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.

Musings logo MINE

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.

face palm MONTAGE VVVG

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.

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.

 

SS35–In defense of wrestling fandom: It’s not your fault….

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Wrestling fandom is rife with kneejerk reactionaries and the hypersensitive, both of whom tend to make unfounded assumptions and far-flung predictions based on the false notion they understand the business. In turn, these supposed “fans” incessantly complain and sulk when their giddy armchair booking demands aren’t immediately obeyed by promoters.

Promoters who have generated millions of dollars in revenue and quite often were in their position before said critics ever witnessed a match.

However, as Wrestling’s Most Reasonable Columnist, I am of the belief you people are not entirely to blame for The Fan Problem we insiders regularly discuss.  And I’ve generously consented to forgive most of you.  After all…

* It’s not your fault…Unlike myself, you didn’t go to what that hillbilly Dusty Rhodes called “the pay winda” for 29 uninterrupted years—longer than The Undertaker, Ric Flair, Jim Ross and Bret Hart, to name just a few fellow legends—haven’t been comped to every show since the early Nineties and don’t routinely chit-chat with Hall Of Famers such as Jerry Lawler and Kurt Angle.

It’s also not your fault that, when Eric Bischoff took over the reins at WCW, he phoned me and not you.  Or that ideas of mine and not yours have been used on Raw, Smackdown, Nitro, Wrestlemania, etc.

As such, since you are devoid of significance in any aspect of wrestling (and life in general), OF COURSE you have no option beyond harebrained pontification and baseless allegations.  Just because you can’t put a coherent sentence together, it doesn’t mean you should quit proving it.  By golly, the Constitution guarantees your unalienable right to express yourself no matter how idiotic you happen to be. U-S-A, U-S-A, U-S-A.

* It’s not your fault…Your cognitive capacity is severely limited due to genetic aberrations attributed to your paternal bloodline containing bovine and marsupial deoxyribonucleic acid, and your maternal unit continuing to ingest large quantities of inebriants throughout the gestation period.

You most certainly are not to blame for your odd-numbered chromosomal tally and the resultant prohibition of cerebral functions.

Hey, who cares if standardized tests indicate you are best suited for a career as a night watchman at an aquarium or joining your mother in the horizontal entertainment industry?  Personally, I consider wrestling fans the brightest cretins in the whole world!

* It’s not your fault…Your alleged “friends” are enablers who, sharing your excremental outlook and rugged equine features, encourage you to remain in a fantasy world where you address each other as “brother” (while privately badmouthing them in DMs), claim to be straight edge while drunk, and brag about regularly “banging two twenty-year-old chicks” even though you post selfies daily yet none contains an image of even one woman—with the exception of uncomfortable-looking female wrestlers from indie cards.

Still, I’m sure it is very therapeutic, after a long day of performing tasks any other baboon with 20 minutes of training could do with equal aplomb, to hop online because no one nearby has the slightest desire to interact with you, and make all-knowing comments about “the rat scene in Mempho in ’87,” and boast about the wrestlers who really dug you (buying them drinks) when you were “hanging with the boys after the PPV.”  After all, these fictional scenarios could have transpired and some of them did—at least until the alarm clock jolted you awake.

I say “You be you,” brother—well, the pathological fraudulent version your narcissism has fabricated to alleviate the self-loathing that manifests upon the realization one is a failure at every level.

* It’s not your fault…Every single man, woman, child, plant and animal in the galaxy fails to recognize your genius.  (As well as your very existence, in most cases.)

The reason you are universally detested by everyone who has ever spent two minutes in your presence is not just because, if obnoxiousness sold for a penny a ton, you could afford to sponsor the next 27 NASA missions and buy each Super Bowl viewer a Bentley; it’s because you are a misunderstood rebel rallying against the status quo.  Right on, man!

Sure, to the unenlightened, you come off like a racist, homophobic misogynistic colonic-opening, but in fact you are totally pusillanimous—and darn proud of it!!!

There you are, a recreant nematode among men, assisting the public by informing them their taste “sucks” unless they agree with your ignorant proclamations, and by butting into Twitter conversations to name-call complete strangers.  Yet, with all these services you provide and the scrofulous lifestyle you lead daily, the masses refuse to fall at your feet in adoration of your vapid presence.  No wonder you’re a bitter simian!

Worst of all, when it comes to the King Of Sports, the unwashed masses refuse to acknowledge your notional position as a wrestling savant (even though you disappear from any discussion involving events that were not televised within the past two years.)  Damn it, you haven’t spent a lifetime dedicated to avoiding any semblance of sartorial panache and triggering an olfactory response reminiscent of a Mephitis mephitis merely to be ignored by people who actually know what they’re talking about!!!

You perform your duty with high deficiency and a very amoral stance, bereft of great wisdom, and the nadir of wit.  Though no one of note has ever heard of you, every single promoter, booker and wrestler should be lined up at your door, seeking approval and advice.  It’s a disgrace, that’s what it is, a total disgrace.  But keep telling yourself it’s not your fault.  Someday someone else may actually believe it.  Brother.

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.

 

SS20–RockStar Dud/Kiss My Christmas Balls

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I’ll never forget it. Flipped on the TV to catch the latest Impact one evening, and went “Cool, TNA has started a female midget division!” That, ladies and genitals, was my introduction to RockStar Spud, Britain’s most embarrassing export since Gary Glitter (which is really saying something when you consider Russell Brand and Bob Geldof are from over yonder.)

I’d seen a lot of British wrestlers before–Billy Robinson, Lord Steven Regal and his twin brother William, Squire Robert Eaton–but never one who so perfectly embodied the combination of Liberace and Davey Boy Smith. Unfortunately for her–and even more so for us–Spud possesses Lib’s wrestling ability and Davey’s fashion sense.

Kind of sad, really. When Spud was a little–oops, better make that “young”–girl, a gypsy fortune-teller looked into her crystal ball and said, “Someday, you are going to be as big as your idol Elton John!” Poor kid never understood she meant it literally.

Sadder still, RSS’ crush on EC3 has given the blonde the silly notion that she too can be a grappler, about as likely as Justin Bieber winning an arm-wrestling contest against Superman while President Flavor Flav recites the soliloquy from Hamlet in Portuguese.

Don’t worry, I’m With Spud contingency. Once your heroine gets over these delusions about becoming a wrestler, there are still several other opportunities on the horizon.

*Get breast implants, go topless and launch a UK television series called British Boob Camp

*Spray-paint herself gold and tell nearsighted kids she’s C3PO, to con them out of their lunch money

*Opt for silver paint instead, bill herself as The World’s Only Mobile Fire Hydrant

*Urge Johnny Depp to begin production on Willy Wonka’s European Vacation, land a plum role as “Assembly line Oompa Loompa #3”

*Enter the Guinness Book Of World Records as the first cowgirl to complete a round-up riding a Shetland pony

*Have a love child with the TNA color commentator, the combination of the two of course being RockStar Spazz

*Become the first actress to perform as Doctor Who’s companion K-9 from inside the tin-dog get-up

*Stunt double at Disneyland Paris for one of Snow White’s seven sidekicks

*Buy a pointed hat, rent herself out as a movable garden gnome for rich people’s lawn parties

For the record, none of the above should be perceived as sour grapes. Some of you no doubt read on that highly reliable news source, the internet, about a certain incident; so let’s get that cleared up right now.

Here’s what really happened. I was pretty wasted in the bar at the TNA hotel after a PPV. And Spud, admittedly, has pretty eyes. I figured, what the hell, were both adults and going separate ways tomorrow; so I whispered a sweet nothing in RSS’ ear about a certain carnal service I’d be delighted to receive, and the bitch slapped me right in the mug!!!

As a professional journalist with the very highest of standards, I assure you that unfortunate behavior by the teasing prude has nothing to do with the above assessment of her future. And I really wish someone would explain to me why people snicker every time I tell that story.

AH, CHRISTMASTIME. If I had to sum up my heartfelt feelings about the festive season in one word–and excuse me for getting sentimental here–it would have to be “Ptooey!” Same goes for Harmonica, Quantico and the rest of the sordid occasions comprising the so-called “holidays.”

Let’s all get in a big circle and hug–so we can eye up the back we’re going to stab the very next day.

And, children, gather round and read this part very carefully: I put a bear trap in my chimney, so if that fat slob Santa tries to deliver another stocking full of coal to my house, he’s never going to make it to your house. That’s right, I am going to KILL SANTA CLAUS, and there’s nothing your worthless eggnog-drunk “uncle” (who’s really your father, by the way) can do to stop it!!! Mweh-heh-heh-heh-heh!

As for those toys you brats were expecting? I’m running them over with a monster truck and tossing the broken pieces into the ocean, so all the little kiddies can cry themselves to sleep the rest of the year. How do you like them apples, runny-nosed urchins?

At any rate, if I were the type who actually practiced the insane notion one should buy gifts for other people, when you could use the same money to do something constructive–such as getting a nice massage from one of the friendly young ladies at truck stops all over I-95 or picking up some paintballs to shoot at crossing guards–here’s what I’d be doling out this year.

Velvet Sky–another boob, to even things out. “Even things out?” you ask? Well, yeah, she currently has three boobs. There’s the pair under her blouse, plus her boyfriend Bully Ray, the guy who showed his gratitude for an undeserved induction into the TNA Hall Of Fame by quitting the promotion, thereby relieving viewers of having to suffer through future Team-VD matches.

CM Bunk–a deluxe super-sized heavy-duty crying towel. After the WWE was gracious enough to let him out of his unfulfilled contract despite the fact he spent half of the last three years on vacation, Certified Moron went on one of those oddcast things and whimpered for four hours about poor wittle him.

“Boohoohoo, they wouldn’t let me headline Wrestlemania, just stuck me in a match with some guy named Undertaker. Waaaah, there should be a union, which I’ve done absolutely zilch to start myself. Sniffle sniffle, Mommy always liked my brother better than me.”

J&J Security–a pair of matching briefcases to hold the tag team straps surely in their future. This tandem has it all: youth, size, fan adoration, stylish ring gear. The only reason they didn’t get a shot at the tag gold in 2014 is because HHH would never play favorites. But when J&J finally get their chance, they will demonstrate to everyone why I deemed them “The Road Warriors Of The 21st Century–only better.”

Jim Ross–a mirror. Say, JR, growing a goatee (especially one that doesn’t match the hair dye) is sooooooo hipster–if only it were 1978. What next, Cutting Edge Cowboy, one of those crazy new Mohawk haircuts? I know: how about telling the entire world you’re a carefree cool cat by rocking a pierced ear? That’ll show your Tulsa High alumni how you turned out to be the true rebel of the bunch.

The IWC aka Internet Wrestling Community–a new pair of panties…to replace the ones you soiled over the involvement of Sting in the WWE.

All five minutes of it.

This is the same Sting the same imbeciles could have regularly supported on TNA Impact for four years–and ratings verify they didn’t.

“OMG, Sting is going to like be the new GM and and and he’s going to challenge Undertaker to fight him at Wrestlemania and he’s gonna cure juvenile diabetes!!!” the twits tweeted and Facebooked, as they moistened their drawers.

“I’m out of here,” said Paint Puss, the minute he pocketed his Survivor Series check.

#ROFLMAO@IWC

Incidentally, my gift will be the closest any of you will ever get to panties besides the worn ones you bought on eBay.

Dean Ambrose–Hang on, I’m still trying to figure out how to gift-wrap a punch in the mouth.

Those still wearing an NWO shirt or chanting “ECW“–a life. Make that a life and a clue.

There’s this chart full of numbered boxes. Perhaps you’ve heard of it: it’s called a calendar. I suggest you numbnuts find one and discover what year it currently is. And while you’re getting a reality check on that, here are a few more facts to digest.

One, while the New World Order was cool at first, it eventually sucked ostrich eggs and killed WCW. They even let Brutus “The BoreBore” Beefcake join, for Christs sake! Two, it’s been scientifically proven that 97.6 percent of dumbasses who’ve belted out the ECW chant never spent a penny on the retardcore promotion when it actually existed. Three, it’s also been determined that 72 percent of wrestling fans like Tommy Dreamer because 72 percent of wrestling fans look like Tommy Dreamer, a herd of unathletic clods in smelly black T-shirts.

To put it all into a mathematical equation sure to go over the heads of yet another 72 percent, 2014 x (N.W.O. + E.C.W.) = L.O.S.E.R.S.

Big Show–Even though he signed an ironclad contract and thus could not be fired–forget about the time he kind of was–no matter what, Show chose to display loyalty to the kind folks who put butter on his table and bread in his bank account since 1999.

He could have stayed out of the conflict and lived very comfortably on the millions he reaped in royalties via the international success of the Oscar-nominated Knucklehead. Instead, Big displayed proper respect for a warmhearted couple who deserve nothing but love; yet, with their exceedingly limited cranial capacity (that means tiny brains, stupid) the typical wrestling fan perceived this as “wrong.”

I suppose, the next thing you know, these filthy philistines are going to say it is “wrong” that, whenever a middle-school student breaks the 30-detention mark, I reward him or her with a nice fresh pack of Marlboros!

Mr. Show, your holiday gift is a sincere apology. At least until April, when you’ve flipped back to being a “good guy” for the 27th time.

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?

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

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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.)

SS2–More To Adore

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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.”)