SS49–In AWE of AEW


Because every online wrestling “expert” has assured us All Elite Wrestling is going to “change the world,” drive the WWE right out of business and reverse climate change–even though the man in charge and his growing list of Executive Producers have never previously spent a single day in their positions and the promotion has yet to have one match—I am completely convinced said mat world wizards are indeed correct.

I mean they must be correct; because, if you check their entire history of postings, you won’t find a single apology regarding ever being incorrect!  Like, for example, no one in 2018 claimed the WWE had irreversibly “buried” Daniel Bryan and Becky. Or, in 2019, declared Kenny Omega was going to be the surprise entrant in the Royal Rumble.

Now that it has been firmly established beyond question that AEW will dominate the bonebending business for centuries to come, I have kindly put my mammoth brain to work, drawing up a few policies that, once implemented, will make this powerhouse promotion even more, um, powerhousey.

*Men in hazmat suits at shows’ doors to check for lice, and use a special Odorama device to detect if the potential entrant has showered in the past 72 hours.  No neckbeards will be permitted.  Ditto ridiculous sideburns or bandanas to hide receding hairlines—meaning the Jacksons will have to “executive produce” from the parking lot.

*Fans will not be referred to as a “universe,” but rather as “Elitists”…which they are anyway, with their highly unwarranted superiority complexes and smug attitude regarding “casuals.”

*The few broads in the promotion will not be subjected to wearing tiny outfits in order to allow lecherous slobs to get cheap thrills, a la Alexa Bliss.  That would be inexcusable.  Instead, the AEW women will be totally nude except for a thin coating of baby oil.

*Every time Omega is “selling” a now-ruined former finisher for two seconds, color commentator Stately Wayne Manor (oh, you didn’t know?) will shout “Oh, my God, they killed Kenny!!!”

*All pins will be for a six-count (since 98 percent of three-count pins will be kicked out of anyway.)

*Because AEW represents a serious sport for the mat connoisseur, only trained professional wrestlers will serve as Joey Ryan’s penis druids.

*All crowd chants must include the wrestler’s full name as it appears on his birth certificate.  This demonstrates the chanter is a true insider, unlike those peons who foolishly chant a grappler’s ring name or his former indie circuit moniker.

*Like in gymnastics and figure skating, every member of the audience shall hold up a card after each match, denoting the star rating it deserves.  Because AEW can do no wrong, the card set begins with four stars and goes up to ten.

*During the first intermission, there will be a WWE hating contest (even though it was the WWE who made most fans aware of the two biggest names on the card.)

*Security will bodily eject anyone caught cheering for babyfaces and booing the heels.

*Admission to pre-show meet-and-greet sessions will be absolutely FREE.  There will, however, be a $40 charge to exit.

*To satisfy the desires of the intellectuals in the Internet Wrestling Community, EVERY SINGE AEW employee will be pushed and hold a title, including the ring announcers, timekeeper and Martin R. Lipscomb of Dayton, Ohio, who prints up the programs.

*Streamers should be tossed into the ring not only before and after each match, but also with each near-fall.

*Small-talk between matches should be confined to what certain wrestlers “deserve,” which wrestlers already under contract elsewhere should “join” AEW, and namedropping NJPW talent from the past five years. Extra credit for adding “-san” to each Japanese name, e.g. Naito-san.

*Each arena entrant will receive a set of “opinion cards” in order to ensure everyone continues to Tweet the exact same thing throughout the following weeks.  Example:  Card #7 “Vince McMahon is a billionaire who disgustingly used his wealth to sign up the best indie talent…but Tony Khan didn’t do the exact same thing.”

*Providing intelligence tests for venue admission will allow AEW to make history by being the only promotion ever with an entire card consisting of empty arena matches.

*Because AEW is all about gender equality, brotherhood, being “inclusive,” and similar idealistic crap, the least-renowned former Bullet Club member will henceforth be known as Hangperson Page.

*Because Creative Control is very important to chatty social media masterminds, who have never been nor will ever be in matches and know nothing about the history of WCW, AEW will extend its roster Total Creative Control.  Anyone will have the right to refuse anything.  What could possibly go wrong?


The way I see it—and bear in mind I’m never wrong about anything, so this is incredibly important—All Elite Wrestling needs to be built around the one true star among their roster.  A charismatic young man with a real gift for addressing the masses and treating them exactly as they deserve to be treated.

Though only a complete numskull would project AEW to compete directly with the empire built by my good friend Vinny K. McMahon, I can see All Elite running a strong second—but only if Tony “Wrath Of” Khan centers the promotion on its most gifted individual.

That of course eliminates Kenny Overrated, either of the Young Dwarves and the son of the guy I called The American Drum because he got beat on so much.  And since I employed the adjective “young,” that means the chubby ghost of Axl Rose, Chris Jericho, ironically enough, doesn’t make the list.  Everyone knows Fozzy performed “The Star-Spangled Banner”…the day it was written.

No, I am referring to the one true standout amongst the signees.  An ideal personality for the yoots of America and beyond to emulate.  Unflinching in his beliefs while possessing the great bravery it takes to challenge the norm—and quite the snazzy dresser.

If you’re too dense to have figured it out by now, I’ll spell it out for you in three letters:  M-J-F.

I will have to check my road log to see if I was in his hometown nine months before his birth; but I suspect Maxwell Jacob Friedman may very well be my son.

Let’s examine the similarities.

*A dozen years ago, long before that Miz clone cat, I was walking around with “>U” stickers on my clothing. MJF’s slogan is “Better than you.”

*Immeasurably attractive—BOTH of us

*Keenly aware of superiority and not afraid to remind you—BOTH

*Recognizes the typical wrestling fan as a repugnant attention-seeker—BOTH

*Would rather belly-flop into a pool of porcupines than converse with you—BOTH

*Idol of millions yet couldn’t care less what anyone thinks—BOTH

*Immense talent being routinely suppressed by the jealous—BOTH

The only major difference between us is that M, as I call him, is very wealthy, whereas every tightwad publisher I ever worked for will verify I am a poor writer.  In fact, I defy anyone to prove I’m not!

At any rate, although my lawyers advise against it—due to terminology someone like you could never remotely understand—at this time, I would like to publicly and proudly bestow Maxwell with legal permission to refer to himself as SWMJF or Stately, Junior.

What higher endorsement could there possibly be?

SS47–Q&A: The Column King answers YOUR questions!


As Wrestling’s Most Popular Journalist, I am constantly deluged with questions via e-mail, Tweets, DMs, snail mail, phone calls, telegrams, smoke signals and people on the street.  But rather than ramble on with an extended intro, let’s jump right into my replies, shall we?


Q:  My mom and I both love Corey Graves.  Why do you think that is?

A:  Stupidity is hereditary.


Q:  How weird is R-Truth in real life?

A:  He once spent a whole day spell-checking alphabet soup.


Q:  I know there are terms such as “Strong Style.”  But what’s the one for working really clumsily and dangerous to your opponents?

A:  Brie Mode


Q:  What’s your opinion of the expression “smart fans”?

A:  Biggest contradiction in terms since “tight slacks.”


Q:  I want to be a professional wrestling journalist.  Did you enjoy the printout of the article I sent you?

A:  My parakeet sure did.  In fact, he “edited” it a few times—since I used it to line his cage.


Q:  Do you agree with my contention NXT should be on an hour of RAW instead of WWE wrestlers?

A:  You mean the network that gave up on Smackdown with established international stars should present the promotion filled with names virtually unknown to the majority of the global audience and who only are on live TV seasonally, on extremely rehearsed Takeover specials, as opposed to their regular taped weekly shows with botches and promo bloopers edited out?

The group that, on numerous weeks, isn’t even the most-watched show on the WWE’s own Network?

Then again, you may be right.  It’s not like the USA Network exists to turn a profit by generating ad revenue based on billing sponsors attracted to the number of viewers who will see their ads.  TV networks exist SOLELY TO MAKE YOU HAPPY!

Also, Santa is going to bring you a magical unicorn on your birthday, one that poops gold nuggets and can fly you by an enchanted forest where they are filming the next Star Warsstarring you!!!


Q:  Which version of The Undertaker do you prefer?

A:  The one that’s off TV screens for months at a time.


Q:  Is it true Lady Scarlett is a total slut?  She looks like the kind of girl who gives blowjobs for five bucks?

A:  Isn’t that how your parents met?


Q:  As popular as you are, how come I never see you at wrestling fan gatherings?

A:  Because they are attended by wrestling fans!

Woowee, what a stench.  You’d think having no life would give wearers of Austin 3:16, NWO and Bullet Club shirts plenty of time to hit a laundromat once in a while.  Evidently, this has never crossed their minds, the same way deodorant has never crossed their armpits.

Besides polishing the porpoises while drooling over a Lana poster, it’s difficult to imagine how fans’ clothing gets so sweaty.  It most certainly isn’t from hitting the gym, as the most exercise these slobs ever get is standing in line at Dairy Queen.

And that breath!  What do you people do, gargle with salmon?


Q:  How do you think Seth Rollins measures up with the other members of the WWE roster?

A:  Have you not seen his leaked selfies?


Q:  How comes the WWE ruins everyone who gets moved to the main roster?

A:  I was thinking the very same thing while watching NXT alumni The Shield in that Labor Day huge brawl with NXT alumnus Braun Strowman and NXT alumnus Drew McIntyre, jumped into by NXT alumnus Kevin Owens, immediately after Braun faced NXT alumnus Finn Balor in the main event.

In fact, it still bugged me the next night while watching SDLive—where NXT alumnus Shinsuke Nakamura is world champ—and distracted me from the feud between NXT alumnus Becky Lynch and NXT alumnus Charlotte Flair, vying for the women’s title previously held by NXT alumnus Carmella.

It was also heartbreaking to reflect on how much NXT alumnus Daniel Bryan has been misused since his 2010 call-up, as he was ridiculed by developmental league alumnus The Miz, his fellow Grand Slam Championship winner.  (IC, US, tag and world championship.)

So, yeah, it realllly sucks getting stuck on the main roster.


Q  Me and my friends have a really lit backyard wrestling federation.  What should we do to improve it?

A:  Be sure your props and fake ring are also “really lit”…on fire.


Q:  What do you think of Tommaso Ciampa?

A:  The only way Blackheart could repulse NXT fans any more than he already has would be to show them what a vagina looks like.


Q:  Do you hold something against Alexis Bliss?

A:  No, but I’d like to.

I’m certain, if Alexa leaned on me for support, she would immediately notice how I’ve risen to the occasion.  Sure, she’d find it very hard; but Alexa would eventually come around and no doubt occasionally ask me to take her back.


Q:  I say Japanese wrestling is the best ever.  Don’t you agree?

A:  Please enchant me with your vast knowledge of the history of Japanese wrestling, geek who never heard of Rikidozen, Sayama, Misawa, Fujiwara, Fujinami, Choshu or any other Rising Sun legend not seen on the streaming service during the past three years.  I anxiously await your “hot takes” on Black Tiger, Hase, Dan Kroffat and Sasaki, as well as your expert analysis of the 1987 Bigelow/Inoki feud.

And since “best ever” includes promotions worldwide, I am tingling in anticipation over you explaining who was better, Lizmark or Atlantis.


Q:  Your early 2018 GIFs demonstrated you are the true master of the craft.  Do you have one for the Chris Jericho Cruise?

Life of Brian any women here GIF


Q:   How do you rate Renee Young on her new job?

A:  Here’s a list of what Renee contributes to the RAW announce team:



Q:  Why did AJ Styles seem so nervous in late September?

A:  He knew he had to fly to Australia for the Super-Show, and was afraid of coming that close to the edge of the world.


Q:  I’m 5’9 and 175 pounds. Do you think I can go to the WWE?

A:  Sure…tickets are available to everyone.


Q:  These jobbers are such fools.  Who in their right mind makes a living lying on their back staring at the ceiling every night?

A:  Your sister.


Q:  I think Allie from Impact is beautiful and want to meet her. Who do I need to see?

A:  An optometrist!!!


Q:  Stephanie McMahon fills many roles.  What position do you most like her in?

A:  Cowgirl


Q; Who is the dumbest person in wrestling?

A:  Hmmm, tough one.  You choose.

*Zack Sabre Junior thought he’d get a Pepsi if he heated baking soda in an oven.

*Jimmy Uso brought his baseball glove to the Superbowl.

*Johnny Gargano didn’t like Black Panther, so he watched it four more times, hoping it would end differently.

*Tom Phillips went up to the cashier at the Beer Mart and asked “How many cans are in a six-pack?”

*Dalton Castle keeps quiet around sleeping pills because he doesn’t want to wake them.

*Eddie Edwards tucks his umbrella beneath his jacket during storms “so it doesn’t get all soaked.”

*Dana Brooke thinks custard was named after the general killed at Little Big Horn.


Q:  Sabu is mean on Twitter.  He wouldn’t answer my one question.  What do you make of that?


SS46–Broad Jumping; Atrophy In The UK; Why Roman Reigns


Ever chant or write that “Roman Reigns “can’t wrestle”?  Well, then you are an imbecile.  I may have spent over 30 years hilariously ridiculing deserving bonebenders, but that doesn’t mean I won’t recognize the fact that nobody in a national-television promotion “can’t wrestle.”

Except for most of the broads, of course.  But it’s adorable how they try to have matches just like the men, a few of them having worked their way all the way up to average!

Still, as long as they wear those butt-hugging bottoms made up of 14 square inches of fabric–”women’s revolution” wink-wink—and admit their inferiority to men, I say we let them roll around on the canvas and pretend they’re real wrestlers.

But only the hot ones, natch.

We certainly don’t need to watch the oaf Sasha Banks tripping over her feet every week.  Or the Asslicker, Becky Lynch, Ireland’s most embarrassing export—which is REALLY saying something, considering the primary thing that putrid country is known for is rampant alcoholism.

It’s little wonder the English hate them.  Not that they have room to talk.

For the unfamiliar, England is an international has-been country where they can’t sit still for five minutes without breaking into some sort of chant, a carryover from watching the terminally boring soccer games, wherein men is sissy shorts run around kicking each other in the shins for four hours until one klutz eventually scores a point.

(Except in the World Cup, a tournament in which an Englishman hasn’t seen a finals victory since their Queen Lizzy visited Paris to witness the grand opening of the Eiffel Tower.)

England is also where, due to a combination of disgraceful nationalism, snobbery and an inferiority complex, fans claim every single wrestler born there is fantastic—even the boy ballerina William The Osprey—while constantly bragging about their “wrestling boom.”  Then you see photos of the events, and they are taking place in a joint that seat about 47, including the timekeeper, the ring announcer and the beer vendor’s tired wife.

Between the sheeplike chanting and the general ugliness of English males, it’s easy to understand why Brit broads are so eager to get some US beef in their diets.  Known worldwide for centuries as pushovers, Anglo ladies are hardly the prettiest posies in the garden; but they tend to make up for it, if you know what I mean.

(And if you own an NWO T-shirt, you likely don’t.)

I nobly went on record admitting a decent percent of English babes possess the most important characteristic a dame can ever have—a fine bod.  An admirable attribute considering, just like their mothers and grandmothers before them, these honeys will drop their knickers for an American before one of us can finish the first syllable of “hello.”

chavs HOT

Britain’s classiest broads are a bit of all right, eh?  Say no more, say no MORE!

The classiest, most attractive English chickadees are called “chavs” by their countrymen.  But visiting American wrestlers generally use my term for typical British women, “skanks for Yanks.”

You’ll have to take my word for it, seeing how you don’t actually know any grapplers.  Hey, “huge wrestling fan,” how’s that List Of Lame Excuses For Not Getting Involved In The Sport coming along?

Tell you what.  I’ll simplify it for you.

Just select from…

  1. As with everything else in life, I’m all talk.
  2. I am a cringing coward afraid of getting hurt.
  3. I don’t have an athletic bone in my whole body, but that doesn’t stop me from criticizing the athleticism of others.
  4. Mommy won’t let me.

Ha, just kidding.  We all know the answer is E. All of the above.


ANYWAY…now that we’ve sorted the Manormaniacs from the mini-minds—the latter bunch having run off, sulking and not reading the following—let’s get back to Roman Reigns.

Specifically, the crybabies’ complaint about how the handsome Vincent K. McMahon has correctly decided Double-R should be the “face of the WWE.”

The most laughable part of this equation is the fact dimwits are using the expression with no idea what being “the face of the WWE” entails.  If you think it’s all about holding the Universal championship and getting the most exposure on Raw and video game packaging, the Nuclear Regulatory Commission will soon be classifying your brain as a sub-atomic particle.

The Face is the one wrestler who represents the entire company when meeting potential sponsors and business and political VIPs, and appears at endless charity functions as well as on public service material and announcements. He must: be well-spoken but not brash; have the appearance of what non-fans perceive a wrestler to look like; and, possess remarkable composure.

Remember when John Cena learned Mandarin in order to address a roomful of suits in China?  That’s what being The Face is all about.

Also, when an incumbent (in this case, Cena) is in the process of giving up the throne, the replacement should be of an age that ensures he is going to be active for many years to come.

When you armchair geniuses add up all the preferred traits, who on the WWE roster is better qualified than the just-turned-33 Roman Reigns?

Let’s go down the Fanboy Faves list.

*AJ Styles  Besides the fact AJ has passed 40—but only in age, not IQ—we all suffered through what a complete disaster it was when the hopping hillbilly spent years attempting to complete a sentence, prior to getting scripted promos upon signing with the WWE.  Now just imagine this nincompoop addressing a group of Oxford science majors, uttering “Ha, y’all.  Ah believe the world is flat.”

This is a man who thinks taxidermy is the study of cabs, marijuana comes from potholes and a collage is a fancy university.  The numskull who once brought a skateboard on a submarine ride and went up to a guide at Sea World and asked where they keep the tigers.  Who doesn’t use All laundry detergent if he’s only washing some of his clothes. AJ Styles is the only person alive who owns a Samsung dumb phone.

dunce_hat AJ

Rare photo of AJ Styles in his school yearbook

*Braun Strowman  A very viable candidate…as soon as someone finds a way to make it 1986 again.

Half-buffoon, half-cartoon, I’m surprised his tag partner at Wrestlemania wasn’t Wile E. Coyote.

And what the hell does “Get these hands” even mean?  Is he auctioning them off on eBay?

[Strowman sidebar.  Rarely ever loses; prominently featured on Raw’s biggest segments all year, frequently main-eventing the show; wins the Money In The Bank match—so, Reigns-bashers, doesn’t that mean “He’s being shoved down our throats?]


*Daniel Bryan  With that unkempt hair and beard, and standing 5’4”, the scruffy squirt may pass as Charles Manson’s son; but nobody in the business world is going to take Cryin’ Bryan seriously or even believe he was ever world champ.  The munchkin once got a black eye running into a fire hydrant, for Christ’s sake!

Besides, if the going gets rough, he’ll no doubt once again quit, just like he did in 2016 after a minor head injury, as outlined in this earlier Stately States


*The Hardlys.  And, yes, my pal Jerry Lawler borrowed that nickname from one of my columns.

#WOKEN and his brother #DRUNKEN are horrendous options to serve as The Face. Matt, pushing 50 years of age, took a quarter-century to come up with a memorable phrase—actually, one word—and needed his old lady and Germy Borash to assist with that.  What a trainwreck it would be to have the senile senior repping the Connecticut corporation.

Granted, Jeff has a good look (when he’s not smearing paint on his mug), but even in his rare moments of sobriety, he’s not suited to mingle with anyone—at least not until the WWE starts conducting business on his home planet in Alpha Centauri.

Weird, the man’s weird, I tell ya.  Did you know Jeff Hardy’s favorite pizza topping is eggshells?  That he recently spray-painted all his cars pitch black—including the windows?  He built a unicycle with a cactus in place of the seat?

Guardrail for StaSta

 Jeff Hardy’s toughest 2018 nemesis

*Other Shield members  Cross Selfie Seth off the list pronto, Tonto.  Had two or three passable matches in the Spring and consequently became the Fair-Weather Fan Favorite of the season.  By Halloween, the “devoted” will have bailed on Rollins the same way they do any NXT call-up who loses two matches after debuting on the main roster.  (Incidentally, how did ignoring my warnings and going berserk over Enzo & Big Cass work out for you guys?)

As for Dean Ambrose…you’re joking right?  No way the impeccably groomed Mister McMahon would choose to be represented by a man who washes his hair every ten days—and only because The Lunatic Skunk occasionally gets caught in the rain.

And that nasal drone of a voice!  If Ambrose ever gave a lengthy speech at any sort of conference, they’d have to call in the coroner to count how many audience members hanged themselves to escape the torture.

I’d rather hear a sedated Pee Wee Herman with a nasty head cold read the Lithuanian translation of the entire Lord Of The Rings trilogy than endure a half-hour of Dullard Dino.


Is Roman Reigns perfectly built to be The Face?  No, and, unfortunately, the ideal man for the job is under contract elsewhere.  So, until Grado becomes a free agent, Reigns is the best candidate for the position.

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!

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.

SS21–Wanna See My Twits?


Because Mr. McMahon begged me “So at least one Monday tweeter won’t be an imbecile,” I signed on with Twitter in October of 2014, and now, as completely expected, hold the world record for Most Followers, currently boasting a total of over 100,000,300. (Oh, sure, it may say something like “329” when you look at my Profile, @SWManor. But that’s because the counter resets when you hit a hundred-mil.)

Consequently, I am inundated daily with tweets and e-mails from around the globe. I, of course, generally blow off the ones that aren’t from my fellow celebrities or attractive broads–which in turns means I most certainly can’t be bothered with yours. However, feeling a bit sorry for your wretched lives of unending tedium and the absolute certainty you will NEVER associate with anyone of signficance beyond maybe cleaning their pool or delivering them a pizza, I have consented to share some of the messages that have beamed into the Stately Estate in recent days.

“Have you seem me since I stole Mike Tenay’s job on TNA Impact?”–@realjoshmathews

Yes, you’re half of the only announce team ever to have all its members barred from the cooler rides at Six Flags due to being under four-foot-six.

“Although he wonders how the kids have big blue eyes just like yours, my husband still doesn’t suspect a thing about us. Tee hee hee. Can’t wait until I get all of Daddy’s money, so I can divorce Triple-Homely and put YOU in charge of the company. It’s best for business!”–Stanford

Can’t wait to hear you tell him “You’re FIIIIIIIRED.” And, hey, that workout DVD you sent has done wonders for my forearms and wrists!!!

“You’re a man of the world. Where should I go on my vacation?”–@MATTHARDYBRAND

I recommend the year 2007, when people still cared about your sorry carcass.

“Did you see my last match?”–@HEELZiggler

I sure hope so!!!

“You have been such a tremendous inspiration to many people like me. The best way I could possibly thank you was to hook you up for free cable for life, including those ‘special’ channels from the hidden cameras I hooked up in locker areas.”–

Thanks, pal–and you were right, those cheerleaders from Central High really take some looooong hot showers! Accent on “hot,” heh heh heh.

“When we say ‘Ooo,’ you say____?”–@WWEUsos

Oh, sh*t, change the channel.

“I’m afraid I’ve got some bad nyooz.”–@WadeBarrett

Don’t tell me there’s another New Day video coming out!

“Daniel Bryan got robbed at the Royal Rumble!”–Johnny

Stay right where you are. Your nanny will be by shortly to change your diaper.

“I’m going to do another podcast soon, complaining about how the WWE made me the longest-reigning world champion in modern times and allowed only me to have entrance music from an outside source. So, there.”–

And you are? Don’t seem to recall the name. Wait, you’re the supposedly “alternative” guy who wears suits now, right?

“Tap of the marnin’ to ya, fella.”–@WWESheamus

Go suck on a Lucky Charm, creep.

“About calling myself a real American hero even though I never served in the military, brother–when I was 18, I wanted to join the Army, but the President said, ‘You’re too valuable to the country to put at risk, dude.'”–

Well well well, I guess George Washington could tell a lie, after all.

“I red that book The Seacret and it make me reel smart now Stanley.”–@Ryback22

I bet you were “reel” surprised to learn there are books that don’t come with crayons.

“Growing up in England and reading your brilliant Power Slam magazine columns, I’ve spent my entire life fantasizing about being just like you. XOX”–@RealPaigeWWE

Well, hon, you’ve succeeded…to a certain degree: from the neck down, your physique is practically identical to mine. There is, however, one area in which we greatly vary. Tell you what–next time you’re in Philly, stop by the Manor Mansion and we can air out our differences. I’m sure you’ll be coming here many times thereafter.

“Since I’m a good guy now, I’ve been thinking I ought to change my name. What do YOU think?”–@REALBobbyRoode

I agree. Pumpernickel Von Dumbass Roode has a much better ring to it.

“Drats, I wish I just once could meet up with a talented, bright hunk of manliness like Stately Wayne Manor.”–Elvira, Mistress Of The Dark @TheRealElvira

I was going to conjecture you aren’t going to the correct locales; but from what I can see, you hang out in all the right places.

“Have you ever seen me wrestle?”–@THETOMMYDREAMER

I’m not sure I’d call what you do”wrestling,” but I have in fact seen your fourth, fifteenth and twenty-seventh “retirement match.”

“I did my best promo EVER last night!!!”–@iLikeSamiZayn

Heard it. Must say it suggested you have a very bright future–in pantomime.

“You can’t see me.”–@JohnCena

If only that were true. Sigh.

“Nobody’s ever been better than you at this here color commentatoring. What is the one thing I could do that would most improve a Raw broadcast?”–@BookerT5x

Contract laryngitis.

SS18–A Gentleman’s Guide To Handling Hoze


When exactly did the WWE become Sucka City? And is Vince McMahon wearing a Panama hat and full-length chinchilla coat while carrying a walking stick with a huge gold handle in a hand with four gaudy rings, humming the old entrance song “Pimpin’ Ain’t Easy”?

First, the Bella Broads decided to restrict their koochie comforting to one man each–or so the chumps they hooked believe–and just happened to suddenly find the top two single money-earners incredibly attractive despite John Cena resembling Ben Stein’s son Franken, and Daniel Bryan looking like a cross between a Shetland pony (same height) and a yeti.

Then the, ahem, “non-blonde” Funkadactyl cheerleader wrangled a wedding out of one of the Useless Brothers–“when they say oo, I say pyoo”–and CM Bunk popped the question to AJ Lee, despite knowing he was getting Dolph Ziggler’s sloppy seconds (and social diseases.)

Fellas, fellas, fellas, have you never heard the expression “Why live with a cow when you can get the milk for free?” I realize a hand in the bush is worth two on the bird, but do you not see the smaller print under the “Divas’ Dressing Room” sign reading “& Gold-Diggers Gulch”? You’ve watched what these chicks do in the ring, and therefore KNOW they didn’t get in the business to wrestle–other than to squeeze every penny out of you. Hell, if they had the strength, they’d hold you in one of those long-lasting Davey Boy Smith vertical suplexes, just to shake the change and car keys out of your pockets!

At least SuperCena got his squeeze Nockers Bella to sign all kinds of legal papers before allowing her to move her crap into his mansion. And he had the further good sense not to propose to the wench. But look at the flip side of that, boys. It means you’re dumber than John Cena, a man who walked into a Roman bakery and ordered a loaf of French bread, and thinks Gatorade is financial assistance for reptiles!!! A guy whose niece wanted swimming lessons, so he dropped her off in front of a building marked “Pool Hall”!!!

(Did you know that, when John was in fifth grade, the teacher asked “What is the sister city of Minneapolis?” and he replied “Is it Maxiapolis?”?)

I honestly can’t blame Mr. U Cant Stand Me for being leery about his gal’s faithfulness. After all, on her very first day of training, when the instructor was teaching kicking out and said “First, lay on your back,” she interrupted with a cheery “I’m real good at that.”

Twin sis Brie Cheese sure found a first-class sap in the bearded buffoon. Naturally, having spent all his time in the wrestling dojo or making granola bars, Danny Boy had no idea how lady parts function, forcing B-Cup to adapt sly methods to show him the Promised Land. Stunts like telling him “Now let me try a flying head-scissor on you with my panties off.” I mean, before the temporary Mrs. Bryan took her groom to Carnal Knowledge College, the Virgin Vegan thought “doggie-style” was something you put on an SPCA form and a “boob bang” was bumping into Alex Riley backstage.

[Incidentally, are you aware it was she not he who started the “Yes, yes, yes!” chants? Not in a wrestling ring; beneath the bleachers with her high school football team.]

Going through the rest of the list, the Samoan’s first name is Jonathan so, obviously, he was doomed since birth. As for Punk, we now have irrefutable proof his initials stand for “Certified Moron.” And we can’t forget now-hitched Miz–try though we might. I guess it’s up to me to refresh the current crop of bonebenders on The Rules Of Handling Hussies.

*As they say at Arlington Cemetery, get a lot while you’re young. Since it can be tiring, you can always catch up on your sleep during an Eric Young match, just like everyone else does.

*Pretend you’re letting ring rats in on a big personal piece of private info, your real name–but always give them a fake one. I usually use “Jeremy Borash.”

*Get the tramps to drive you around, and tell them how much you miss home-cooked meals. Being they are women and thus not too bright, they’ll fall for this ruse, saving you a bundle on rental cars and having to buy them dinner.

*Ditch a bitch the moment she turns 24. They’re pretty much worn (and stretched) out by then, and that’s about the age they start getting foolhardy notions, such as thinking that doing your laundry is no longer a privilege, or it actually registers when a girl casts an election vote. Exception: the Turn-24 Rule is out the window if it’s a rich MILF who owns a liquor store or a Nashville-based wrestling promotion.

*There’s nothing wrong with having a wife–as long as its someone else’s. It’s far more advantageous to be familiar with OPP than with DDP.

*A true gentleman will always remove his hat before telling a young lady “I’m only here to tap that ass, so shut up and get undressed, you stupid slut.”

*ABSOLUTELY dodge every opportunity to meet the tootsie’s family members. Unless she’s got a hot sister into threesomes.

*Google “photos, nude shaved teen girls” to assure yourself the world is stocked with millions of easy young skanks willing to do anything for attention, therefore only a total jackass settles for just one.

*If you do meet twin gold-diggers, remember the slogan “Both or neither.” If you are going to get raked over the coals for all you’re worth, may as well get some kinky fantasies out of the way along the way. I recommend starting with “One in a devil’s outfit, the other in a nun’s habit” before moving on to trickier turf like “Tijuana trapeze act” and “Human Chinga.”

*Thinking a girl is only good for one thing is sooo 1990s. Besides the boudoir bouncing, some of them are really gifted at running a vacuum cleaner and caring for the dog while you’re away banging some other slut. Just don’t give them your eBay password. You know how they love to shop.

*UNDER NO CIRCUMSTANCES should you ever ball your hand up into a fist and slug a woman. I really shouldn’t have to tell anyone this, considering it’s just plain common-sense thinking, even if you were brought up in the Great Lakes region. How is it going to reflect on you, a big strong guy, belting a hundred-pounder?

Wake up, Jacob–slugging a woman leaves tell-tale marks. When a ho is flapping her yap until you can’t stand it anymore, take a deep breath, count to ten then clamp her in a hammerlock or figure four. She refuses to obey your command to stop creating so much clatter cooking you dinner while you’re watching the game? Gently approach with arms extended as though looking for a hug, then put her away with a sleeper hold.

See, not a single bruise on the bimbo!

*If a chick starts to prattle on about desiring “a real relationship,” tell her you want to give it some serious thought and thus need to step outside for a little fresh air to help think things through…then run like hell!!!

SS17–Wyatt confounds me/An Angle For Angle


For the life of me, I fail to grasp why you people harbor some sort of dislike for the Wyatt Family. Lousy physiques, dirty hair, one out of three looks better in a sheep mask, same clothes daily, no electricity at home…which goes for the Wyatts as well, so “y’all” should be delighted there’s a wrestling clique to whom you can fully relate.

Hell, that poster of Bray and the boys in front of a filthy dilapidated house looks like the snapshot taken at your last family reunion! The only noticeable difference between the grappling trio and your kinfolks is that the Wyatts have jobs, rather than depending on government handouts and running moonshine to raise enough cash to stay stocked in “breakfast Pepsi.” I’m betting your family also has three brothers with different last names, what with the way your mama shacked up with a different sugar daddy every two years. From what I hear, she’s had more farmers on top of her than a John Deere.

I know what the problem is: your big–okay, miniscule–hero Daniel Bryan begged feverishly to join the group, finally got an audition and, as with everything else he ever attempted, failed miserably, despite the fact he’s obviously never heard of shampoo.

Hey, it’s not easy getting in with the In Crowd. Back when I was a kid, we used to have so much fun out there in California in our Family. I fondly recall dancing to “Helter Skelter,” skinnydipping with Squeaky and that hot Van Houten chick, visiting celebrity homes at night, Tex giving us all shooting lessons…well, at least until the pigs framed Charlie for a couple of mass suicides and scratched a swastika into his forehead so he’d look like some sort of a kook.

I believe the solution to your problem is very obvious. You need to approach Bray and tell him, “Ah locks to hoont gators ‘n’ ain’t got but ite of ma natchul teef left. So, even though maw and paw is real proud of me for how good I done while they was in prison, odd lock to skip out on them and join that there family of yours. Om fixing to do whatever it tikes to git your ‘proval, yunnerstand, even though I ain’t fit for much besides diggin’ wells and keepin’ critters away from ma sister’s whorehouse.”

You can tell by staring into his eyes, Bray is an honorable man, his only concern being what is best for others. Just look how often he lets Harper and Rowan enjoy the fun of beating people up, calmly sitting in the rocking chair and collecting his two-thirds of the purse. I believe, with the proper amount of pleading, he might see it in his kind heart to let a pinhead like you try out for something like Wyatt second cousin once removed, or maybe, should you make a good impression, appoint you fourth in charge of keeping polecats away from the tool shed. Yeehaw, that’ll be even better than the time you nearly passed fourth grade!

AH, THE Winter Olympics. A time for spoiled potheads from Colorado to get tuned up by Northern Europeans in sissy “sports” like figure skating and ice hockey, where they still haven’t comprehended how a well-placed dropkick can turn the entire competition upside down. I can only think of two American Olympic-types I’m not ashamed of. First, there’s Tanya “Baby’s Got A WHOLE LOTTA Back” Harding, a true inspiration to little girls around the world. Then, of course, there’s Kurt Angle, who is often spotted beaming, “I know Stately Wayne Manor personally.”

In fact, this Stately States segment is an open letter to Kool Kurt.

Greetings, Kurt:

It is time, my fellow Pride Of Pennsylvania, to strongly reappraise your position as a “fan favorite.” Oh, sure, the typical fair-weather front-running American claims to have great respect for you and your achievements repping the country. But where is all the proverbial putting the money where their big mouths are?

I often visit the post office to collect my fan mail, noticing the vast array of new stamps they issue throughout the year. Yet has the USPS ever issued a stamp honoring you, Kurt? Instead, they’ll honor the drug-addled blimp Elvis Presley, essentially spitting in the face of a man who won a gold medal with a broken neck–and did it for free, while the Presleys charged hicks a bundle just to walk where the dogs did their duty on the grass outside DisGraceland.

All those years since his stamp was issued, and Elephant Presley has yet to release one stinkin’ new song; whereas, there you are, Kurt, busting your butt night after night for a bunch of ingrates. And for what?

Like trained seals, the ringside reprobates clap their grubby hands together after you polish off a foe. But take a look around, buddy. You’ll not spot a single girl or boy with a shaved head, wearing a singlet. You will, however, find a flock of youthful flakes done up like freaking Jeff Hardy, their unwed parents seated right besides them, broadly grinning, as if to say “I’d rather have little Zodiac here grow up to be like the Mayor of Weirdoville, Planet Zontar, than to be like Kurt Angle.”

Imagine preferring your child takes after Jeff Hardy, a wacko so screwy he grew cacti out front to serve as lawn chairs, and has a dog named “Kitty.” A dizzbat who once walked into the most famous kosher deli in New York and ordered a pulled pork sandwich. (Oh, it’s true.)

Worse yet, the disrespect situation is no better in the locker room than it is in the stands. Of course, I would NEVER consider spreading gossip. Though, if I did, I would say I hear Ken Anderson tells people he wrestles so atrociously so he can be the least like you as possible. I’d also mention how Gunner–so named for being the biggest ball-hog on the whole Marine Corps hoops team–calls you Baldo Mc Poopybreath.

Your path is clear, my man. You need to turn your back on the flag-waving phonies from Cali to Connecticut–and because no one cares more about stealing your fortune, er, steering your future than SWManor, I have been talking to that shy Spud fellow on your behalf, devising a brilliant strategy. First, you throw in with him and Magnus, demonstrating your allegiance by demanding the IOC transfer your gold medal to the UK team or you are dumping it in the Thames while mooning in the direction of the United States.

Then we drop the big bombshell sure to shake the very foundation of American society as a whole and launch a National Week Of Mourning. At a press conference before the Lincoln Memorial, you and I dual-denounce our U.S. citizenships and give the ol British “up yours” hand signal to the statue of Abe while unfurling a banner naming everyone who gave us grief in high school, stuck-up girls who snubbed us and Springsteen albums we think blow, a giant “Its All Your Fault” emblazoned across the top in bold letters.

From there, we jet directly to London, our new temporary residence in our new permanent homeland.

But wait, there’s more! Spud, who has yet to tell a fib his entire life, assures me the Royal Family will be so delighted to have us in their domain that, if Her Heiney can actually remain awake for an hour, the Queen will DUB US INTO KNIGHTHOOD! Now, what sounds better, “Kurt Angle, Pittsburgher” or “Sir Kurtis Angle, Duke Of Devonshire”?

Whattaya say, champ? An island known for its sunny weather; two-thirds of the population speak English; a red, white and blue flag–why, it’s virtually the same as living in Hawaii. Your kids will love it there! All yours just for finally saying a long-overdue “No, you suck” to the ignorami who “welcomed” you to professional wrestling with that incredibly rude chant.

All right, it’s possible there is a small percentage of the U.S. population who really mean it when they claim they support and respect you. As a beacon of fairness, I’ve devised a simple test to separate the simpletons from the sincere, and all the dubious devotees need do is correctly answer six of the following five questions to ensure a personal apology from yours truly. Otherwise, they can kiss my jeans where the seams meet.

*What is Kurt’s lifetime average at miniature golf?

*How do you pronounce “Kurt Angle is superior to all Americans” in the native language of Atlantis?

*What was the odometer reading on Kurt’s car on November 27, 2008, 1:16 pm?

*What is the User Name and password on your Paypal account?

*How many fingers am I holding up?

Five incredibly easy questions, yet, my friend, I am willing to wager your last dollar that not a single soul out there contacts me at to supply the correct answers. Bloody Yanks!!!

SS16–Whistling (at) Dixie/Daniel Bryan, Satanic Commie Cult Founder?


Well, as Al Snow would say, another job well done. I am referring of course to the undeniable fact that, much like Mickie James last issue, Dixie Carter read previous comments about her in Stately States and came…albeit slower than Mick…to the conclusion it’s far better to emulate SWManor than to be “nice” to the ringside reprobates–or the public in general, for that matter.

I am sometimes forced to go out among the masses, and I must tell you, it is often akin to walking onto the movie set when they’re filming The Zombie Slobs Meet The Blithering Ignoramuses From Moronville. Have you ever been to one of those “mall” things? My usual stop closed for inventory and I owing Christy Hemme a set of replacement panties, I was recently forced to enter a human stockyard called “The Springfield Mall”; and I would rather attend a turd-tasting contest on a blind date with Khloe Kardashian than go through that horrific ordeal again.

Looking around, I would estimate that three-quarters of the U.S. population are unaware there’s a place to have breakfast, lunch and dinner other than Dairy Queen. A single glance down any street is all it takes to see the only exercise Americans get is running up cell phone bills. How ironic is it that most own smart phones but are so stupid they think the Theory Of Relativity has something to do with family reunions and that a naval destroyer is a bad belly-button piercing?

And other than when you’re locked out of the trailer park on a rainy day, do you people ever experience something called a shower? I was downwind when the mall doors opened, and the stench was so foul, I thought a manure truck overturned on a hog farm!

Getting back to FAR more pleasant matters, it’s impossible not to notice how much Dixie Cups is absolutely glowing with hotness since taking up the Stately Wayne Way. Take a gander at that gold-digging skank you (and half the other men in town) sleep with or, worse yet, the sagging blob of cellulite you married, who couldn’t fit back in her wedding dress today if you spotted her a can of Crisco and a crowbar. Now tell me you wouldn’t trade in a year’s worth of your welfare checks just to have your ho look like Dixie for the three minutes it would take to, um, “express your appreciation.”

Only a complete warpazoid would not leap at the opportunity to board the midnight train to Dixie. Which is exactly what Sting did. And is.

You may accuse me of bias because it is well known that I hate those who “borrow” their stage names from established people or places outside their field. (Are you listening, Edge?) But, no, in this case, the comment about Sting has nothing to do with loving or loathing the guy. It’s about…well, insiders all know Paint Puss may be married and all that, but he has always preferred decaf over dry-roasted, if you catch my drift.

The web hosts won’t allow me to use the popular slang expressions for what Sting unquestionably is, so let’s just say the man, you know, drives a French motor scooter, carries a spare key in his left pocket, digs a little pineapple on his pizza, owns the Blues Brothers soundtrack, has a yellow scuba tank.

Hell, I’m just going to blurt it out: Sting is a Ring Ding wrangler, a hydrant painter, a Portuguese coat hanger, a widget swallower, a hurricane juggler, a camouflaged chimneysweep, or whatever euphemism they use in your neck of the hood. If this guy doesn’t wear plaid suspenders, I don’t know who does!

That has to be it. After all, who among us hasn’t gazed upon Dazzling Dixiana, nudged a buddy and said, “I wouldn’t mind alphabetizing her laundry, heh heh heh”?

IT’S ABOUT time someone said it: Triple H and Stunning Steph are absolutely right about Daniel Bryan being an utter failure. Ratings have sagged, PPV buy rates have tanked and, most important, the Bellas have stopped spreading their joy from town to town, now that they sunk their claws into Diver Dan and the Cena Horse.

But more than a business bomb, Daniel Bryan is a subversive.

Hiding behind that mop-top and scruffy face-fuzz, disguised as a hippie to lure in the naive–just like his role model Charles Manson–Bryan is not fooling me. As his beady eyes scan the crowd, it is glaringly evident he’s scouting the simpletons for more potential members of his cult…precisely the way a certain failed paperhanger did it in Deutschland during the Thirties.

Scoff at the highly obvious connection if you wish, but when a platoon of brainwashed goons in uniforms bearing SS (Stopped Shaving) armbands comes goose-stepping down your street, don’t say I didn’t warn you.

Ever see footage from the massive Nazi rallies during WWII? Virtually the entire audience throwing up one arm and shouting “Heil.” Bryan’s ring entrance? Virtually an entire audience throwing up two hands and shouting “Yes.” That’s hardly a coincidence.

Do you know whose music played at said rallies in Nuremberg? Richard Wagner’s–the favorite composer of Adolf Hitler. In fact, Wagner’s The Ride Of The Valkyries was broadcast to accompany reports on German air attacks. [See ]

What’s this have to do with wrestling? While everyone besides CM Bunk has a catchy original theme song written by the WWE house composer, Herr Bryan’s handpicked tune “just happens” to be Wagner’s The Ride Of The Valkyries. Another “coincidence,” the Daniel Dupes say? Then notice how the last-name initial of Dan’s squeeze is “B”–just like Hitler’s honey, Eva Braun.

Oh, yeah, the shaggy Daniel may now have the appearance of a draft dodger selling incense at Woodstock; however, when he first arrived in NXT/WWE, he had the buzz cut of someone about three weeks removed from a skinhead boot camp. Excuse me while I roll my eyes at yet another “coincidence.”

I predict that, by this time next year, Bryan’s infamous beard–identical to Bin Laden’s, you’ll note–will be trimmed down to just a little square moustache (which the dense Daniel Dupes will claim is a homage to Charlie Chaplin), and Danny Boy’ll be encouraging ringsiders to embrace something called Danieltology, ripping a gaping hole in the very fabric of society by despicable acts such as urging dumb girls to attend Community College rather than becoming productive strippers, and convincing males there’s something wrong with snorting meth so you can play pinball until four a.m.!

I would not be the least bit surprised if Danieltology condemns tossing lit ciggies out the window when driving past national forests and advocates such bizarre practices as buying your own lunch instead of stealing someone else’s, the possession of a library card and–dare I say it?–“getting a real job”!!!!!!

Smile all day long, Goat Boy (“conveniently” rhymes with Goebbels), but I’m onto you and your nefarious scheme!!!