SS13–Wedding Party Poopers/Talkin’ Hall, y’all


Ah, Brooke Hogan and Bully Ray, a match made in limbo. After a lengthy one-week engagement, the attention hounds insisted upon a televised wedding in a wrestling ring (how classy), and then Ray got all prissy when this magical moment was interrupted by the nice fellows from Aces And Eights. Well, boo hoo hoo, for you, Bully.

Even though it was the ultimate insult not to invite his brother D-Von, those fine gentlemen were magnanimous enough to put that aside in order to extend an olive branch and promote cooperation and better understanding between their faction and the TNA roster. Then when, swept up by the tenderness of Ray’s touching vows, they enthusiastically dashed to the ring to provide the customary congratulatory “Job well done” pat on the back, the hotheaded groom and buttinski father-in-law dove to the canvas, playing possum, in a disgraceful attempt to make the well-wishers look bad in front of an international audience.

Meanwhile, genetically engineered to attempt to steal the spotlight on every occasion, the blonde bride responded to a group hug by a pair of Acers by flashing her boobies, in order to….okay, I liked that part. Brought back fond memories of Brookie’s “I’m No Longer A Minor, So You Can’t Get Arrested” very private celebration, just the three of us (me, Brooke and her bikini–but not for long) on her dad’s yacht, the S.S. Has-Been. Anyway…

In my role as an award-winning investigative journalist, I did some research into the background of these motorcycle hobbyists, and can assure you no finer human beings walk the face of the Earth.

For example, Masked Guy #3 was valedictorian of his graduating class at Stanford, where he earned his dual doctorate in Humanities and Physics after turning in his thesis “The String Theory And How Quantum Mechanics Can Make Everyone, Like, Real Happy After World Hunger Is Cured By Importing Foodstuff From A Parallel Universe,” scoring extra credit for writing copies in Sanskrit and hieroglyphics.

And Masked Guy We’re Not Supposed To Recognize As Wes Brisco is renowned throughout Parts Unknown for his tireless work with the Muscular Dystrophy Association, for whom he will take over as host of their annual Labor Day telethon, starting in 2014. (Give til it hurts.)

Why, two of the lovable lugs are in the Guinness Book Of World Records for “Helping The Most Old Ladies Across The Street In A Single Day,” after putting in a grueling 24 hours on NYCs celebrated corner of 53rd and 3rd on August 21, 2010, despite the temperature topping out at 97 degrees, certainly not a comfortable environment when wearing leather vests and masks.

What about that headgear? Shy and sensitive, the Aces prefer to perform their countless philanthropic deeds in anonymity, a praiseworthy display of humility TNA goons have ruined for some by thoughtlessly pulling off said masks and depriving several charities of millions. I hope those TNA thugs are proud of themselves.

Now, as for DOC wielding a hammer, that is because, as a deeply religious man, he strives to take after Joseph, Jesus’ father and a carpenter, the hammer symbolic of DOC’s faith. Although the microphone “mysteriously” failed to pick up the conversation that time DOC tapped Sting’s hands, the former was exalting Paint Puss to “cast aside thine black baseball bat, for it is a tool of the devil,” a direct quote from Scriptures.

Therefore, to speak ill of the right reverend DOC is to say “I hate Jesus Christ and everything he stands for,” you hellbound heathens! Are you listening, Tenay?

NOT THAT I have anything personal against Mick Foney, er, Foley, but making him the first selection for the 2013 WWE Hall Of Fame was an outrage, even if they chose this year to induct him because the NY-area locale meant he’d have a lot less of a distance to hitchhike to the auditorium.

(I just wonder how much dumpster-diving behind tuxedo factories hes going to have to do to find one in checkerboard flannel.)

If we pretend Dude Love never surfaced, the Mickster most certainly had a fine career, after meeting me and being inspired to learn the English language. Nonetheless, there are several ring gladiators who, though undoubtedly snubbed due to envy and bias, deserved to be Hall-inducted before anyone else went in.

Where, for instance, is the love for Bastion Booger? This finely tuned athlete, known for his remarkable natural physique in an era when even the ring announcers were steroid studs, clearly inspired an entire generation to follow his strict dietary regimen and unique training system.

Oh, yeah, I can already hear the know-nothings scoff after looking up a photo of Double-B and passing judgment on a man’s entire career based on one picture. For those who have the gall to question my above statement, let me ask this: If Bastion, as you ignorantly claim, didn’t “inspire an entire generation,” then how come at least 35 percent of all patrons grazing in any shopping mall in the U.S. are built MUCH more like Mr. Booger than like Mr. America?

Then there is Mantaur. In this case, I encourage you to seek out a photo–in order to discover what’s only The Best Gimmick Ever. Please be forewarned: Manny’s menacing headgear may be too nerve-rattling for those prone to nightmares and anyone with a neurological disorder. Insult your physician before gazing upon any image of this highly intimidating beast.

I am willing to wager the true reason ‘Taur has been snubbed annually is: Vince McMahon and the other sissies on the nomination committee are petrified in terror over the prospect of once again staring directly into Mantaur’s soul-etching eyes. And don’t give me any lip about Hall-worthy statistics. Unlike Cena, Undertaker, HBK and similar so-called icons, Mantaur has not lost a pro wrestling match in over ten years! Is he the man? Why, look at the first three letters of his name!!!

Since they’re going with a Northeast/Big Apple theme, it should be pointed out that Wrestling World, as well as several second-rate mat magazines, was rooted in Manhattan, and only one man’s photo and work was featured in every single issue during the last 17 years of its historic existence. He’s also the only person to appear in every issue of Europe’s Power Slam magazine for the past 19 years.

No, it’s not Hulk Hogan, Ric Flair or anyone else in the WWE Hall. The unequaled giant to whom I refer is Stately Wayne Manor, a remarkable he-man I have come to deeply respect for relying on his incredible insight and wit rather than his supermodel looks and astounding personal magnetism.

Yes, before there was a WWE Hall Of Fame, WCW, TNA, Monday Night Raw or Smackdown, there was SWManor, courageously informing a none-too-bright public (that would be you) they are wrong about everything and hopelessly flawed, pathetic creatures whose only chance, remote though it may be, to have even the tiniest shred of hope in their otherwise worthless lives would be to genuflect before their master and accept the superiority that is Manormania.

Yet, for Italian-American Stately generously performing this outstanding public service no matter how poorly an association with you cretinous slobs negatively reflects upon his image of supreme coolness, not once has the Hall hierarchy begged him to bring a much-needed touch of class to their ceremony by lowering himself to share the stage with a bunch of also-rans like Bret Hart and The cRock!

Bruno Sammartino, Italian-American, not in; Domenic Denucci, Italian-American, not in; Salvatore Bellomo, Italian-American, not in; Rico Constantino, Italian-American, not in; Madusa Miceli, Italian-American, not in: Does anyone NOT see what’s going on here? Sure, theyll let Mongolians such as Gorilla Monsoon and Indians like Jay Strongbow join the ranks, but you know the number of goombas they’ve saluted from 1997 to today?

Two–Don Muraco and Ted DiBiase. (The talented one, not the son.)

Thats right, Pete Rose, Bob Uecker and something called a Drew Carey were enshrined, yet despite what Italian-Americans have contributed to the profession in terms of performances and ensuring none of the WWE trucks gets hijacked, a sole pair of paisans was hailed over the past 16 years.

This is how they repay Chef Boyardee for all those years of sponsorship? Madone!

SS9–When STFs Meet STDs


Shocking but true, porn star Hulk Hogan has done something right. Taking a break from praying his taller daughter–oh, wait, that’s his latest wife–believes his home-video career took place before they met, the Smutster vowed to drastically improve TNA now that he has power within the organization, seeing how he never had any stroke there before, even when Immortal took control of the company and caused most of the problems he’s vowed to fix.

At first I thought, “Hogan’s going to make TNA immeasurably better? When did he resign?” But, no, wrestling couldn’t get the break it’s been begging for for the past 20 years. Hogan’s sticking around, helping his prior wife afford (via alimony) her countrywide tour of prep schools in search of a new boyfriend. Who knows, maybe this time she’ll land one who doesn’t look like a member of a Lynyrd Skynyrd tribute band.

Anyway, when Hulk isn’t tied up scripting his next skin-flick ventures, Pet My Python, Patti and Say Your Prayers She Doesn’t Have A Disease, he’s been busy taking sole credit for all of TNA’s revamping. And why not? The man who has constantly told us how he easily pressed Andre The Giant overhead a dozen times before slamming him in front of 297,000 fans at the Pontiac Dome while accepting a belated Congressional Medal Of Honor for single-handedly winning the Vietnam War would never fib to the public.

First, he secured employment for the only member of his family who does not have a lawyer on speed-dial, beautiful Brooke. Okay, so her “singing” voice resembles the sound of a rusty outboard motor running over a chalkboard; but have you seen the gams on that gamine? Besides, when a broad flaps her gums, you should only nod your head so she thinks you’re listening, when what you are really up to is checking her rack. Am I right, fellas?

Though Brooke will never live up to the astronomical standards set by her predecessor Karen Jarrett, I’m all for her joining the TNA team. Nonetheless, this hire was not her pop’s primo improvement. CONvincing Spike to broadcast Impact live was.

Why? Because live TV means no edits when one of the Knockouts falls out of her gear or is positioned whereby her legs are spread wide enough to “air her differences,” if you know what I mean. Now that’s what I call sports entertainment!

Besides, it gives the division’s biggest sluts a chance to compile an audition tape in hopes of breaking into Hulk’s other profession. Who knows, with the kind of exposure I’m anticipating, perhaps we’ll someday see the triumphant release of Velvet Sky Marshall: Fun In The Cockpit, Tessmacher Does Texas and Mickie Likes A Quickie.

(Personally, I’m hoping to costar in Play Christy For Me and Drilling Miss Dixie.)

If nothing else, you can rest assured that the guaranteed success of the Manor On Madison instructional series won’t inspire either of us to run off to Hollywood for seven years, promise never to go away again and then disappear right after collecting our big paycheck. (If you can smellllll who this rocker’s dissing.) And let’s face it, whatever Hulk-related vehicle surfaces next in his Boffin’ Brunettes series, it’s gotta be better than Suburban Commando.

Slim pickings on the WWE front as far as mamas we’d all like to see have an onscreen malfunction at the wardrobe junction. The lone exceptions are Naomi of the perfect posterior and that other sweet sista shaking her gluteus besides Brodus. (And may I remind those luscious ladies “Once you go Italian, you’ll never go Australian.”)

The bountifully-bootied Naomi was a pro dancer before signing on with WWE, excelled on NXT and got “rewarded” with a spot wiggling her torrid tail feathers next to a docked blimp. What a priceless message our industry is sending out to impressionable pubescent girls: Forget college and all that other crap; if you work on your flexibility and sculpt your bod so you’ll look scorching in tights, you too could someday be one step away from having your very own pole at a gentleman’s club near the airport.

This may sound a bit corny but, at times, I get choked up with pride, seeing what a positive influence professional wrestling has on the youth of America. Schoolgirls drinking lots of soda then jumping up and down so they too can have a flatulence problem just like Natalya; or sitting on Santa’s lap and, when asked what they’d like for Xmas, replying “I want a big honkin’ boob job, player.”

And let’s not forget the young lads, learning early that it’s not about acquiring any particular skills, it’s all about how you look–and you will never amount to anything if you’re not at least six-foot and 220. In ninth grade, but skinny and only 5’1”? May as well lay on some railroad tracks and help clear the way for the boys who deserve to succeed.

I only hope kids worldwide are doing their best to emulate Bully Ray, the pride of New Yawk. Wisely dumping a long-term partner when they are no longer useful, the man can teach the little ones proper techniques that will be invaluable to them throughout their lifetimes. Important guidance such as the appropriate application of a sucker punch to the belly, the best strategies for hitting someone from behind with a chain, and how to effectively run away any time one of those pesky challenge things comes along.

Youngsters, you will never learn vital life lessons like these by reading books instead of hanging on the corner. How will you ever polish up your aim for throwing empty beer bottles at passing vehicles if you wasted your free time doing math homework?

Why, if I didn’t use fake names with all the tramps I knocked up, so they could never track me down for child support, I’d gather up my brood and order them to be just like Bully Ray. (After all, the filthy bastards have no chance of turning out as great as their father.)

SS7–A Family’s Shame/A Quiz From A Wiz


In friendly Philadelphia, way back, when a “political radical” named Milton Street was making a lot of noise, blue-collar construction-worker types wore T-shirts and badges reading “Pave Milton Street.” About a half-mile from the Stately Estate exists a Garrett Road.

With that in mind, I propose combining the above with a current development, creating a rally to “Pave Garrett Bischoff.”

What can you say about a punk who spends more time topless than Velvet Sky in her day job (Oh, you didn’t know?)…other than “Would you please buy a goddamn shirt?”?

Yes, this goofus has the audacity to strut around bare-chested in the same locker area as Sensitive Scott Steiner–and not even realize how utterly ridiculous he looks. So, what does that tell you about the boy’s grasp on reality? Hell, I’ve seen better-constructed chests holding sunken treasure. Plus, the guys’ got more grease in his hair than a cross-eyed Jiffy Lube worker! And where did he get those sideburns, rob a grave at Graceland?

Well, at least the twit lives up to his initials–G.B. truly is a Gas Bag. Garbage, er, Garrett claims he wants to be a wrestler; yet, for guidance, he opts for that noted athlete known throughout the cosmos for his unmatched versatility, breathtaking aerials and legendary matwork…HULK HOGAN??? That’s like going to a camel jockey for swimming lessons!!!

Let’s see, Garrett, you want to find a quality instructor with an extraordinary record in that regard; so you turn to the man who taught Nick Hogan how to drive. Absolutely brilliant. It’s just too bad Jeffrey Dahmer’s not still around to offer you cooking classes. While you’re at it, maybe you can consult Kim Kardashian on wedding planning.

Of course, the true tragedy here is the disgrace Garrett brings to the noble Bischoff name. As everyone knows, “Eric Bischoff” is synonymous with integrity, patience, tolerance and humility, everything that goes into making an ideal parent. I know this for a fact, because he’s told me repeatedly over the years.

[Yeah, the man is constantly phoning or dropping those Thinking Of You cards with personalized notes, thanking me for the years of critiques and suggestions, and seeking advice and life lessons in general. In all candor, the fawning can get a little embarrassing at times.]

Despite everything Eric has done to set a fine example for any growing lad, how has his son repaid him? First, by humiliating his entire lineage by becoming a referee, the most shameful job this side of the landscaping crew that is recruited to trim Triple-H’s nose hair. Then, Garrett has the gall not only to refuse to be a good son and double-cross Sting at Bound For Glory, but also to befriend Hulk Hohum.

Look, I can see pretending to respect Hogan as an angle to get a shot at tapping Brooke (another one constantly phoning me and mailing gifts.) However, this turncoat seems to actually admire the balding buffoon–even more than his own dad.

I ask you, how can anyone with a lick of sense like someone better than they do Ethical Eric Bischoff?

Eric, it’s time you took care of something you’ve put off for a long time due to your compassionate nature. Drag the brat into the Impact Zone ring, pull out those papers you’ve kept hidden all these years, reveal that Garrett is in fact adopted, disown him on the spot and demand a refund from the adoption agency.

Oh, and then KO the kid, bring in a tattoo artist and have him print “Jack” over the first five letters of the traitors “Bischoff” tat.

(I’ll pause for a moment for the stupider readers to figure that last bit out. “Durrr, J-A-C-K-O-F-F…oh, now I get it.”)

Part Two: The Larch

The typical wrestling fan probably hasn’t taken a multiple-choice test since flunking out of fourth grade. Tough. Here’s another one to spellbind your mind.

1. When I watched him on Celebrity Wife Swap, I wished Mick Foley would have:

a) shown his nifty eight-track tape collection.

b) shown the collection of gold bars stored in his massive vault.

c) dropped an elbow on Mrs. Sabato.

d) participated in Celebrity Wardrobe Swap.

2. I’m a fan of Eric Young because:

a) I dig that lumberjack beard.

b) His comedic genius rivals that of Rob Schneider.

c) I too have a crush on ODB.

d) I too am considered “mentally challenged.”

3. I miss Jesse Neal because:

a) He’s the only person who can make Shannon Moore look good by comparison.

b) I had a Mohawk back in 1978, when it was cool.

c) I don’t like my tax dollars going towards his food stamps.

d) Jesse who?

4. If I were Rey Misterio, I’d:

a) get another injury that would miraculously heal in time for Wrestlemania.

b) remove my mask and show the girls what a cutie I am.

c) remove my mask and show the girls why I wear one in the first place

d) do a picture-perfect springboard plancha–into the Grand Canyon.

5. When John Cena claims “You can’t see me,” I:

a) wave a hand in front of my face like an imbecile.

b) develop a sudden hunger for Fruity Pebbles.

c) ask my mom what is meant by “lady parts.”

d) thank the Lord for small favors.

6. If Stu Hart were to step in the ring today:

a) He would school three-quarters of the current wrestlers.

b) He wouldn’t do that well against today’s superstars.

c) It would be neat to see him screw Bret in Montreal.

d) I’d scream, “Jesus Christ, it’s a friggin’ zombie attack!!!!”

7. I wish Jim Ross would come back, because:

a) I never tire of hearing about Oklahoma athletics.

b) it’s always fun to hear someone beat a catchphrase to death.

c) it might get him to quit blogging.

d) the wrestling business just doesn’t have enough quality rappers.

8. What common phrase does Cody Rhodes most despise?

a) Beauty is only skin deep.

b) The check is in the mail.

c) Best wishes on future endeavors.

d) Who’s your daddy?

9. My favorite move is:

a) the tombstone piledriver.

b) the 450 splash.

c) the quebrada

d) heading to the snack bar as soon as I hear RVD’s entrance music.

10. CM Punk’s 2012 goal should be:

a) getting those ice cream bars in 7-11.

b) admitting ringer-style T-shirts are for dorks.

c) actually making any of those changes he promised back in June, 2011

d) reprise the “I’m leaving wrestling” angle…and never come back!!!

BONUS ROUND My personal greatest moment in wrestling is:

a) getting Howard Finkel’s autograph.

b) having dinner with the Bushwackers.

c) winning tickets to the 27th Final ECW Reunion.

d) winning an eBay auction of Christy Hemme’s panties.

(Can you believe Christy pulls down $27 for those things? To make up for the expense, I had to go a full week without …er, I mean, this friend of mine had to…oh, never mind.)