SS50—The Man Who Saved The World(WE)

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The Road To Wrestlemania and its related hype get WWE fans excited about certain matches; however, overall interest in the product as a whole has been in decline, as reflected in record-low TV viewership numbers.

“Superstar Shakeups” have had no lasting effect.  And some pundits have wondered if eliminating the brand split will cure the woes.

But wrestling is a character-driven sport, and no change in the structure is going to reverse the spiral.  Just as in previous booms, the WWE needs an individual to lead it back to the Promised Land.

This man must possess the versatility the modern market demands, top-level communication skills, major-league experience and proven fan appeal.  Am I suggesting they bring back Stoned Old Steve Austin?  Somebody give me a “Hell, no.”

There is only one available athlete who checks all the above boxes, possesses the necessary youth and lacks the overexposure of Austin, Goldbrick and fellow has-beens.

Manormaniacs, I present to you the charismatic individual who can not only resurrect the WWE, but also save wrestling across the board.

That man is Damien Sandow.

Before you give me a well-deserved standing ovation, please absorb all the details.  Because The Miz has turned into The Miss since marrying that Canadian chick and becoming a whipped wimp changing diapers in his high heels and Wonder Bra, Damien will NOT be returning as “Mizdow.”

No, no, no; no more carrying the Cleveland Clown and distracting audiences from Frog Face’s many weaknesses.

The Savior is far too versatile to be stuck in one role.  In fact, my long-time dear friend David Bowie dropped by the Manor Mansion to catch Sandow vs Cena on RAW and remarked “I wish I had the ability to change personas as well as this remarkable Damien fellow does.”

This time around, the bonebender’s chameleon-like qualities will be utilized to their fullest.  Be awestruck picturing the following scenarios over the next two years.

 

The WWE is presenting RAW in the loser capitol of North America, Chicago.  As per usual, the local yokels chant for their hometown zero—but this time, things go very differently.  Suddenly, “The Cult Of Personality” blares over the sound system.  And as the crowd collectively wet their panties, out comes OH, MY GOD, HE’S HERE—C.M. Punkdow.

Punkdow sits on the stage, holding a symbolic pipe—a tobacco pipe, that is—and rattles off a list of “woe is me” petty gripes about the temperature of the mashed potatoes in catering, his chauffeur insisting he wear a seat belt, and the state taxing country club membership fees.

Then it’s time to really “shoot.”  Punkdow has had it up to here with the business that’s made him a famous millionaire, and is going to see to it that all wrestlers get free health coverage, their road expenses covered, annual vacations, double-payment for working on holidays “…and the formation of the best damn union this country has ever seen!”

None of which he has even the slightest intention of ever actually doing.

Due to CM’s “extended absence,” the WWE decides to refresh fans’ memories via weekly video clips.  The first three are:  Punkdow being thrown off a rodeo bull before the gate is even opened; him becoming the first person to score a zero in Super Mario Party; and, hidden camera footage of the “straight-edge superstar” and very vocal vegan puffing on a joint while at a McDonald’s drive-thru window.

 

The Nature Dow.  The “Rolex-stealing, limousine-kissing son of a bitch” is in the best shape of his life.  Everything seems to be going right for the “sixteen-times married” veteran.  Fans love his entrance and trademark “Whoa!”  But every time the ring announcer introduces his opponent, Naitch starts crying, forcing each match to be ruled a No Contest.

Pressed on this backstage by Charly Caruso (who’s also in love with me), The Nature Dow vows to work on overcoming this issue, begins trembling and excuses himself, dashing to his dressing room.

Concerned, Charly waits outside the door.  Ten minutes later, it opens, and instead of The Nature Dow, out comes Tommy Dreamdow, clutching a kendo stick in one hand and a cannoli in the other.

This stunning transformation is indeed effective. The Innovator Of Violins is now capable of competing, each match ending with (A.) him losing as per usual and (B.) a teary-eyed speech announcing “my retirement, effective immediately.”

Which he repeats every night from the very next one through to SummerSlam, including throughout the WWE’s 36-city European tour.

 

What’s next for the dynamic Damien?  Time to try out a number of short-term gimmicks.  There’s…

*Matt Jackdow, who wants to be thought of as a fun-loving free spirit but is, in reality, a hypersensitive twit who spends nine hours daily vanity-searching his name on social media, getting butthurt when someone doesn’t fawn over him.

[backstage]

Zack Ryder:  I prefer ketchup over mustard on hot dogs.

Matt Jackdow:  Hmm, that’s interesting.

[Zack walks away.  Matt pulls out his phone, Blocks Zack on Twitter.]

*Dwayne Johnsdow  Cuts an in-ring promo that’s just a string of sorely outdated catchphrases, finishing with “The Crock says this.  The WWE is my home, and I’m never leaving again.”

Does no more appearances thereafter.

*Brie Belldow. Groundbreaking WWE’s first transgender competitor wears a Dow Mode shirt and booty shorts, but never wrestles or speaks—which makes him waaaaay better than that other Brie.

*Color commentator Corey Gravedow  Finds the worst-fitting suit Goodwill has to offer, vacillates between being a heel and a babyface a dozen time per match, and never says anything of consequence.

No one at home notices the difference between him and the adulterer he replaced.

*Indie sensation Zackdow Osprey, Junior  The bell sounds, he flips, rolls, somersaults, does a 720 dive off the top into a series of cartwheels around the entire ring, and rebounds off all four ropes into a triple-handspring, for two minutes non-stop, gets dizzy and immediately pinned.

*Reverend Hacksaw Jim Duggdow  Rather than the friendly patriot of his predecessor, Rev. Duggdow is a self-righteous religious zealot toting a Bible in place of a 2×4.  His pre-match ritual is pointing out a stylishly dressed woman in the crowd and shouting “You’re a ho-o-o-o.”

 

All of the above are but merely a warm-up for when Damian goes for the Big Kahunas.  First up is….

Hulk Hodow

Imagine the classic confrontations HH2 will have with the current members of the WWE roster.

Praising impromptu tag partner Nakamura:  “I fought alongside a lot of gooks when I was a Green Beret in Vietnam.  Maybe we can go to Chinatown after our victory.  You like-y shlimp flied lice?”

Hogdow to Rey Mysterio:  “I loved Eddie Guerrero as much as you did.  In fact, I love all beaners, dude.  They’re great at cutting my lawn, brother.

“You know something, Mean Mysterio?  We never had a match.  I say we hook it up—once you show me your green card, little man.  Whatcha gonna do when ICE agents run wild on you?”

Hulk Hodow will have an extended run, until he’s indefinitely suspended for refusing to tag in during a six-man match against The New Day.  (Because…well, you know.)

But what supreme hero of men, women and children can Damien transform into next?  Who is the one man whose achievements dwarf that of not only the Hulkster but also of every grappler ever to set foot in any ring, any promotion, any date, anywhere?  An iconic ringmaster every single fan loves more than life itself?  The personification of achieving the ultimate reward for hard work?

HOLY CRAP, IT’S IT’S IT’S TRIPLE-M!!!!!

Our television sets will never be the same.  As it turns out, Munter Mearst Melmsley is married to Vince McMahon’s heretofore unacknowledged other daughter, Bethany—a connection the Cerebral Ass is not above making well-known, including spraying champagne out of his mouth while on the ring apron, pre-match.

In a move that would make Dusty Rhodes proud, every promo, including those by the women and two weirdoes on the Sonic ads, will contain a mention of Triple-M’s unmatched influence, charm and rugged good looks.

Renee Young will finally contribute something to RAW, by lustfully purring her new catchphrase “What a hunk!” before fainting every time the Tripper is within sight.

This completely sincere and not just protecting their jobs adulation will crescendo at Wrestlemania 37, when MMM and Bethany perform a 45-minute entrance, an elaborate thematic mix of Game Of Thrones, Thor Ragnarok and The SpongeBob SquarePants Movie.

 

SS48—The Official Wrestling Fan Qualification Quiz

When the Commissioner Of Wrestling, the late and universally liked Harry White, passed away, I pledged to take up some of his duties, as he was a great admirer of the original “Stately States.”  This was a responsibility I took very seriously.

Although many have kicked around the idea for years, I have decided it is time to draw up an official Test To Determine Who Is Permitted To Be A Wrestling Fan.

Of course, promoters don’t want to go out of business: so, there won’t be any requirements along the lines of an IQ over 50 or male fans grooming.  Let’s not get carried away.

Instead, I devised a simple True Or False test that should only take a minute or two to complete.  And I wrote it at a fourth-grade reading level so that the typical not-too-bright fan can comprehend the questions.

Answers are provided below.

True or false…

  1. If you pay for a ticket, you have the right to do anything you please, damn it!
  2. Hardcore wrestling is an art form,
  3. Secretly, you’re glad Roman Reigns got sick, because he sucked and was being shoved down your throat.
  4. Chris Benoit belongs in the WWE Hall Of Fame.
  5. Most of my T-shirts have some sort of wrestling artwork on them.
  6. All of my T-shirts have some sort of wrestling artwork on them.

WWE Network subscription cancel notice

  1. You cancelled the WWE Network over the second Crown Jewel event.  7b.  Made certain everyone knows you quit watching WWE altogether, by being sure to post an announcement online.
  1. Your Twitter handle or Profile includes “heel”, “smark”, “mark”, “WOKEN” and/or #TooSweet, or contains “@WWE” even though you’re not a WWE employee, or is comprised of a combination of two grapplers’ names (e.g. SashaNaito13).
  2. Hot or not, you would never go out with someone who isn’t a dedicated wrestling fan, baby!
  3. Saw a “botch” GIF and expertly explained how the bump should have been taken.
  4. Hey, have you ever agreed that Kenny Omega or another guy or a promotion is great, and you weren’t really familiar with them but didn’t want to look dumb? We’ve all done that, right?  LOL
  5. A world champion needs to wrestle on all or nearly all of his brand’s TV shows.
  6. Asuka has had a terrible 2018.
  7. Having dozens of action figures makes you pretty freakin’ cool and the envy of others.
  8. Promoters should do their utmost to provide a loaded card.
  9. If you ever/have kids, they will be/are named after favorite wrestlers.

 

ANSWERS

Be advised, you need a perfect score to qualify to be a wrestling fan!

Key:  The correct answer to all questions is “False” unless noted otherwise. Consequently, the individual comments below pertain to those who answered “True.”

  1. A ticket purchase entitles you to be a spectator, not a participant. Shut up and sit down, instant test–and life–failure.
  2. Hardcore = retardcore. Any slob can light himself on fire and dive onto a table wrapped in barbed wire.  You should try it sometime.
  3. May your next pizza contain a secret topping—malaria.
  4. True. Much too much attention is paid to what wrestlers do outside the ring, most of it strictly hearsay.  (Did anyone actually see Chris kill himself and his family?)

Do you go to wrestling cards and watch the TV shows to get etiquette lessons, moral guidance, spiritual advice and similar useless crap?  Of course not.  You follow the sport to see someone get slapped silly from LA to Philly.  Heck, people murder their families all the time.  Snowflakes act like there’s something wrong with that.  Pfffft.

  1. True. Spend, spend, spend, friend!
  2. Get a death, loser.
  3. If you were so outraged about Arabian politics, how come you didn’t cancel before the first Crown Jewel? Hmmmm?    7b.  Nobody likes an attention whore.  Actually, nobody likes you anyway.  Lick a fire hydrant ASAP
  1. May an ejected toilet flush from a space station crash through your roof and land squarely in your mouth as you sleep.
  1. I would rather allow a flea-ridden Armenian zombie pickpocket with a loud cough and fatal flatulence into an arena than you.
  2. Go sand the zits off your back, windbag. The closest you’ve ever come to taking a bump is when the school bully slammed you into a locker and broke your clarinet.
  3. Wrong. You are a fraud and still look dumb…and ugly.
  4. Did Bruno Sammartino, Bob Backlund and Hulk Hogan, three of the W/WWF/E’s longest-reigning champions, wrestle of TV every week? NO.  When the Four Horsemen were running wild on WTBS, did Ric Flair wrestle every show?  NO.  Do you know anything about the history of the sport you claim to love?  NO.  Should you be allowed to be a fan?  NO.
  5. Well, yeah, carrying an undefeated streak as Raw champ into Wrestlemania 34 on April 8th—meaning the most dominant wrestler of the entire first quarter of the year—ending 2018 by winning a battle royal then participating in the first-ever women’s TLC match for the SD championship…that must suck.

I bet every wrestler on the planet who didn’t get a WWE contract, undefeated streak, world championship and Wrestlemania booking while remaining injury-free—which is about 99.86 percent of all active wrestlers worldwide—is relieved he (or she) didn’t have such a “terrible” year!

  1. You play with dolls.
  2. True. Promoters are all billionaires who will gleefully dump an unlimited stream of money into their shows.  After all, WRESTLING IS ALL ABOUT PLEASING YOU.

So what if the fee for top talent, refs, security, etc and the cost of the hall and ring rental, insurance, posters, flashy pyros and state-of-the-art lighting and sound system for a 500-seat venue with $20 tickets comes to 50 grand?  That’s only a loss of 40 thou per show, provided it’s a sell-out.

And after the promotion folds, once or twice during the following decade, you can fondly reminisce about it.  That’s all that really matters.

(A comical gnome from Atlantis with a shiny pirate’s chest full of doubloons and rubies will eventually come along and reimburse the promoter anyway.)

But if you don’t want to see the league crash, I suggest going into the locker room, standing on a chair and telling everyone they should work for free.  Do this at the next event you attend.  Don’t worry.  It’s perfectly safe.  When wrestlers apply for their license, they sign a form saying they won’t hit anyone.

  1. Seek professional help, sicko.

 

Becky Lynch is The Man!

Becky Lynch is The Man!

Becky Lynch is The Man!

Becky Lynch is The Man!

BECKY LYNCH IS THE MAN!

No, she isn’t.

I realize the vast majority of you have never spoken to a woman besides the bored girl at the Wendy’s drive-through window; but Becky has something called a “vagina” (google it) and thus can’t be a man.

I should know, the way she’s been throwing herself at me for the past four years.  Not that I can blame her, since there are no real men among her followers.

You see, bubbleheads, what most of you “experts” don’t know is that all the top wrestlers from the British Isles, including Bimbo Becky, Drew McIntyre, Grado, PAC, Sheamus, Jimmy Havoc, Drake Maverick, Paige, Marty Scurll, Katrina Waters and Finn Balor, all grew up reading England’s Power Slam magazine, for which I am the ONLY writer to appear in every issue.  As such, every man in the UK wants to be like me and every woman wants me.

Between my legendary 1985-2001 Wrestling World run and the additional twenty straight years in Power Slam, there’s no question SW Manor is the most influential journalist in wrestling history.

I’m just not one to brag.

“B-b-but saying she’s ‘The Man’ is a strong statement about gender equality.”

Meh, something they cooked up after realizing how moronic “The Man” sounds.

Calling oneself “The Man” as an expression of being the most over of either sex—as apologists claim—clearly suggests being a man is superior to being a woman.  And although it’s true, what kind of cockeyed “feminist” statement is that?

Raunchy Rebecca, as I call her–you know, the chick you claimed was “buried” four months ago—will drop her strap to another broad, and you bandwagon-jumpers will dump her quicker than Snoop Dogg can roll a joint.

Truth of the matter is, she loves being on her back.  At least around me, heh heh heh.

nudge nudge Python GIF

SS43–Gazing At My (crystal) Balls

It is very well known within the professional wrestling community—the real one, not just a bunch of online wannabes fantasizing they are part of the business—that I have crystal balls.  As such, it is time once again to peer into my balls and predict with 100-percent accuracy events unfolding in the stretchin’ profession during 2018.

 

January 25—As part of the new Mixed Match format for WWE Facebook, The Authors Of Pain, Absolution and The Undisputed Era compete in a battle royal.  The lone survivor will then face The Empress Of Tomorrow for the Stupidest Goddamn Name trophy, previously won by The Ascension.

 

February 11–University Of Wisconsin doctor Martin Burke develops a surgical procedure whereby any male who regularly follows Total Divas can have his gonads reattached.

 

March 3–The entire independent-wrestling industry is rocked to its very core when a promoter in Billings, Montana composes the standard montage-of-performers poster but not a single one of the pictured stars is sticking out his tongue!!!!!

 

Mid-March–History is made when an entire week passes without some idiot asking Dave Meltzer if NJPW could be a serious threat to the WWE’s American stronghold.

 

March 19–The New York Times publishes a Things That Went Out Of Style Ten Years Ago list.  It includes “a ‘Vote For Pedro’ ringer T-shirt, having a MySpace account and That Lame-Ass Heart-Tapping Gesture Shane McMahon Does.”

 

April 7—A “Thank you, Matthew (clap clap clap)” chant breaks out among 46% if those in attendance at ROH’s big card on Wrestlemania weekend.  This has nothing to do with the just-completed Young Bucks match.  The chanters are all Twitter users Matt Jackson blocked that month during his daily hissy fits.

Tears roll down the cheeks of several, overcome with relief, knowing they will never again be exposed to the defensive dwarf pleading “Why don’t you love me?  I’m telling Mommy,” over even the most minor perceived slight.

Young Bucks Matt Jackson blocked me too

April 16—Secretly turning bad guys, The New Day begin pouring horse manure out of Booty-O boxes and into the open mouths and over the heads of unsuspecting nimrods, as the trio makes its entrance on each house show.

Adding fuel to the fire, Xavier announces, “If you don’t like it, you can blow my trombone.”

 

May 2—Not to be outdone by his brother, the returning Jeff Hardy unveils his latest screwball gimmick, a chronic masturbator to be known as #Strokin’ Jeff Hardy.

 

The When Jimmy Hart Was Actually A Good Manager DVD goes on sale Tuesday, May 15.  It consists solely of footage from his Eighties Memphis run.

 

June 6–The WWE brings back Santino Marella to serve as a backstage interviewer, and also signs the king of flippity-dippity garbage, primarily because Vince McMahon (and I) get a big kick out of the Italian calling the Englishman “William the osprey.”

 

Josh Matthews’ hip-hop debut single “I’ve Got Tattoos.  That Makes Me Cool” drops on June 19, becoming the first song on iTunes to register a negative number of downloads.

 

July 10—AJ Styles finally comes clean on blowing off a tour of Australia.  Says the hillbilly halfwit, “Aw, shoot, I don’t wanna get that close to the edge of the world.”

 

President Trump declares July 16th National Oh, Shut Up Day, in which wrestling enthusiasts are barred, under penalty of execution, from using the words “buried” “kayfabe” (which they don’t understand anyway) “smark” “the script” and “overrated” as well as claiming anyone “deserves” anything or posting photos of empty seats at a televised event.

U.S. internet traffic dips by 57 percent by 2 pm.

 

On a July edition of RAW, as Stephanie McMahon once again rattles off the various “history-making” elements of the female division and “the Women’s Revolution,” a fed-up and quitting Kurt Angle continually interrupts Stunning Steph by interjecting “which the TNA Knockouts did ten years ago.”  (Oh, it’s true.)

stephanie-mcmahon-confronts-kurt-angle-braun-strowman-returns

August 14–Hulk Hogan blows his entire Gawker settlement on rebuilding the Pontiac Silverdome.  When asked why he would reconstruct an outdated stadium with no sports franchise willing to occupy it, he told the Detriot Free Press, “Because this is where I press-slammed that stinky old giant 27 times in front of three million Hulkamaniacs, brother.”

(No truth to the rumor claiming the Owner’s Box contains a hidden-camera-equipped side room for “hanging and banging” one’s best friend’s wife.)

 

August 29—I finally stop rolling my eyes over Jim Ross’ ridiculous clenched fist photo pose.

Jim Ross stupid fist pose for StaSta

September 5–Living up to his nickname, Marty Scurll takes command of the Bullet Club and immediately and permanently disbands the faction “just to fuck over the wankers who dropped hundreds on our merchandise.”

This is in lieu of the Villain’s original plan:  “I was going to keep us together for a month but change our name to the Flaming Dipshits, just to see how many of you lot would walk around with that on your shirts.  But since it’s probably all of you, screw it,” it will later be revealed.

 

On September 22, at 9:27 pm, Richard Blye, 32, of Cold Springs, Ohio, realizes, despite what he’s been claiming on Facebook for four years, Roman Reigns does not in fact “suck”—and that he, Tricky Dick, is a complete asshole.

 

October 6–Briton Percival Smythe-White causes a national uproar by rating a tag contest in Leeds “3 ½ stars,” violating the sacred rule that all Englishmen deem every match taking place in the United Kingdom “an instant classic.”

 

October 15–Caving in to fan’s incessant chants, the WWE signs CM Punk–and immediately books the UFC flop against Brock Lesnar for the RAW main event in the straight-edger’s hometown! Eight seconds after the opening bell sounds, the Greatest WWE Moment Ever occurs, henceforth known as the Chicago Screwjob.

Punk Vs lesnar

So long, sucker.

November 12–On the heels of the inexplicably popular Chris Jericho Cruise, entrepreneur Kevin Spacey publicizes his forthcoming Chris Kanyon Cruise.  Boy, are dimwitted grappling fans going to be in for a big surprise!!!

 

November 13—Over 100,000 jubilant wrestling nerds converge in the outskirts of New York City to celebrate the WWE.com announcement that Triple-H has finally replaced Vince McMahon as the man in charge.

December 13—Over 100,000 pouting wrestling nerds leap off the Brooklyn Bridge after NOTHING AT ALL HAS CHANGED.

 

December 19–Alex Trebek punches indie failure Ryback in the jaw after the Jeopardy show host reveals a panel reading “Name one vowel” and the Big Goof replies “It’s what you say when you get married.”

 

Bully Ray has, by far, the longest line at his photo-op table during a late December convention in Boston.  Three days later, the densest Dudley learns fans are each supposed to pay him $30 for a picture together, not the other way around.

 

SS42–A Holiday GIFt To One And All

First off, I’d like to thank everyone responsible for me being named 2017 Wrestling GIF Rookie Of The Year.  And what better way to repay the voters and mat fans everywhere than presenting a special encore, spreading the holiday spirit with the warmth for which I am world-renowned?

What wrestlers really think about fans’ opinions and suggestions….

What wrestlers REALLY think about your Tweets

 

The internet, over any mention of Kenny Omega….

drooling spongebob and pals Kenny Omega name mentoined

 

Hulk Hogan has given a new interview….

Pinocchio nose expand Every Hulk Hogan interview ever

 

RVD announces the identity of his new training partner….

Snoop big weed exhale better BIGGER for RVD quip.

 

The entire size of a typical wrestling podcast audience….

Simpsons Milhouse alone your entire podcast audience

 

The Shield reunion is not going as smoothly as expected….

Stooges Answer The Phone MY GIF FULL

 

When dopes who never watched WCW show up wearing their NWO shirts….

face palm MONTAGE VVVG

 

When people believe attendance figures because they were provided by the promoter….

VVG superanimation zoom to many laughing hysterically

 

Self-explanatory….

ICW crying MY GIF

 

Vince McMahon meets up with the guy who talked him into having a Cruiserweight division….

King Of Comedy Jerry strangles Rupert GIF

 

When your “clever” publicity stunt only yields a cease and desist order….

Jughead KOd GIF

 

Ryback embarks on a new career, carpentry….

Keaton GUTSY stunt sawing board GIF

 

The only women on the Chris Jericho cruise realize the type of nerds they’re stuck onboard with the entire time….

trio vomiting

 

Home footage of typical guy constantly posting feminist hyperbole about women’s wrestling….

Mondo Keyhole MY GIF family fun

 

All men really want from ladies wrestling….

Colleen Camp from Clue MY GIF

 

BREAKING:  Originator of the spinarooni identified….

Shemp spinarooni MY GiF

 

When you boast of being a big expert on Japanese wrestling because you’ve been watching NJPW for two years….

Samurai Cop shortie MY GIF

 

When you claim someone is “buried” after he or she lose ONE freakin’ match….Bowie GIF me reacting when some act as if only Sig Kids

 

When wrestling fans follow MMA because a top newsletter guy likes it….

mindless zombies

 

The difference between male and female fans reacting to Roman Reigns….

Project Moon Base MY GIF

 

The proper way to enter a wrestling fan convention…

Blackadder walks out reaction GIF

 

Typical indies match….

Frank Isle instant MY GIF karate watermarked

 

A suitable question at any gathering of obsessive wrestling fans…

Life of Brian any women here GIF

 

SS34–Stately Shoots His Mouth Off

When one has been on the newsstands worldwide for decades nonstop, as I have, the requests pour in on a daily basis.

“Sign with our studio, and we’ll cast you as the next James Bond.”  “LeBron really wants you as point guard/captain this season.”  “Come join our bleeding band and we’ll change our name to Stately Wayne Manor And The Rolling Stones, mate.”

But the most recurrent plea is “It would be a great honor and thrill for all of us wrestling fans if you would do one of those shoot interviews.”

Truth be told, I resisted for quite some time, highly concerned some may mistake me for a braggart.  However, BS Video allowed me to choose my interviewer, so I went with the renowned Shemp Wally Macbeth, who sooooo is not me in disguise, even though we happen to have vaguely similar initials.

And remember, children, just like with the ones you’ve already seen, you should always believe every word in a shoot interview, because people who convincingly fib in front of a camera for a living would NEVER do so away from an arena.

The following is a sampling of some of the topics discussed, the full video “dropping” on September 31st.

Within the wrestling business

Shemp:  What do you consider your greatest among the hundreds of your contributions to professional wrestling?

SWM:  I introduced the letter “s” to the business.  Before I became a huge global influence, “s” was never used.  People would go to see Bruno Ammartino managed by Arnold Kalund, facing Upertar Graham, and the tag team the Amoan, at Madion Quare Garden.  In fact, until I came along, the sport was known as pro wretling.

If you don’t believe me, go ask the star and director of all those Rocky movies.  He was known as Ylveter Tallone prior to my entering the bonebending biz.

S:  I understand you made your first million creating characters for the big national promotions.  How did that work?

SWM:  I’d come up with concepts for guys who were just coming into a company, to give the newbies something to concentrate on and polish on the road before they were actually introduced on TV.  Between my concept and the TV debut, they were sometimes tweaked a teeny-weeny bit.

S:  You are undoubtedly the most creative person ever to step foot in a locker room.  I’d also say most influential man behind the scenes.  Tell us some of your amazing characters, O Dazzling One.

S:  Even though these got changed a smidge, I still got the dough because I had the copyrights.  So I’ve made a bucket of bucks on the coffee king Brewer Brody, painted-face cheapskate Stingy, shoe-gazing emo wrestler The Underachiever, R&B singer Terr Funky, Dork The Clown (which I believe some guy named Frankie is still using), aging hippie Stoned Old Steve Houston, hot female grappler Braless Lesnar, mathematician Kurt Rightangle, Canadian burrito salesmen The Fart Foundation and their friend Taco Santana…just too many to list, really.

S:  You are also known for many brilliant innovations on the actual in-ring-wrestling end of things.  Would you kindly name a few, sir?

SWM:   Well, let’s see.  I invented the figure-one leglock, the 450 hair-pull, working from the horizontal base, the tombstone eye-gouge, the cross-windbreaker, the adequate kick, the Greco-Roman groin-punch, and the shooting star bite, among others.  And because I came from a background in music and also revolutionized that art form, I hold the trademark on the term “The Innovator Of Violins.”

Away from the ring, I’m legendary for the night I kicked the ass of Rick Rude, Steve Williams, the Road Warriors and Haku.

S:  I knew you are a legitimate badass, but those are the toughest guys to ever lace up the boots—and you beat them all at once.  Amazing!

SWM:  Well, I did have hotels on Boardwalk and Park Place.

S:  Speaking of men who had lucrative careers in Japan, before it became the “in” thing a couple of years ago, you not only were a super-expert on Japanese wrestling but also did outstanding color commentary on some videos.

SWM:  Yes, decades before that Mauro “I SCREAM EVERY FREAKING WORD” Rinaldi and Good Old J.O. were doing it.  We’re talking 1987, back when a future legend on one of the tapes was known as The Just Okay Muta.  In fact, Bam Bam Bigelow And Friends, my unmatched debut, was number one on the sales chart for 27 consecutive weeks, outselling Beverly Hills Cop II and Full Metal Jacket.

Not in the United States, but in Liechtenstein and Inner Mongolia.

In private life

S:  You are known within wrestling as a “master swordsman,” a real panty-dropper with the ladies.  Without going into graphic detail, will you drop a few names?

SWM:  Ever heard of Trish Stratus, Victoria, Alicia Fox, Stacy Keibler, Dixie Carter, Lillian Garcia, Mae Young, and Christy Hemme?

S:  Of course.

SWM:  Well, so have I.  Next question.

S:  That is so cool!!!  Wait, Mae Young?

SWM:  I said “Next question”!

S:  Everyone knows you’re a god, an earthbound deity.  What is your religious affiliation?

SWM:  I’m an atheist…but not practicing.

S:  I understand the Pope (the one in Vatican City, not the horrible TNA commentator) got extremely upset about something you once said.

SWM:  That was when I announced I’m bigger than Jesus Christ.  Jesus couldn’t hold a candle to me.  If he tried, it would fall through the hole in his hand. Can’t understand why the Poop just doesn’t admit it and move on.

The Pope.  Isn’t he the goof who makes decrees about marriage, birth control and sex even though he’s never been on a date?  Hey, that gives him something in common with 90-percent of the wrestling fans!

Word association

S:  I’m going to throw out some names, Perfect Master.  Please supply one-line reactions to each.

Mick Foley

Now dying his beard with chimney soot.

The New Day

When you think of what body part “booty” represents and, in turn, what a booty-O can only be, do you really want to put them in your mouth?

Enzo Amore

Enzo A Moron

Big Cass

Big JackCass

Josh Mathews

The brain of Family Guy’s Chris Griffith and the body of Stewie.  (begins singing) B-b-b-b-b-bah, everybody’s heard about the nerd.  Nerd nerd nerd, nerd is the word.

Ric Flair

He used to raise the bar but now he just runs up a huge tab in it.

Sami Zayn

A fraud.

How do you mean?

He’s supposed to have been the big king of the indies, yet I’ve never once seen him take on El Generico.  Same way that Ricochet is dodging Prince Puma now.

Hulk Hogan

Went from the NWO to the KKK.

Bill Apter

You know that classic Santana song “Oye Como Va”?

Uh-huh.

Apter sings a version called “Oy, my comb-over.”

Golden Truth

Old and Goof

Becky Lynch

Mostly red, not over.

Sasha Banks

Not sure she’s really Snoop’s cousin, but she’s definitely a member of the Dogg family.  More like Sasha Barks!  woof-woof

Public interaction

S:  What would you advise a new wrestler wondering how to treat interaction with the fans?

SWM:  Antibiotics.

S:  What do you think would be the single best course of action when it comes to the so-called Internet Wrestling Community?

SWM:  Nothing a little genocide can’t fix.  One of my current projects is:  I’m putting together video clips of IWC idiots whining like little girls and making utter fools of themselves.  It’s going to be called Bitchamania.

S:  I understand you got tricked into joining one of those Facebook wrestling groups.  What’s your opinion of them?

SWM:  I call it wrestling cosplay.  Bunch of nobodies getting together to fantasize they’re somebodies in wrestling even though they’ve never been involved in it at any level.

“I put out a newsletter with 137 readers 25 years ago. That makes me an expert.” “I’m a wrestling expert, too!  My qualifications are: I run a rinky-dink coffee shop with seven employees and collect potato chips.”

“Gee whiz, that’s so awesome. I would blow Gedo if I was ever in the same room!” “Let’s get together and ridicule every single aspect of Raw each Monday and take cheap shots at TNA all week.  We’re HUGE supporters of wrestling.”

Yeah, that’s really cool, kids.

Of course, Twitter has some real winners, too.  That’s why I only allow a few hundred wrestling fans to Follow me and block the ones who keep bugging me to Follow them back.  Anyone know who this @LanceStorm is?  What a nuisance.

S:  You’ve been known to mock podcasts and…

SWM:  Only the amateur ones, which means nearly all of them.

S:   So, you would do one with Colt Cabana?

SWM:  One thing I really can’t stand is people who use obviously fake names.

 

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.

SS25–Breaking (them) News

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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.

SS21–Wanna See My Twits?

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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 Steph@OPP.com

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.”–CreepyRobLowe@DishNetwork.com

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 Internetdork@nosepicker.net

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.”–CMPunk@WhineAndCheese.com

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.'”–HulkHogan@BS4Life.net

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.

SS19–P.U.S.A.

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Back before cell phones became the norm, every time I rolled someone, I always left them a quarter to call the EMTs. And the time I stuck cousin Gino with an ice pick at my sister’s wedding reception, I offered to let him keep the whole box of Band-Aids. They weren’t mine, but it’s the thought that counts, right?

So, despite what it says on those RICO indictment papers and Megan’s Law posters, it’s not like I lack compassion. Why, I’ve even been known to triple the money thrown at ugly strippers!

[Okay, I use “three-dollar bills” whipped up on my computer printer. Any of those stupid hags catches on, I take five of the bills back and hand her a fifteen.]

Now that weve established I’m a regular Count Compassionate, let me state without any misinterpretation of my demeanor that this Jack Stagger and Mark Heiney warrant no pity following their humiliating TOTAL ANNIHILATION by Rusev.

Imagine how it must have felt–and after all their shameful unsportsmanlike boasting about how they weren’t going to let a highly respected foreign visitor prevail on US soil–facing the hundreds of millions whose fantasies about the American way were forever crushed, leaving them mere husks of their once-proud selves.

Picture all those young brats forced to recite the Pledge Of Allegiance in fascist American schools daily, running into the streets teary-eyed because now the colors of the flag are red, white and blew it. Actually, I like that image, as it’s always been my motto “Children should be seen and slapped briskly.”

Maybe one of these sobbing yoots can answer something puzzling me all along. The American American (translation: loser squared) and the Weapon Of Meal Destruction constantly refer to their America. Umm, exactly to which tribes do these two failures belong? I’ve heard of the Hopi but never the Hopeless Indians.

If anyone genuinely has the right to refer to “their” America, it is noble redskins such as Billy White Wolf and Jay Strongbow. Did you know Strongbow’s great-great-grandfather, Shooting Bull, was responsible for helping General Custer invent the Arrow shirt?

Henry’s DIGRACEFUL LOSS to Rusev may have adjusted his attitude, but I still can’t warm up to the behemoth. Perhaps it’s all in a name.

Marks, as anyone in the profession will privately tell you, tend to be smelly greasy social outcasts hiding in a daydream world where their worthless opinions actually matter and dweebs who have never participated in an activity can declare themselves experts. In fact, whenever I look at–and, of course, down upon–a congregation of wrestling fans, I see little beyond a gaggle of gits who ought to have “MARK” tattooed right across the forehead.

To be fair, they do come in two varieties. Marks who pay for our merch, autographs and Polaroid sessions have always been welcome to approach–as long as they are forking over the cash.

As for the first name of the other flop, I have a bizarre story related to that moniker. Was down my local hangout, giving the video poker machine a whirl. Time after time, I kept getting close to hitting big hands but missing them by a single card.

Finally, I got a 10, Q, K and A of clubs, but the fifth card was a 4 of hearts. Exasperated, I loudly groaned “Damn, I’m one stinking Jack off,” inspiring another regular to reply “You’ve got that right”; and for some peculiar reason, the rest of the crowd started applauding and hooting!

Odd, huh? I make an offhand comment about bad luck, someone agrees, and the natives go wild. Yet when I get up on Karaoke Night to croon love songs dedicated to myself, it’s as though no one ever hears me. But then again, that’s typical Americans for you. Love you one minute, loathe you the next. Disloyal frontrunners jumping from one bandwagon to another with such ferocity you’d think they were part kangaroo.

You want an example? I haven’t bothered to read or watch the news since Uncle Charlie got framed for the mass suicide at Sharon Tate’s mansion, but sometimes I catch snippets while trying to find a decent station on the wireless. Apparently sheeplike Americans have now decided to blame yet another “evil” foreigner for their own shortcomings, some poor guy named Al Kida.

From what I’ve heard, this scapegoat can’t even live in one place, forced to continually relocate due to American military harassment. They’ve sent entire platoons after Mr. Kida, and went so far as to put a contract out on his friend Ben Lodden, just to demoralize Al.

I’ve been moved to stand on my barstool and sob “Why don’t you people leave Al Kida alone?” True to form, the brainwashed always come back with something like “And I guess were supposed to forget 9-1-1.”

Look, I hate ECW mythology more than anyone. However, I’d have no trouble at all forgetting about their big goon IF PEOPLE WOULD STOP CONSTANTLY BRINGING UP HIS NAME!

There they go again, though, trying to change the subject, whining about some retardcore wrestling promotion whose sole claim to fame is being the only mat league in history to kick its own founder to the curb.

It never ceases to amaze me how dimwits like you fall for the phony patriot scam. Did you ever ask yourself, if these grapplers “love their country” so much, how come Duggan, Hogan, Cena, Stagger and the rest of the flag-wavers never spent a minute in the service?

You sure can’t say that about my family. One of my forebears, Benedict Manor, was such a patriot, during the Revolutionary War, he fought for England and the Colonies! (At least until the hanging.)

And what about all my uncles who moved to Canada during the Vietnam era? Although appallingly mislabeled “draft dodgers,” these courageous lads were working undercover, prepared to leap into action should the Viet Cong ever decide to attack the United States from the north. Burning the US flag on television was merely to throw the VC off their scent, that’s all. Same with merchandising toilet paper resembling Old Glory.

As for your narrator, the moment I turned 18, I wrote a letter directly to the President, beaming “You mean I can kill more strangers and actually get PAID for it? Count me in, man!” Never did hear back from the White House. No doubt they must be saving me for some extra-special mission. .

So, you see, I didn’t always “harbor anti-American sentiments,” as it says in my trumped-up FBI record. Sometimes in life you get these moments of clarity, often as uncomplicated as a simple gesture or a phrase. It’s as if a hypnotist snaps his fingers before you, breaking the spell you’ve been under and simultaneously giving you a jolt of energy.

You read about it all the time. Jenny sees a photo of a starving kid, and vows to become a doctor. Channel-surfing Jimmy stumbles upon Kelly Osbourne critiquing someone else’s appearance, and decides never to watch TV again.

For me, the “moment of clarity” regarding the inferiority of puny Americans came in an equally life-altering flash: the first time I got an eyeful of Lana from behind.

Gasping deeply and inhaling feelthy American air, I suddenly realized the wisdom of the great leader Vladimir Putin and superiority of Roosian people. Unlike in United States, where cheeldren stuff themselves with Bairgair King and play thee Playstation all day, my cawmrads in Moscow have yoongsters read boooks and do seet-ups, building brains and bawdies for world domination.

Do not laugh, capitalist swines! Who ees only man ever to peen beeg American hero Bruno Sammartino? Answer ees Ivan Koloff. You go any restaurant in world, they do not have anything called American dressing; all offer glorious Russian instead.

(You take my word. I’ve tossed salads all over globe. Even have people on eenternet and Tweeter inviting me to toss their salads if ever in their seeties!)

Some readers come up to me and say “Stately,”–notice same first three letters as beloved leader Stalin–your Lana lust is getting so carried away, you’re even starting to sound like her.”

And vie not? Lana has greatest bootski from here to planet Uranus! I already foresee wonderful wedding–and even better honeymoon heh heh heh–een Red Square, weeth blooshing bride in tight meeneeskirt pairfectly framing her magneeficent asskovitch and….

What’s that you say? She and Rusev are a couple away from the ring?!?

Ladies and gentlemen, please join me in singing the national anthem of the country I’ve always considered the gosh-darned swellest place on God’s green earth.

O, Canada, our home and native land….

(You were expecting maybe “The Star-Spangled Banner”? Get oat of here.)

SS15–Pity Poor Bully Ray/JR = Just Rotten

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Here’s how a typical Ross blog reads.

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

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

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