with.)

Ross–whose entire print journalism background consists of standing on a street corner as a pesty eleven-year-old, selling copies of the Tulsa Times and asking passerbys “Brother, can you spare a donut?”–likes to position himself as this frank, no-holds-barred scribe, yet never ONCE has written anything harshly critical of WWE. Check for yourself. The guy handles more cotton balls than a teddy bear molester!

Here’s how a typical Ross blog reads.

Topic: Randy Orton’s arrest for strangling a ringsider in Perth, Australia

Ross: It seems to me nobody has looked into the possibility the child had swallowed a chicken bone and Randy was heroically saving the youngster’s life by manually manipulating the boy’s esophagus with a Heimlich maneuver variation he learned in nursing school. TMZ showed the punch to the kids head but they never explained it was emergency anesthesia, which is needed to perform the throat massage correctly from a vertical base. Good grief, WWE superstars are marvelous human beings who love the WWE universe.

Wow, real “smashmouth” journalism there. All that blubbering and not so much as a single “Santino is such a dummy, he once asked ‘What day is Saturday Night Live on?'” or a “Chris Jericho has written another book, and I predict it will be a top-smeller.” What’s the point of being an internet writer if you are not even going to ridicule someone behind his back from a great distance?

NXT should “takeover” for Raw? Hold your horses.

Not attempting to take anything away from the developmental talent or buzzkill the R Evolution special, but what many people in the “NXT is better than Raw” camp are failing to realize is the vast difference in the productions of each.

On a typical Raw/Smackdown–and much of the following applies to TNA Impact as well–a wrestler arrives at the arena in the evening after what is likely a multiple-hour drive, and has a few hours to dress, warm up, tape vignettes if called for, possibly memorize a lengthy promo and go over the layout of a match, sometimes with someone he has rarely or perhaps never worked with in the past. A producer lays out spots, the match participants discuss them and then await their turn to perform.

The number-one priority of main-roster talent is to have the safest–not the BEST–match possible.  Fans may not like to hear that, but it is the reality of the business.  Simply put, it is far more desirable to have a wrestler physically able to perform night after night, week after week, than one who puts himself (and his opponent) at great risk of injury attempting to have “five-star” matches on free TV.  A Raw taping, for instance, is generally “another night at the office” for the wrestlers, who will hop in a car and repeat all of the above in the next town.

For NXT performers, the lifestyle and pre-match preparation are considerably different, particularly for an event such as a pushed special.  Obviously, they don’t have the killer road schedule and years of nagging injuries that come with it.  Instead of hours, they have days or even weeks to go over every aspect of a TV match, including getting in a ring and “rehearsing” for as much time as it may take to polish their routine to perfection before the cameras roll.  With the exception of Wrestlemania and select PPV matches, WWE talent rarely has such a luxury.

Under constant scrutiny and striving to land a main-roster spot, it is imperative for NXT workers to shine brightly at television tapings.  Whereas we could fill an entire page with examples of either mediocre or outstanding Raw/Smackdown bouts that had no impact whatsoever on the pushes of the participants.

To those at home, NXT Takeover R Evolution may have appeared to be inarguable evidence that Kevin Owens et al deserve to be in the bigs.  However, to those appraising talent, it only “proved” each participant could perform that match with that opponent exceedingly well, not that they are ready to work live in front of millions with severely limited prep time and equally limited experience with scripted promos/skits–not to mention under the added pressure resulting from the boneheaded practice of newcomers having to work a new and untested gimmick.