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!

SS47–Q&A: The Column King answers YOUR questions!

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As Wrestling’s Most Popular Journalist, I am constantly deluged with questions via e-mail, Tweets, DMs, snail mail, phone calls, telegrams, smoke signals and people on the street.  But rather than ramble on with an extended intro, let’s jump right into my replies, shall we?

 

Q:  My mom and I both love Corey Graves.  Why do you think that is?

A:  Stupidity is hereditary.

 

Q:  How weird is R-Truth in real life?

A:  He once spent a whole day spell-checking alphabet soup.

 

Q:  I know there are terms such as “Strong Style.”  But what’s the one for working really clumsily and dangerous to your opponents?

A:  Brie Mode

 

Q:  What’s your opinion of the expression “smart fans”?

A:  Biggest contradiction in terms since “tight slacks.”

 

Q:  I want to be a professional wrestling journalist.  Did you enjoy the printout of the article I sent you?

A:  My parakeet sure did.  In fact, he “edited” it a few times—since I used it to line his cage.

 

Q:  Do you agree with my contention NXT should be on an hour of RAW instead of WWE wrestlers?

A:  You mean the network that gave up on Smackdown with established international stars should present the promotion filled with names virtually unknown to the majority of the global audience and who only are on live TV seasonally, on extremely rehearsed Takeover specials, as opposed to their regular taped weekly shows with botches and promo bloopers edited out?

The group that, on numerous weeks, isn’t even the most-watched show on the WWE’s own Network?

Then again, you may be right.  It’s not like the USA Network exists to turn a profit by generating ad revenue based on billing sponsors attracted to the number of viewers who will see their ads.  TV networks exist SOLELY TO MAKE YOU HAPPY!

Also, Santa is going to bring you a magical unicorn on your birthday, one that poops gold nuggets and can fly you by an enchanted forest where they are filming the next Star Warsstarring you!!!

 

Q:  Which version of The Undertaker do you prefer?

A:  The one that’s off TV screens for months at a time.

 

Q:  Is it true Lady Scarlett is a total slut?  She looks like the kind of girl who gives blowjobs for five bucks?

A:  Isn’t that how your parents met?

 

Q:  As popular as you are, how come I never see you at wrestling fan gatherings?

A:  Because they are attended by wrestling fans!

Woowee, what a stench.  You’d think having no life would give wearers of Austin 3:16, NWO and Bullet Club shirts plenty of time to hit a laundromat once in a while.  Evidently, this has never crossed their minds, the same way deodorant has never crossed their armpits.

Besides polishing the porpoises while drooling over a Lana poster, it’s difficult to imagine how fans’ clothing gets so sweaty.  It most certainly isn’t from hitting the gym, as the most exercise these slobs ever get is standing in line at Dairy Queen.

And that breath!  What do you people do, gargle with salmon?

 

Q:  How do you think Seth Rollins measures up with the other members of the WWE roster?

A:  Have you not seen his leaked selfies?

 

Q:  How comes the WWE ruins everyone who gets moved to the main roster?

A:  I was thinking the very same thing while watching NXT alumni The Shield in that Labor Day huge brawl with NXT alumnus Braun Strowman and NXT alumnus Drew McIntyre, jumped into by NXT alumnus Kevin Owens, immediately after Braun faced NXT alumnus Finn Balor in the main event.

In fact, it still bugged me the next night while watching SDLive—where NXT alumnus Shinsuke Nakamura is world champ—and distracted me from the feud between NXT alumnus Becky Lynch and NXT alumnus Charlotte Flair, vying for the women’s title previously held by NXT alumnus Carmella.

It was also heartbreaking to reflect on how much NXT alumnus Daniel Bryan has been misused since his 2010 call-up, as he was ridiculed by developmental league alumnus The Miz, his fellow Grand Slam Championship winner.  (IC, US, tag and world championship.)

So, yeah, it realllly sucks getting stuck on the main roster.

 

Q  Me and my friends have a really lit backyard wrestling federation.  What should we do to improve it?

A:  Be sure your props and fake ring are also “really lit”…on fire.

 

Q:  What do you think of Tommaso Ciampa?

A:  The only way Blackheart could repulse NXT fans any more than he already has would be to show them what a vagina looks like.

 

Q:  Do you hold something against Alexis Bliss?

A:  No, but I’d like to.

I’m certain, if Alexa leaned on me for support, she would immediately notice how I’ve risen to the occasion.  Sure, she’d find it very hard; but Alexa would eventually come around and no doubt occasionally ask me to take her back.

 

Q:  I say Japanese wrestling is the best ever.  Don’t you agree?

A:  Please enchant me with your vast knowledge of the history of Japanese wrestling, geek who never heard of Rikidozen, Sayama, Misawa, Fujiwara, Fujinami, Choshu or any other Rising Sun legend not seen on the streaming service during the past three years.  I anxiously await your “hot takes” on Black Tiger, Hase, Dan Kroffat and Sasaki, as well as your expert analysis of the 1987 Bigelow/Inoki feud.

And since “best ever” includes promotions worldwide, I am tingling in anticipation over you explaining who was better, Lizmark or Atlantis.

 

Q:  Your early 2018 GIFs demonstrated you are the true master of the craft.  Do you have one for the Chris Jericho Cruise?

Life of Brian any women here GIF

 

Q:   How do you rate Renee Young on her new job?

A:  Here’s a list of what Renee contributes to the RAW announce team:

1.)

 

Q:  Why did AJ Styles seem so nervous in late September?

A:  He knew he had to fly to Australia for the Super-Show, and was afraid of coming that close to the edge of the world.

 

Q:  I’m 5’9 and 175 pounds. Do you think I can go to the WWE?

A:  Sure…tickets are available to everyone.

 

Q:  These jobbers are such fools.  Who in their right mind makes a living lying on their back staring at the ceiling every night?

A:  Your sister.

 

Q:  I think Allie from Impact is beautiful and want to meet her. Who do I need to see?

A:  An optometrist!!!

 

Q:  Stephanie McMahon fills many roles.  What position do you most like her in?

A:  Cowgirl

 

Q; Who is the dumbest person in wrestling?

A:  Hmmm, tough one.  You choose.

*Zack Sabre Junior thought he’d get a Pepsi if he heated baking soda in an oven.

*Jimmy Uso brought his baseball glove to the Superbowl.

*Johnny Gargano didn’t like Black Panther, so he watched it four more times, hoping it would end differently.

*Tom Phillips went up to the cashier at the Beer Mart and asked “How many cans are in a six-pack?”

*Dalton Castle keeps quiet around sleeping pills because he doesn’t want to wake them.

*Eddie Edwards tucks his umbrella beneath his jacket during storms “so it doesn’t get all soaked.”

*Dana Brooke thinks custard was named after the general killed at Little Big Horn.

 

Q:  Sabu is mean on Twitter.  He wouldn’t answer my one question.  What do you make of that?

 

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

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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?

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 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.

SS25–Breaking (them) News

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So much “Breaking News” as of late, I hardly know where to begin.

*The Immoral Hulk Hogan Because I am superior to, well, EVERYONE, I have magnanimously consented to accept apologies from the Hulkamorons who, upon the rare occasions of removing their thumbs from their butts, took the time to write sissy-pants letters (few of which were intelligible) to Wrestling World and Power Slam magazines, whining about me bashing their half-witted hero.

For 30 years, I told you people Hulk Hohum is a slimeball; but, no, you just sat there with your naked GI Joe in one hand and naked self in the other, and whimpered, “Hulkster am good man. He say we brothers. Googoo booboo.”

Doing my duty as Wrestling’s Only Unbiased Columnist, I have been forced to sit among the rabble, therefore I am well aware wrestling fans in general are about as sharp as a horse’s heiney and have the same fragrance. And Hogan-idolizers are even worse!

Here are some random examples. I once told one we were going bear hunting, and he said “Isn’t it more fun with clothes on?” Told another I’d been in Mississippi, and he asked “Didn’t Mister Sippi mind?” Upon telling a third I was taking a transatlantic flight, he replied “Wouldn’t the train be safer?”

These people are DUMB, I tell you. If brains were helium, all the Hulkamaniacs combined wouldn’t have enough to inflate a balloon for a titmouse’s birthday party. After all, Hulk Hogan fans are the type who buy two copies of a DVD in case they want to see the movie twice.

Having established their inferiority beyond doubt, all any Hulkhead needs to do is admit to being an ignorant, weak-kneed, worthless dung piles who should be caged then dropped into the Arctic Ocean, and I will forgive him, her or it. It’s that simple, simpletons!

*Daniel Bryan releases biography And in the epilogue, the filthy hippie reveals how many injuries he suffered writing the damn thing.

*Undertaker returns Just when you thought it was safe to turn on the TV again, Grandpa Taker comes toddling down the aisle to ruin Seth Rollins’ easy victory over Brock Lesnar, then SummerSlam as well.

Aaaaaaah, poor wittle baby is upset because his itty-bitty streak got broken at Wrestlemania 30. Nope, he was not there because his brother cuddly Kane got injured at the hands of Lesnar. Translation: Taker is a poor sport and raging egomaniac who lacks the maturity to get over one lossSIXTEEN FREAKING MONTHS AGO.

And although Paul Heyman barely ever mentioned it, the Zombie MMA Biker—or whatever the hell he’s supposed to be—decided to assault the Long Islander (who could have easily tuned Taker had he so desired) on national television.

Yes, Paul Heyman, beloved by billions around the globe for his honesty and business acumen, was viciously attacked; yet Brock was the one arrested, the Underachiever getting a free pass by showing the police his AARP membership card.

And why did it take sixteen months to occur? That’s how long it took the broken-down old creep to get himself and his walker down the aisle, between the short steps and Ensure breaks.

Did you know Undertaker’s Rookie Of The Year trophy was presented by a famous Jackson? Not Michael or Reggie—Andrew. He was also once voted Favorite Wrestler by PWI—President Wilson’s Interns. I know for a fact those boots he wears are labeled “Size XVI.” Always a spoiled lad, he got them as a souvenir during the first combat event he ever attended. It was a match of biblical proportion—at least until that cheater David broke out his slingshot and cheap-shotted Goliath. (Ref Pontivious Hebner is still under suspicion.)

*Josh Mathews and The Pope still reign…as the worst announcing combo on TV. That’s really saying something, when you factor in JBL & Byron SUXton and Tom Phillips & Germy Uso.

The Poop, who demonstrated his deep product knowledge by calling Ken Anderson “Kennedy” during a TNA broadcast, evidently grew up in a fatherless home and “has issues” regarding it. It’s the only plausible explanation as to why he can’t finish a sentence without calling someone “Daddy.”

Either that or he just plain stinks as an announcer. Hmmmm.

As for the Oompa Loompa sitting beside him, Jiveass Josh shows all the fire of someone calling a putt on the 16th hole of a miniature golf tournament in Pugwash, Maine. “The American Wolves have just won the tag team titles and I wonder if I left the stove on when I left the house.”

You don’t have to take my word on how putrid this pair is. Just examine the stats. Since The Poop and Mini Me manned the mics together, Impact Wrestling has one-third of the viewership it averaged before their arrival; and I predict it will have ZERO U.S. viewers by October 1, 2015!

(And on a personal note, I’ve got your Twitter Block right here, Mathews.)

*Paige’s life spiraling into abyss To a degree, I feel sorry for the goofy goth. Not just because she was raised in a dreary sunless patch of soot populated by homely sourpusses feebly clinging to the hopeless notion their nation will regain its wildly exaggerated prominence—otherwise known as the laughably named “Great” Britain, or as it’s referred to in the U.N., the Brutus Beefcake of countries.

No, I feel bad for the Princess Of Paleness because, growing up reading my monthly columns in UK’s Power Slam, like all Britons, she came to adore and idolize me. Except, in Paige’s case, the usual infatuation developed into a demonic obsession.

It started out innocently enough. A fan letter after each new issue, sometimes including a little sketch. Got thousands like it monthly, paid her no mind.

That may have been a mistake. As the years went by, Paige’s mailings and overall behavior grew more and more unstable.

Those cute drawings became painting of “our wedding”(!)…and us with “our children”(!!)…and her stabbing other women who smiled at me, the red “ink” analyzed to be human blood!!!

Then came the series of selfies, most of which would have made a gynecologist blush, accompanied by VERY explicit details about how I would, shall we say, “fit in” with her. (I’ll give the girl this: she’s far more flexible than she appears in the ring. And the heart-shaped public hair is a nice touch.)

The final straw came when she began lurking outside the Power Slam office wearing an “I (heart) Stately’s (body part)” shirt and introducing herself to approaching strangers as “Mrs. Manor.”

Enough was enough. I tossed all her previous mailings—okay, I kept the photos and a few panties—in the incinerator and alerted the British postal system to deliver no more.

What did Paige do next? Moved to the United States, claiming to be pursuing a wrestling career. Believe me, the ladies have nicknamed it many things—the Stately staff, Godzilla Junior, the Manor Manhood, Led Zeppelin II—but this is the first time it’s been called “a wrestling career”!

After a string of restraining orders and lectures from the Immigration Service, the love-struck loony finally faced the harsh reality that I just wasn’t interested.

Any normal person would have moved on. Pathetic Paige, however, in a transparent attempt to make me jealous, has hired an actor to portray her “boyfriend,” complete with claims that he is in an obscure rock band—just like I happened to be before becoming an international icon.

I’ve seen his photo and am 90-percent certain it’s that guy Silent Bob from the movies. And, hey, that red-ballcap-worn-backwards look is very impressive…if you have a time machine that transports you to 1995 and have hideous enough taste to attend a Limp Bizkit concert.