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


Ever chant or write that “Roman Reigns “can’t wrestle”?  Well, then you are an imbecile.  I may have spent over 30 years hilariously ridiculing deserving bonebenders, but that doesn’t mean I won’t recognize the fact that nobody in a national-television promotion “can’t wrestle.”

Except for most of the broads, of course.  But it’s adorable how they try to have matches just like the men, a few of them having worked their way all the way up to average!

Still, as long as they wear those butt-hugging bottoms made up of 14 square inches of fabric–”women’s revolution” wink-wink—and admit their inferiority to men, I say we let them roll around on the canvas and pretend they’re real wrestlers.

But only the hot ones, natch.

We certainly don’t need to watch the oaf Sasha Banks tripping over her feet every week.  Or the Asslicker, Becky Lynch, Ireland’s most embarrassing export—which is REALLY saying something, considering the primary thing that putrid country is known for is rampant alcoholism.

It’s little wonder the English hate them.  Not that they have room to talk.

For the unfamiliar, England is an international has-been country where they can’t sit still for five minutes without breaking into some sort of chant, a carryover from watching the terminally boring soccer games, wherein men is sissy shorts run around kicking each other in the shins for four hours until one klutz eventually scores a point.

(Except in the World Cup, a tournament in which an Englishman hasn’t seen a finals victory since their Queen Lizzy visited Paris to witness the grand opening of the Eiffel Tower.)

England is also where, due to a combination of disgraceful nationalism, snobbery and an inferiority complex, fans claim every single wrestler born there is fantastic—even the boy ballerina William The Osprey—while constantly bragging about their “wrestling boom.”  Then you see photos of the events, and they are taking place in a joint that seat about 47, including the timekeeper, the ring announcer and the beer vendor’s tired wife.

Between the sheeplike chanting and the general ugliness of English males, it’s easy to understand why Brit broads are so eager to get some US beef in their diets.  Known worldwide for centuries as pushovers, Anglo ladies are hardly the prettiest posies in the garden; but they tend to make up for it, if you know what I mean.

(And if you own an NWO T-shirt, you likely don’t.)

I nobly went on record admitting a decent percent of English babes possess the most important characteristic a dame can ever have—a fine bod.  An admirable attribute considering, just like their mothers and grandmothers before them, these honeys will drop their knickers for an American before one of us can finish the first syllable of “hello.”

chavs HOT

Britain’s classiest broads are a bit of all right, eh?  Say no more, say no MORE!

The classiest, most attractive English chickadees are called “chavs” by their countrymen.  But visiting American wrestlers generally use my term for typical British women, “skanks for Yanks.”

You’ll have to take my word for it, seeing how you don’t actually know any grapplers.  Hey, “huge wrestling fan,” how’s that List Of Lame Excuses For Not Getting Involved In The Sport coming along?

Tell you what.  I’ll simplify it for you.

Just select from…

  1. As with everything else in life, I’m all talk.
  2. I am a cringing coward afraid of getting hurt.
  3. I don’t have an athletic bone in my whole body, but that doesn’t stop me from criticizing the athleticism of others.
  4. Mommy won’t let me.

Ha, just kidding.  We all know the answer is E. All of the above.


ANYWAY…now that we’ve sorted the Manormaniacs from the mini-minds—the latter bunch having run off, sulking and not reading the following—let’s get back to Roman Reigns.

Specifically, the crybabies’ complaint about how the handsome Vincent K. McMahon has correctly decided Double-R should be the “face of the WWE.”

The most laughable part of this equation is the fact dimwits are using the expression with no idea what being “the face of the WWE” entails.  If you think it’s all about holding the Universal championship and getting the most exposure on Raw and video game packaging, the Nuclear Regulatory Commission will soon be classifying your brain as a sub-atomic particle.

The Face is the one wrestler who represents the entire company when meeting potential sponsors and business and political VIPs, and appears at endless charity functions as well as on public service material and announcements. He must: be well-spoken but not brash; have the appearance of what non-fans perceive a wrestler to look like; and, possess remarkable composure.

Remember when John Cena learned Mandarin in order to address a roomful of suits in China?  That’s what being The Face is all about.

Also, when an incumbent (in this case, Cena) is in the process of giving up the throne, the replacement should be of an age that ensures he is going to be active for many years to come.

When you armchair geniuses add up all the preferred traits, who on the WWE roster is better qualified than the just-turned-33 Roman Reigns?

Let’s go down the Fanboy Faves list.

*AJ Styles  Besides the fact AJ has passed 40—but only in age, not IQ—we all suffered through what a complete disaster it was when the hopping hillbilly spent years attempting to complete a sentence, prior to getting scripted promos upon signing with the WWE.  Now just imagine this nincompoop addressing a group of Oxford science majors, uttering “Ha, y’all.  Ah believe the world is flat.”

This is a man who thinks taxidermy is the study of cabs, marijuana comes from potholes and a collage is a fancy university.  The numskull who once brought a skateboard on a submarine ride and went up to a guide at Sea World and asked where they keep the tigers.  Who doesn’t use All laundry detergent if he’s only washing some of his clothes. AJ Styles is the only person alive who owns a Samsung dumb phone.

dunce_hat AJ

Rare photo of AJ Styles in his school yearbook

*Braun Strowman  A very viable candidate…as soon as someone finds a way to make it 1986 again.

Half-buffoon, half-cartoon, I’m surprised his tag partner at Wrestlemania wasn’t Wile E. Coyote.

And what the hell does “Get these hands” even mean?  Is he auctioning them off on eBay?

[Strowman sidebar.  Rarely ever loses; prominently featured on Raw’s biggest segments all year, frequently main-eventing the show; wins the Money In The Bank match—so, Reigns-bashers, doesn’t that mean “He’s being shoved down our throats?]


*Daniel Bryan  With that unkempt hair and beard, and standing 5’4”, the scruffy squirt may pass as Charles Manson’s son; but nobody in the business world is going to take Cryin’ Bryan seriously or even believe he was ever world champ.  The munchkin once got a black eye running into a fire hydrant, for Christ’s sake!

Besides, if the going gets rough, he’ll no doubt once again quit, just like he did in 2016 after a minor head injury, as outlined in this earlier Stately States


*The Hardlys.  And, yes, my pal Jerry Lawler borrowed that nickname from one of my columns.

#WOKEN and his brother #DRUNKEN are horrendous options to serve as The Face. Matt, pushing 50 years of age, took a quarter-century to come up with a memorable phrase—actually, one word—and needed his old lady and Germy Borash to assist with that.  What a trainwreck it would be to have the senile senior repping the Connecticut corporation.

Granted, Jeff has a good look (when he’s not smearing paint on his mug), but even in his rare moments of sobriety, he’s not suited to mingle with anyone—at least not until the WWE starts conducting business on his home planet in Alpha Centauri.

Weird, the man’s weird, I tell ya.  Did you know Jeff Hardy’s favorite pizza topping is eggshells?  That he recently spray-painted all his cars pitch black—including the windows?  He built a unicycle with a cactus in place of the seat?

Guardrail for StaSta

 Jeff Hardy’s toughest 2018 nemesis

*Other Shield members  Cross Selfie Seth off the list pronto, Tonto.  Had two or three passable matches in the Spring and consequently became the Fair-Weather Fan Favorite of the season.  By Halloween, the “devoted” will have bailed on Rollins the same way they do any NXT call-up who loses two matches after debuting on the main roster.  (Incidentally, how did ignoring my warnings and going berserk over Enzo & Big Cass work out for you guys?)

As for Dean Ambrose…you’re joking right?  No way the impeccably groomed Mister McMahon would choose to be represented by a man who washes his hair every ten days—and only because The Lunatic Skunk occasionally gets caught in the rain.

And that nasal drone of a voice!  If Ambrose ever gave a lengthy speech at any sort of conference, they’d have to call in the coroner to count how many audience members hanged themselves to escape the torture.

I’d rather hear a sedated Pee Wee Herman with a nasty head cold read the Lithuanian translation of the entire Lord Of The Rings trilogy than endure a half-hour of Dullard Dino.


Is Roman Reigns perfectly built to be The Face?  No, and, unfortunately, the ideal man for the job is under contract elsewhere.  So, until Grado becomes a free agent, Reigns is the best candidate for the position.

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


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

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

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


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

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


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

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

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

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

Which brings us to….

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

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

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


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


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

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


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

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


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


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


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


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

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

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

SS36—It’s 2017…and you’ll never believe what happens next!

It’s that time of the year again and a Stately States tradition:  A remarkably accurate look into what lies ahead for professional wrestling over the next twelve months.  Once again, I peer into my crystal balls—I have them, you know—and reveal all.

*Needing another three hours to kill, WWE holds a one-night Cruiserweight Classic tourney to crown a new champion.  The 47 in attendance attempt to remain awake by performing the wave, chanting “Mojo Rawley” and doing horrendous Hulk Hogan imitations when the hard-camera light is lit.

*Facebook requires those in Groups listed as “wrestling experts” to provide proof they have any link whatsoever to the sport, beyond merely watching matches.  Membership dips by 97 percent.

*Due to a typo—blamed on auto-correct, as per usual—Wrestlemania 33 is co-headlined by Brock Lesnar vs. Gillberg.  It is still better than any previous Lesnar/Goldberg match.

*On the Smackdown brand Parisian tour, Shane McMahon attempts an elbow drop off the Eiffel Tower.  Video footage surfaces of Stephanie McMahon and Triple H snickering during the resultant funeral services.

*Emmalina finally makes her Raw return, only to announce she has a tag partner, who will also take six months to debut.

*Hoping to recapture public attention, the “It’s still real to me” guy releases a YouTube clip of him whimpering “Paige is still hot, to me.”  Three million fanboys who once masturbated to Paige photos mock him on social media.

*In a scene eerily reminiscent of the movie Scanners, Mauro Ranallo’s entire skull explodes after shouting “A SIDE HEADLOCK!!!” at 153 decibels.  scanners-head-exploding-gif

*The ghost of Gorilla Monsoon taps “announcer” David Otunga on the shoulder and asks “Will you stop?”  It’s “history in the making, folks” as Monsoon becomes the first ghost ever to receive a standing ovation.

*With the introduction of the Weekly Schmoz podcast, every single wrestling reference in the entire galaxy has been used within a name of one of these shows.

*Delicious Dixie Carter presents her own variation of the Kiss My Ass Club, called the Burnish My Butt Brigade, whereupon she rubs her derriere with printouts from 2016 tweets and newsletters gleefully declaring “TNA is dead” and “Dixie is gone.”  In one instance, she uses a Smashing Pumpkins CD booklet.

*Even the staunchest devotee must begrudgingly admit a match held in Japan was “three stars at most.”  Thousands of clothes dryers are stuffed with tear-stained Bullet Club shirts.

*Michael Cole is fined $10,000 for failing to call the 107th Sasha/Charlotte match “historic.”

*Booker T sues Joey Ryan over the name of the latter’s new move, the bonerooni.

*Asuka, Samoa Joe and Nakamura debut on the main roster TOGETHER…at which point all three are simultaneously pinned by the Shining Stars and Alicia Fox in ten seconds and immediately sent back to NXT as a smirking Vince McMahon appears on the Titantron, flipping off the audience.

*Lip-synching is suspected, after Lana performs a complete segment without once forgetting her “Russian accent.”

*Lucha Underground is permanently shut down after President Trump deports three-quarters of its employees.

*Balloons drop from the ceiling, pyros go off in abundance in an April edition of Raw, as Big Show makes his 100th turn.  After a sincere speech thanking everyone for their support, he chokeslams ring announcer JoJo.

*The 2017 Oxford Dictionary For Online Wrestling Sites defines “our sources” as “material we swiped from Dave Meltzer” and “buried” as “term never EVER used correctly.”

*John Cena’s retirement tour features merchandise emblazoned with “U Won’t C Me.”

*A survey reveals that 48 percent of fans tossing streamers at US indie shows do it “because everyone else does” and believe the practice originated in Philadelphia.

*Responding to the “one more match” chant, D-Von Dudley’s last words from within a ring are “Get your own damn tables, fat ass!”

*Viewer confusion hits an all-time high, moving the WWE to adopt “good guy, cheer him” and “bad guy, boo” subtitles on all broadcasts.

*New Flotsam streaming service airs nothing but matches held in school gymnasiums and dingy nightclubs.  Subscribers are paid $9.99 a month.

*Two gals wearing a combined 24 square inches of ring gear rave about how the “women’s revolution” has completely changed the role of females.

*Fans who have never once been in a locker room continue to state former WCW, WWE, TNA and ROH employee Jim Cornette “doesn’t know anything about wrestling, bro.”

*Eighty-nine percent of those who in 2016 claimed the just-released Damian Sandow “should go to TNA, that would be AWESOME!” can’t recall his current ring name and never bought a single piece of his TNA merch.

*The entire industry collapses when a wrestler does not kick out of the first pinfall attempt.  Millions roam the streets worldwide, glassy-eyed, mumbling “What just happened?”

SS29—The Good, The Bad and the REALLY Ugly

I occasionally lose track of my many achievements in life: Thank You notes from Presidents and Queen Elizabeth for being a role model for youngsters to emulate both in the U.S. and overseas; destroying Neil Peart and Dave Grohl in a lopsided “drum battle” before refusing to accept my Rock And Roll Hall Of Fame induction later that evening; holding Michael Jordan scoreless during a practice game with the 1992 Olympic team in Barcelona. The list goes on.

Of course, this column being devoted to pro wrestling, there are scores of accomplishments people like you could never dream of achieving. Such as the phone calls from Hall Of Famers and heads of promotions, seeking advice; and actually touching a female breast without charges being filed.

(Touching your sister’s boobs doesn’t count. Hell, everyone has fondled that slut.)

But my least achievement in the King Of Sports is being it’s smartest and cutest participant. Shouldn’t that read “greatest achievement”? Not really, considering the so-called “competition.”

First off, we can eliminate all fans. When I survey the crowd at a wrestling card, the typical audience looks like they held an Ugliest Person In Town contest and everyone in the arena tied for first place. This is especially true in the Mid-South region, where the average crowd is 12. That’s not the average age or ticket sale total—it’s their average number of teeth.

Having eliminated all of you horrors from the mix, let’s turn to people who don’t spend every night on the internet, complaining like little bitches.

The wrestling industry is divided into two distinct segments: (A) the Brilliant And Beautiful, such as myself, The Authority, Tyrus, Bray Wyatt, Jay Lethal and The Miracle; and (B), the Halfwits And Homely.

Take Roman Reigns. (Please) You know why he enters by coming down an aisle? Because the guys won’t let him in the locker room!

Nicknamed “Roman Reeks” due to the terrible stench he emits, Double-R once raised his arms to join in a “Yes” chant, and the first three rows passed out from his armpit odor.

He used to be allowed in the back. But when he took off his boots after the Shield debut match, the arena manager went into a panic, thinking the sewage system had backed up, and stuck the WWE with the Roto-Rooter bill.

Fake SWAT vest to hold in his beer belly, hair greasier than a McDonald’s French fry vat, Rank Roman may be the most repulsive man in the WWE.

Not that he lacks competition in that regard. Look at John Cena—if you can stomach it. “You can’t see me”? If only that were true!!!

This blowhard is always boasting about his Make A Wish record. What he fails to mention is that those poor kids’ number-one wish is that he would leave them alone before his face wilts all the flowers in the room.

When a newborn baby is about to leave the hospital, a nurse presents the parents with a blanket in which to swaddle the brat. But when baby Cena was sent home, the nurse gave his folks a leash.

The future-sixteen-time champ was a problem child. While the other kids attended kindergarten, little John attended kennel. Most boys bond with their father by playing catch; in the Cena household, they played fetch.

Did you know, when John Cena’s ear itches, he scratches it with a hind leg? And he still can’t walk past a fire hydrant without peeing on it.

I’ll give John Chihuahua, er, Cena this: For a muscleman, he’s not a total imbecile. Unlike the similarly jacked Ryback.

The Feed Me Moron is one of those people some may be tempted to describe as “a million-dollar body with a fifty-cent brain”—but I strongly disagree.

It’s 40 cents too high.

Those who Follow my award-winning (2015 Twitter Rookie Of The Year) antisocial media account know I revealed that Ryback is so dumb he thinks a kaleidoscope is something you look into to view collisions, and a strip mall is where nudists shop. But there’s more.

On a WWE tour of Italy, Ryback phoned the Leaning Tower Of Pisa to ask if they deliver. He also thinks “Oregano” is Italian for “Oregon.”

Speaking of Europeans, that Becky Lynch sure looks like she was dipped in ugly sauce then coated with powdered hag flakes. As a child, Becky aspired to join the singing group The Irish Rovers. She never developed the voice for it—but, today, lots of guys call her “Rover.” WOOF WOOF!

I’ll never forget the time Jason Voorhees came up to her, removed his hockey mask and said, “Here, you need this more than I do.”

Clearly, hardly anyone of Irish descent has the striking good looks of Vincent Kennedy McMahon. Get a gander at Finn Balor, for example.

According to his biography, “Balor leaves a mark wherever he goes.” Yep—a grease stain. That bio description equally applies to Finn’s NXT colleague Sami Zayn. Between his notorious flatulence problem and refusal to do laundry, Zayn is also known for leaving marks. That would be skid marks in his shorts.

Of course Canadians have always been sleazeballs. First, there was Bret Hart, the only wrestler who got his hair done at Jiffy Lube. He was followed by Edge and Christian. It is a documented fact that, when E&C were young men, the only blind dates they got were with blind women.  It’s also well-known that their trademark “five-second pose” came into existence because that’s the maximum length of time you can point a camera at them without the lens shattering.

TNA has its own Canadian infestation in the form of Robert Roode. Just imagine what it must be like taking a long car ride with Beer Money.

In one seat, you have Booby Bobby, who thinks a yeast infection is when bread gets sick and a semi-colon is half of a body part. In the other seat sits James Storm, who thinks Godzilla is a monster that attacks atheists and a blog is made out of bwood.

However, when it comes to the Most Brain-Barren Bonebender of them all, NOBODY can compete with AJ Styles, the only person to go on Jeopardy and ask to buy a vowel. The man who had his initials tattooed on his ribs because he kept forgetting them.

Oh how the TNA wrestlers used to make fun of Styles constantly asking incredibly dumb questions. “When is Saturday Night Live taped? Where does the moon go during the daytime? How many members were in the Jackson Five? If you drive backwards, does your gas tank get fuller? In what city is the Brooklyn Bridge?”

I’ll never forget the conversation I had with the dimwit when he was with Ring Of Honor.

AJ: I want to buy a rocketship and fly it to the sun.
SWM: The sun is ten-million degrees. You’ll be burnt to a crisp!
AJ: Naah, man, I’m going to go at night.


(Hmm, I guess that explains why the “WWE Universe” and “indie” fanboys so strongly relate to him.)

SS28—Season’s Groinkicks from the Manor Mansion

It’s no secret that I am extremely popular amongst pro wrestling’s inner circle, due to me being the sport’s only unbiased columnist. And no one has been more supportive and enthusiastic about my efforts than my dearest friend, Vincent Kennedy McMahon.

Just hours before his unprovoked assault on the tragic December 14th Raw, the Vinster stopped by the Stately Estate, surprising me with an official proclamation from his office: This April, in Dallas, Stately Wayne Manor will become the first journalist ever inducted into the WWE Hall Of Fame!!!

Ordinarily, I pretend to be Buddhist so I can stiff, er, not be expected to hand out holiday presents. But Mr. McMahon’s touching tribute put me in an equally generous mood. So, here’s a list of gifts I gave out to some prominent bonebenders.

Divas Division—I bet you’re thinking I’m going to say something like “A gift certificate to Kitchenware Unlimited, so they’d go back to where they belong.” As if I’ve ever written anything sexist! No, I’m giving these hoze gift certificates to Victoria’s Secret, so they’ll go back to where they REALLY belong!!!

Dean Ambrose—a tear-proof shirt. I’ve seen this screwball topless more often lately than Miley Cyrus—and I’m dating her! I cheer when my lil smoochikins gets bare up there, whereas Torn-Clothes Ambrose just makes me lose some lunch.

Coincidentally, his chest is also about the same size as my Smiley Wiley Mileypoo’s, albeit hers has faaaaaaar better accessories.

Sting—directions to Minnesota. Everybody’s Big Favorite Hero couldn’t bother to attend the Slammys despite voting for himself 12,092 times, demonstrating exactly what ol’ Paint Puss thinks of you people. About what one could expect from a dummy who would shake the hand of the opponent who just hit him with a freakin’ sledgehammer, after the Stinker disgraced the proud legacy of WCW at Wrestlemania and let down all his fellow halfwits.

Grado and RockStar Spud—deportation papers. Everyone knows, en route to becoming the record-holding King of Columnists, I starred in the UK mat mag Power Slam. And if there’s anything I learned about the British Isles, it’s that it is an utterly soul-killing place to live, which is why the national pastimes are avoiding proper dentistry and complaining about everything.

If it weren’t for the “special selfies” Francesca of England’s Wrestle Talk TV sends me, I’d consider the entire nation bloody useless—just like Grade-Zero and PoxScar Spud are in TNA.

I hope President Trump, after kicking out this dim duo, builds a giant wall along the entire eastern seaboard, specifically to keep any more Brits from soiling our soil.

Sheamus and King Barrett—An invitation to move to Phriendly Philadelphia. The Celt and His Majesty told me they fully concur with the above and have no intentions of ever returning to their hostile homelands. With that in mind, I would be proud to have this pair of fine gentlemen as neighbors—right here in The City Of Brotherly Love. (cheap pop)

Fellas, unlike slum towns such as Boston and Denver, Philadelphia is a crime-free paradise populated by the warmest people you’ll ever meet. Always a comfy 74 degrees, thanks to the invisible dome covering the city, Philly is also the home of numerous championship sports teams, a perfect setting for the League Of Nations.

What about taxes? We don’t have any! In fact, every year on Thanksgiving, the mayor send each resident a hot turkey dinner and a set of 24-carat gold cutlery valued at $1000.

Byron Saxton—new initials. I’m just soooo tired of him living up to his current ones.

Becky Bayless—a private meeting with Mil Mascaras. Not for wrestling lessons, but to borrow a few masks.

I’ll give her this: From the shoulders down, Double-B has a fairly solid bod for a white girl. Kind of reminds me of when my hangout used to have Stripper Night. However, from the neck up, Bayley is more reminiscent of a chess piece knight.

But, in the Xmas spirit, I’d still (wink-wink) “wrestle” the broad. And if she doesn’t bring a mask, no problem. That’s why Jesus invented pillowcases.

James Storm—a prayer. Not that I am religious. It’s just that he doesn’t have one when it comes to making an impact on the WWE roster.

Hulk Hogan—a one-way ticket to Compton. There are a few guys there who would like to have a word with him.

Matt Hardy—the name of a good barber (besides EC3). Who did this rube fashion his hairdon’t after, the Sphinx?!? Just because Matt Hardly’s favorite year is 1974—the year he got kicked out of Hicksville High—it doesn’t mean he has to look like the Lynyrd Skynyrd member who missed the flight. [Google it, children.]

Infamous Female Wrestling Executive—Actually, I already gave the earthbound angel her holiday bon(er)us last night, starting around eleven. I can’t go into details here because of, you know, husband stuff. Will tell you it was in the holiday spirit: She came upon a midnight clear!

Roman Reigns—a good gag. I don’t mean a funny joke; I mean the kind that would go over his mouth every time he picks up a microphone. Aural Pains has all the vocal skills of a baby dolphin with a severe head cold swimming in a pool of spider larvae and partially frozen tapioca.

Tommy Dreamer—A can of black spray paint for the back of his head. I don’t know if that’s a bald spot or he’s just been prepped to go to the electric chair.

The Dudley Boyz—a vacation. There two pterodactyls must be awfully tired, what with all their occupations. Not really sure what those are, but every time I read a house show report, it says “The Dudleyz did a job.”

The Young Bucks—FYI, Matt and Nick Jackson are the two Bucks…and that’s also what a DVD box set of their matches is worth. Didn’t get them anything. Intended to, but fell asleep during one of their Stuporkick Parties.

The New Day—a Grammy. Their stirring rendition of “O Solo Mia” with a trombone solo was easily the greatest MP3 sent to my phone in all of 2015. Tears well up in my eyes every time I hear Kofi and Big harmon…what’s that? You didn’t get a copy? That’s because The New Day don’t like you. Come to think of it, neither does anyone else.

Cesaro—a “push.” For once, I agree with the net nitwits. I am constantly reading the never-satisfied moping miscreants claims that “Cesaro should get a big push.” Yes, he should.

Right out the goddamn door!

Gilbert T. Fartknuckle of Des Moines, Iowa, and all his little web peers are “experts,” you see. After all, they pay some mug named Weed Killer in order to be considered VIP members of the Pro Wrestling Dorks website. Not only that, but they also know someone who once had his question read on the podcast produced by a man who has the autograph of Jim Ross’ next-door neighbor!

According to these intellectuals, Cesaro knows a lot of wrestling holds, thus he should be the world champion. So what, if he has no charisma and is weak on the microphone? It’s not like the WWE has a history of granting title shots to grapplers with personal pizzazz and strong speaking skills but limited repertoires, such as Superstar Graham, Hogan, Warrior, Nash, Sycho Sid, The Rock, Cena, Big Show or Batista.

Oh, wait.

SS26–NXTedious/Oral Proficiency


Yuuuuhhh. Ooh, pardon me for yawning. Was just taking in the promotion currently yielding the most bandwagon-jumping by wrestling hipsters—before, of course, they completely turn against it and spend the rest of their worthless lives bitterly moaning about how far it fell from their inanely over-inflated, rose-colored assessment of what it once (never) was.

Unless you’ve lived in the deepest recesses of a swamp—which wouldn’t surprise me, considering the stench of most wrestling fans—you are already aware the “hippest” thing (for now) is NXT, the “greatest” league in the history of civilized man, even if it does have Rhyno on its roster.

Proof-positive the typical wrestling trend-follower’s brain could fit on the head of a pin and there’d still be room to carve The Lord’s Prayer.

How do the vast majority view NXT? By going online—the exact same process by which they could have been following the “exciting new sensation,” WWE’s developmental system, for SEVEN STINKIN’ YEARS.

“Duhhhh, well, I never knew they had such a league, until the WWE Network started.” Have you also never heard of the crazy new-fangled invention called a Search Engine, whereby even a knuckle-dragger such as you can type in “pro wrestling” and be linked to 97,622 matches from all sorts of times and places? I kid you not. You can even use a Search Engine to finally see what a washing machine looks like! Or a girl!!!

As for the NXT product itself, I can sum it up in three other letters: M-E-H.

Do NXT episodes open with 18-minute verbal feuds topped off by the entirely unpredictable surprise of the matchmaker coming out to announce the squabbling bonebenders will be facing each other in the main event? Do they interrupt matches to interject important public service announcements about vital additions to the Sonic menu? Is its roster versatile enough to switch from goody-goody to villain with no explanation ever offered…and be switched back the next week…or perhaps five minutes later?

As Wrestling’s Only True Journalist, I did extensive research before drawing my conclusions. Having watched nearly all of almost three episodes, what I didn’t see was exhilarating new feuds like Orton vs. Sheamus and Pig Show vs. Mark Henry or a rival faction attempting to take over the company. There were no cute dwarves dressed in mirth-provoking costumes a la Dorito and RockStar Spud. And Chris Jerko hasn’t once come in to take the place of a hungry upstart, allowing the latter to spend plenty of quality time home with his family.


Most of all, I don’t see any real talent on the NXT roster. Spotted a couple of cast-offs who did nothing while on a main roster in TNA and WWE, respectively, they being Samoa Joe, the Soup-Slurping Machine and that chick Enema The Klutzy Klepto. Big deal.

“Finn Balor has an awesome entrance, dude,” drools Geeky McNerdo and his IWC brethren. Tremendous! Since it’s all about entrances rather than what happens after the bell rings, let’s call an emergency meeting of the Hall Of Fame Selection Committee and immediately install Oz, Glacier and The Shockmaster…morons.

Every REAL mat historian knows it is only appropriate to wear full face paint if one is an Asian who spews a mysterious mist rendering an opponent helpless. According to the Official International Records Bureau, no one named Finn Balor has ever had so much as a single match in the Orient, let alone been of the Asian persuasion.

Clearly, the company dropped the ball by signing this imposter rather than heed my suggestion, Prince Devitt, a man who spent a great deal of time in Japanese rings. Now, that guy has real skills!

Even though I am always right about everything, you needn’t blindly take my appraisal as fact (like you do with everything else you read online.) Take a look at the record of NXT personnel when given a chance to prove me wrong.

Aaron Neville debuts on Raw, loses to John Cena. Sammy Insane debuts on Raw, loses to John Cena. Kevin Owens debuts on Raw, loses to John Cena. And here’s the best part. Two-thirds of you numskulls gleefully chant “Cena sucks.” Well, if John truly does in fact inhale, as you claim, what does that say about those who can’t beat him?

Here’s the answer: They’re double-losers, just like you. No wonder your biological parents put you up for adoption. Oh, you didn’t know? Ooops!


OKAY, I joke around from time to time; but I am occasionally asked to provide a serious answer to a sincere question. Among the most frequently asked is “What can I do to train to be a wrestling TV announcer?”

Besides buying a preposterous cowboy hat and accumulating a batch of cornball catchphrases you’ll beat to death, working on enunciation is of critical importance. Your word choice won’t matter if listeners can’t understand you, right? There are several oral exercises popular among pro microphone men, each consisting of repeating a phrase until it rolls off the tongue with fluidity.

Here’s the most popular one amongst the grappling announcer fraternity. I’ll break it down to three parts for ease of learning. First word is “Omma.” Simple enough, yes?

Next one is “Di,” this being pronounced the same way those letters sound in “dill” and “dig.” Okay, let’s try the first two together: Omma Di. Omma Di. Now, with the critically important accent on the second one: Omma DI. Omma DI. Good job!

Finally, there’s “Kweed,” pronounced to rhyme with “queen.” Here comes the real challenge: string all three parts together, and repeat the full phrase three times.

Superb!!!!!! In fact, nothing could be more apropos than you chanting “Omma DI Kweed”!

EXTRA CREDIT: Do you call the championship strap traditionally worn around the waist a ‘title”; and the wearer, a “superstar”? Have you ever referred to one grappler “fighting” another? Congratulations, you’re a full-blown jackass!

SS21–Wanna See My Twits?


Because Mr. McMahon begged me “So at least one Monday tweeter won’t be an imbecile,” I signed on with Twitter in October of 2014, and now, as completely expected, hold the world record for Most Followers, currently boasting a total of over 100,000,300. (Oh, sure, it may say something like “329” when you look at my Profile, @SWManor. But that’s because the counter resets when you hit a hundred-mil.)

Consequently, I am inundated daily with tweets and e-mails from around the globe. I, of course, generally blow off the ones that aren’t from my fellow celebrities or attractive broads–which in turns means I most certainly can’t be bothered with yours. However, feeling a bit sorry for your wretched lives of unending tedium and the absolute certainty you will NEVER associate with anyone of signficance beyond maybe cleaning their pool or delivering them a pizza, I have consented to share some of the messages that have beamed into the Stately Estate in recent days.

“Have you seem me since I stole Mike Tenay’s job on TNA Impact?”–@realjoshmathews

Yes, you’re half of the only announce team ever to have all its members barred from the cooler rides at Six Flags due to being under four-foot-six.

“Although he wonders how the kids have big blue eyes just like yours, my husband still doesn’t suspect a thing about us. Tee hee hee. Can’t wait until I get all of Daddy’s money, so I can divorce Triple-Homely and put YOU in charge of the company. It’s best for business!”–Stanford

Can’t wait to hear you tell him “You’re FIIIIIIIRED.” And, hey, that workout DVD you sent has done wonders for my forearms and wrists!!!

“You’re a man of the world. Where should I go on my vacation?”–@MATTHARDYBRAND

I recommend the year 2007, when people still cared about your sorry carcass.

“Did you see my last match?”–@HEELZiggler

I sure hope so!!!

“You have been such a tremendous inspiration to many people like me. The best way I could possibly thank you was to hook you up for free cable for life, including those ‘special’ channels from the hidden cameras I hooked up in locker areas.”–

Thanks, pal–and you were right, those cheerleaders from Central High really take some looooong hot showers! Accent on “hot,” heh heh heh.

“When we say ‘Ooo,’ you say____?”–@WWEUsos

Oh, sh*t, change the channel.

“I’m afraid I’ve got some bad nyooz.”–@WadeBarrett

Don’t tell me there’s another New Day video coming out!

“Daniel Bryan got robbed at the Royal Rumble!”–Johnny

Stay right where you are. Your nanny will be by shortly to change your diaper.

“I’m going to do another podcast soon, complaining about how the WWE made me the longest-reigning world champion in modern times and allowed only me to have entrance music from an outside source. So, there.”–

And you are? Don’t seem to recall the name. Wait, you’re the supposedly “alternative” guy who wears suits now, right?

“Tap of the marnin’ to ya, fella.”–@WWESheamus

Go suck on a Lucky Charm, creep.

“About calling myself a real American hero even though I never served in the military, brother–when I was 18, I wanted to join the Army, but the President said, ‘You’re too valuable to the country to put at risk, dude.'”–

Well well well, I guess George Washington could tell a lie, after all.

“I red that book The Seacret and it make me reel smart now Stanley.”–@Ryback22

I bet you were “reel” surprised to learn there are books that don’t come with crayons.

“Growing up in England and reading your brilliant Power Slam magazine columns, I’ve spent my entire life fantasizing about being just like you. XOX”–@RealPaigeWWE

Well, hon, you’ve succeeded…to a certain degree: from the neck down, your physique is practically identical to mine. There is, however, one area in which we greatly vary. Tell you what–next time you’re in Philly, stop by the Manor Mansion and we can air out our differences. I’m sure you’ll be coming here many times thereafter.

“Since I’m a good guy now, I’ve been thinking I ought to change my name. What do YOU think?”–@REALBobbyRoode

I agree. Pumpernickel Von Dumbass Roode has a much better ring to it.

“Drats, I wish I just once could meet up with a talented, bright hunk of manliness like Stately Wayne Manor.”–Elvira, Mistress Of The Dark @TheRealElvira

I was going to conjecture you aren’t going to the correct locales; but from what I can see, you hang out in all the right places.

“Have you ever seen me wrestle?”–@THETOMMYDREAMER

I’m not sure I’d call what you do”wrestling,” but I have in fact seen your fourth, fifteenth and twenty-seventh “retirement match.”

“I did my best promo EVER last night!!!”–@iLikeSamiZayn

Heard it. Must say it suggested you have a very bright future–in pantomime.

“You can’t see me.”–@JohnCena

If only that were true. Sigh.

“Nobody’s ever been better than you at this here color commentatoring. What is the one thing I could do that would most improve a Raw broadcast?”–@BookerT5x

Contract laryngitis.



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

O, Canada, our home and native land….

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

SS18–A Gentleman’s Guide To Handling Hoze


When exactly did the WWE become Sucka City? And is Vince McMahon wearing a Panama hat and full-length chinchilla coat while carrying a walking stick with a huge gold handle in a hand with four gaudy rings, humming the old entrance song “Pimpin’ Ain’t Easy”?

First, the Bella Broads decided to restrict their koochie comforting to one man each–or so the chumps they hooked believe–and just happened to suddenly find the top two single money-earners incredibly attractive despite John Cena resembling Ben Stein’s son Franken, and Daniel Bryan looking like a cross between a Shetland pony (same height) and a yeti.

Then the, ahem, “non-blonde” Funkadactyl cheerleader wrangled a wedding out of one of the Useless Brothers–“when they say oo, I say pyoo”–and CM Bunk popped the question to AJ Lee, despite knowing he was getting Dolph Ziggler’s sloppy seconds (and social diseases.)

Fellas, fellas, fellas, have you never heard the expression “Why live with a cow when you can get the milk for free?” I realize a hand in the bush is worth two on the bird, but do you not see the smaller print under the “Divas’ Dressing Room” sign reading “& Gold-Diggers Gulch”? You’ve watched what these chicks do in the ring, and therefore KNOW they didn’t get in the business to wrestle–other than to squeeze every penny out of you. Hell, if they had the strength, they’d hold you in one of those long-lasting Davey Boy Smith vertical suplexes, just to shake the change and car keys out of your pockets!

At least SuperCena got his squeeze Nockers Bella to sign all kinds of legal papers before allowing her to move her crap into his mansion. And he had the further good sense not to propose to the wench. But look at the flip side of that, boys. It means you’re dumber than John Cena, a man who walked into a Roman bakery and ordered a loaf of French bread, and thinks Gatorade is financial assistance for reptiles!!! A guy whose niece wanted swimming lessons, so he dropped her off in front of a building marked “Pool Hall”!!!

(Did you know that, when John was in fifth grade, the teacher asked “What is the sister city of Minneapolis?” and he replied “Is it Maxiapolis?”?)

I honestly can’t blame Mr. U Cant Stand Me for being leery about his gal’s faithfulness. After all, on her very first day of training, when the instructor was teaching kicking out and said “First, lay on your back,” she interrupted with a cheery “I’m real good at that.”

Twin sis Brie Cheese sure found a first-class sap in the bearded buffoon. Naturally, having spent all his time in the wrestling dojo or making granola bars, Danny Boy had no idea how lady parts function, forcing B-Cup to adapt sly methods to show him the Promised Land. Stunts like telling him “Now let me try a flying head-scissor on you with my panties off.” I mean, before the temporary Mrs. Bryan took her groom to Carnal Knowledge College, the Virgin Vegan thought “doggie-style” was something you put on an SPCA form and a “boob bang” was bumping into Alex Riley backstage.

[Incidentally, are you aware it was she not he who started the “Yes, yes, yes!” chants? Not in a wrestling ring; beneath the bleachers with her high school football team.]

Going through the rest of the list, the Samoan’s first name is Jonathan so, obviously, he was doomed since birth. As for Punk, we now have irrefutable proof his initials stand for “Certified Moron.” And we can’t forget now-hitched Miz–try though we might. I guess it’s up to me to refresh the current crop of bonebenders on The Rules Of Handling Hussies.

*As they say at Arlington Cemetery, get a lot while you’re young. Since it can be tiring, you can always catch up on your sleep during an Eric Young match, just like everyone else does.

*Pretend you’re letting ring rats in on a big personal piece of private info, your real name–but always give them a fake one. I usually use “Jeremy Borash.”

*Get the tramps to drive you around, and tell them how much you miss home-cooked meals. Being they are women and thus not too bright, they’ll fall for this ruse, saving you a bundle on rental cars and having to buy them dinner.

*Ditch a bitch the moment she turns 24. They’re pretty much worn (and stretched) out by then, and that’s about the age they start getting foolhardy notions, such as thinking that doing your laundry is no longer a privilege, or it actually registers when a girl casts an election vote. Exception: the Turn-24 Rule is out the window if it’s a rich MILF who owns a liquor store or a Nashville-based wrestling promotion.

*There’s nothing wrong with having a wife–as long as its someone else’s. It’s far more advantageous to be familiar with OPP than with DDP.

*A true gentleman will always remove his hat before telling a young lady “I’m only here to tap that ass, so shut up and get undressed, you stupid slut.”

*ABSOLUTELY dodge every opportunity to meet the tootsie’s family members. Unless she’s got a hot sister into threesomes.

*Google “photos, nude shaved teen girls” to assure yourself the world is stocked with millions of easy young skanks willing to do anything for attention, therefore only a total jackass settles for just one.

*If you do meet twin gold-diggers, remember the slogan “Both or neither.” If you are going to get raked over the coals for all you’re worth, may as well get some kinky fantasies out of the way along the way. I recommend starting with “One in a devil’s outfit, the other in a nun’s habit” before moving on to trickier turf like “Tijuana trapeze act” and “Human Chinga.”

*Thinking a girl is only good for one thing is sooo 1990s. Besides the boudoir bouncing, some of them are really gifted at running a vacuum cleaner and caring for the dog while you’re away banging some other slut. Just don’t give them your eBay password. You know how they love to shop.

*UNDER NO CIRCUMSTANCES should you ever ball your hand up into a fist and slug a woman. I really shouldn’t have to tell anyone this, considering it’s just plain common-sense thinking, even if you were brought up in the Great Lakes region. How is it going to reflect on you, a big strong guy, belting a hundred-pounder?

Wake up, Jacob–slugging a woman leaves tell-tale marks. When a ho is flapping her yap until you can’t stand it anymore, take a deep breath, count to ten then clamp her in a hammerlock or figure four. She refuses to obey your command to stop creating so much clatter cooking you dinner while you’re watching the game? Gently approach with arms extended as though looking for a hug, then put her away with a sleeper hold.

See, not a single bruise on the bimbo!

*If a chick starts to prattle on about desiring “a real relationship,” tell her you want to give it some serious thought and thus need to step outside for a little fresh air to help think things through…then run like hell!!!

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Part Two: The Larch

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

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

a) shown his nifty eight-track tape collection.

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

c) dropped an elbow on Mrs. Sabato.

d) participated in Celebrity Wardrobe Swap.

2. I’m a fan of Eric Young because:

a) I dig that lumberjack beard.

b) His comedic genius rivals that of Rob Schneider.

c) I too have a crush on ODB.

d) I too am considered “mentally challenged.”

3. I miss Jesse Neal because:

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

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

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

d) Jesse who?

4. If I were Rey Misterio, I’d:

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

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

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

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

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

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

b) develop a sudden hunger for Fruity Pebbles.

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

d) thank the Lord for small favors.

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

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

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

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

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

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

a) I never tire of hearing about Oklahoma athletics.

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

c) it might get him to quit blogging.

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

8. What common phrase does Cody Rhodes most despise?

a) Beauty is only skin deep.

b) The check is in the mail.

c) Best wishes on future endeavors.

d) Who’s your daddy?

9. My favorite move is:

a) the tombstone piledriver.

b) the 450 splash.

c) the quebrada

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

10. CM Punk’s 2012 goal should be:

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

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

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

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

BONUS ROUND My personal greatest moment in wrestling is:

a) getting Howard Finkel’s autograph.

b) having dinner with the Bushwackers.

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

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

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