SS56—Mat This ‘n’ That/I’m Back, Jack

To the tearful dismay of the masses, it’s been quite some time since Wrestling’s Only Unbiased Columnist posted a fresh Stately States.  Rejoice, girls and buoys, I have returned, to once again be The Rage Of The Digital Page.

I was going to continue last column’s theme, explaining how self-described “REAL Wrestling Fans” are less useful than sunscreen on a scuba diver, and such imbeciles they think a salad bar is where lettuce goes to get drunk and fishcake is what they serve on birthdays at Sea World.

But since there’s so much to cover, I’m going to opt for something I used to do in my Power Slam column, stringing together brief thoughts on recent developments.

For the unaware, PS was published in England from 1994 to 2014, I being the only member of the writing staff onboard for the full 20 years, penning Manor’s Mat Musings.   This is not to be confused with the newish UK mag wherein Mat Musings was STOLEN, its far-inferior author and gutless publisher rudely ignoring my inquiries about the blatant rip-off—twice.

Accept no substitutes.

First, a quick quiz:

Who are The. Worst. Fans. Ever?  You make the call.

A.  Doesn’t live-tweet a single sporting event the rest of the week but will do so when a certain wrestling show is in progress to “subtly” prove he’s not watching it.

B,  Constantly opines “The WWE’s current product is abysmal,” brings it up daily, then one day casually notes “I haven’t watched it in ten years.”  (Probably lying, anyway.) 

C,  The malcontent who rips on WWE non-stop but has a podcast or YouTube show solely dependent upon viewing content on—where else?—the WWE Network.

Now, onto the ramblings.

If Chris Jericho came down the aisle with Ralphus now, could anyone tell them apart?  Defeating Jerko in that champagne pool match has done wonders for Orange Julius, er, Cassidy.  Now when they say “He sells a lot of T-shirts,” it means he’s working at the merch table….Where are all the “Ronda didn’t pay any dues” moaners when it comes to Dominik Mysterio?  I’m waiting for Rey’s daughter to begin wrestling so I can claim “She moves in Mysterio ways.”  Because I’m a freaking genius….The makeover has exposed that Ruby is much hotter than Sasha WHO IS MARRIED AND WILL NEVER GET WITH YOU, SO QUIT DROOLING OVER HER, LOSER….Must be exciting being a fresh team in AEW.  You get the biggest hype imaginable, for four straight weeks—before losing to the Bucks and getting relegated to midcard limbo.  Which has happened to EVERY SINGLE TEAM.

Let me see if I have all this straight.  Certain championship matches every few months require a contract signing but all the other matches don’t.  Those in certain sensitive circles get upset when someone uses “IWC” to describe them.  All the while calling themselves the Wrestling Community.  Which is what the “WC” in “IWC” represents.  Tony Khan’d playing a rich creep on “purchased” Impact time does not contradict the whole “He will never play a character on television” because it’s on Impact rather than Dynamite.  And people gleefully paid to see Joey Ryan have others fondle his junk (and encouraged more of such antics) yet allegedly never suspected the man is a little odd.  Enablers turned virtue signalers sure like to play dumb.

Isn’t it odd how Zelina Vega never expressed a single care about a wrestlers’ union until she got fired?  Weird coincidence, huh?…It says a lot about fraud Josh Matthews when being replaced by Matt Striker is considered an upgrade…. Reby Hardy has many important connections.  Perhaps one day she’ll introduce Matt to hair conditioner….I hear Shayna Baszler is determined to lick every woman in the WWE locker room.  Even if it means hopping on them in the showers!  Some aren’t going to take that lying down….Did you know, on Halloween 2019, Micro Stunt trick-or-treated in a suit of armor, but people kept mistaking him for a fire hydrant?…Unconfirmed, but I’m hearing reports that there was one 24-hour period in which Jim Ross didn’t release a public statement concerning the opinion or history of Jim Ross….Gary Heltz of Pine Bluff, Arkansas, will be missing 205 Live next week.  There goes half their viewership.

All these weeks with Smackdown not having a live audience.  A shame they didn’t also go without a live color commentator….Ever notice Tom Phillips has the same initials as “toilet paper”?  That may be why Samoa Joe told me Phillips is an asswipe….The Grizzled Young Veterans keep the company’s streak going—the streak of Worst Ring Names Ever.  Empress Of Tomorrow, Forgotten Sons, Genius Of The Sky, Archer Of Infamy, Authors Of Pain:  Will whichever comic-book nerd who came up with this dross please explain to me how an era can be “undisputed”?… Mia Jax yells “My hole,” and is instantly transformed into the darling of the IWC—who had ripped her mercilessly since about nine minutes after her debut.  Then again, for 83 percent of those gits, it was the first—and last—time they ever heard a woman reference an orifice below the waist….”Elimination Chamber” sounds like something NASA came up with to name a space station toilet.

If you’re wondering where Jimmy Uso has been, he’s opened a driving school with Jeff Hardy and Nick Hogan.  Putting the “high” in “highway”….I’m delighted to see Naomi’s back.  She looks great from that angle….Hearing rumors about an all- Lana-fan cable channel.  Instead of “television,” it’s going to be called “Incelevision”….Taz’s “wearing shades inside” thing is really cool—if it’s 1967 and you’re the lead singer of Steppenwolf….I am looking forward to the Impact episode in which Tommy Dreamer performs a teary retirement speech.  I bet it will be better than the 47 he’s done before.

Okay, that’s enough.

If you love this column, signify by purchasing two cups at https://ko-fi.com/manormania

If you hate this column, signify by purchasing three cups at https://ko-fi.com/manormania

…although you’re probably too cheap to do either.

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.

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 16^th 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.)

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.

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.

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.

 

SS33–R.I.P., Noble Amigo

There have been several tragedies—fatal ones, at that—in the annals of professional wrestling, from the unsolved mystery surrounding the death of Katie Vick to the catastrophic accident forcing the WWF to replace the late Howard Finkel with an imposter in 1997.

But none has been more heartrending than the one televised on July 5, 2016 and forever etched in the souls of viewers.  For, on that fateful night, the world lost a valiant hero, slain while courageously coming to the rescue of his superior.

Rest in peace, Senor Benjamin, rest in peace.

By the time most of you read this, my petition to the North Caroline grand jury—to have Jeff Hardy executed for jabbing Senor Benjamin with a poisoned dart—will be in full motion. Nonetheless, taking one worthless life will never make up for what Jeff Hardy took from the world.

 

Senor Benjamin did not have an easy road to immortality.  Apropos for a humble man, he had humble beginnings.  Senor’s father, Manuel, was a waiter in a second-rate British hotel called Fawlty Towers, a stranger in a strange land, with only his pet hamster Basil to keep him company.  The boy’s mother abandoned the family when Manuel was three months pregnant with Senor Benjamin and his twin brother Benjamin Senor, to star in a short-lived Galavision telenovella Los Amore Terminato about an extremely friendly cyborg from the future.

Senor Benjamin kicked around his hometown of Barcelona, going through a string of unrewarding jobs to ward off starvation.  Spare-tire inflator at a bus factory, glockenspiel player in the band Punk Floyd, postage stamp licker for a man with no tongue, door-to-door bowling ball hole driller, freelance bicycle seat leveler—none of these producing an ounce of personal satisfaction.  Yet, being the man among men he was, Senor Benjamin soldiered on and, unlike Internet Wrestling Community crybabies, never once complained.

Finally, Senorita Luck smiled briefly upon our hero, rewarding him with a World Championship Wrestling contract, where he performed under the name Juventud Guerrero, alongside his cousins Eddie, Vickie and Chico.  Senor Benjamin even managed to get his brother Benjamin Senor a vital role within the company:  official piano tuner for The Maestro!

Ah, but although “Juventud” earned a respectable sum of dinero during his WCW run, he ultimately ended up penniless.  According to partially censored legal documents, the luchadore was persuaded to invest his entire savings in Weaselco, a non-existent corporation operated by a man partially identified as B—- “The Brain” H—–, who used the funds to import a gorilla from Mongolia.

(Interpol is still hoping to interview the gorilla and has learned he is traveling under the assumed name Occipital Protuberence.)

 

Senor Benjamin’s WCW stint qualified him to join the Professional Wrestlers Union and remain a member well after his retirement from the ring.  During a meeting to discuss changes in the union’s billion-dollar pension fund, SB had the encounter that would change his life forever.  He would meet one Matthew Bartholomew Hardly III.

Always a sensitive, giving person, Matthew sympathized with the plight of the destitute gentleman, recalling the dark days when he himself had less than ten million in the bank.  Without giving it a second thought, the Broken One reached into his pocket and handed the sad-faced Latino an application to work at Matticello, Mister Hardy’s North Carolina estate.

As professional wrestling’s only REAL journalist, I interviewed Senor Benjamin just two days prior to his assassination at the hands of the coward Jeff Hardy.  Here’s what he had to tell me.

“When I first came here, El Jefe, he said to me ‘Someday, this may all be yours’,” pointing to a weed whacker and a slightly rusty shovel.  Wiping a tear of joy from his left eye, Senor Benjamin continued.

“Senor Matthew, he is the wonderful fellow.  He only charges me $200 a week to work here, and even pays for half of the gas in the lawn mower.

“I have a very comfortable room above the garage, although she does smell funny sometimes when the boss starts up all his cars each week to charge the batteries.  One time, Senor Matthew, he even let me drive the older Bentley from the garage to the front door after I finished polishing the rest of them!”

 

By now, you’ve all seen the Oscar-nominated documentary Final Deletion and witnessed first-hand how Senor Benjamin selflessly rushed to the aid of his imperiled employer, only to be murdered by Deleted Hardy, who would also attempt to slay his own brother by diving onto him from a 50-foot-high tree branch.

In a further deplorable development, the sicko desecrated Senor Benjamin’s lifeless body by stripping him naked and, even worse, garbing him in a Willow costume!

What kind of pervert callously snuffs out the life of a well-meaning bystander then defiles his corpse?  I’ll tell you what kind:  one who should be executed AT ONCE!!!

Ordinarily, I’d recommend putting Jefferson Hardy in a hot-air balloon and tossing him overboard at a deadly height.  But this homicidal maniac enjoys getting high and most certainly does not deserve any final reward.

I say he should be put in a dilapidated boat, dropped in the middle of the Bering Sea and buzzed by a dozen drones with holograms shouting “Murderer!” for an hour before they sweep in to gang-taze the repulsive reprobate to death.

While it’s common knowledge I have stated “typical wrestling fans possess the mental capacity of a jellyfish swimming in a tankful of vodka,” PLEASE, just this once, join me in insisting that Deleted Hardy be immediately brought to justice.

Don’t do it for my sake.  Do it to honor the memory of noble Senor Benjamin.  #SenorLivesMatter

 

Now, I’ve heard from some who, unable to cope with the heartache, erroneously believe Senor Benjamin to be still among us, even citing recent tweets as “evidence.”  I’m going to let you in on a little secret, brothers and sisters.  And remember, you’re reading it online, so it must be true.

Being a compassionate individual deeply concerned about public morale, Broken Matthew has generously allowed Senor Benjamin’s twin brother to replace his fallen sibling—thus the Twitter handle @BenjaminSenor—and to merchandise T-shirt in order to raise funds for the Senor Benjamin Memorial Library and the installation of a second eternal flame in Arlington National Cemetery, beside Senor Benjamin’s resting place.

Alas, Senor Benjamin is gone.  But he will nevah evah be forgotten.

 

SS17–Wyatt confounds me/An Angle For Angle

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Greetings, Kurt:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*How many fingers am I holding up?

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

SS12–A Heartfelt Message

I see these public proclamations all over the internet and on arena signs. “Get well, Jerry” “Bless you, King” “We (Heart) Lawler” and so on. Well, I’ve got a three-word reaction, too: What A Slacker.

I’ll have you know I had a very serious manicure mishap in early July, cutting the flesh of my right middle-finger and making a mess out of the nail. Do you have any idea how painful it is to constantly type “I” with such a traumatic injury? Or to move a Chinga piece at a wild shindig where girls might show up later?

Nonetheless, I courageously soldiered on, and delivered that month’s Stately States only one week late. Yet Jerry Lawler suffers one measly heart attack and the malingerer decides it’s better to stretch out in a comfy hospital bed than return to work!

Having seen hundreds of General Hospital episodes, that practically makes me a doctor. And as such, Dr. Manor’s “prescription” is the same as the instruction my Little League coach Mario O’Riley gave when I got hit with a bouncer to my nether region: “Get up and walk it off, son.” Furthermore, noting the great shape boxers are in, I recommend lots of rope-jumping to those who just keeled over from a cardiac.

(Not recommended for men suffering from menstrual cramps, the recently buried or those who can’t pay me fees. If an election should occur and last over four hours, call a senator.)

Among the many other things I excel at, there’s drumming. Now, I’ve awoken plenty of times, right thumb scratched up from passing out with the remote in that hand and a severely sore left wrist–never you mind why–but you never hear me whining “I can’t play In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida tonight” or “Bartender, this bottle is too heavy to lift.”

In my view, Lawler and everyone else who has one of those pesky little cardiac arrests should do what I always do to rebound from a wrist injury: throw down a double of Jack Daniels, light up a Marlboro and suck it up. Then, after you’ve followed this regimen four or five times, if the drive-through window is still open, grab a couple of double-cheeseburgers and large fries.

Be sure to order the Diet Coke, though. The skank working the window might be hot, so you want to impress upon her that you take care of your body. That way, when you “happen to be passing by” when her shift ends, you can offer the ho a ride and see how she handles Whoppers while off-duty, if you know what I mean, heh heh heh.

(Of course, you never use your real name. I usually introduce myself as Jim Hellwig or Terry Bollea in case the pig calls the cops because she got bruised when I shoved her out of the moving car near a bus stop instead of driving her home.

Ladies, don’t hate. At least I dump the bitches at a bus stop, and there’s a good 40% chance they won’t get robbed before the first bus of the day arrives three hours later. I’m considerate like that.)

Anyway, getting back to the Lawler situation, frankly, I think it is a disgrace what some people will do to “trend” on Twitter these days. Okay, yes, I tweet my own name every eight seconds during off-peak hours so “Stately Wayne Manor” will trend. That is strictly to promote my newest business venture, Breaking The Habit.

You see, for a small fee, a woman will show up at your door, in a nun’s outfit, strip down to her headgear and perform all sorts of “disciplinary tasks.” The brochure is viewable on my website, so be sure to check it out.

Unless you’re from the Vice Squad.

Cracked…or maybe I shouldn’t use the syllable “crack” around these two, lest they attempt to smoke this page…Broke me up to see Rob Van Dam and Jeff Hardy heavily featured in the Bound For Glory series. I never realized High Times sponsored wrestling tournaments!

Imagine how low these two would have finished in the BFG rankings if, instead of beating opponents to earn points, you had to pass a blood test. They’d be the first guys in mat tourney history to score negative numbers.

I can see this pair forming a tag tandem, “Better Living Through Chemistry” emblazoned on their ring jackets. You’ve got RVD, a Cali kook who’s handled more grass than the groundskeeper at Augusta Country Club. And Jeff Hardy, who once saw an ad reading “Hormel hash, $3.49,” so he camped out in the Pathmark parking lot at two a.m., waiting for the store to open and to ask if the hash came with a pipe.

The manager told me Jeff was very disappointed when told what was in the Hormel packages “but he really perked up when I told him we have pot pies.”

Yes, life is full of disappointments for the pony-tailed pair. Like when they went to the retro cinema because the marquee offered Crank, Speed and Reds. Or the time they got jobs at the Dip N Strip furniture-finish-removal shop, after the owner explained, ‘We get a drum full of fresh acid every day.”

Then there was the incident when they saw the sign outside the corporate headquarters and started digging up the lawn because they thought “Pillsbury” was like an Easter egg hunt for seconals. And of course the embarrassing occurrence in which the landscaper they were temping for asked, “Why haven’t you bagged that weed yet?” and Van Dumb absent-mindedly replied, “Chill, dude, I have to go to my car trunk to get the scale.”

It’s a damn shame Vince McMahon owns the rights to the old AWA names and plans on using a specific one on the combo of Evan Bourne and Rey Midgetstereo; because, otherwise, Hardy and RVD would be an ideal team to label The High Flyers. Hmm, maybe they can use The Mile-High Club or go heel as The Grim Reefers. Too bad The Doobie Brothers is already trademarked. Then again, there’s always Bong Jovi.

I can see them now, the only team to wrestle in hemp tights. RVD lands his frog splash, renamed the Munchie Crunchie, then Jeff climbs the opposite corner. Up up up he goes–then can’t remember why.

Turns out he’s not the legal man, anyway. Rob never tagged him before leaving the ring to go hit the burrito stand. Of course Hardy doesn’t care all that much. While still standing on the top turnbuckle, he’s lost in playing air guitar to the Grateful Dead’s “Casey Jones,” the lyrics of which he recently had tattooed inside his left eyelid.

In fact, after administrating the ten-count to DQ the pair, the only way the ref can get Jeff down from his perch is to wave a lava lamp at him after placing a Bob Marley statue in the center of the ring. (Hardy: Whoa, is that, like, my dad?)

I know what some of you are thinking. “That’s awfully harsh and unfair. Jeff went to detox last year.” But I also know pot is addictive, being familiar with the roommate of a guy who tried marijuana in college, and the sap got so hooked, he intentionally moved to Colorado…and liked it!

So don’t tell me I’m going rough on Mr. Hardly and the other goofus. Why, I’d go severely harsh on the evils of drug abuse, if I weren’t so heavily sedated.

SS2–More To Adore

Let me see if I’ve got this straight: Good old Jelly Rump (that is, what JR stands for, right?) called Kharma “fat”…then claimed he didn’t. And the guy who broke his hand the first time he tried throwing a punch (when he backjumped Cole) went around for years appraising ring skills and telling people they were out of shape. Isn’t that like dispatching Larry The Cable Guy to be a judge on Project Runway?

(For the sake of wrestling fans who didn’t “get” that, Runway is a TV contest wherein twits design fashionable clothing. You’re probably unfamiliar, due to, instead, checking out which of your relatives is being chased by Dog the bounty hunter, but I’m sure you can google and get a peek that way. I don’t mean a glimpse of Runway, I mean your first look at fashionable clothing.)

JR, who never met a meal he didn’t like, reminds me of a second WWE Hall Of Famer constantly blubbering about his Southern roots and not realizing that’s like being proud of your kiddie porn collection: Dusty Rhodes, another roly-poly hillbilly in love with the sound of his own voice. Want to stop illegal immigration? Forget electrified fences. Just post some Dusty Rhodes pictures in Tijuana, with the caption “This is the American Dream”!!!

Hell, post a few of those signs on our side off the boundary, and the Mexican authorities will be the ones complaining about people trying to sneak over the border into their country!

Everyone knows Rhodes did two positive things in his entire career: father Cody and retire. Remember when Dusty was running around in those polka dot tights? Looked like a grown man who got his ass stuck in one of those inflatable kid’s pools. Young impressionable Cody grew up with this image of his father and with Goldust as his brother…yet people wonder why he’s self-conscious about his appearance and handing out paper sacks to ringsiders. Amazing.

(Speaking of old bags, how’s your mama?)

I heard the rumors but had to investigate the story myself, due to being a real journalist who went to college and everything, not just some boob with a blog. Having done my research, I would like to formally confirm the rumors that Edge has indeed hung up his boots. Was wondering why I was suddenly able to remain awake throughout Smackdown, and no longer having dizzy spells afterwards.

Say what? That was when? Well, if you want to be technical about it, Canada’s Least Exciting Export–which is REALLY saying something, considering that country is the dullard capitol of the Western World–retired from wrestling in 2009; he just didn’t stop showing up for matches.

Since the 2010 return from his annual injury, Edge–how should I delicately put this?–blew. However, the Rated-Snore Superbore did provide one service that deserves recognition: he made it abundantly clear va-va-voom Vickie was carrying him the whole time he was hot.

Admit it, if someday you get your first kiss (that is, one you didn’t have to pay cash for), you’ll be fantasizing the entire time that it’s Vickie on your lips and not the sad sack forced to pucker up as part of a Community Service sentence from a sadistic judge. Not that you’d have a chance with Vic, but the heavenly Hispanic honey follows an exhausting schedule of excusing people and thus does spends a lot of time on the road. That’s not to be confused with Eve Torres, who spends a lot of time on men’s laps.

Oh, you didn’t know? Yeah, ask any of the guys; they’ll tell you Eve has more experience in laps than Tony Stewart.

(Got excited over that NASCAR reference, did you? Great–now, let me ask you another question: How long have you been married to your cousin?)

I was once offered a job managing an amusement center owned by a confused foreigner. I remember our conversation to clear up the matter, with me going “No, no, no, Habib, you misunderstood me. I’m not an expert on trampolines. I said, because I’ve covered Eve’s career, I’m very familiar with tramps!”

Then again, from what Alicia Fox told me about that woman (Al calls her “Whore-ezz”), Eve has personally thrilled more men than the roller coaster at Six Flags, so maybe I should have brought her in as a ride. After all, it saves Easy Eve the usual hassle of having to travel all the way down to the naval base each weekend. And, technically speaking, the way her matches usually end, it’s not like she’s unfamiliar with winding up on her back for bucks.

I see Mutt and Jeff, er, Matt and Jeff Hardly are up to more of their usual brand of high-jinx–accent on the first syllable. (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fHHCsRtr0yY) Here’s something I bet no one said after witnessing the vid clip of Jeff tazing Matt’s MENSA-president girlfriend: “I wonder if either of those guys knows where she can get some painkillers?”

I understand the chick is one of those “actress-model” types. Makes her perfect to join Josh Mathews in the remake of The Wizard Of Oz–singing “If I Only Had A Brain.”

In all fairness, it’s tough to picture Fatt Matt with a real intelligent squeeze. That’s kind of like seeing ermine trim on bib overalls. Or maybe hooking a homeless guy up with a lawn mower.

But I suppose it’s good to see Jeff getting comfortable around tazers. That’ll make him feel right at home around the warden and guards at his next “residence.” I imagine the black nail polish and face paint will win Jeff many instant friends in Cell Block B…especially after lights-out. Yep, old Jefferson will be having all sorts of new experiences with belly-to-backs and go-behinds, I can promise you that. By the time Hardy’s out of prison, he’s going to be violated more times than the right to remain silent!

I hope that teaches all the young readers a valuable lesson concerning dope: it’s okay to do drugs, but you should always share them with me or else cops will “mysteriously” show up at your door.

(I can still hear Genius Jeff now: “You can’t threaten me. ‘Cause you don’t know what the 911 number is in North Carolina.”)