SS56—Mat This ‘n’ That/I’m Back, Jack

To the tearful dismay of the masses, it’s been quite some time since Wrestling’s Only Unbiased Columnist posted a fresh Stately States.  Rejoice, girls and buoys, I have returned, to once again be The Rage Of The Digital Page.

I was going to continue last column’s theme, explaining how self-described “REAL Wrestling Fans” are less useful than sunscreen on a scuba diver, and such imbeciles they think a salad bar is where lettuce goes to get drunk and fishcake is what they serve on birthdays at Sea World.

But since there’s so much to cover, I’m going to opt for something I used to do in my Power Slam column, stringing together brief thoughts on recent developments.

For the unaware, PS was published in England from 1994 to 2014, I being the only member of the writing staff onboard for the full 20 years, penning Manor’s Mat Musings.   This is not to be confused with the newish UK mag wherein Mat Musings was STOLEN, its far-inferior author and gutless publisher rudely ignoring my inquiries about the blatant rip-off—twice.

Musings logo MINE

Accept no substitutes.

First, a quick quiz:

Who are The. Worst. Fans. Ever?  You make the call.

A.  Doesn’t live-tweet a single sporting event the rest of the week but will do so when a certain wrestling show is in progress to “subtly” prove he’s not watching it.

B,  Constantly opines “The WWE’s current product is abysmal,” brings it up daily, then one day casually notes “I haven’t watched it in ten years.”  (Probably lying, anyway.) 

C,  The malcontent who rips on WWE non-stop but has a podcast or YouTube show solely dependent upon viewing content on—where else?—the WWE Network.

Now, onto the ramblings.

If Chris Jericho came down the aisle with Ralphus now, could anyone tell them apart?  Defeating Jerko in that champagne pool match has done wonders for Orange Julius, er, Cassidy.  Now when they say “He sells a lot of T-shirts,” it means he’s working at the merch table….Where are all the “Ronda didn’t pay any dues” moaners when it comes to Dominik Mysterio?  I’m waiting for Rey’s daughter to begin wrestling so I can claim “She moves in Mysterio ways.”  Because I’m a freaking genius….The makeover has exposed that Ruby is much hotter than Sasha WHO IS MARRIED AND WILL NEVER GET WITH YOU, SO QUIT DROOLING OVER HER, LOSER….Must be exciting being a fresh team in AEW.  You get the biggest hype imaginable, for four straight weeks—before losing to the Bucks and getting relegated to midcard limbo.  Which has happened to EVERY SINGLE TEAM.

Let me see if I have all this straight.  Certain championship matches every few months require a contract signing but all the other matches don’t.  Those in certain sensitive circles get upset when someone uses “IWC” to describe them.  All the while calling themselves the Wrestling Community.  Which is what the “WC” in “IWC” represents.  Tony Khan’d playing a rich creep on “purchased” Impact time does not contradict the whole “He will never play a character on television” because it’s on Impact rather than Dynamite.  And people gleefully paid to see Joey Ryan have others fondle his junk (and encouraged more of such antics) yet allegedly never suspected the man is a little odd.  Enablers turned virtue signalers sure like to play dumb.

face palm MONTAGE VVVG

Isn’t it odd how Zelina Vega never expressed a single care about a wrestlers’ union until she got fired?  Weird coincidence, huh?…It says a lot about fraud Josh Matthews when being replaced by Matt Striker is considered an upgrade…. Reby Hardy has many important connections.  Perhaps one day she’ll introduce Matt to hair conditioner….I hear Shayna Baszler is determined to lick every woman in the WWE locker room.  Even if it means hopping on them in the showers!  Some aren’t going to take that lying down….Did you know, on Halloween 2019, Micro Stunt trick-or-treated in a suit of armor, but people kept mistaking him for a fire hydrant?…Unconfirmed, but I’m hearing reports that there was one 24-hour period in which Jim Ross didn’t release a public statement concerning the opinion or history of Jim Ross….Gary Heltz of Pine Bluff, Arkansas, will be missing 205 Live next week.  There goes half their viewership.

All these weeks with Smackdown not having a live audience.  A shame they didn’t also go without a live color commentator….Ever notice Tom Phillips has the same initials as “toilet paper”?  That may be why Samoa Joe told me Phillips is an asswipe….The Grizzled Young Veterans keep the company’s streak going—the streak of Worst Ring Names Ever.  Empress Of Tomorrow, Forgotten Sons, Genius Of The Sky, Archer Of Infamy, Authors Of Pain:  Will whichever comic-book nerd who came up with this dross please explain to me how an era can be “undisputed”?… Mia Jax yells “My hole,” and is instantly transformed into the darling of the IWC—who had ripped her mercilessly since about nine minutes after her debut.  Then again, for 83 percent of those gits, it was the first—and last—time they ever heard a woman reference an orifice below the waist….”Elimination Chamber” sounds like something NASA came up with to name a space station toilet.

If you’re wondering where Jimmy Uso has been, he’s opened a driving school with Jeff Hardy and Nick Hogan.  Putting the “high” in “highway”….I’m delighted to see Naomi’s back.  She looks great from that angle….Hearing rumors about an all- Lana-fan cable channel.  Instead of “television,” it’s going to be called “Incelevision”….Taz’s “wearing shades inside” thing is really cool—if it’s 1967 and you’re the lead singer of Steppenwolf….I am looking forward to the Impact episode in which Tommy Dreamer performs a teary retirement speech.  I bet it will be better than the 47 he’s done before.

Okay, that’s enough.

If you love this column, signify by purchasing two cups at https://ko-fi.com/manormania

If you hate this column, signify by purchasing three cups at https://ko-fi.com/manormania

…although you’re probably too cheap to do either.

SS50—The Man Who Saved The World(WE)

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The Road To Wrestlemania and its related hype get WWE fans excited about certain matches; however, overall interest in the product as a whole has been in decline, as reflected in record-low TV viewership numbers.

“Superstar Shakeups” have had no lasting effect.  And some pundits have wondered if eliminating the brand split will cure the woes.

But wrestling is a character-driven sport, and no change in the structure is going to reverse the spiral.  Just as in previous booms, the WWE needs an individual to lead it back to the Promised Land.

This man must possess the versatility the modern market demands, top-level communication skills, major-league experience and proven fan appeal.  Am I suggesting they bring back Stoned Old Steve Austin?  Somebody give me a “Hell, no.”

There is only one available athlete who checks all the above boxes, possesses the necessary youth and lacks the overexposure of Austin, Goldbrick and fellow has-beens.

Manormaniacs, I present to you the charismatic individual who can not only resurrect the WWE, but also save wrestling across the board.

That man is Damien Sandow.

Before you give me a well-deserved standing ovation, please absorb all the details.  Because The Miz has turned into The Miss since marrying that Canadian chick and becoming a whipped wimp changing diapers in his high heels and Wonder Bra, Damien will NOT be returning as “Mizdow.”

No, no, no; no more carrying the Cleveland Clown and distracting audiences from Frog Face’s many weaknesses.

The Savior is far too versatile to be stuck in one role.  In fact, my long-time dear friend David Bowie dropped by the Manor Mansion to catch Sandow vs Cena on RAW and remarked “I wish I had the ability to change personas as well as this remarkable Damien fellow does.”

This time around, the bonebender’s chameleon-like qualities will be utilized to their fullest.  Be awestruck picturing the following scenarios over the next two years.

 

The WWE is presenting RAW in the loser capitol of North America, Chicago.  As per usual, the local yokels chant for their hometown zero—but this time, things go very differently.  Suddenly, “The Cult Of Personality” blares over the sound system.  And as the crowd collectively wet their panties, out comes OH, MY GOD, HE’S HERE—C.M. Punkdow.

Punkdow sits on the stage, holding a symbolic pipe—a tobacco pipe, that is—and rattles off a list of “woe is me” petty gripes about the temperature of the mashed potatoes in catering, his chauffeur insisting he wear a seat belt, and the state taxing country club membership fees.

Then it’s time to really “shoot.”  Punkdow has had it up to here with the business that’s made him a famous millionaire, and is going to see to it that all wrestlers get free health coverage, their road expenses covered, annual vacations, double-payment for working on holidays “…and the formation of the best damn union this country has ever seen!”

None of which he has even the slightest intention of ever actually doing.

Due to CM’s “extended absence,” the WWE decides to refresh fans’ memories via weekly video clips.  The first three are:  Punkdow being thrown off a rodeo bull before the gate is even opened; him becoming the first person to score a zero in Super Mario Party; and, hidden camera footage of the “straight-edge superstar” and very vocal vegan puffing on a joint while at a McDonald’s drive-thru window.

 

The Nature Dow.  The “Rolex-stealing, limousine-kissing son of a bitch” is in the best shape of his life.  Everything seems to be going right for the “sixteen-times married” veteran.  Fans love his entrance and trademark “Whoa!”  But every time the ring announcer introduces his opponent, Naitch starts crying, forcing each match to be ruled a No Contest.

Pressed on this backstage by Charly Caruso (who’s also in love with me), The Nature Dow vows to work on overcoming this issue, begins trembling and excuses himself, dashing to his dressing room.

Concerned, Charly waits outside the door.  Ten minutes later, it opens, and instead of The Nature Dow, out comes Tommy Dreamdow, clutching a kendo stick in one hand and a cannoli in the other.

This stunning transformation is indeed effective. The Innovator Of Violins is now capable of competing, each match ending with (A.) him losing as per usual and (B.) a teary-eyed speech announcing “my retirement, effective immediately.”

Which he repeats every night from the very next one through to SummerSlam, including throughout the WWE’s 36-city European tour.

 

What’s next for the dynamic Damien?  Time to try out a number of short-term gimmicks.  There’s…

*Matt Jackdow, who wants to be thought of as a fun-loving free spirit but is, in reality, a hypersensitive twit who spends nine hours daily vanity-searching his name on social media, getting butthurt when someone doesn’t fawn over him.

[backstage]

Zack Ryder:  I prefer ketchup over mustard on hot dogs.

Matt Jackdow:  Hmm, that’s interesting.

[Zack walks away.  Matt pulls out his phone, Blocks Zack on Twitter.]

*Dwayne Johnsdow  Cuts an in-ring promo that’s just a string of sorely outdated catchphrases, finishing with “The Crock says this.  The WWE is my home, and I’m never leaving again.”

Does no more appearances thereafter.

*Brie Belldow. Groundbreaking WWE’s first transgender competitor wears a Dow Mode shirt and booty shorts, but never wrestles or speaks—which makes him waaaaay better than that other Brie.

*Color commentator Corey Gravedow  Finds the worst-fitting suit Goodwill has to offer, vacillates between being a heel and a babyface a dozen time per match, and never says anything of consequence.

No one at home notices the difference between him and the adulterer he replaced.

*Indie sensation Zackdow Osprey, Junior  The bell sounds, he flips, rolls, somersaults, does a 720 dive off the top into a series of cartwheels around the entire ring, and rebounds off all four ropes into a triple-handspring, for two minutes non-stop, gets dizzy and immediately pinned.

*Reverend Hacksaw Jim Duggdow  Rather than the friendly patriot of his predecessor, Rev. Duggdow is a self-righteous religious zealot toting a Bible in place of a 2×4.  His pre-match ritual is pointing out a stylishly dressed woman in the crowd and shouting “You’re a ho-o-o-o.”

 

All of the above are but merely a warm-up for when Damian goes for the Big Kahunas.  First up is….

Hulk Hodow

Imagine the classic confrontations HH2 will have with the current members of the WWE roster.

Praising impromptu tag partner Nakamura:  “I fought alongside a lot of gooks when I was a Green Beret in Vietnam.  Maybe we can go to Chinatown after our victory.  You like-y shlimp flied lice?”

Hogdow to Rey Mysterio:  “I loved Eddie Guerrero as much as you did.  In fact, I love all beaners, dude.  They’re great at cutting my lawn, brother.

“You know something, Mean Mysterio?  We never had a match.  I say we hook it up—once you show me your green card, little man.  Whatcha gonna do when ICE agents run wild on you?”

Hulk Hodow will have an extended run, until he’s indefinitely suspended for refusing to tag in during a six-man match against The New Day.  (Because…well, you know.)

But what supreme hero of men, women and children can Damien transform into next?  Who is the one man whose achievements dwarf that of not only the Hulkster but also of every grappler ever to set foot in any ring, any promotion, any date, anywhere?  An iconic ringmaster every single fan loves more than life itself?  The personification of achieving the ultimate reward for hard work?

HOLY CRAP, IT’S IT’S IT’S TRIPLE-M!!!!!

Our television sets will never be the same.  As it turns out, Munter Mearst Melmsley is married to Vince McMahon’s heretofore unacknowledged other daughter, Bethany—a connection the Cerebral Ass is not above making well-known, including spraying champagne out of his mouth while on the ring apron, pre-match.

In a move that would make Dusty Rhodes proud, every promo, including those by the women and two weirdoes on the Sonic ads, will contain a mention of Triple-M’s unmatched influence, charm and rugged good looks.

Renee Young will finally contribute something to RAW, by lustfully purring her new catchphrase “What a hunk!” before fainting every time the Tripper is within sight.

This completely sincere and not just protecting their jobs adulation will crescendo at Wrestlemania 37, when MMM and Bethany perform a 45-minute entrance, an elaborate thematic mix of Game Of Thrones, Thor Ragnarok and The SpongeBob SquarePants Movie.

 

SS28—Season’s Groinkicks from the Manor Mansion

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Right out the goddamn door!

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

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

Oh, wait.

SS21–Wanna See My Twits?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I sure hope so!!!

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

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

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

Oh, sh*t, change the channel.

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

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

“Daniel Bryan got robbed at the Royal Rumble!”–Johnny Internetdork@nosepicker.net

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

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

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

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

Go suck on a Lucky Charm, creep.

“About calling myself a real American hero even though I never served in the military, brother–when I was 18, I wanted to join the Army, but the President said, ‘You’re too valuable to the country to put at risk, dude.'”–HulkHogan@BS4Life.net

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You can’t see me.”–@JohnCena

If only that were true. Sigh.

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

Contract laryngitis.

SS20–RockStar Dud/Kiss My Christmas Balls

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I’ll never forget it. Flipped on the TV to catch the latest Impact one evening, and went “Cool, TNA has started a female midget division!” That, ladies and genitals, was my introduction to RockStar Spud, Britain’s most embarrassing export since Gary Glitter (which is really saying something when you consider Russell Brand and Bob Geldof are from over yonder.)

I’d seen a lot of British wrestlers before–Billy Robinson, Lord Steven Regal and his twin brother William, Squire Robert Eaton–but never one who so perfectly embodied the combination of Liberace and Davey Boy Smith. Unfortunately for her–and even more so for us–Spud possesses Lib’s wrestling ability and Davey’s fashion sense.

Kind of sad, really. When Spud was a little–oops, better make that “young”–girl, a gypsy fortune-teller looked into her crystal ball and said, “Someday, you are going to be as big as your idol Elton John!” Poor kid never understood she meant it literally.

Sadder still, RSS’ crush on EC3 has given the blonde the silly notion that she too can be a grappler, about as likely as Justin Bieber winning an arm-wrestling contest against Superman while President Flavor Flav recites the soliloquy from Hamlet in Portuguese.

Don’t worry, I’m With Spud contingency. Once your heroine gets over these delusions about becoming a wrestler, there are still several other opportunities on the horizon.

*Get breast implants, go topless and launch a UK television series called British Boob Camp

*Spray-paint herself gold and tell nearsighted kids she’s C3PO, to con them out of their lunch money

*Opt for silver paint instead, bill herself as The World’s Only Mobile Fire Hydrant

*Urge Johnny Depp to begin production on Willy Wonka’s European Vacation, land a plum role as “Assembly line Oompa Loompa #3”

*Enter the Guinness Book Of World Records as the first cowgirl to complete a round-up riding a Shetland pony

*Have a love child with the TNA color commentator, the combination of the two of course being RockStar Spazz

*Become the first actress to perform as Doctor Who’s companion K-9 from inside the tin-dog get-up

*Stunt double at Disneyland Paris for one of Snow White’s seven sidekicks

*Buy a pointed hat, rent herself out as a movable garden gnome for rich people’s lawn parties

For the record, none of the above should be perceived as sour grapes. Some of you no doubt read on that highly reliable news source, the internet, about a certain incident; so let’s get that cleared up right now.

Here’s what really happened. I was pretty wasted in the bar at the TNA hotel after a PPV. And Spud, admittedly, has pretty eyes. I figured, what the hell, were both adults and going separate ways tomorrow; so I whispered a sweet nothing in RSS’ ear about a certain carnal service I’d be delighted to receive, and the bitch slapped me right in the mug!!!

As a professional journalist with the very highest of standards, I assure you that unfortunate behavior by the teasing prude has nothing to do with the above assessment of her future. And I really wish someone would explain to me why people snicker every time I tell that story.

AH, CHRISTMASTIME. If I had to sum up my heartfelt feelings about the festive season in one word–and excuse me for getting sentimental here–it would have to be “Ptooey!” Same goes for Harmonica, Quantico and the rest of the sordid occasions comprising the so-called “holidays.”

Let’s all get in a big circle and hug–so we can eye up the back we’re going to stab the very next day.

And, children, gather round and read this part very carefully: I put a bear trap in my chimney, so if that fat slob Santa tries to deliver another stocking full of coal to my house, he’s never going to make it to your house. That’s right, I am going to KILL SANTA CLAUS, and there’s nothing your worthless eggnog-drunk “uncle” (who’s really your father, by the way) can do to stop it!!! Mweh-heh-heh-heh-heh!

As for those toys you brats were expecting? I’m running them over with a monster truck and tossing the broken pieces into the ocean, so all the little kiddies can cry themselves to sleep the rest of the year. How do you like them apples, runny-nosed urchins?

At any rate, if I were the type who actually practiced the insane notion one should buy gifts for other people, when you could use the same money to do something constructive–such as getting a nice massage from one of the friendly young ladies at truck stops all over I-95 or picking up some paintballs to shoot at crossing guards–here’s what I’d be doling out this year.

Velvet Sky–another boob, to even things out. “Even things out?” you ask? Well, yeah, she currently has three boobs. There’s the pair under her blouse, plus her boyfriend Bully Ray, the guy who showed his gratitude for an undeserved induction into the TNA Hall Of Fame by quitting the promotion, thereby relieving viewers of having to suffer through future Team-VD matches.

CM Bunk–a deluxe super-sized heavy-duty crying towel. After the WWE was gracious enough to let him out of his unfulfilled contract despite the fact he spent half of the last three years on vacation, Certified Moron went on one of those oddcast things and whimpered for four hours about poor wittle him.

“Boohoohoo, they wouldn’t let me headline Wrestlemania, just stuck me in a match with some guy named Undertaker. Waaaah, there should be a union, which I’ve done absolutely zilch to start myself. Sniffle sniffle, Mommy always liked my brother better than me.”

J&J Security–a pair of matching briefcases to hold the tag team straps surely in their future. This tandem has it all: youth, size, fan adoration, stylish ring gear. The only reason they didn’t get a shot at the tag gold in 2014 is because HHH would never play favorites. But when J&J finally get their chance, they will demonstrate to everyone why I deemed them “The Road Warriors Of The 21st Century–only better.”

Jim Ross–a mirror. Say, JR, growing a goatee (especially one that doesn’t match the hair dye) is sooooooo hipster–if only it were 1978. What next, Cutting Edge Cowboy, one of those crazy new Mohawk haircuts? I know: how about telling the entire world you’re a carefree cool cat by rocking a pierced ear? That’ll show your Tulsa High alumni how you turned out to be the true rebel of the bunch.

The IWC aka Internet Wrestling Community–a new pair of panties…to replace the ones you soiled over the involvement of Sting in the WWE.

All five minutes of it.

This is the same Sting the same imbeciles could have regularly supported on TNA Impact for four years–and ratings verify they didn’t.

“OMG, Sting is going to like be the new GM and and and he’s going to challenge Undertaker to fight him at Wrestlemania and he’s gonna cure juvenile diabetes!!!” the twits tweeted and Facebooked, as they moistened their drawers.

“I’m out of here,” said Paint Puss, the minute he pocketed his Survivor Series check.

#ROFLMAO@IWC

Incidentally, my gift will be the closest any of you will ever get to panties besides the worn ones you bought on eBay.

Dean Ambrose–Hang on, I’m still trying to figure out how to gift-wrap a punch in the mouth.

Those still wearing an NWO shirt or chanting “ECW“–a life. Make that a life and a clue.

There’s this chart full of numbered boxes. Perhaps you’ve heard of it: it’s called a calendar. I suggest you numbnuts find one and discover what year it currently is. And while you’re getting a reality check on that, here are a few more facts to digest.

One, while the New World Order was cool at first, it eventually sucked ostrich eggs and killed WCW. They even let Brutus “The BoreBore” Beefcake join, for Christs sake! Two, it’s been scientifically proven that 97.6 percent of dumbasses who’ve belted out the ECW chant never spent a penny on the retardcore promotion when it actually existed. Three, it’s also been determined that 72 percent of wrestling fans like Tommy Dreamer because 72 percent of wrestling fans look like Tommy Dreamer, a herd of unathletic clods in smelly black T-shirts.

To put it all into a mathematical equation sure to go over the heads of yet another 72 percent, 2014 x (N.W.O. + E.C.W.) = L.O.S.E.R.S.

Big Show–Even though he signed an ironclad contract and thus could not be fired–forget about the time he kind of was–no matter what, Show chose to display loyalty to the kind folks who put butter on his table and bread in his bank account since 1999.

He could have stayed out of the conflict and lived very comfortably on the millions he reaped in royalties via the international success of the Oscar-nominated Knucklehead. Instead, Big displayed proper respect for a warmhearted couple who deserve nothing but love; yet, with their exceedingly limited cranial capacity (that means tiny brains, stupid) the typical wrestling fan perceived this as “wrong.”

I suppose, the next thing you know, these filthy philistines are going to say it is “wrong” that, whenever a middle-school student breaks the 30-detention mark, I reward him or her with a nice fresh pack of Marlboros!

Mr. Show, your holiday gift is a sincere apology. At least until April, when you’ve flipped back to being a “good guy” for the 27th time.