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

StaStaBlueNICE48size

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 https://bit.ly/1ScpS8H

 

*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.

SS 41—My GIFt to wrestling

I must admit, I’ve done it again.  If you’ve had the good sense to read my shoot interview profile, http://bit.ly/2bGok4J , you already know about the myriad innovations I introduced to the King Of Sports, the very reason I’m being inducted into the WWE Hall Of Fame next year.

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

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

 

The ultimate way to watch Total Divas…

react to Total Divas

 

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

Asian crazy bananas GIF

 

The WWE announces the return of David Otunga…

Slime People return of Otunga

 

Typical “puro” snob watching the GI Climax tournament…

animated guy cumming

 

Listening party for the new Fozzy album…

family guy mass vomit

 

Whenever I hear updates on CM Punk…

Princess Bride shrug

 

Every time Enzo Amoron’s entrance music hits…

python Run Away

 

The Young Bucks face each other in singles competition…

kid kicks pal GIF

 

Desperate Toad Gordon launches his new promotion, ECW2…

total IDIOT backyard GIF

 

Latest Will Ospreay footage…

B Lee New Guinea

 

Originator of the DELETE gesture revealed!

Shatner original DELETE doer

 

Lucha Underground Season Four sneak preview….

Lat Zero Lucha Underground

 

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

girl waves goodbye

 

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

tumbleweed GIF

 

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

mr-bean-FUs

SS40–You TOO Can Become An Internet “Wrestling Expert”!!! Here’s How.

 

People often approach me with an inquiry.  “You are a wrestling journalism icon with a worldwide readership for decades.  I would like to be popular on social media; so, what is the procedure for establishing oneself as an online ‘wrestling expert’?”  Here are my observations.
*If a public incident involves multiple names, do a Nancy Grace and, minus any evidence, declare guilty the person whose gimmicked personality you hate based upon hearing “what s/he’s really like.”  To balance things out, blow off or create excuses if the incident involves any of the hip wrestlers.

Roman Reigns has a backstage disagreement with Luke Gallows:  “That’s it.  Reigns should be fired, arrested for mass murder, deported and get his head chopped off.”

Matt Jackson shoots a lion:  “That cat was asking for it.  There’s too many lions as it is.  Practically one in every zoo.  It would be soooo cool if Matt superkicked it.”

 

*Always agree with the majority.  Prove you are a rugged individualist by boldly declaring “Naomi can’t wrestle,” a departing star “wasn’t used right,” and a heavily pushed grappler “doesn’t deserve” a shot at the title—just like the rest of the flock do without exception.

Don’t worry if you privately disagree.  In a few months, the experts will be turning on the individual (WWE roster only) anyway.  Ask Dean Ambrose.

 

*On a related note, NEVER admit to being wrong.  In 2016, those well-informed marketing analysts, the experts, proclaimed “When Bayley gets on the main roster, she’s going to be a merchandise-sales goldmine and draw thousands of kids to shows.  Like a female Cena except Bayley has more than five moves.”

We true professionals reckoned the hate-filled WWE fan base was never going to accept an upbeat woman; but the simians continued to insist they were right—until they were absolutely wrong.

Did they offer an apology?  Hahahaha, good one.  And why should they?  Bayley, like all wrestlers, chose her gimmick and scripted all her promos.  From what can be gleaned by reading internet postings, the top stars also book their own matches and finishes.

Yet another reason Cena sucks is because “he doesn’t put anyone over,” since obviously he can sell the whole match and lose to anyone he wants.  It’s similar to how Reigns went up to Mr. McMahon and insisted on being mega-pushed.

Which brings us to….
 

*Insist Vince McMahon has lost touch and needs to retire.  Yep, it’s dumb luck that Wrestlemania continues to sell out massive stadiums holding tens of thousands and is responsible for tens of millions of dollars changing hands.

And the senile senior must have been out of his mind backing the Network you can’t live without and the employment of Styles, Owens, Nakamura, Balor, Asuka, Rinaldo, Ohno and the rest of the folks the experts salivate over.

Mr. McMahon has nothing to do with anything good, only the bad stuff.  All he ever does all day as Chairman of a billion-dollar corporation is decide—mostly erroneously–who will win upcoming wrestling matches.  So, he should spend more time strategizing about Sami Zayn’s midcard bouts.

 

*Mock things that are none of your business and have no effect at all on the product presented.  For instance, although you were never a TNA employee and their tardiness had absolutely no bearing on your life, the company should be constantly derided for a 2016 period during which they were late paying personnel (while “forgetting” Paul Heyman stiffed numerous grapplers altogether, which is fine because Paul cuts great promos.)

 

*Be a massive hypocrite.  Claim you’re a huuuuuge supporter of indies, then watch their pay shows on an illegal internet stream.  Insist on the importance of quality promos and angles, then flip for Japanese wrestling, which barely contains either.  Claim to have given up on a certain promotion, then post comments about their future shows.  Maintain a COMPLETE double-standard when it comes to critiquing a fashionable star or promotion.

Harshly badmouth someone on social media DMs, then buddy up to them on the public version of social media.  Always on the prowl for something new to gripe about, act righteously outraged over some trivia whatzit—e.g. lack of pyros on WWE entrances—you never expressed one iota of caring about in the past.

 

*Read ONLY the headline of a news story, immediately offering up a kneejerk reaction based solely on it.  A perfect July 2017 example was to burst into tears when “they cancelled Talking Smack”—which they didn’t entirely do—even though statistics show only a small fraction of Network subscribers actually watched the weekly show.

Who needs dumb old facts when there’s something new to bellyache about?

 

*Remember, every single indie match is awesome…even after watching Botchamania and witnessing 37 skinny guys in black T-shirts crash and burn.

 

*Go ape for anyone elevated from NXT…until they start losing (e.g. Vaudevillains, The Ascension), then ignore them entirely.  Flipping out over an elevated talent has nothing to do with caring about the individuals.  It’s to prove to other fans that you are faaaaarrrrrr more knowledgeable than them.  You know the catchphrases of someone making their Raw or Smackdown debut?  Wow, you are SO SUPERIOR!!!!!!

 

*Constantly claim a wrestler is “being shoved down our throats.”  It’s a modern world out there; and if you have these homo-erotic fantasies about a sweaty muscular man rolling around with a near-naked opponent, that’s perfect acceptable in many quarters.

 

*Give a “solid thumbs down” or “negative five stars” rating to any card wherein you didn’t like who “won” a predetermined main event—especially if a favorite didn’t leave with the awarded “championship.”

A pinfall finish takes three seconds; a submission may take ten.  By all means disregard the remaining three or four hours, the effort put out by the wrestlers not in the main event, and the work of the announcers and crew.  Dang it, those three seconds altered the fabric of the universe and ruined the entire weekend!

Years from now, while you are on your deathbed and the nurse asks “Did you have any regrets in your life?” undoubtedly the reply will be “Castignoli should have kicked out at two.”  (When you’re super-cool, you call famous wrestlers by their previous indie monikers.)

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?

SCORING

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!

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.

SS20–RockStar Dud/Kiss My Christmas Balls

StaStaBlueNICE48size

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.

#ROFLMAO@IWC

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.