SS57—Manor Mends The Mat Game 2021

Pro wrestling was founded by shady characters of questionable morals bent on conning naïve rubes out of their money via rigged “fights.”  Everyone knows that.

Except diehard wrestling fans.

Wide-eyed bubble-dwellers who wandered into a biker bar and wanted to play hymns on the jukebox, it’s only natural that those who exist in a fantasy world of their own creation would be drawn to another make-believe environment, a comforting escape from the harsh  reality of otherwise being a full-time resident of Loser Land.

With the petulance of a two-year-old with ADD, it is little wonder they fly into a tizzy when even the most trivial occurrence poses a (minor) threat to the dreamscape they’ve created.

Unable to crawl back into the womb—the closest they’ll ever get to sex— to Nerdus Maximus and friends immersed in video games (fake world), comic books (fake world), and movies and TV shows about superheroes (fake world), pro wrestling is a perfect fit, as it too involves other people doing the dirty work while they do minimal exertion.

So, folks, what it breaks down to is this:  Wrestling itself is not “the big problem”; it’s who wrestling attracts. These delusional diehards are irreparable. But that doesn’t mean wrestling can’t be fixed to cleanse itself of that particular element.

*When Eric Bischoff took control of WCW, he phoned me—ME, not you—to get some input and advice.  One of the many things I told him and personally changed the industry as a whole was not to undervalue the cruiserweights.  Thus, I am solely responsible for the career success of Ultimo Dragon, Juvi, Eddie Guerrero, Dean Malenko, Chris Jerko and Rey Midgetstereo—though I apologize for the latter.

But all those men (except Rey) I single-handedly made stars went about 230 pounds, didn’t wear T-shirts to hide lousy physiques like yours, and were athletes rather than acrobats and fluorescent light-tube eaters.

Also, Eric called me roughly a quarter-century ago; and as excuse-makers love to bring up to validate something new and awful, “Wrestling evolves.”

In this case, exactly my point.

Since only the saddest no-lifers watch it anyway, sack the entire 205 Live roster and use the currently wasted airtime for something more entertaining.  You proponents of the dwarf-based promotions worship the bingo hall in Philadelphia—though you’ve never actually been to that dump—so, why not air some exciting bingo action from the Nantucket, RI, VFW post?  It has to be more engaging than Generic Can’t Cut A Promo versus Generic Flippy Guy With Beard.

And this ban on non-heavyweights is across the board, not just for the WWE.  All midgets must go!

That includes those on “the other channel,” such as The Jackson Two, Cringe Cassidy, Micro Stunt, Bunghole Boy, the Loser Brothers, and Private Parts. Let them find jobs they are better suited for, like stocking the lower shelves in grocery stores or modeling children’s clothing in Wal-Mart ads.  Perhaps act as Smurf stunt doubles.

At the very least, Kushida and Ricky Starks can find seasonal jobs building toys at Santa’s workshop, 

*Return to the non-fans attendance system.  What was better than the wildly overhyped Attitude Era?  The Stink-Free Era!

Being an insider—not someone who plays one on social media—I’ve spoken to many bonebenders, and they were unanimous in agreeing it was such a delight to no longer have to be administered oxygen after each match, to clear the audience body odor and unwashed-hair stench from their system.  Popular Seth Rollins told me “Every time Becky changes a dirty diaper, the smell reminds us of when you first do your entrance and get a whiff of the fans’ breath.”

The typically cretinous Chicago-based “fans” repeatedly performing lameass “CM Punk” chant during the thrilling August 2 RAW—the first one with the live crowd back—conclusively proved the “fanbase” is more useless than a pogo stick on a canoe ride.

I am not suggesting everyone be locked out of arenas.  That would be preposterous.  No, I’m saying…you know how you need a “vaccination passport” to get into restaurants, MSG concerts and the like?  To be allowed entry into a wrestling card, one must present a photo of them in the ring during another show.  This excludes the time you paid $90 to have your picture taken with Ricky Morton in a ring set up at a fan convention in Frogs Leap, Louisiana.

*One constant comment from the obsessed, being few have ever had an original thought, is “I wish RAW wasn’t three hours long.”  Putting aside the expected grammar error, I agree with the numbnuts!

RAW should be expanded to four hours

I, for one, greatly miss those 27-minute opening promos where one wrestler badmouths another until—surprise!—the insulted party comes to the ring to talk smack about the first person, who just stands there and takes it without ever even interrupting, let alone throwing a right hook.

I just adore the spontaneity of the pretend-boss interrupting the bickerers and scheduling a completely impromptu match between the tendon-tearers.  And by a stroke of pure luck, even though shows are generally formatted to the minute, that particular one has a spare 18 minutes to kill and accommodate the new match!

Another bonus to running another hour is how it creates an opening for the return of the most spellbinding in-ring interview segments in the sport’s history.

I am referring of course to the Live Stately States segment, hailed by all as far greater than Piper’s Pit on its best day.  For starters, the enormously overrated Roddy Piper couldn’t finish two sentences without doing that disgusting hiccup-inhale thing he used to do.  Let’s not conveniently forget the Scotsman was homophobic, clearly demonstrated by his cowardly sneak attack on guest Adrian Adonis.  His most famous targets?  A black midget, Jimmy Snuka and Mister T—all People Of Color  Do I really have to spell out what that means?

*In the earliest Olympic Games, wrestling was done in the nude.  This practice needs to be reinstated at once.

But only for the broads.

You can stop your “Stately is a sexist pig” cries right this minute, toots.  My record for supporting equality is unmatched.  In fact, I have boldly stated on Twitter that, when your old lady is doing your laundry, you should allow the chick to throw in some of her clothes as well.

I’m all for wrestling women.  It is public knowledge I try to wrestle women every chance I get.  So, don’t worry your pretty little head over me, sister.  You’d be much better-served trying to learn simple arithmetic so it doesn’t take you and “the girls” an hour to work out who pays what on a restaurant bill.

Anyway, naked honeys open up so many fresh possibilities.  A faction of Naomi, Bayley, Maria Kanellis and Marti Belle, their gimmick being they’re only shot from behind.  Nikki ASH being rebranded correctly this time, as Nikki ASS.  The female NWO—Nude Whore Order.

Special remixes of matches, edited to show the best views, if you know what I mean (and half of you don’t.)  A reality show wherein the gals frequently take long slow-motion showers and love to bounce on trampolines.

Breastlemania, All Hanging Out, Starrknakedcade, and Destination XXX would smash every existing pay-per-view buy rate…and give a whole new meaning to “hardcore.”

I hear you Pretend Puritans clucking away, acting as if you are repulsed by the idea.  In the meantime, you and your little buddies in the Three Inch Club have been having “tug team” circle jerks over Shotzi, Britt Baker and Thunder Rosa on a weekly basis all year.

*Being “woke” is a joke.  Bunch of sanctimonious snotballs playing holier-than-thou, feigning concern about whatever is Cause Of The Day as an excuse to pat themselves on the back.  These creatures are even worse than online gatekeepers!

At least imbeciles calling themselves @AEW24.7_69 and @SashaFeetSniffStan are easy to avoid.  Woke tools pop up every freakin’ where.  “Ooooh, look at me, I eat tofu instead of beef.”  Wait right there, the Pope wants to give you a medal.  (And, besides, those cows were asking for it.)

The biggest fix for wrestling today is to run off these pearl-clutching pansies and return to what the sport was built on—bad taste.

“Ethnicity- and race-baiting is not good,” says Sobbing Sally.  She’s right—it’s great.

Some of my earliest cherished memories include the real Rock, Don Muraco, calling Pedro Morales “a greaseball,” while, on another station, Tully Blanchard, taking a rare booking in the Northeast, was fearlessly running down the Spanish-speaking.

Holy shish kabob, they’re saying this on TV?!?  They sure were.  And tickets were flying out of the box office.  Wait, what’s this?  On a third channel, some white trash grappler was telling a Japanese competitor to “go make some egg rolls”?

In addition to moving tons of tickets, TV ratings completely blew away the meager numbers tallied today.  Hardly a coincidence.

Now, before anyone labels me a bigot for advocating the above, understand it certainly shouldn’t be only Causcasians ripping minorities.  Homeboys cutting up crackers is something I 100-percent endorse.

I want to see a black tag team claiming “You honkies suck at boxing, track, and basketball, and especially suck at wrestling.  And you can ask your sister about what else we’re better at…shorty,” while surrounded by fawning blondes.  And an Asian boasting “Sony took over Hollywood and Samsung rules TVs and phones.  Nobody buys a Ford or Chevy anymore.  So, whether you like it or not, we own all you round-eyes.”

Ethnicity-baiting is only one of the many “offensive” options.  Give me voluptuous skank valets constantly following their man’s orders and being put up for “maid service” if the heel loses.  Flip the switch and have a wrestler in the most universally acknowledged cringe position of all, the p-whipped husband or boyfriend.

Screw factions of, um, elite athletes. Wrestling needs a trio of obese slobs who scoff at working out and only win because they triple-team and are too fat for a worn-down foe to kick out on.

The WWE has the slickest production crew the sport has ever seen.  Yeah, and viewership has declined every year.  I need introduction videos that look like they were shot on a burner phone—because they were—with “the new people” getting out of parked jets, lounging by Olympic-size pools at plush mansions, all of which were obviously rented for the day.  The soundtrack is, of course, some song radio stations beat to death two years earlier.

 Also, the hell with Shaq, Bad Bunny, Snoop, Logan Paul et al, each being “some super-rich guy just picking up a paycheck.”  Replace them with that goofus taking over the limelight of Flo from Progressive, the hippie who holds the Guinness World Record for eating Big Macs, and a once-popular singing act with none of its original members.  Why have wealthy celebrities when you can have poor celebrities?

On a related note, if yours truly was “some super-rich guy,” I’d introduce Ambush The Assholes.   It goes like this.

Find the most overbearing, preachy public figures around, being sure they have no interest in wrestling whatsoever.  Promise them some live TV time to talk up their latest project, world hunger, the homeless, or whatever other hopeless cause they are “deeply concerned about” (at the moment.)

Before the show, in an empty arena, demonstrate how the various blows are “fake” and harmless.  Seconds before they are about to walk the aisle on the live show, it’s “Oh, geez, we never got your signature on the standard contract, handing them a thick legal document with the buried clause “the promotion will not be responsible for any injuries.”  

Then, about 62 seconds into their speech, have a four-person run-in and stomp the living tar out of the jiveass.

Week after week, destroy the likes of Bono, Tucker Carlson, Whoopi Goldberg, Paul McCartney, Jenny McCarthy…it will be the best TV to ever air! 

Lawsuits?   Meh, remember, this is based on being super-rich.  (That’s how you get to be booker now, right?)  If I have to pay Fred Durst a million smackers because he can’t “sing” anymore, that’s money well spent. 

Just imagine the magic of the moment when the announcer bellows “The Four Horsewomen have reformed—and they’re beating up Taylor Swift!!!”

Naturally, you’d have to mix it up so it doesn’t get too repetitive.   Like have all the girls take turns superplexing Khloe Kardashian through a table, or a Road Warriors salute in which Neil Young takes four Doomsday Devices.  The men in the ring have a contest to determine who can best chokeslam Howard Stern.  The possibilities are endless!

SS55–The Outsiders’ Guide To REAL Wrestling Fans

It goes without saying that those who don’t follow professional wrestling are very contrite about this shortcoming and wish to apologize to me personally.  Nonetheless, the chances are you know someone you’d describe as a “real wrestling fan.”  But do you know a “REAL wrestling fan”?

What’s the difference between someone who’s a dedicated enthusiast and a self-described “REAL wrestling fan” besides the latter’s choice to capitalize the first word for accentuation on it (and an unwarranted feeling of superiority)?  That just happens to be the topic for this particular column.  I’ll be using the abbreviation RWF frequently, primarily because I’m lazy.  Er, I mean so as to not eat up so much column space.


RWF is the only segment of fandom wherein the member’s neck size matches his SAT scores.  With an aroma resembling a skunk that was run over outside a sulfur factory explosion, these moralists regularly look down their freshly picked noses at those who merely watch a television program or attend an event to be—GASP!–entertained.

So what, if under two million Americans watch the most popular wrestling TV show?  That’s practically everyone in the world, because wrestling is really important in the grand scheme of things—which, in turn, makes REAL fans important.  This is the bubble RWFs live in. Among other delusional doozies, these sad sacks think they represent the majority of the mat sport’s fan base rather than the “casual” fans they despise.  (Not even close.)  And believe they have great influence over the wrestling offices’ decisions.  (HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA—not to mention HA.)

You’d have a better chance of winning the national lottery by choosing numbers via a blindfolded pigeon tap-dancing on a solar calculator than one of these “experts” actually getting something right.  Yet they persist, unfazed over batting .000 for life.

I would rather take fashion advice from Guy Fieri while snorting a line of his earwax dunked in year-old cream than pay the slightest bit of attention to the RWFs endless sanctimonious yattering.

First off, let’s take a look at the standard RWF—quite literally.  On the average, these are beefy lads and lasses; and, it is reasonable for an outsider to wonder if the devotees have ever tried their hand at the sport.  This is how a typical conversation goes.

RWF:  Wrestling is my LIFE.

SWM:  Really?  How many matches have you been in?

RWF:  None.

SWM:  Okay, then where are you training to become a wrestler?

RWF:  Nowhere.

SWM:  Why not?

RWF:  I’m a pussy afraid of pain.

SWM:  Then why not train to be a ref?  They rarely bump.

RWF:  Well, um….

SWM:  Ring announcers take no bumps.

RWF:  Yeah, but….

SWM:  Have you ever approached your local indie promoter and volunteered to do anything, such as set up the ring or the folding chairs?

RWF:  No, but….

[Let the record show the author is a 5’8” middleweight but has participated in matches, including being on the receiving end of contact and knocked to the ground.  Because he’s not a windbag coward.]


The standard RWF is not only a business and television programming expert (despite having no experience in either) but is also a master of in-ring technique. After all, he has watched thousands of matches on TV.

Fortunately for the rest of us novices, these enlightened souls generously share their knowledge. A common social media occurrence is the posting of a brief video clip showcasing a move that went horribly wrong and/or appeared to be very painful.  Fulfilling his duty as an educator to the masses, the RWF will reply with an explanation along the lines of “He should have tucked his chin on the way down,” even if the person posting—and I swear I’m not making this up, folks—is a veteran professional wrestler.

It’s a shame Jimi Hendrix isn’t still alive.  Although never having held a guitar themselves, these same nincompoops could advise him on how to correctly play a C-chord.

Yes, the standard RWF is so oblivious, he doesn’t even grasp how ridiculous he comes off, and will continue to make a public fool of himself for eternity.

But don’t you dare laugh at them!

Oh, yeah, it’s all fun and games when a wrestler or company on their official Hate List gets knocked.  But call out the RWFs with a very valid comment, and it’s a one-way ticket to Sulk City.  “Boohoohoo, our skin is thinner than a butterfly wing.  Just for that, we’re not voting for you in our self-aggrandizing annual polls, the results of which are unseen by anyone in the industry.

“You should be more like _____, who dutifully tells us exactly what we want to hear, we being far too thick to recognize we’re being conned.”

You may think Swifties are overbearing tunnel-visioned dimwits.  And you’d be right.  But they are a flock of 13-year-old girls who have never been kissed.  Other than their ever-expanding waistlines, RWFs are full-grown (chronological) adults—who have also never been kissed.

Stans, regardless of the genre, are pathetic little beings who have to get their thrills vicariously, knowing full well they will never be more than a mosquito squashed on the windshield of life.  REAL Wrestling Fans up the ante by griping over how Favorites A, B and C are not current champs—as in carrying around a championship belt RWFs know is REWARDED as a PRE-DETERMINED result of a STAGED contest no one has ever actually “won.”

To put this into perspective, picture a gaggle of goofuses whining to the USA Network daily and for months because Ice T’s character on Law And Order:  SVU has never been elected mayor of New York City.

REAL Wrestling Fans are not entirely useless, however.  For instance, they could serve as highly effective mulch, if properly buried (meaning alive.)  Or tossed in wood-chippers as test material rather than wasting precious natural resources such as trees and old sneakers.

Polar bears have it tough enough, confined to small zoo pits, in weather dozens of degrees warmer than their natural habitat.  Why not cheer up our furry friends by tossing them a RWF or two for lunch?

Feeding REAL Wrestling Fans to bears is also a money-saving opportunity for zoos.  But how’s this?

Cities are constantly under budget strains and searching for new revenue streams.  Parades, outdoor concerts and the like are always a boon for the local economy, since they boost retail sales, eatery attendance, parking lot use, and other taxed enterprises.

The more spectacular and crowd-pleasing, the higher the attendance.  I say let’s march out some RWFs for good ol’ public beheadings.

What’s their offense?  Why, being a REAL Wrestling Fan is as offensive as it gets!

To Be Continued



SS53–Deserving…to be an imbecile

I couldn’t imagine living in a nothing-happening, inbred-infested, bad hair life, junk cars out back, hick haven that is the American Deep South.

Parking your pickup truck next to the “fillin’ station” to say Howdy to Floyd and Earl “setting” on cheap folding chairs by the entrance, the sea-ment of the floor stained by spat tobacco.

“Y’all gone huntin’ this Saturday, Virgil?”

“Oon-huh. Soons I git back from my cousin’s wedding to my brother.  Ah done got my best T-shirt all washed up and everything.  Had to dunk it in the crick four dang times to git the stains out of the armpits.  Well, most of ‘em, anyways.”

Yeah, I would rather do a bellyflop onto a corral full of porcupines than live in the collection of trash towns known as The South.

Nonetheless, I will give one of the hillbillies credit.  That Jethro Farnsworthy guy made a fortune ridiculing fellow yahoos with his “You might be a redneck” routine.  He got so rich, in fact, he can now easily afford his daily ritual of burning a Confederate flag outside his condo in Bridgeport, Connecticut.

And now I proudly present my spin of JF’s routine, tailored to match the pro wrestling audience.


You might be an imbecile…

…if you ever publicly claimed someone “deserves”…well, anything.

Just because your pampered ass once got a Participation Trophy after being the first one eliminated in a dodge ball game, it doesn’t mean everyone who eats all the vegetables on their dinner plate should get a Congressional Medal Of Honor.

The Pulitzer Prize committee eliminated the Best Wrestling Column award after I easily won it three straight years; but, you didn’t see me writing a 3000-word teary-eyed “That’s so unfair, boohoohoo” essay on Facebook, did you?

Worthless and weak B LOGO MARKED MY GIF

The way you Fantasylandlubbers want wrestling booked, they may as well have that Orca Winfrey broad come out to a roomful of seated grapplers and tell them to look under their chairs, with her chirping “There’s a championship belt for you.  And one for you.  Everybody gets a championship!


Did you ever stop to think, every time you say “Wrestler A deserves the title,” you are also saying that not only the current champ but also everyone else in the locker room doesn’t?  Do you ever stop to think at all?

Every single person on the roster of a nationally televised program spent several years working for chump change, sacrificing their personal lives, rehabbing from injuries, honing their craft, and so on.  Every.  Single.  Person.

But, no; you, the Great Imbecilicus, think you can look down from your ivory tower and proclaim someone warrants a title shot, then spout a bunch of feeble excuses as to why, rather than admitting the wrestler’s chief “qualification” is that you are a big fan of theirs.

In short, you are playing god.

“But but but, Stately,” you wimper, “Wrestler B has been with the promotion five years.”

So what?  Heath Slater and Curtis Axel were with the WWE w-a-y before Becky Lynch and Charlotte Flair yet you never once mentioned how they “deserved” the title shots those bimbos got!

To summarize, by using “deserve,” you are a liar and a hypocrite.

And an imbecile.

You might be an imbecile…

…if you still knock fans by using the terms “mother’s basement” “Cheetos-eating” and/or “neckbeard.”

Are you really claiming the non-Manormaniac fan base is a bunch of no-life odorous malcontents?

Well, you’re right—but let’s see some creativity in place of those shopworn descriptions.  There are loads of better expressions for them collectively or as individuals.  A few that come to mind are Panty Poopers, Los Ignorables, SwampButteers, The Nope To Soap Squad, The Filth Element, Bayou Breath, Razorless Ramon, The Notorious P.I.G. and the NWE (No Women Ever.)

Don’t laugh too loudly at Bray NoDiet and his peers, you superior-feeling “I know all about wrestling because I pay for a news service” chumps using the “mother’s basement” lines to begin with—aka The Snob Mob, Bubble Boys, Smart Farts, and Condescending Cucks.

You spending 85 percent of your free time watching, collecting, conversing about and buying merchandise linked to one topic says more than we need to know about your otherwise empty existence.

You might be an imbecile…

…if you virtue signal on social media.

“There are so many promotions doing wonderful things today.  Why not enjoy them all?”


First off, Reverend Retardo, doctors at the University of New Mexico have determined that 97.4 percent of those providing “motivational” chatter are no more qualified to do so than they are to give tap-dancing lessons to drunken squirrels.

Secondly, to answer your stupid question, unlike lobotomized primates such as you, most people do this remarkable thing called “having preferences.”  It’s why, if you enter a building with a sign reading “Restaurant” outside, the waitress hands you a list known as “a menu.”

Granted, after a hard day changing oil filters at Jiffy Lube, it may be too challenging for you to decide upon such difficult, world-changing questions as “Which pro wrestling promotions appeal to me?”  But the rest of us manage—and without your putrid, preachy, pompous, puke-inducing “life-coaching”

So, stick your pulpit up your pooper, pal.

You might be an imbecile…

…if you, someone not in the business, fuss over TV ratings and demographics.

Let’s see.  Do you own, operate, wrestle or ref for a televised promotion?  No?  How about serving as an executive or shareholder in a network televising wrestling?  Ring announce or do commentary?  Involved with the cameras, lighting or sound in any manner?  Cover the sport for a living?

Still no?  Oh, dear.  Do you at least run a merch table or concession stand at the venue where the tapings occur?  Set up the folding chairs, then sweep up after tapings?

None of the above, eh?  Maybe the timekeeper pays you to wash his car.  Hmm, not even that.


Watch the shows and zip your damn lip.

You might be an imbecile…

…If you fail to repeatedly watch the greatest footage ever added to the WWE Network.

In late August 2019, looking to make the biggest splash as the revamped Network was about to launch, the geniuses in charge of content selection went with a sure thing in the highest demand.  The result was the Hidden Gems found by Searching “ECW 1992.”

Although the third is trash, the first and especially the second are priceless treasures.

Breaking the pair down individually, the very first and very last words you hear on Volume One are “Stately Wayne Manor.”  In between, you actually get to hear my voice on color commentary, absolutely destroying the drivel of Bore-Me Graves and his contemporaries.

I’m only in about half, making it perfectly acceptable to skip over the rest.  The benefit of this is, it get you to Volume Two sooner, wherein you can earwitness me single-handedly carrying the entire promotion on my back and establishing the initials E-C-W, due to my sea-deep credibility and the enormous respect I have among fellow insiders.

While your mind is being blown by my unmatched performance, here’s some other info to take into account, it applying to both volumes.  These were one-camera shoots with no monitors.  There was no director or post-production polishing done.  I had never met either commentary partner until a moment before we started calling the matches.  And some of the BEST stuff—for example, me reciting limericks years before anyone else did them and acted like they originated them—was excluded from the material uploaded!

I am truly amazing.

This may be controversial in some circles, but I will go out on a limb and state “Best Of ECW, Volume 2” is even more must-see than these two legendary collector’s items.

Bam Bam Bigelow And Friends maybe BETTER boxBrody vid cover B

Although Bruiser Brody Memorial is the sentimental choice due to his brutal murder just before the (consequently renamed) tape was released, if I’m being fair-minded, I have to say Bam Bam Bigelow And Friends is the superior effort, and gets my vote as Best Video Of The Eighties.

Yes, you read that right.  These tapes were recorded consecutively in early 1987, lonnggg before Good Old J.O. was slaughtering the pronunciation of Japanese names, and at a time when today’s “puro experts,” asked to name one Japanese wrestler, could only reply “Mr. Fuji.”

The twosome is also historic for being the first time English-language heel color commentary was heard on shows recorded in the Land Of The Rising Sun.

And, wow, what hysterical-yet-blistering commentary it is!  Hey, whattaya know.  Turns out said announcing was done by Stately Wayne Manor as well!!!

Little wonder why this describes me but not you.

WWE Network ULTRASTAR blue


SS43–Gazing At My (crystal) Balls

It is very well known within the professional wrestling community—the real one, not just a bunch of online wannabes fantasizing they are part of the business—that I have crystal balls.  As such, it is time once again to peer into my balls and predict with 100-percent accuracy events unfolding in the stretchin’ profession during 2018.


January 25—As part of the new Mixed Match format for WWE Facebook, The Authors Of Pain, Absolution and The Undisputed Era compete in a battle royal.  The lone survivor will then face The Empress Of Tomorrow for the Stupidest Goddamn Name trophy, previously won by The Ascension.


February 11–University Of Wisconsin doctor Martin Burke develops a surgical procedure whereby any male who regularly follows Total Divas can have his gonads reattached.


March 3–The entire independent-wrestling industry is rocked to its very core when a promoter in Billings, Montana composes the standard montage-of-performers poster but not a single one of the pictured stars is sticking out his tongue!!!!!


Mid-March–History is made when an entire week passes without some idiot asking Dave Meltzer if NJPW could be a serious threat to the WWE’s American stronghold.


March 19–The New York Times publishes a Things That Went Out Of Style Ten Years Ago list.  It includes “a ‘Vote For Pedro’ ringer T-shirt, having a MySpace account and That Lame-Ass Heart-Tapping Gesture Shane McMahon Does.”


April 7—A “Thank you, Matthew (clap clap clap)” chant breaks out among 46% if those in attendance at ROH’s big card on Wrestlemania weekend.  This has nothing to do with the just-completed Young Bucks match.  The chanters are all Twitter users Matt Jackson blocked that month during his daily hissy fits.

Tears roll down the cheeks of several, overcome with relief, knowing they will never again be exposed to the defensive dwarf pleading “Why don’t you love me?  I’m telling Mommy,” over even the most minor perceived slight.

Young Bucks Matt Jackson blocked me too

April 16—Secretly turning bad guys, The New Day begin pouring horse manure out of Booty-O boxes and into the open mouths and over the heads of unsuspecting nimrods, as the trio makes its entrance on each house show.

Adding fuel to the fire, Xavier announces, “If you don’t like it, you can blow my trombone.”


May 2—Not to be outdone by his brother, the returning Jeff Hardy unveils his latest screwball gimmick, a chronic masturbator to be known as #Strokin’ Jeff Hardy.


The When Jimmy Hart Was Actually A Good Manager DVD goes on sale Tuesday, May 15.  It consists solely of footage from his Eighties Memphis run.


June 6–The WWE brings back Santino Marella to serve as a backstage interviewer, and also signs the king of flippity-dippity garbage, primarily because Vince McMahon (and I) get a big kick out of the Italian calling the Englishman “William the osprey.”


Josh Matthews’ hip-hop debut single “I’ve Got Tattoos.  That Makes Me Cool” drops on June 19, becoming the first song on iTunes to register a negative number of downloads.


July 10—AJ Styles finally comes clean on blowing off a tour of Australia.  Says the hillbilly halfwit, “Aw, shoot, I don’t wanna get that close to the edge of the world.”


President Trump declares July 16th National Oh, Shut Up Day, in which wrestling enthusiasts are barred, under penalty of execution, from using the words “buried” “kayfabe” (which they don’t understand anyway) “smark” “the script” and “overrated” as well as claiming anyone “deserves” anything or posting photos of empty seats at a televised event.

U.S. internet traffic dips by 57 percent by 2 pm.


On a July edition of RAW, as Stephanie McMahon once again rattles off the various “history-making” elements of the female division and “the Women’s Revolution,” a fed-up and quitting Kurt Angle continually interrupts Stunning Steph by interjecting “which the TNA Knockouts did ten years ago.”  (Oh, it’s true.)


August 14–Hulk Hogan blows his entire Gawker settlement on rebuilding the Pontiac Silverdome.  When asked why he would reconstruct an outdated stadium with no sports franchise willing to occupy it, he told the Detriot Free Press, “Because this is where I press-slammed that stinky old giant 27 times in front of three million Hulkamaniacs, brother.”

(No truth to the rumor claiming the Owner’s Box contains a hidden-camera-equipped side room for “hanging and banging” one’s best friend’s wife.)


August 29—I finally stop rolling my eyes over Jim Ross’ ridiculous clenched fist photo pose.

Jim Ross stupid fist pose for StaSta

September 5–Living up to his nickname, Marty Scurll takes command of the Bullet Club and immediately and permanently disbands the faction “just to fuck over the wankers who dropped hundreds on our merchandise.”

This is in lieu of the Villain’s original plan:  “I was going to keep us together for a month but change our name to the Flaming Dipshits, just to see how many of you lot would walk around with that on your shirts.  But since it’s probably all of you, screw it,” it will later be revealed.


On September 22, at 9:27 pm, Richard Blye, 32, of Cold Springs, Ohio, realizes, despite what he’s been claiming on Facebook for four years, Roman Reigns does not in fact “suck”—and that he, Tricky Dick, is a complete asshole.


October 6–Briton Percival Smythe-White causes a national uproar by rating a tag contest in Leeds “3 ½ stars,” violating the sacred rule that all Englishmen deem every match taking place in the United Kingdom “an instant classic.”


October 15–Caving in to fan’s incessant chants, the WWE signs CM Punk–and immediately books the UFC flop against Brock Lesnar for the RAW main event in the straight-edger’s hometown! Eight seconds after the opening bell sounds, the Greatest WWE Moment Ever occurs, henceforth known as the Chicago Screwjob.

Punk Vs lesnar

So long, sucker.

November 12–On the heels of the inexplicably popular Chris Jericho Cruise, entrepreneur Kevin Spacey publicizes his forthcoming Chris Kanyon Cruise.  Boy, are dimwitted grappling fans going to be in for a big surprise!!!


November 13—Over 100,000 jubilant wrestling nerds converge in the outskirts of New York City to celebrate the announcement that Triple-H has finally replaced Vince McMahon as the man in charge.

December 13—Over 100,000 pouting wrestling nerds leap off the Brooklyn Bridge after NOTHING AT ALL HAS CHANGED.


December 19–Alex Trebek punches indie failure Ryback in the jaw after the Jeopardy show host reveals a panel reading “Name one vowel” and the Big Goof replies “It’s what you say when you get married.”


Bully Ray has, by far, the longest line at his photo-op table during a late December convention in Boston.  Three days later, the densest Dudley learns fans are each supposed to pay him $30 for a picture together, not the other way around.


SS37–Bayling Out Bayley


As Wrestling’s Most Fair-Minded Columnist, I am often cited as a beacon of objectivity in a world of biased knee-jerk reactions, an honor and duty I take quite seriously.

Consequentially, even though she’s no doubt guilty as charged and should be lynched ASAP, I am gallantly going to withhold judgment regarding Bayley’s recent string of arrests.  (Except, of course, for her shameful theft of the WWE women’s title.)

In fact, I am going to do one better and defend the common criminal despite her laundry list of pathetic excuses being about as credible as a photoshopped picture of Elton John dirty-dancing with Bigfoot’s sister on the surface of the sun.

As for Bayley’s well-deserved arrests….

*Some massage parlors really do limit services to kneading body parts outside the groinal region.  And while the arrest reports in all three incidents list her place of employment as “Handy” Hanna’s Tug Town and reference Bayley’s reputation for “happy endings,” there is a remote possibility the latter are merely her obnoxious trademark hugs.

*With regard to her arrest by the DEA and feeble explanation “I was only holding it for a friend,” there is a slim chance she had no idea the briefcase she picked up from a Columbian at a remote airstrip at 2 a.m. contained five kilos of cocaine.  That happened to my uncle Knuckles once.  Okay, twice.

In fairness, though, like the District Attorney, I too rolled my eyes at the “for a friend” baloney—for the simple fact that no one can stand the sickening goody-goody.  (A popular expression around the locker room is “I’d rather menstruate daily than spend a minute with Bayley.”)

*As for the incident at Louie’s Limbo Lounge, “Balderdash!” I vehemently exclaim.  The young tramp was, after all, wearing a thong at the time the vice squad raid transpired, and partially concealed by the pole she was dancing next to, so how does that constitute “indecent exposure”?

Furthermore, none of the arresting officers was present when she was performing lap dances earlier, therefore the additional “lewd and lascivious behavior” allegations are strictly hearsay, I say.

Besides, Bayley was performing an important public service.  Several members of the Internet Wrestling Community were in attendance, and Lil Bubble Butt was providing them with their first—and, assuredly, last—glimpse of a half-naked woman.

According to an official report, one IWC member, a Jonathan Smallknob—aka @#BROKENfrogsplash316 on Twitter—age 27, even claimed “I began feeling funny, you know, in my pee-pee, but pulled my XXXL-size Strong Style T-shirt down to cover it.

“My friend @NewJapan4Life hasn’t been able to speak since finally learning what girls have under their shirts.  In fact, we had to cancel our Smarks Too Sweet podcast this week.”

(For those new to the sport, “smarks” is a term used by pompous loudmouths who have no idea how the wrestling business really operates yet criticize it incessantly rather than simply enjoying the shows the way the true fans—to whom these losers laughingly feel superior—do.

Don’t be that person.)

Though it’s a proven facts most broads have no business entering the squared circle and should be home doing things chicks are good at—laundry, serving their male masters, waxing the kitchen floor, etc.—I can think of one exception.

Always treating ringsiders exactly as they deserve to be, a warm smile constantly on her face, strictly adhering to the rules at all times, how can anyone NOT love Charlotte?

And this isn’t just about way she’s effortlessly dominated the WWE Girl Division, or whatever they’re calling it this week.

Away from the arena, Charlotte is a veritable community service saint, particularly when it comes to interacting with the less fortunate.  I recently spent an evening with the long-legged lovely as she took to the streets, and I must confess I was this close to asking for her hand in marriage.  (And a few other body parts, heh heh heh.)

Venturing into a ghetto known as Dallas, Texas, Charlotte’s generosity towards the homeless was unparalleled.  Among her random acts of kindness were….

*Observing a very serious problem plaguing female sidewalk-dwellers, Charlotte handed out over two dozen electric blow-dryers; and not one to exclude the males, she gave 20 men cell phones, taking the time to softly purr to each recipient “They’re not activated, because it’s not like anyone cares enough about you to ever call.”  This angelic stunner also selected several sleeping drunks to participate in the Ice Bucket Challenge, even though that meant leaving the comfort of the limo that bone-chilling February night.

Was she done there?  Hell no!  Spotting members of a Christian youth choir performing on a street corner, the blond beauty placed the entire group under citizen’s arrest for loitering, assuring each would spend the night in a nice warm jail cell rather than go home to their boring parents.

I can’t blame you for hating women, considering the way they’ve treated you all your miserable life, but Charlotte is truly exceptional.  As those sad sacks stuck living in England say, “God save the Queen!”

SS34–Stately Shoots His Mouth Off

When one has been on the newsstands worldwide for decades nonstop, as I have, the requests pour in on a daily basis.

“Sign with our studio, and we’ll cast you as the next James Bond.”  “LeBron really wants you as point guard/captain this season.”  “Come join our bleeding band and we’ll change our name to Stately Wayne Manor And The Rolling Stones, mate.”

But the most recurrent plea is “It would be a great honor and thrill for all of us wrestling fans if you would do one of those shoot interviews.”

Truth be told, I resisted for quite some time, highly concerned some may mistake me for a braggart.  However, BS Video allowed me to choose my interviewer, so I went with the renowned Shemp Wally Macbeth, who sooooo is not me in disguise, even though we happen to have vaguely similar initials.

And remember, children, just like with the ones you’ve already seen, you should always believe every word in a shoot interview, because people who convincingly fib in front of a camera for a living would NEVER do so away from an arena.

The following is a sampling of some of the topics discussed, the full video “dropping” on September 31st.

Within the wrestling business

Shemp:  What do you consider your greatest among the hundreds of your contributions to professional wrestling?

SWM:  I introduced the letter “s” to the business.  Before I became a huge global influence, “s” was never used.  People would go to see Bruno Ammartino managed by Arnold Kalund, facing Upertar Graham, and the tag team the Amoan, at Madion Quare Garden.  In fact, until I came along, the sport was known as pro wretling.

If you don’t believe me, go ask the star and director of all those Rocky movies.  He was known as Ylveter Tallone prior to my entering the bonebending biz.

S:  I understand you made your first million creating characters for the big national promotions.  How did that work?

SWM:  I’d come up with concepts for guys who were just coming into a company, to give the newbies something to concentrate on and polish on the road before they were actually introduced on TV.  Between my concept and the TV debut, they were sometimes tweaked a teeny-weeny bit.

S:  You are undoubtedly the most creative person ever to step foot in a locker room.  I’d also say most influential man behind the scenes.  Tell us some of your amazing characters, O Dazzling One.

S:  Even though these got changed a smidge, I still got the dough because I had the copyrights.  So I’ve made a bucket of bucks on the coffee king Brewer Brody, painted-face cheapskate Stingy, shoe-gazing emo wrestler The Underachiever, R&B singer Terr Funky, Dork The Clown (which I believe some guy named Frankie is still using), aging hippie Stoned Old Steve Houston, hot female grappler Braless Lesnar, mathematician Kurt Rightangle, Canadian burrito salesmen The Fart Foundation and their friend Taco Santana…just too many to list, really.

S:  You are also known for many brilliant innovations on the actual in-ring-wrestling end of things.  Would you kindly name a few, sir?

SWM:   Well, let’s see.  I invented the figure-one leglock, the 450 hair-pull, working from the horizontal base, the tombstone eye-gouge, the cross-windbreaker, the adequate kick, the Greco-Roman groin-punch, and the shooting star bite, among others.  And because I came from a background in music and also revolutionized that art form, I hold the trademark on the term “The Innovator Of Violins.”

Away from the ring, I’m legendary for the night I kicked the ass of Rick Rude, Steve Williams, the Road Warriors and Haku.

S:  I knew you are a legitimate badass, but those are the toughest guys to ever lace up the boots—and you beat them all at once.  Amazing!

SWM:  Well, I did have hotels on Boardwalk and Park Place.

S:  Speaking of men who had lucrative careers in Japan, before it became the “in” thing a couple of years ago, you not only were a super-expert on Japanese wrestling but also did outstanding color commentary on some videos.

SWM:  Yes, decades before that Mauro “I SCREAM EVERY FREAKING WORD” Rinaldi and Good Old J.O. were doing it.  We’re talking 1987, back when a future legend on one of the tapes was known as The Just Okay Muta.  In fact, Bam Bam Bigelow And Friends, my unmatched debut, was number one on the sales chart for 27 consecutive weeks, outselling Beverly Hills Cop II and Full Metal Jacket.

Not in the United States, but in Liechtenstein and Inner Mongolia.

In private life

S:  You are known within wrestling as a “master swordsman,” a real panty-dropper with the ladies.  Without going into graphic detail, will you drop a few names?

SWM:  Ever heard of Trish Stratus, Victoria, Alicia Fox, Stacy Keibler, Dixie Carter, Lillian Garcia, Mae Young, and Christy Hemme?

S:  Of course.

SWM:  Well, so have I.  Next question.

S:  That is so cool!!!  Wait, Mae Young?

SWM:  I said “Next question”!

S:  Everyone knows you’re a god, an earthbound deity.  What is your religious affiliation?

SWM:  I’m an atheist…but not practicing.

S:  I understand the Pope (the one in Vatican City, not the horrible TNA commentator) got extremely upset about something you once said.

SWM:  That was when I announced I’m bigger than Jesus Christ.  Jesus couldn’t hold a candle to me.  If he tried, it would fall through the hole in his hand. Can’t understand why the Poop just doesn’t admit it and move on.

The Pope.  Isn’t he the goof who makes decrees about marriage, birth control and sex even though he’s never been on a date?  Hey, that gives him something in common with 90-percent of the wrestling fans!

Word association

S:  I’m going to throw out some names, Perfect Master.  Please supply one-line reactions to each.

Mick Foley

Now dying his beard with chimney soot.

The New Day

When you think of what body part “booty” represents and, in turn, what a booty-O can only be, do you really want to put them in your mouth?

Enzo Amore

Enzo A Moron

Big Cass

Big JackCass

Josh Mathews

The brain of Family Guy’s Chris Griffith and the body of Stewie.  (begins singing) B-b-b-b-b-bah, everybody’s heard about the nerd.  Nerd nerd nerd, nerd is the word.

Ric Flair

He used to raise the bar but now he just runs up a huge tab in it.

Sami Zayn

A fraud.

How do you mean?

He’s supposed to have been the big king of the indies, yet I’ve never once seen him take on El Generico.  Same way that Ricochet is dodging Prince Puma now.

Hulk Hogan

Went from the NWO to the KKK.

Bill Apter

You know that classic Santana song “Oye Como Va”?


Apter sings a version called “Oy, my comb-over.”

Golden Truth

Old and Goof

Becky Lynch

Mostly red, not over.

Sasha Banks

Not sure she’s really Snoop’s cousin, but she’s definitely a member of the Dogg family.  More like Sasha Barks!  woof-woof

Public interaction

S:  What would you advise a new wrestler wondering how to treat interaction with the fans?

SWM:  Antibiotics.

S:  What do you think would be the single best course of action when it comes to the so-called Internet Wrestling Community?

SWM:  Nothing a little genocide can’t fix.  One of my current projects is:  I’m putting together video clips of IWC idiots whining like little girls and making utter fools of themselves.  It’s going to be called Bitchamania.

S:  I understand you got tricked into joining one of those Facebook wrestling groups.  What’s your opinion of them?

SWM:  I call it wrestling cosplay.  Bunch of nobodies getting together to fantasize they’re somebodies in wrestling even though they’ve never been involved in it at any level.

“I put out a newsletter with 137 readers 25 years ago. That makes me an expert.” “I’m a wrestling expert, too!  My qualifications are: I run a rinky-dink coffee shop with seven employees and collect potato chips.”

“Gee whiz, that’s so awesome. I would blow Gedo if I was ever in the same room!” “Let’s get together and ridicule every single aspect of Raw each Monday and take cheap shots at TNA all week.  We’re HUGE supporters of wrestling.”

Yeah, that’s really cool, kids.

Of course, Twitter has some real winners, too.  That’s why I only allow a few hundred wrestling fans to Follow me and block the ones who keep bugging me to Follow them back.  Anyone know who this @LanceStorm is?  What a nuisance.

S:  You’ve been known to mock podcasts and…

SWM:  Only the amateur ones, which means nearly all of them.

S:   So, you would do one with Colt Cabana?

SWM:  One thing I really can’t stand is people who use obviously fake names.


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.


SS32—Quiz Time: Are you a TRUE wrestling fan?

We’ve all seen those annoying click-bait links with headlines screaming something like “Ten ways to tell if you are REALLY ______,” most often a scam to get you to advance through a bombardment of ads…at least until you become fed up with the whole mess and say “The hell with this crap!”  This is NOT one of those quizzes.

Most of us have also seen a tsunami of claims on social and traditional media, wherein a mat sport enthusiast rambles on about how “nobody” is a bigger fan of the bonebending business than him.  You undoubtedly rolled your eyes, knowing YOU are the truest wrestling fan around.  I say it’s time to put these claims to the test—literally, as I have created the following to put an actual numerical value on devotion to the King Of Sports.

Give yourself five points for each of the following:

  • Threw streamers in the ring at an indy card
  • Got super-pumped over the announcement of Nakamura coming to NXT despite never having actually seen him wrestle before
  • Referred to a wrestler by his previous name, e.g. Ambrose as Jon Moxley
  • Declared a reportedly disgruntled wrestler should go to Japan, where he’d really shine
  • Claim to not follow the WWE but post Facebook comments about the latest PPV and Raw
  • Made a sign to bring to a TV taping, it being the exact phrasing someone else used before
  • Declared TNA dead and gloated about it
  • Denounced hipsters while attending a rinky-dink indy card then blowing off the WWE event in the same town that weekend
  • Have more wrestling DVDs than movie ones
  • Defended against criticism of your favorite by quoting something from the wrestler’s biography or podcast
  • Agree the NWO is the greatest thing that ever happened to wrestling
  • Called the 2016 event “the worst Wrestlemania ever”
  • Thought it would be so cool if Roman Reigns suffered a career-ending injury
  • Privately thought “Don’t worry about what words Hulk Hogan used on some stupid video, he’s still my hero”
  • Proud owner of a kick-ass Fozzy CD
  • Never saw a Japanese match that wasn’t “awesome”
  • Suggested a wrestler just released by the WWE should “go to NXT”
  • Consider CM Punk’s “pipe bomb” promo the best ever because he wasn’t following any script or pre-approved guidelines
  • Upset over a recent event, Tweeted #CancelWWENetwork

MULTIPLE CHOICE bonus points

1) My chief qualification for declaring myself a bona fide wrestling expert is…

  1. Having watched it on TV for many years
  2. Subscribing to a famous newsletter
  3. Working in a retail store
  4. Took a college Creative Writing course
  5. Once bumped into Gene Okerlund at a 7-11

2) My Bullet Club shirt is…

  1. Black
  2. Red
  3. Dark blue
  4. Made it myself with a white T-shirt and Sharpie

3) If I met Triple-H, I would…

  1. Go into great detail about a feud he had in 1996
  2. Beg him to tell me “Suck it!”
  3. Wet my pants
  4. Try to hide my boner

4) The closest I ever came to sex with a woman was…

  1. Got Molly Holly’s autograph at a convention
  2. Skype session with Sunny
  3. Popping out of my mother’s vagina at birth
  4. What’s a woman?


Surprise—To express my gratitude for the support shown me over the years, I’ve decided that any letter selected in the Multiple Choice section earns you five points.  Way to go, Champ!

Okay, friends, time to add up all your points and learn exactly where you stand.

Over 75 points   Worthless wussy windbag blindly going along with other morons.
50 to 74   Take a look at the above; the same applies to you
25 to 49   Ditto, delusional dunce
5 to 24     Just as horrible as the other birdbrains
Zero       Obviously a liar and a cheater.  I admire that in a person!

Here’s the thing:  If you were a TRUE wrestling expert, you’d be well-aware of what I’m like and, consequently, not have been stupid enough to get suckered into wasting your time on this quiz.  In fact, at this very moment, I’m laughing hysterically at you over the fact you are still reading this very paragraph!

SS31–Mark, My Words

People often come to me and ask, “You are the official longest-running wrestling columnist ever, in REAL magazines sold worldwide, a TRAINED journalist PAID to opine; so what is your take on the multitude of so-called ‘hardcore’ fans who constantly go online and to great lengths to impress each other with their deep insight, the Internet Wrestling Community, also known as the IWC?”

Ah, the sophomoric “smarts.” They’ve always occupied a very special place in my heart. In fact, you know what? I feel a song coming on!

Oh, look, everybody, it’s Mister “IWC”
Whose official scent is known as “faint odor of pee.”
Drool stains and mucus dot the front of your sweater
Claiming you’re an “expert” because you read a newsletter.

Host a podcast, call all everybody “brother”
Only have one listener, and that’s your mother.
Your mom gets all squishy when you mention Bobby Roode
And she’s the only female you’ve ever seen nude.

Never climbed through the ropes, never been in the back
But your cousin knows a neighbor of Outback Jack.
Telling all your buds you’re tight with Terry Funk
Hey, aren’t you the guy who bought that house for Punk?

Got in a picture with Batista ‘cause you gave him forty bucks
Now you claim to be “best friends”; he couldn’t give two f*cks.
Blew your whole life savings on a beat-up old car
Because the dealer said it was once owned by J.R.

Hop onto your mattress pretending you’re with Bayley
Have a photograph of her you “tribute” twice daily
Last month, it was Asuka who was all the rage
Now regrettin’ gettin’ that tattoo of Paige.

No girls know you exist, so you head to Porn Hub
Drop your pants to the floor and rub rub rub rub rub.
Yanking away on what you call “my lady-pleaser”
Doesn’t fill your palm, so you have to use a tweezer.

After you’re through with two hours of fappin’
It’s back to bashing matches that haven’t even happened.
Been a long day of griping, so now it’s off to bed
And your recurring dream of giving The Rock head.

Due to corporate rules at your job at Arby’s
Boss had to invite you to the Christmas party.
Bored everyone to death talking Jushin Liger
Asked to pick a song, you chose “Eye Of The Tiger”!
Went home after the bash, popped in “One Night In Chyna”
Hey, may as well, you’re NEVER gonna touch a vagina.

Tried to act cool with Latinos, told them “I watch ‘LU’”
They grabbed a broomstick, made a piñata out of you.
It wasn’t just that statement that sealed the deal
Was when you said “I know you love to lie, cheat and steal.”

You’re the Boldest Of The Bold, a true Opinion Lord
Behind a phony name and a computer keyboard.
Numero uno, king of the fanboy scene
Claiming “Kayfabe is dead,” don’t even know what it means.
The phrase “New Japan” sends a tingle to your crotch
You’re the “superfan” who’s never heard of Karl Gotch.
Bashing Roman Reigns, Dixie Carter and Russo
When nobody’s around, paint your face up like an Uso.

Rip on the promos (though you’ve never done one)
Rip on the announcing (though you’ve never done one)
Rip on the bumping (though you’ve never done one)
Rip on the booking (though you’ve never done one)
Hmm, starting to see a pattern here, son?

SS30—Vincent Kennedy My Main (Mc) Mahon

Between my years hobnobbing with rock stars and being the King Of Columnists in the King Of Sports, plus the deluge of celebrities who tweet @SWManor daily, I’ve been fortunate enough to spend many hours with the famous and infamous.

For instance, former President Bill Clinton and I hit it off wonderfully during my tenure as an advisor throughout most of his regime. In fact, we’d probably still be hanging out regularly, if not for an unfortunate misunderstanding involving security camera footage of me accidentally rooting through Hillary’s panties drawer. (Hey, the drink coasters I was looking for could have been in there!)

Another example is Jackie Chan, though I do wish he would quit telling people “everything I ever accomplished, I owe to Stately Wayne Manor.” It’s getting embarrassing.

But of all the world-changers with whom I have ever socialized, when it comes to intellect, unbridled valor and carrying oneself with dignity, none can compare to my dear friend Vincent Kennedy McMahon.

Of course I’m hardly the first to recognize the attributes of this consummate gentleman. Did you know JFK, the 35th President Of The United States, changed his surname from Kowalski to Kennedy as a tribute to his fellow New Englander? Or that Vince McMahon has been thanked in 32 Nobel Prize acceptance speeches?

And although the bashful billionaire denies it, I have it on good authority that Mr. McMahon also invented electricity. That was during his stint in the Peace Corps, when he gained great notoriety throughout Brazil for teaching medics the Heimlich maneuver and teaching missionaries the missionary position.

Mind you, young Vincenzo wanted to join the Marine Corps, and no doubt singlehandedly would have won the Vietnam War within the week. However, President Lyndon Magic Johnson felt it too risky, concerned that (and I quote) “Should this national treasure be mortally wounded, our country would be smothered in a dark cloak of despair and depression, crushing the American spirit for generations to come.”

Through my years as the Greatest Wrestling Columnist Ever, I’ve taken several “road trips” with the majestic hero of the masses, cracking dwarf jokes about Daniel Bryan and discussing how Roman Reigns would headline the next nine Wrestlemanias just to annoy the internet imbeciles.

And it was during these sojourns that I was privileged to witness first-hand a side of Mr. McMahon the genital public has no privy to—Vince’s unmatched generosity.

Here are just a few of dozens of examples I could site.

*Nebraska. Roadside lemonade stand. A teary-eyed grown man moaned, “I shouldn’t be doing this to put food on my family’s table.” Vince wholeheartedly agreed and, without so much as a second thought, had the Health Department shut the stand down.

*Wyoming. Summer camp for the underprivileged. Vince kindly showed the youngsters a picture of a thousand-dollar bill, then cheerfully exclaimed “I’m going to give each of you one of these!” And just like that, he awarded every one of the brats a similar photo.

*South Carolina. Homeless man standing by the roadside with a sign reading “Haven’t eaten in three days.” Mr. McM ordered his chauffeur to pull over, waved the ragamuffin over, gently patted him on the shoulder and softly told him “Don’t worry, pal, food still tastes the same,” before handing the bum a toothpick that had only been used once.

*Oregon. Unemployed woman with a sad face. Touched by her plight, Vince remarked “Hmm, I suppose my limo could use a good polishing.” When the now-beaming lass finished, VKM opened up the briefcase containing his checkbook and gave the luck lady a brand-new Sparky Plugg T-shirt.

I’m not the sentimental type, but must admit I do get a bit choked up when recounting the myriad ways Mr. McMahon has connected with you people.

Here is the gentleman who revolutionized the “national pastime” of professional sports with his wildly successful XFL and routinely takes home a barrel of Academy Awards for the avant-garde cinematic offerings of WWE Studios, such as Knucklehead, unanimously described by critics as “the modern-day Citizen Kane, only better, because it’s in color.”

The man who created the Kiss My Ass Club, now a big-business standard practice in the boardrooms of General Motors, Comcast and the Disney Corporation. A living breathing modern-day combination of Socrates, Plato and Aristotle.

Yet he remains as humble and unassuming as a Shaolin monk and, in fact, if we weren’t such close friends, would likely be cross at me for flattering him in a public forum (at no charge.)

Sure, he’s made a few mistakes, the most notable one being siring traitorous son Shame, the family disappointment. But he more than made up for it by bestowing the world with the most charming, warmhearted and damn-sexy woman to ever set foot on the planet, Stephanie McMahon.

Stunning Steph has received LOTS of Stately States coverage; but while I’m revealing little-known truths, I’m betting most of you are unaware the Princess is just an old-fashioned down-home girl at heart. When not enchanting an international television audience, there’s nothing Stephanie likes better than to slip into comfy bib overalls and churn butter from a cow she milked herself or perhaps join her best friends Hazel and Gertrude at the church social hall for some exciting bingo.

And when it comes to handicrafts, Steph makes that old Mothra Stewart look like some clumsy klutz from Kalamazoo! Why, just last Christmas, she knitted her dad and me marvelous matching sweaters with only a minor difference between them: mine says “Stately” and his says “Studly.”

I would write “What else could you expect from a McMahon?”, but that went out the window when the family black sheep came slithering back on Raw. Evidently, all those years—“allegedly”—spent in a Turkish prison (oh, you didn’t know?) did nothing to tone down Showboatin’ Shane.

It was difficult to precisely hear what the pudgy punk was whining about this time, what with the boisterous boom of boos. From what I could make out, he moaned, “I’ve done nothing for the WWE, but as an entitled millennial, I command my sister and father to turn over the company to me, even though I don’t deserve it. On top of that, I demand to be in the main event at Wrestlemania, and challenge that washed-up bastard, the Undertaker.”

Who among us didn’t want to give Mr. McMahon a compassionate hug at that very moment? Growing up poverty-stricken in a trailer park, poor Vince took a scant few million of his father’s money and turned a regional wrestling promotion into a global juggernaut—and then his only begotten son stabbed him in the back, just like Judas did to Caesar!!!

Not surprisingly, considering I’m more intelligent than, well, everyone, I have devised the only honorable solution. I hereby publicly propose that you, Vincent Kennedy McMahon, disown Shane and complete my bucket list by adopting me as your replacement son.

Knowing, sir, you are going to say “yes,” I have already begun proceedings to change my name to Stately Wayne McMahonor, as a tribute to the finest family a guy could ever dream of joining.

Everyone knows the results of that 2006 Backlash PPV match proved you are greater than God…which makes us a perfect father-son team, as it has been scientifically proven that I am greater than Jesus Christ!