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.

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

StaStaBlueNICE48size

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 https://bit.ly/1ScpS8H

 

*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.

SS39—Are YOU A True Master Of The Mat World?

If there is one constant in professional wrestling, it’s that everyone opining on social media considers himself an “expert.”  Possibly, even you.  Here’s a litmus test to determine if you truly qualify for such a self-description.

 

Have you ever…

…declared Jinder Mahal is “juiced to the gills”?  Claimed he “didn’t deserve” the SD title shot or subsequent victory?  Bemoaned that he got it because the WWE wants to cash in on the burgeoning Indian market?

…put up good money to launch a podcast wherein the majority of the guests are “friends” who, you know, have never actually been involved in the wrestling business but have watched loads of matches?

…referred to all wrestlers as “Superstars,” any belt as a “title” or “championship,” being that’s the way WWE announcers do so?

…used “heel” as part of your Twitter handle because it’s cool and you’re an easygoing person striving to be popular, never actually doing “heelish” things?

…tweeted to a wrestling celebrity, sprinkling your note with words like “popped” and “buried” so he or she knows you’re a fellow insider?

…run into a wrestler away from the arena (airport, hotel bar, etc.) and ran down your favorite matches from his/her career?

…either to your pals or, better still, to wrestlers’ faces, referred to the latter by their real names (even though you don’t know them personally)?

…used “from what I hear” or “my sources” while meaning “What I read online” or “in a newsletter”?

…chanted “Delete” during a Matt Hardy WWE match despite never watching TNA Impact the entire time he was “Broken”?  Hey, even though that’s where your favorites such as Samoa Joe, Christopher Daniels, Austin Aries, Bobby Roode and AJ Styles first came to your attention, “TNA sucks,” right?  LOL

Well, let the balloons come cascading down from the ceiling, set off the pyros and hit the music.  You’ve just become Jackass Of The Month!  Keep it up and, who knows, you might even be selected Jackass Of The YEAR!!!

 

I’m not about to go over all of the above to prove my point.  First off, you wouldn’t understand most of my explanation.  Having answered “Yes” to any of the above indicates you wouldn’t know the first thing about wrestling if you watched a documentary called The First Thing About Wrestling, read the book it was based upon, and bought the graphic novel then had it read to you by the ghost of Lou Thesz, while attending a seminar entitled “The First Thing About Wrestling.”

I will, however, prove the stupidity of “hardcore” fans by breaking down the Jinder Mahal segment for the imbeciles who agreed with any of it.

*”Juiced to the gills”  Let’s see, the WWE suspended their Golden Boy and main-eventer, one Roman Reigns, for a Wellness Policy violation, but they are turning a blind eye to drug test results of a man who, until late April, was on the bottom third of the card, if used at all.  This would be the testing performed by an independent agency, not the WWE itself.

Uh, yeah, and I suppose you know Jinder is “on steroids” because the Easter bunny rode up on a magic unicorn and told you so.

Ten-to-one you’ve never read the Wellness Policy guidelines, and the closest you come to a workout regimen is your midnight stroke sessions to Shimmer DVDs.  Nonetheless, you know THE TRUTH, since six of the 42 active members of your Facebook group agree with you.

Did any of your fellow blowhards explain how a “roided-up” body improves ring and promo skills?  That’s what I thought.

*Mahal “didn’t deserve” anything.  Answer me this, Junior Einsteins:  How come nobody griped about AJ Styles not “deserving” the big belt after being in the WWE just nine months at the time?

Jinder, despite his superior abilities, had to wait seven years (after becoming a full-timer with the promotion) to get a title shot, even though he was a member of the crowd-pleasing 3MB, still among the most downloaded bands on iTunes.

Mahal remains undefeated in Wrestlemania singles competition; Styles couldn’t even beat Grampa Jericho.  Both members of the feared Ascension have been in the WWE longer than nine months, yet neither even got a chance to qualify to face Orton at Backlash.  Why no complaints about that?  Don’t you “hardcore” fans worship every single NXT talent who makes the main roster?

”It’s all about exploiting a new market.”  Ohhhh, I see; so if, in order to boost business in Asia, Shinguard Nakamura gets to hold the gold, you are going to piss and moan about that, threaten to (but, as always, not follow through) cancel the WWE Network and create crybaby hashtags.

Well, aren’t you?

Perhaps you’re right.  The WWE shouldn’t explore outside revenue opportunities. Sure, your obnoxious behavior has driven Raw and Smackdown ratings to 20-year lows due to you alienating the great casual fans who carried the company for decades; and non-American WWE house shows can’t fill half the seats in big-city arenas even thought they only come to town every three months.

But it’s not like they’re a real business, with stockholders and boards and all that.  Oh, wait.

However, let’s say they decided to follow your harebrained wishes—even though where the WWE tours and markets has absolutely no impact whatsoever on you personally—and just to please you, the goddamn center of the universe, they pass up the potential to pick up a measly $100 million or so.

Are you going to tell me you won’t raise a big stink (beyond your existing repugnant body odor) when, to compensate for lost income, the monthly Network fee is $19.95?  Oh, please.

 

So, yo, “expert,” why don’t you shuffle on out of any conversation about the business end of wrestling and let the grown-ups take care of it?  You are better suited for smarmily mocking fans who buy replica belts—and each drop hundreds of dollars into the company coffer (which YOU don’t do.)

Moron.

Awwww, did the above hurt your wittle feewings?  Don’t let the tears stain your T-shirt emblazoned with the NWO logo…even though you weren’t even watching WCW when the Order caught fire over 20 years ago.

Hang on, I have an idea:  you and your too-sweeting buddies should form your own faction called the NCO—the No Clue Order.

 

SS33–R.I.P., Noble Amigo

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

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

Rest in peace, Senor Benjamin, rest in peace.

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

 

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.

SS21–Wanna See My Twits?

StaStaBlueNICE48size

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 Steph@OPP.com

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.”–CreepyRobLowe@DishNetwork.com

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 Internetdork@nosepicker.net

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.”–CMPunk@WhineAndCheese.com

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.'”–HulkHogan@BS4Life.net

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.

SS2–More To Adore

StaStaBlueNICE48size

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.”)