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.

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?”

SS19–P.U.S.A.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

O, Canada, our home and native land….

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