SS35–In defense of wrestling fandom: It’s not your fault….


Wrestling fandom is rife with kneejerk reactionaries and the hypersensitive, both of whom tend to make unfounded assumptions and far-flung predictions based on the false notion they understand the business. In turn, these supposed “fans” incessantly complain and sulk when their giddy armchair booking demands aren’t immediately obeyed by promoters.

Promoters who have generated millions of dollars in revenue and quite often were in their position before said critics ever witnessed a match.

However, as Wrestling’s Most Reasonable Columnist, I am of the belief you people are not entirely to blame for The Fan Problem we insiders regularly discuss.  And I’ve generously consented to forgive most of you.  After all…

* It’s not your fault…Unlike myself, you didn’t go to what that hillbilly Dusty Rhodes called “the pay winda” for 29 uninterrupted years—longer than The Undertaker, Ric Flair, Jim Ross and Bret Hart, to name just a few fellow legends—haven’t been comped to every show since the early Nineties and don’t routinely chit-chat with Hall Of Famers such as Jerry Lawler and Kurt Angle.

It’s also not your fault that, when Eric Bischoff took over the reins at WCW, he phoned me and not you.  Or that ideas of mine and not yours have been used on Raw, Smackdown, Nitro, Wrestlemania, etc.

As such, since you are devoid of significance in any aspect of wrestling (and life in general), OF COURSE you have no option beyond harebrained pontification and baseless allegations.  Just because you can’t put a coherent sentence together, it doesn’t mean you should quit proving it.  By golly, the Constitution guarantees your unalienable right to express yourself no matter how idiotic you happen to be. U-S-A, U-S-A, U-S-A.

* It’s not your fault…Your cognitive capacity is severely limited due to genetic aberrations attributed to your paternal bloodline containing bovine and marsupial deoxyribonucleic acid, and your maternal unit continuing to ingest large quantities of inebriants throughout the gestation period.

You most certainly are not to blame for your odd-numbered chromosomal tally and the resultant prohibition of cerebral functions.

Hey, who cares if standardized tests indicate you are best suited for a career as a night watchman at an aquarium or joining your mother in the horizontal entertainment industry?  Personally, I consider wrestling fans the brightest cretins in the whole world!

* It’s not your fault…Your alleged “friends” are enablers who, sharing your excremental outlook and rugged equine features, encourage you to remain in a fantasy world where you address each other as “brother” (while privately badmouthing them in DMs), claim to be straight edge while drunk, and brag about regularly “banging two twenty-year-old chicks” even though you post selfies daily yet none contains an image of even one woman—with the exception of uncomfortable-looking female wrestlers from indie cards.

Still, I’m sure it is very therapeutic, after a long day of performing tasks any other baboon with 20 minutes of training could do with equal aplomb, to hop online because no one nearby has the slightest desire to interact with you, and make all-knowing comments about “the rat scene in Mempho in ’87,” and boast about the wrestlers who really dug you (buying them drinks) when you were “hanging with the boys after the PPV.”  After all, these fictional scenarios could have transpired and some of them did—at least until the alarm clock jolted you awake.

I say “You be you,” brother—well, the pathological fraudulent version your narcissism has fabricated to alleviate the self-loathing that manifests upon the realization one is a failure at every level.

* It’s not your fault…Every single man, woman, child, plant and animal in the galaxy fails to recognize your genius.  (As well as your very existence, in most cases.)

The reason you are universally detested by everyone who has ever spent two minutes in your presence is not just because, if obnoxiousness sold for a penny a ton, you could afford to sponsor the next 27 NASA missions and buy each Super Bowl viewer a Bentley; it’s because you are a misunderstood rebel rallying against the status quo.  Right on, man!

Sure, to the unenlightened, you come off like a racist, homophobic misogynistic colonic-opening, but in fact you are totally pusillanimous—and darn proud of it!!!

There you are, a recreant nematode among men, assisting the public by informing them their taste “sucks” unless they agree with your ignorant proclamations, and by butting into Twitter conversations to name-call complete strangers.  Yet, with all these services you provide and the scrofulous lifestyle you lead daily, the masses refuse to fall at your feet in adoration of your vapid presence.  No wonder you’re a bitter simian!

Worst of all, when it comes to the King Of Sports, the unwashed masses refuse to acknowledge your notional position as a wrestling savant (even though you disappear from any discussion involving events that were not televised within the past two years.)  Damn it, you haven’t spent a lifetime dedicated to avoiding any semblance of sartorial panache and triggering an olfactory response reminiscent of a Mephitis mephitis merely to be ignored by people who actually know what they’re talking about!!!

You perform your duty with high deficiency and a very amoral stance, bereft of great wisdom, and the nadir of wit.  Though no one of note has ever heard of you, every single promoter, booker and wrestler should be lined up at your door, seeking approval and advice.  It’s a disgrace, that’s what it is, a total disgrace.  But keep telling yourself it’s not your fault.  Someday someone else may actually believe it.  Brother.

SS32—Quiz Time: Are you a TRUE wrestling fan?

We’ve all seen those annoying click-bait links with headlines screaming something like “Ten ways to tell if you are REALLY ______,” most often a scam to get you to advance through a bombardment of ads…at least until you become fed up with the whole mess and say “The hell with this crap!”  This is NOT one of those quizzes.

Most of us have also seen a tsunami of claims on social and traditional media, wherein a mat sport enthusiast rambles on about how “nobody” is a bigger fan of the bonebending business than him.  You undoubtedly rolled your eyes, knowing YOU are the truest wrestling fan around.  I say it’s time to put these claims to the test—literally, as I have created the following to put an actual numerical value on devotion to the King Of Sports.

Give yourself five points for each of the following:

  • Threw streamers in the ring at an indy card
  • Got super-pumped over the announcement of Nakamura coming to NXT despite never having actually seen him wrestle before
  • Referred to a wrestler by his previous name, e.g. Ambrose as Jon Moxley
  • Declared a reportedly disgruntled wrestler should go to Japan, where he’d really shine
  • Claim to not follow the WWE but post Facebook comments about the latest PPV and Raw
  • Made a sign to bring to a TV taping, it being the exact phrasing someone else used before
  • Declared TNA dead and gloated about it
  • Denounced hipsters while attending a rinky-dink indy card then blowing off the WWE event in the same town that weekend
  • Have more wrestling DVDs than movie ones
  • Defended against criticism of your favorite by quoting something from the wrestler’s biography or podcast
  • Agree the NWO is the greatest thing that ever happened to wrestling
  • Called the 2016 event “the worst Wrestlemania ever”
  • Thought it would be so cool if Roman Reigns suffered a career-ending injury
  • Privately thought “Don’t worry about what words Hulk Hogan used on some stupid video, he’s still my hero”
  • Proud owner of a kick-ass Fozzy CD
  • Never saw a Japanese match that wasn’t “awesome”
  • Suggested a wrestler just released by the WWE should “go to NXT”
  • Consider CM Punk’s “pipe bomb” promo the best ever because he wasn’t following any script or pre-approved guidelines
  • Upset over a recent event, Tweeted #CancelWWENetwork

MULTIPLE CHOICE bonus points

1) My chief qualification for declaring myself a bona fide wrestling expert is…

  1. Having watched it on TV for many years
  2. Subscribing to a famous newsletter
  3. Working in a retail store
  4. Took a college Creative Writing course
  5. Once bumped into Gene Okerlund at a 7-11

2) My Bullet Club shirt is…

  1. Black
  2. Red
  3. Dark blue
  4. Made it myself with a white T-shirt and Sharpie

3) If I met Triple-H, I would…

  1. Go into great detail about a feud he had in 1996
  2. Beg him to tell me “Suck it!”
  3. Wet my pants
  4. Try to hide my boner

4) The closest I ever came to sex with a woman was…

  1. Got Molly Holly’s autograph at a convention
  2. Skype session with Sunny
  3. Popping out of my mother’s vagina at birth
  4. What’s a woman?


Surprise—To express my gratitude for the support shown me over the years, I’ve decided that any letter selected in the Multiple Choice section earns you five points.  Way to go, Champ!

Okay, friends, time to add up all your points and learn exactly where you stand.

Over 75 points   Worthless wussy windbag blindly going along with other morons.
50 to 74   Take a look at the above; the same applies to you
25 to 49   Ditto, delusional dunce
5 to 24     Just as horrible as the other birdbrains
Zero       Obviously a liar and a cheater.  I admire that in a person!

Here’s the thing:  If you were a TRUE wrestling expert, you’d be well-aware of what I’m like and, consequently, not have been stupid enough to get suckered into wasting your time on this quiz.  In fact, at this very moment, I’m laughing hysterically at you over the fact you are still reading this very paragraph!

SS30—Vincent Kennedy My Main (Mc) Mahon

Between my years hobnobbing with rock stars and being the King Of Columnists in the King Of Sports, plus the deluge of celebrities who tweet @SWManor daily, I’ve been fortunate enough to spend many hours with the famous and infamous.

For instance, former President Bill Clinton and I hit it off wonderfully during my tenure as an advisor throughout most of his regime. In fact, we’d probably still be hanging out regularly, if not for an unfortunate misunderstanding involving security camera footage of me accidentally rooting through Hillary’s panties drawer. (Hey, the drink coasters I was looking for could have been in there!)

Another example is Jackie Chan, though I do wish he would quit telling people “everything I ever accomplished, I owe to Stately Wayne Manor.” It’s getting embarrassing.

But of all the world-changers with whom I have ever socialized, when it comes to intellect, unbridled valor and carrying oneself with dignity, none can compare to my dear friend Vincent Kennedy McMahon.

Of course I’m hardly the first to recognize the attributes of this consummate gentleman. Did you know JFK, the 35th President Of The United States, changed his surname from Kowalski to Kennedy as a tribute to his fellow New Englander? Or that Vince McMahon has been thanked in 32 Nobel Prize acceptance speeches?

And although the bashful billionaire denies it, I have it on good authority that Mr. McMahon also invented electricity. That was during his stint in the Peace Corps, when he gained great notoriety throughout Brazil for teaching medics the Heimlich maneuver and teaching missionaries the missionary position.

Mind you, young Vincenzo wanted to join the Marine Corps, and no doubt singlehandedly would have won the Vietnam War within the week. However, President Lyndon Magic Johnson felt it too risky, concerned that (and I quote) “Should this national treasure be mortally wounded, our country would be smothered in a dark cloak of despair and depression, crushing the American spirit for generations to come.”

Through my years as the Greatest Wrestling Columnist Ever, I’ve taken several “road trips” with the majestic hero of the masses, cracking dwarf jokes about Daniel Bryan and discussing how Roman Reigns would headline the next nine Wrestlemanias just to annoy the internet imbeciles.

And it was during these sojourns that I was privileged to witness first-hand a side of Mr. McMahon the genital public has no privy to—Vince’s unmatched generosity.

Here are just a few of dozens of examples I could site.

*Nebraska. Roadside lemonade stand. A teary-eyed grown man moaned, “I shouldn’t be doing this to put food on my family’s table.” Vince wholeheartedly agreed and, without so much as a second thought, had the Health Department shut the stand down.

*Wyoming. Summer camp for the underprivileged. Vince kindly showed the youngsters a picture of a thousand-dollar bill, then cheerfully exclaimed “I’m going to give each of you one of these!” And just like that, he awarded every one of the brats a similar photo.

*South Carolina. Homeless man standing by the roadside with a sign reading “Haven’t eaten in three days.” Mr. McM ordered his chauffeur to pull over, waved the ragamuffin over, gently patted him on the shoulder and softly told him “Don’t worry, pal, food still tastes the same,” before handing the bum a toothpick that had only been used once.

*Oregon. Unemployed woman with a sad face. Touched by her plight, Vince remarked “Hmm, I suppose my limo could use a good polishing.” When the now-beaming lass finished, VKM opened up the briefcase containing his checkbook and gave the luck lady a brand-new Sparky Plugg T-shirt.

I’m not the sentimental type, but must admit I do get a bit choked up when recounting the myriad ways Mr. McMahon has connected with you people.

Here is the gentleman who revolutionized the “national pastime” of professional sports with his wildly successful XFL and routinely takes home a barrel of Academy Awards for the avant-garde cinematic offerings of WWE Studios, such as Knucklehead, unanimously described by critics as “the modern-day Citizen Kane, only better, because it’s in color.”

The man who created the Kiss My Ass Club, now a big-business standard practice in the boardrooms of General Motors, Comcast and the Disney Corporation. A living breathing modern-day combination of Socrates, Plato and Aristotle.

Yet he remains as humble and unassuming as a Shaolin monk and, in fact, if we weren’t such close friends, would likely be cross at me for flattering him in a public forum (at no charge.)

Sure, he’s made a few mistakes, the most notable one being siring traitorous son Shame, the family disappointment. But he more than made up for it by bestowing the world with the most charming, warmhearted and damn-sexy woman to ever set foot on the planet, Stephanie McMahon.

Stunning Steph has received LOTS of Stately States coverage; but while I’m revealing little-known truths, I’m betting most of you are unaware the Princess is just an old-fashioned down-home girl at heart. When not enchanting an international television audience, there’s nothing Stephanie likes better than to slip into comfy bib overalls and churn butter from a cow she milked herself or perhaps join her best friends Hazel and Gertrude at the church social hall for some exciting bingo.

And when it comes to handicrafts, Steph makes that old Mothra Stewart look like some clumsy klutz from Kalamazoo! Why, just last Christmas, she knitted her dad and me marvelous matching sweaters with only a minor difference between them: mine says “Stately” and his says “Studly.”

I would write “What else could you expect from a McMahon?”, but that went out the window when the family black sheep came slithering back on Raw. Evidently, all those years—“allegedly”—spent in a Turkish prison (oh, you didn’t know?) did nothing to tone down Showboatin’ Shane.

It was difficult to precisely hear what the pudgy punk was whining about this time, what with the boisterous boom of boos. From what I could make out, he moaned, “I’ve done nothing for the WWE, but as an entitled millennial, I command my sister and father to turn over the company to me, even though I don’t deserve it. On top of that, I demand to be in the main event at Wrestlemania, and challenge that washed-up bastard, the Undertaker.”

Who among us didn’t want to give Mr. McMahon a compassionate hug at that very moment? Growing up poverty-stricken in a trailer park, poor Vince took a scant few million of his father’s money and turned a regional wrestling promotion into a global juggernaut—and then his only begotten son stabbed him in the back, just like Judas did to Caesar!!!

Not surprisingly, considering I’m more intelligent than, well, everyone, I have devised the only honorable solution. I hereby publicly propose that you, Vincent Kennedy McMahon, disown Shane and complete my bucket list by adopting me as your replacement son.

Knowing, sir, you are going to say “yes,” I have already begun proceedings to change my name to Stately Wayne McMahonor, as a tribute to the finest family a guy could ever dream of joining.

Everyone knows the results of that 2006 Backlash PPV match proved you are greater than God…which makes us a perfect father-son team, as it has been scientifically proven that I am greater than Jesus Christ!

SS28—Season’s Groinkicks from the Manor Mansion

It’s no secret that I am extremely popular amongst pro wrestling’s inner circle, due to me being the sport’s only unbiased columnist. And no one has been more supportive and enthusiastic about my efforts than my dearest friend, Vincent Kennedy McMahon.

Just hours before his unprovoked assault on the tragic December 14th Raw, the Vinster stopped by the Stately Estate, surprising me with an official proclamation from his office: This April, in Dallas, Stately Wayne Manor will become the first journalist ever inducted into the WWE Hall Of Fame!!!

Ordinarily, I pretend to be Buddhist so I can stiff, er, not be expected to hand out holiday presents. But Mr. McMahon’s touching tribute put me in an equally generous mood. So, here’s a list of gifts I gave out to some prominent bonebenders.

Divas Division—I bet you’re thinking I’m going to say something like “A gift certificate to Kitchenware Unlimited, so they’d go back to where they belong.” As if I’ve ever written anything sexist! No, I’m giving these hoze gift certificates to Victoria’s Secret, so they’ll go back to where they REALLY belong!!!

Dean Ambrose—a tear-proof shirt. I’ve seen this screwball topless more often lately than Miley Cyrus—and I’m dating her! I cheer when my lil smoochikins gets bare up there, whereas Torn-Clothes Ambrose just makes me lose some lunch.

Coincidentally, his chest is also about the same size as my Smiley Wiley Mileypoo’s, albeit hers has faaaaaaar better accessories.

Sting—directions to Minnesota. Everybody’s Big Favorite Hero couldn’t bother to attend the Slammys despite voting for himself 12,092 times, demonstrating exactly what ol’ Paint Puss thinks of you people. About what one could expect from a dummy who would shake the hand of the opponent who just hit him with a freakin’ sledgehammer, after the Stinker disgraced the proud legacy of WCW at Wrestlemania and let down all his fellow halfwits.

Grado and RockStar Spud—deportation papers. Everyone knows, en route to becoming the record-holding King of Columnists, I starred in the UK mat mag Power Slam. And if there’s anything I learned about the British Isles, it’s that it is an utterly soul-killing place to live, which is why the national pastimes are avoiding proper dentistry and complaining about everything.

If it weren’t for the “special selfies” Francesca of England’s Wrestle Talk TV sends me, I’d consider the entire nation bloody useless—just like Grade-Zero and PoxScar Spud are in TNA.

I hope President Trump, after kicking out this dim duo, builds a giant wall along the entire eastern seaboard, specifically to keep any more Brits from soiling our soil.

Sheamus and King Barrett—An invitation to move to Phriendly Philadelphia. The Celt and His Majesty told me they fully concur with the above and have no intentions of ever returning to their hostile homelands. With that in mind, I would be proud to have this pair of fine gentlemen as neighbors—right here in The City Of Brotherly Love. (cheap pop)

Fellas, unlike slum towns such as Boston and Denver, Philadelphia is a crime-free paradise populated by the warmest people you’ll ever meet. Always a comfy 74 degrees, thanks to the invisible dome covering the city, Philly is also the home of numerous championship sports teams, a perfect setting for the League Of Nations.

What about taxes? We don’t have any! In fact, every year on Thanksgiving, the mayor send each resident a hot turkey dinner and a set of 24-carat gold cutlery valued at $1000.

Byron Saxton—new initials. I’m just soooo tired of him living up to his current ones.

Becky Bayless—a private meeting with Mil Mascaras. Not for wrestling lessons, but to borrow a few masks.

I’ll give her this: From the shoulders down, Double-B has a fairly solid bod for a white girl. Kind of reminds me of when my hangout used to have Stripper Night. However, from the neck up, Bayley is more reminiscent of a chess piece knight.

But, in the Xmas spirit, I’d still (wink-wink) “wrestle” the broad. And if she doesn’t bring a mask, no problem. That’s why Jesus invented pillowcases.

James Storm—a prayer. Not that I am religious. It’s just that he doesn’t have one when it comes to making an impact on the WWE roster.

Hulk Hogan—a one-way ticket to Compton. There are a few guys there who would like to have a word with him.

Matt Hardy—the name of a good barber (besides EC3). Who did this rube fashion his hairdon’t after, the Sphinx?!? Just because Matt Hardly’s favorite year is 1974—the year he got kicked out of Hicksville High—it doesn’t mean he has to look like the Lynyrd Skynyrd member who missed the flight. [Google it, children.]

Infamous Female Wrestling Executive—Actually, I already gave the earthbound angel her holiday bon(er)us last night, starting around eleven. I can’t go into details here because of, you know, husband stuff. Will tell you it was in the holiday spirit: She came upon a midnight clear!

Roman Reigns—a good gag. I don’t mean a funny joke; I mean the kind that would go over his mouth every time he picks up a microphone. Aural Pains has all the vocal skills of a baby dolphin with a severe head cold swimming in a pool of spider larvae and partially frozen tapioca.

Tommy Dreamer—A can of black spray paint for the back of his head. I don’t know if that’s a bald spot or he’s just been prepped to go to the electric chair.

The Dudley Boyz—a vacation. There two pterodactyls must be awfully tired, what with all their occupations. Not really sure what those are, but every time I read a house show report, it says “The Dudleyz did a job.”

The Young Bucks—FYI, Matt and Nick Jackson are the two Bucks…and that’s also what a DVD box set of their matches is worth. Didn’t get them anything. Intended to, but fell asleep during one of their Stuporkick Parties.

The New Day—a Grammy. Their stirring rendition of “O Solo Mia” with a trombone solo was easily the greatest MP3 sent to my phone in all of 2015. Tears well up in my eyes every time I hear Kofi and Big harmon…what’s that? You didn’t get a copy? That’s because The New Day don’t like you. Come to think of it, neither does anyone else.

Cesaro—a “push.” For once, I agree with the net nitwits. I am constantly reading the never-satisfied moping miscreants claims that “Cesaro should get a big push.” Yes, he should.

Right out the goddamn door!

Gilbert T. Fartknuckle of Des Moines, Iowa, and all his little web peers are “experts,” you see. After all, they pay some mug named Weed Killer in order to be considered VIP members of the Pro Wrestling Dorks website. Not only that, but they also know someone who once had his question read on the podcast produced by a man who has the autograph of Jim Ross’ next-door neighbor!

According to these intellectuals, Cesaro knows a lot of wrestling holds, thus he should be the world champion. So what, if he has no charisma and is weak on the microphone? It’s not like the WWE has a history of granting title shots to grapplers with personal pizzazz and strong speaking skills but limited repertoires, such as Superstar Graham, Hogan, Warrior, Nash, Sycho Sid, The Rock, Cena, Big Show or Batista.

Oh, wait.

SS27—An Impassioned Open Letter To Wrestling Fans

Dear WWE Superfans:

On behalf of the countless hundreds of us who have made a tidy bundle in the world of sports entertainment, based on you people cheerfully spending the majority of what you earn performing meaningless jobs we wouldn’t dream of taking, I would like to take a moment to pass along an expression of gratitude that has been long overdue.

It’s a simple phrase and one that is constantly on our minds, though we have been wont to publicly express it. But as a senior spokesman for the industry, I have been entrusted to convey our message for all to see.

It goes like this:  Thanks, suckers!

Just think, you are sitting there deprived of the finer things in life, bemoaning the fact a total stranger isn’t holding a “championship” that is rewarded (rather than legitimately won) in a fictional “fight,” while we spend most of our time partying in bars, having unsafe sex with your pushover sisters and being world famous.

And it’s all because sad sacks with no social skills will sit transfixed to a TV set and computer monitor, no matter how high or low the quality of the product.

You know what’s adorable? The way you get up on a soapbox and proclaim you’re going to no longer watch or attend a certain wrestling show. Ooooh, look who’s a big boy now, all partly grown up and declaring “I have a good mind to cancel my WWE Network subscription!” as if you actually have other interests. (Or a good mind.)

It’s even more adorable when, two weeks later, you are on social media commenting on—okay, complaining about—the very event you were (wink-wink) going to skip, or crowing about how “awesome” the just-released DVD set is.

Moving on…I would like to take this opportunity to dispel a few myths currently circulating.

*”They don’t read our e-mails, tweets and Facebook postings.” Poppycock. In fact, the best ones are printed out and passed around the office and locker rooms so everyone can laugh at your harebrained booking suggestions, pompous predictions and failed attempts to grasp the fundamentals of the English language.

I have a jar on my desk, into which I put a dime every time I read that one wrestler should “loose” to another. And every year, I take that accumulated coinage and buy a new Mercedes.

*”All they want is our money.” People, please. We want your attention, money, rides from airports, money, idolization, money, hot mom’s phone number, money, website clicks, money, podcast downloads, money, Twitter following, money, gifts and money.

But not necessarily in that order.

*”They don’t care about the fans.” Utter nonsense! We care deeply that each of you line up in an orderly fashion to pay for autographs at conventions, merchandise at arenas and admission to personal appearance engagements.

We are always delighted to listen to your compliments and learn how you are doing during the five seconds it takes to pose for a $40 Polaroid. Hell, you provide the hand sanitizer and many of us will even shake your paw!

[Photo session tip: Be sure to either make a fist or point to the celebrity. These highly inventive and refreshingly unique poses tell us you are a wily insider who knows words like “move-set” and “bump.”]

We also care you coughed up 10,000 bucks of daddy’s money to accumulate 50 souvenir PPV ringside folding chairs rather than wasting it on something like books or feeding the needy.

After all, how many of those disgusting poor people are ever going to buy one measly Wrestlemania ticket?

Frankly, I find this entire allegation about us not “caring” quite offensive. We have enormous sympathy for you lot, stuck in concrete toilets such as the burgs surrounding the Great Lakes, like the ghost town of Motown and Sh*tcago, aka The Windbag City.

There you sit, your emotional growth permanently paused at age 15, fantasizing you are some sort of “wrestling expert” despite having no understanding of how the business really works. Scar tissue around your eyes from how often you’ve been punched out over your backstabbing “jokes,” an eternally negative attitude about everything.

We don’t blame you for being bitter. Why, you have a Facebook page and once put out a newsletter with 132 readers. That makes you practically royalty! Yet, even though all you ever do is knock Vincent Kennedy McMahon and Dixie Cups Carter, the major promotions don’t immediately follow your dimwitted instructions. Do they not know you had your picture taken with Ricochet’s cousin at a hipster indie show?!?

Gosh darn it, it’s a crying shame your pathetic shell of a life turned out to really really blow. As a matter of fact, just this morning, on the way to my winter home in Boca Raton with Katy Perry, I was moved to tears while contemplating your miserable plight.

Just kidding. You’re a lifelong loser no one outside of your little clique has ever heard of, who never has or ever will earn a penny or participate in any aspect of the sport, while I GOT PAID for decades and was given free tickets for every wrestling event I’ve attended since 1984.

So, again, on behalf of myself and my fellow true insiders, not internet wannabes…Thanks, suckers!

–Stately Wayne Manor
Mount Olympus

SS25–Breaking (them) News


So much “Breaking News” as of late, I hardly know where to begin.

*The Immoral Hulk Hogan Because I am superior to, well, EVERYONE, I have magnanimously consented to accept apologies from the Hulkamorons who, upon the rare occasions of removing their thumbs from their butts, took the time to write sissy-pants letters (few of which were intelligible) to Wrestling World and Power Slam magazines, whining about me bashing their half-witted hero.

For 30 years, I told you people Hulk Hohum is a slimeball; but, no, you just sat there with your naked GI Joe in one hand and naked self in the other, and whimpered, “Hulkster am good man. He say we brothers. Googoo booboo.”

Doing my duty as Wrestling’s Only Unbiased Columnist, I have been forced to sit among the rabble, therefore I am well aware wrestling fans in general are about as sharp as a horse’s heiney and have the same fragrance. And Hogan-idolizers are even worse!

Here are some random examples. I once told one we were going bear hunting, and he said “Isn’t it more fun with clothes on?” Told another I’d been in Mississippi, and he asked “Didn’t Mister Sippi mind?” Upon telling a third I was taking a transatlantic flight, he replied “Wouldn’t the train be safer?”

These people are DUMB, I tell you. If brains were helium, all the Hulkamaniacs combined wouldn’t have enough to inflate a balloon for a titmouse’s birthday party. After all, Hulk Hogan fans are the type who buy two copies of a DVD in case they want to see the movie twice.

Having established their inferiority beyond doubt, all any Hulkhead needs to do is admit to being an ignorant, weak-kneed, worthless dung piles who should be caged then dropped into the Arctic Ocean, and I will forgive him, her or it. It’s that simple, simpletons!

*Daniel Bryan releases biography And in the epilogue, the filthy hippie reveals how many injuries he suffered writing the damn thing.

*Undertaker returns Just when you thought it was safe to turn on the TV again, Grandpa Taker comes toddling down the aisle to ruin Seth Rollins’ easy victory over Brock Lesnar, then SummerSlam as well.

Aaaaaaah, poor wittle baby is upset because his itty-bitty streak got broken at Wrestlemania 30. Nope, he was not there because his brother cuddly Kane got injured at the hands of Lesnar. Translation: Taker is a poor sport and raging egomaniac who lacks the maturity to get over one lossSIXTEEN FREAKING MONTHS AGO.

And although Paul Heyman barely ever mentioned it, the Zombie MMA Biker—or whatever the hell he’s supposed to be—decided to assault the Long Islander (who could have easily tuned Taker had he so desired) on national television.

Yes, Paul Heyman, beloved by billions around the globe for his honesty and business acumen, was viciously attacked; yet Brock was the one arrested, the Underachiever getting a free pass by showing the police his AARP membership card.

And why did it take sixteen months to occur? That’s how long it took the broken-down old creep to get himself and his walker down the aisle, between the short steps and Ensure breaks.

Did you know Undertaker’s Rookie Of The Year trophy was presented by a famous Jackson? Not Michael or Reggie—Andrew. He was also once voted Favorite Wrestler by PWI—President Wilson’s Interns. I know for a fact those boots he wears are labeled “Size XVI.” Always a spoiled lad, he got them as a souvenir during the first combat event he ever attended. It was a match of biblical proportion—at least until that cheater David broke out his slingshot and cheap-shotted Goliath. (Ref Pontivious Hebner is still under suspicion.)

*Josh Mathews and The Pope still reign…as the worst announcing combo on TV. That’s really saying something, when you factor in JBL & Byron SUXton and Tom Phillips & Germy Uso.

The Poop, who demonstrated his deep product knowledge by calling Ken Anderson “Kennedy” during a TNA broadcast, evidently grew up in a fatherless home and “has issues” regarding it. It’s the only plausible explanation as to why he can’t finish a sentence without calling someone “Daddy.”

Either that or he just plain stinks as an announcer. Hmmmm.

As for the Oompa Loompa sitting beside him, Jiveass Josh shows all the fire of someone calling a putt on the 16th hole of a miniature golf tournament in Pugwash, Maine. “The American Wolves have just won the tag team titles and I wonder if I left the stove on when I left the house.”

You don’t have to take my word on how putrid this pair is. Just examine the stats. Since The Poop and Mini Me manned the mics together, Impact Wrestling has one-third of the viewership it averaged before their arrival; and I predict it will have ZERO U.S. viewers by October 1, 2015!

(And on a personal note, I’ve got your Twitter Block right here, Mathews.)

*Paige’s life spiraling into abyss To a degree, I feel sorry for the goofy goth. Not just because she was raised in a dreary sunless patch of soot populated by homely sourpusses feebly clinging to the hopeless notion their nation will regain its wildly exaggerated prominence—otherwise known as the laughably named “Great” Britain, or as it’s referred to in the U.N., the Brutus Beefcake of countries.

No, I feel bad for the Princess Of Paleness because, growing up reading my monthly columns in UK’s Power Slam, like all Britons, she came to adore and idolize me. Except, in Paige’s case, the usual infatuation developed into a demonic obsession.

It started out innocently enough. A fan letter after each new issue, sometimes including a little sketch. Got thousands like it monthly, paid her no mind.

That may have been a mistake. As the years went by, Paige’s mailings and overall behavior grew more and more unstable.

Those cute drawings became painting of “our wedding”(!)…and us with “our children”(!!)…and her stabbing other women who smiled at me, the red “ink” analyzed to be human blood!!!

Then came the series of selfies, most of which would have made a gynecologist blush, accompanied by VERY explicit details about how I would, shall we say, “fit in” with her. (I’ll give the girl this: she’s far more flexible than she appears in the ring. And the heart-shaped public hair is a nice touch.)

The final straw came when she began lurking outside the Power Slam office wearing an “I (heart) Stately’s (body part)” shirt and introducing herself to approaching strangers as “Mrs. Manor.”

Enough was enough. I tossed all her previous mailings—okay, I kept the photos and a few panties—in the incinerator and alerted the British postal system to deliver no more.

What did Paige do next? Moved to the United States, claiming to be pursuing a wrestling career. Believe me, the ladies have nicknamed it many things—the Stately staff, Godzilla Junior, the Manor Manhood, Led Zeppelin II—but this is the first time it’s been called “a wrestling career”!

After a string of restraining orders and lectures from the Immigration Service, the love-struck loony finally faced the harsh reality that I just wasn’t interested.

Any normal person would have moved on. Pathetic Paige, however, in a transparent attempt to make me jealous, has hired an actor to portray her “boyfriend,” complete with claims that he is in an obscure rock band—just like I happened to be before becoming an international icon.

I’ve seen his photo and am 90-percent certain it’s that guy Silent Bob from the movies. And, hey, that red-ballcap-worn-backwards look is very impressive…if you have a time machine that transports you to 1995 and have hideous enough taste to attend a Limp Bizkit concert.

SS24–#ThankYouDaniel…For Giving Up/Motherly Love


Gorilla Monsoon was fond of saying “History in the making, folks!” But he was a fat old windbag who thought Mongolia was in Italy, so enough about him.

Nonetheless, wrestling fans did see history in the making on May 11, 2015, when–after finally confessing he didn’t deserve to be a WWE champion–Cryin’ Daniel Bryan promised he would no longer do what his myopic followers call “participating in a match,” otherwise known as executing the exact same moves he did ten years earlier.

I am not the least bit surprised. Delighted, sure; but not surprised.

Just examine Bryan’s record. Quit the indies. Quit getting his hair cut. Quit shaving. Quit bachelorhood. Quit being World Heavyweight Champion. Quit eating meat. Quit being Inter-Continental Champ. Only a complete jackass (the qualification for joining the Yes Movement, in the first place) would dispute the fact Daniel Bryan is a career quitter. In fact, he even quit being Brian Danielson to become “Daniel Bryan”!!!

Can’t say I blame wrestling’s Mini-Me for quitting this time. Other than popularizing a chant he stole from the Bellas when they were “entertaining” the football team beneath the bleachers in high school–“Yes, yes, yes!”–Bryan accomplished next to nothing during his in-ring career.

After being the first contestant kicked off NXT due to gross incompetence then disgracefully attaching Michael Cole afterwards, Daniel failed at being a boyfriend and fiance to Gail Kim and A.J. Lee, respectively. Although the wee fellow was despised by the remainder of the roster, sympathetic Kane took him on as a tag partner, Bryan being such an all-around nuisance, the soft-spoken seven-footer was driven to seek therapy and trade in his crowd-pleasing mask for a business suit!

The Wyatt Family, fairly new to the WWE and thus unaware of Daniel’s irritating ways and offensive hippie stench, allowed the squirt to join their clan. But after just one month of his blasting Phish CDs and lecturing on the nutritional value of soy beans during each road trip, Bray gave the boob the boot.

Okay, DB had one lucky day, and it happened to fall on the date of Wrestlemania 30. That is, if you call getting away with cheating being “lucky.”

You nimrods at home couldn’t tell, but from my front-row seat–comped, of course–there was no mistaking the odor of chloroform emanating from his facial hair. That’s right, I am publicly stating Daniel Bryan used a loaded beard to defeat Triple-H at Wrestlemania 30!!!

Because that tainted “victory” gained him illegal entry into the main event, the results of said match are null and void, and should be stricken from the record. But what the hey, fragile as a butterfly with arthritis, and afraid to actually defend it, ol’ Danny Boy cheerfully surrendered the title strap to Stunning Stephanie the minute she voiced suspicion about his shameful disappearing act.

What about his I-C title reign? What about it?

Abetted by biased officiating and the moronic R-Goof, Bryan sneaked up a ladder and removed a belt from a harness. Unlike the original Inter-Continental champ Pat Patterson, who pinned a variety of men to win the title in Rio De Janeiro (and continued attempting to pin men even after he lost the gold), Bryan did not hold anyone down for a three-count or force a submission. Some “win.”

And how many times did the American Drag put the title on the line thereafter, prior to intentionally injuring himself yet again so he’d have an excuse to abandon the belt on May 11th? I only recall one match, and that was against Doofus Ziggler, who loses more often than Mark Henry stops at Dairy Queen in August.

The fact is, he only entered the Mania 31 I-C contest because he was in mortal fear of Brock Lesnar, as indisputably evidenced by the little big mouth never uttering a syllable about challenging the Beast Incarnate for a respected championship, one he allegedly cherished the year before.

When you add up all of the above, only one conclusion can be drawn: Daniel Bryan was a cheating cowardly quitter who took unsportsmanlike advantage of his height differentiation (since the big guys never fought against midgets before) and made no impact whatsoever on the glorious sport of professional wrestling, but conned a bunch of nincompoops into thinking he was some sort of hero they could count on for years of service.

Ironically, Goat Boy’s next assignment–if he doesn’t quit that, too–is to serve as a judge on Tough Enough…the very phrase defining exactly what Daniel Bryan isn’t.

BECAUSE MY OWN mom has passed away, I celebrated Mother’s Day with your mom–who it turns out is as enthusiastic about wrestling as you are.

We didn’t actually go to any cards; I was referring to wrestling her in the back seat of the Manormobile. Okay, technically speaking, she wrestled me, jumping on my bones like she hadn’t eaten since Easter and I was a triple-Whopper. What a slut!

I suppose I can’t entirely blame her. Stuck in a nowhere burg like that cesspool you call a hometown, no doubt she hasn’t seen a REAL man in decades, settling for pouncing on the mailman and Domino’s guy for unsatisfying “special deliveries” from time to time. Oh, you didn’t know? Why do you think she is always stocked to the rafters with breadsticks, lamebrain?

And let’s face facts here. Even if she traveled to a city where studly he-men like myself congregate, you must admit your mother is a real hag. How many other broads have their birth certificate on file at the SPCA?

Being your mom is trailer trash, I thought she was into cheap plastic jewelry. Then I got a closer look; and it turns out her “necklace” is a Hartz Flea Collar.

You’ve heard of a mercy killing? What I gave yo’ mama was a mercy drilling. Felt sorry for the cow, what with her living a life of endless shame, having you as one of her calves.

Well, at least I won’t have to worry about the tramp being knocked up–not with where she begged me to “empty my seed catalogue.”

Must say, the pleading for more got on my nerves. Finally had to choke her out just to get her to shut the hell up. And when I went through her purse to help myself to a tip, all she had was $7.32! Guess she blew the rest of the welfare check on booze and pills. Certainly didn’t spend it at a beauty parlor, that’s for damn sure.

SS23–Latest Orders From Stately Central


Going forward…damn, do I hate that phrase. “In the future” worked perfectly well for centuries; but some business buffoons had to start saying “going forward,” and the sheep trying to look smarter than they truly are followed suit–yet again.

Speaking of simpletons who blindly repeat what other schmucks are spouting, the online wrestling “experts” have all weighed in on Wrestlemania 31. And as per usual, their observations run from unintentionally comedic to about as intelligent as a drug-addled brontosaurus with a migraine headache.

Typing with one hand while, um, “paying homage” to a photo of Paige with the other, pathetic souls flooded Twitter and Facebook like overheated 14-year-old fangirls just back from a One Erection concert wondering why there was moisture in their panties.

[I will pause here for a moment while the bulk of you, who have NO idea what that last phrase meant, go ask your mommies. And if your mother has difficulty remembering, due to your useless old man, show her a photo of me, and the memories will come “flooding” back.]

Of course all the internet chatter is superfluous dribble, as the only thoughts that really count on any subject are MINE.

With that in mind, and equating Wrestlemania with the equivalent of Wrestling New Years Day, here are my commands for what should occur over the next twelve months.

*Unbridled support for the New Day. Its been scientifically proven that 87.5 percent of all wrestling fans are racists, these statistics documented in the 2014 Harvard Study Of Ignorant Honkies.

Oh, that doesn’t mean YOU? Where is the outrage over no Asians being on the WWE main roster and only two in development? How many threatened (and, true to form, chickened out) to Cancel The WWE Network over Mexicool not taking their rightful place in the Hall Of Fame? That’s what I thought.

So here were three young brothers being held back by The Man yet still doing their best to entertain you crackers, and all you did was sit there downloading Iggy Azalea MP3s and thinking that showed you are down. Caucasian, please!

The first thing I want ND to do is invite R-Goof into the ring. At that point, Big-E should say “You all like this man, right? After all, he’s come out for years, rapping and dancing or talking funny as guest commentator. Why, he even went around stealing the Inter-Continental title for a while there!

“Yeah, you ofays get a real laugh out of all that. And who cares if he just reinforces negative stereotypes?” At which point the trio WAILS THE LIVING SNOT OUT OF R-TRUTH.

Cherry on top comes when Xavier stands tall over the half-conscious chump and says, “And that’s Whats Up,” before dropping the mic on the fool.

*Ditto the Beat Down Clan. MVP has retweeted SWM, conclusively proving the man is a certified genius and fine communicator deserving the respect of all. And by being associated with him, the same applies to Kenny King and the rest of the Clan.

The thing is, one would never know it by the rude reception they get despite a history of doing nothing but valiant public services such as kicking Bobby Lashley to the curb and Hopalong Melendez in the dome.

Nope, you’ll get behind milk-pie Drool Galloway and his posse as they continually interfere in fair matches and incite ringsiders to “Stand Up” when in actuality they should be told to shut up.

Don’t insult my superior intelligence by playing innocent. I know EXACTLY why you choose the Galloway goons over the courageous gents in the BDC.

In fact, it’s specifically spelled out on page 47 of the Harvard Study. I’d quote it here, but its not like any of you would comprehend the polysyllabics. (That means “big words,” dummy.)

*I fully support the Give Divas A Chance campaign–as long as the slogan is extended to include “To Strip.”

Let’s be real here. With the exception of Alicia Fox, none of these chickadees qualify to be called “wrestlers.” Even the WWE admits it, refusing to ever refer to the broads by the W-word. Eva Marie? Rosa? Cameron? The Bellends? Are you kidding me? These gals wouldn’t know a suplex from a soup spoon, a bearhug from a bearskin rug or a sunset flip from a potato chip!

Renowned for doing extensive research, I have concluded that part of the problem is the restrictive nature of ring gear…and the only solution is for the Divas–and TNA Knockouts–to slowly remove their attire as appropriate music blares, in the ring before each match.

They’ll still blow, but who cares?!?

*All wrestling fans–especially those in the “IWC” (Internet Wanking Community)–are hereby required to memorize and ABSORB the following.

1) CM Punk is done wrestling. Get over it.

2) Japanese wrestling did not start last year, you’re just too ignorant to have been aware.

3) It is entirely possible to support the WWE and TNA, unless you are a complete halfwit.

4) Most wrestlers think you’re a sucker and only act nice to you so you’ll buy their crap.

5) Rey Misterio was never close to being “the greatest luchadore ever” and you couldn’t name five who have never appeared on Lucha Underground.

6) Tough luck on him croaking and all that, but the Ultimate Wart was not “one of the all-time greats” and doesn’t belong on a Top 500 list, let alone a Top Ten.

7) That deep white thing near the toilet is called a bathtub.

*Reinstate Bashful Bill DeMott then replace NXT on the WWE Network with educational programming.

Mr. DeMott, an Eagle Scout spending most of his spare time snuggling puppies at the animal shelter, is a misunderstood humanitarian who tried his darndest to get a bunch of spoiled sissies prepared for the harsh reality of life on the road. Is it his fault the NXT performers–NOT “superstars”–are whiny softies who somehow objected to diving off 30-foot ladders, just because they had a couple of measly concussions, or thought there was something “wrong” with enjoying the outdoors on a 24-mile sprint while Bill patiently explained the inferiority of their heritage?

Luxury! Why, when I was in reform wrestling school, we used to dream of only having to do a thousand sit-ups before breakfast. And we did them underwater…in a polluted lake…full of rabid eels!!!

No, these NXT crybabies don’t deserve to be on the air; and, besides, Lawd knows wrestling fans can use some educational material in their lives. At Wrestlemania, Triple-H weighed 258–which was also the average SAT score of those in attendance.

*Raw after Mania tickets to be dumped directly into an incinerator. What’s worse than a roomful of the ironically named “smart fans”? A whole arena full of them!

Each year, Mr. McMahon, a long-time fan of mine, BEGS me to attend the broadcast following Wrestlemania; but, though I dread disappointing my old friend, I must respectfully decline. Imagine someone like me spending three hours with someone like, well, YOU. I mean, I have had all my shots; however, there’s no vaccination countering my allergy to nincumpoops! (Who often smell like doggie poops.)

Decked out in what can only be described as 2005 Dumpster Dive, these quasi-literates spend 18 hours a day complaining about something called “booking”–though they’ve never voluntarily been in a library their entire lives–and heaping absurd praise on obscure matches from twelve years ago (which they griped about at the time.)

They know everything about “this business,” including up to a half-dozen insider terms they spout to demonstrate their thorough understanding of the sport. And how did they gain such invaluable insight? Was it from spending grueling hours in a wrestling academy? Working on cards as a grappler, manager, commentator, ref or timekeeper? Covering the scene for decades as a paid professional international columnist?

Nope. Their unmatched wisdom comes from reading (and usually misinterpreting) a weekly newsletter and visiting internet sites, the bulk of which are authored by fellow clueless amateurs with no real industry connections!!!

Seriously, non-wrestling fans, I am not making this up: people who have never been in a locker room let alone participated in a single match or privately spoken to a wrestler beyond asking for an autograph ACTUALLY BELIEVE THEY KNOW MORE ABOUT THE BUSINESS THAN THOSE MAKING A LIVING AT IT.

“Let’s see, I subscribe to Prevention magazine and hang out at, so, yeah, I can perform a kidney transplant.”

SS20–RockStar Dud/Kiss My Christmas Balls


I’ll never forget it. Flipped on the TV to catch the latest Impact one evening, and went “Cool, TNA has started a female midget division!” That, ladies and genitals, was my introduction to RockStar Spud, Britain’s most embarrassing export since Gary Glitter (which is really saying something when you consider Russell Brand and Bob Geldof are from over yonder.)

I’d seen a lot of British wrestlers before–Billy Robinson, Lord Steven Regal and his twin brother William, Squire Robert Eaton–but never one who so perfectly embodied the combination of Liberace and Davey Boy Smith. Unfortunately for her–and even more so for us–Spud possesses Lib’s wrestling ability and Davey’s fashion sense.

Kind of sad, really. When Spud was a little–oops, better make that “young”–girl, a gypsy fortune-teller looked into her crystal ball and said, “Someday, you are going to be as big as your idol Elton John!” Poor kid never understood she meant it literally.

Sadder still, RSS’ crush on EC3 has given the blonde the silly notion that she too can be a grappler, about as likely as Justin Bieber winning an arm-wrestling contest against Superman while President Flavor Flav recites the soliloquy from Hamlet in Portuguese.

Don’t worry, I’m With Spud contingency. Once your heroine gets over these delusions about becoming a wrestler, there are still several other opportunities on the horizon.

*Get breast implants, go topless and launch a UK television series called British Boob Camp

*Spray-paint herself gold and tell nearsighted kids she’s C3PO, to con them out of their lunch money

*Opt for silver paint instead, bill herself as The World’s Only Mobile Fire Hydrant

*Urge Johnny Depp to begin production on Willy Wonka’s European Vacation, land a plum role as “Assembly line Oompa Loompa #3”

*Enter the Guinness Book Of World Records as the first cowgirl to complete a round-up riding a Shetland pony

*Have a love child with the TNA color commentator, the combination of the two of course being RockStar Spazz

*Become the first actress to perform as Doctor Who’s companion K-9 from inside the tin-dog get-up

*Stunt double at Disneyland Paris for one of Snow White’s seven sidekicks

*Buy a pointed hat, rent herself out as a movable garden gnome for rich people’s lawn parties

For the record, none of the above should be perceived as sour grapes. Some of you no doubt read on that highly reliable news source, the internet, about a certain incident; so let’s get that cleared up right now.

Here’s what really happened. I was pretty wasted in the bar at the TNA hotel after a PPV. And Spud, admittedly, has pretty eyes. I figured, what the hell, were both adults and going separate ways tomorrow; so I whispered a sweet nothing in RSS’ ear about a certain carnal service I’d be delighted to receive, and the bitch slapped me right in the mug!!!

As a professional journalist with the very highest of standards, I assure you that unfortunate behavior by the teasing prude has nothing to do with the above assessment of her future. And I really wish someone would explain to me why people snicker every time I tell that story.

AH, CHRISTMASTIME. If I had to sum up my heartfelt feelings about the festive season in one word–and excuse me for getting sentimental here–it would have to be “Ptooey!” Same goes for Harmonica, Quantico and the rest of the sordid occasions comprising the so-called “holidays.”

Let’s all get in a big circle and hug–so we can eye up the back we’re going to stab the very next day.

And, children, gather round and read this part very carefully: I put a bear trap in my chimney, so if that fat slob Santa tries to deliver another stocking full of coal to my house, he’s never going to make it to your house. That’s right, I am going to KILL SANTA CLAUS, and there’s nothing your worthless eggnog-drunk “uncle” (who’s really your father, by the way) can do to stop it!!! Mweh-heh-heh-heh-heh!

As for those toys you brats were expecting? I’m running them over with a monster truck and tossing the broken pieces into the ocean, so all the little kiddies can cry themselves to sleep the rest of the year. How do you like them apples, runny-nosed urchins?

At any rate, if I were the type who actually practiced the insane notion one should buy gifts for other people, when you could use the same money to do something constructive–such as getting a nice massage from one of the friendly young ladies at truck stops all over I-95 or picking up some paintballs to shoot at crossing guards–here’s what I’d be doling out this year.

Velvet Sky–another boob, to even things out. “Even things out?” you ask? Well, yeah, she currently has three boobs. There’s the pair under her blouse, plus her boyfriend Bully Ray, the guy who showed his gratitude for an undeserved induction into the TNA Hall Of Fame by quitting the promotion, thereby relieving viewers of having to suffer through future Team-VD matches.

CM Bunk–a deluxe super-sized heavy-duty crying towel. After the WWE was gracious enough to let him out of his unfulfilled contract despite the fact he spent half of the last three years on vacation, Certified Moron went on one of those oddcast things and whimpered for four hours about poor wittle him.

“Boohoohoo, they wouldn’t let me headline Wrestlemania, just stuck me in a match with some guy named Undertaker. Waaaah, there should be a union, which I’ve done absolutely zilch to start myself. Sniffle sniffle, Mommy always liked my brother better than me.”

J&J Security–a pair of matching briefcases to hold the tag team straps surely in their future. This tandem has it all: youth, size, fan adoration, stylish ring gear. The only reason they didn’t get a shot at the tag gold in 2014 is because HHH would never play favorites. But when J&J finally get their chance, they will demonstrate to everyone why I deemed them “The Road Warriors Of The 21st Century–only better.”

Jim Ross–a mirror. Say, JR, growing a goatee (especially one that doesn’t match the hair dye) is sooooooo hipster–if only it were 1978. What next, Cutting Edge Cowboy, one of those crazy new Mohawk haircuts? I know: how about telling the entire world you’re a carefree cool cat by rocking a pierced ear? That’ll show your Tulsa High alumni how you turned out to be the true rebel of the bunch.

The IWC aka Internet Wrestling Community–a new pair of panties…to replace the ones you soiled over the involvement of Sting in the WWE.

All five minutes of it.

This is the same Sting the same imbeciles could have regularly supported on TNA Impact for four years–and ratings verify they didn’t.

“OMG, Sting is going to like be the new GM and and and he’s going to challenge Undertaker to fight him at Wrestlemania and he’s gonna cure juvenile diabetes!!!” the twits tweeted and Facebooked, as they moistened their drawers.

“I’m out of here,” said Paint Puss, the minute he pocketed his Survivor Series check.


Incidentally, my gift will be the closest any of you will ever get to panties besides the worn ones you bought on eBay.

Dean Ambrose–Hang on, I’m still trying to figure out how to gift-wrap a punch in the mouth.

Those still wearing an NWO shirt or chanting “ECW“–a life. Make that a life and a clue.

There’s this chart full of numbered boxes. Perhaps you’ve heard of it: it’s called a calendar. I suggest you numbnuts find one and discover what year it currently is. And while you’re getting a reality check on that, here are a few more facts to digest.

One, while the New World Order was cool at first, it eventually sucked ostrich eggs and killed WCW. They even let Brutus “The BoreBore” Beefcake join, for Christs sake! Two, it’s been scientifically proven that 97.6 percent of dumbasses who’ve belted out the ECW chant never spent a penny on the retardcore promotion when it actually existed. Three, it’s also been determined that 72 percent of wrestling fans like Tommy Dreamer because 72 percent of wrestling fans look like Tommy Dreamer, a herd of unathletic clods in smelly black T-shirts.

To put it all into a mathematical equation sure to go over the heads of yet another 72 percent, 2014 x (N.W.O. + E.C.W.) = L.O.S.E.R.S.

Big Show–Even though he signed an ironclad contract and thus could not be fired–forget about the time he kind of was–no matter what, Show chose to display loyalty to the kind folks who put butter on his table and bread in his bank account since 1999.

He could have stayed out of the conflict and lived very comfortably on the millions he reaped in royalties via the international success of the Oscar-nominated Knucklehead. Instead, Big displayed proper respect for a warmhearted couple who deserve nothing but love; yet, with their exceedingly limited cranial capacity (that means tiny brains, stupid) the typical wrestling fan perceived this as “wrong.”

I suppose, the next thing you know, these filthy philistines are going to say it is “wrong” that, whenever a middle-school student breaks the 30-detention mark, I reward him or her with a nice fresh pack of Marlboros!

Mr. Show, your holiday gift is a sincere apology. At least until April, when you’ve flipped back to being a “good guy” for the 27th time.

Wrestlemania 31 finishes leaked!–Part Two: Lesnar vs Reigns

While I cannot reveal the source of this information, due to the dire repercussions that will surely have on certain careers, here is what is planned for the Wrestlemania 31 main event, Sunday night in Santa Clara, CA.  PLEASE do not make up signs that will spoil it for those who are not aware of what will transpire.

Pre-match, Reigns requests a mic and cuts a promo, changing his ethnic accent three times. Bell rings and Roman immediately schoolboys Lesnar for the victory.  Paul Heyman does his usual array of great reaction faces, the new champ helps the former up–GROUP HUG!

Reigns walks over to a corner, looks directly into the camera, saying “Am I ‘ready’ now, losers?”  But, wait, could it all be a trick?  His back to Lesnar and Heyman, Reigns removes his flak jacket to reveal a CM PUNK T-SHIRT, gestures for fans to do the Punk chant.  Roman then crouches in his usual pre-spear position, bangs his fist on the mat…then casually walks over to Paul and Brock and shakes hands.

Heyman points to the Punk shirt and laughs before RR removes it, and blows his nose then wipes his butt with it before flicking it over his shoulder like it’s worthless trash.