SS50—The Man Who Saved The World(WE)

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.

 

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.

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 16^th 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.

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.

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 WWE.com 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.

 

SS36—It’s 2017…and you’ll never believe what happens next!

It’s that time of the year again and a Stately States tradition:  A remarkably accurate look into what lies ahead for professional wrestling over the next twelve months.  Once again, I peer into my crystal balls—I have them, you know—and reveal all.

*Needing another three hours to kill, WWE holds a one-night Cruiserweight Classic tourney to crown a new champion.  The 47 in attendance attempt to remain awake by performing the wave, chanting “Mojo Rawley” and doing horrendous Hulk Hogan imitations when the hard-camera light is lit.

*Facebook requires those in Groups listed as “wrestling experts” to provide proof they have any link whatsoever to the sport, beyond merely watching matches.  Membership dips by 97 percent.

*Due to a typo—blamed on auto-correct, as per usual—Wrestlemania 33 is co-headlined by Brock Lesnar vs. Gillberg.  It is still better than any previous Lesnar/Goldberg match.

*On the Smackdown brand Parisian tour, Shane McMahon attempts an elbow drop off the Eiffel Tower.  Video footage surfaces of Stephanie McMahon and Triple H snickering during the resultant funeral services.

*Emmalina finally makes her Raw return, only to announce she has a tag partner, who will also take six months to debut.

*Hoping to recapture public attention, the “It’s still real to me” guy releases a YouTube clip of him whimpering “Paige is still hot, to me.”  Three million fanboys who once masturbated to Paige photos mock him on social media.

*In a scene eerily reminiscent of the movie Scanners, Mauro Ranallo’s entire skull explodes after shouting “A SIDE HEADLOCK!!!” at 153 decibels.  

*The ghost of Gorilla Monsoon taps “announcer” David Otunga on the shoulder and asks “Will you stop?”  It’s “history in the making, folks” as Monsoon becomes the first ghost ever to receive a standing ovation.

*With the introduction of the Weekly Schmoz podcast, every single wrestling reference in the entire galaxy has been used within a name of one of these shows.

*Delicious Dixie Carter presents her own variation of the Kiss My Ass Club, called the Burnish My Butt Brigade, whereupon she rubs her derriere with printouts from 2016 tweets and newsletters gleefully declaring “TNA is dead” and “Dixie is gone.”  In one instance, she uses a Smashing Pumpkins CD booklet.

*Even the staunchest devotee must begrudgingly admit a match held in Japan was “three stars at most.”  Thousands of clothes dryers are stuffed with tear-stained Bullet Club shirts.

*Michael Cole is fined $10,000 for failing to call the 107^th Sasha/Charlotte match “historic.”

*Booker T sues Joey Ryan over the name of the latter’s new move, the bonerooni.

*Asuka, Samoa Joe and Nakamura debut on the main roster TOGETHER…at which point all three are simultaneously pinned by the Shining Stars and Alicia Fox in ten seconds and immediately sent back to NXT as a smirking Vince McMahon appears on the Titantron, flipping off the audience.

*Lip-synching is suspected, after Lana performs a complete segment without once forgetting her “Russian accent.”

*Lucha Underground is permanently shut down after President Trump deports three-quarters of its employees.

*Balloons drop from the ceiling, pyros go off in abundance in an April edition of Raw, as Big Show makes his 100^th turn.  After a sincere speech thanking everyone for their support, he chokeslams ring announcer JoJo.

*The 2017 Oxford Dictionary For Online Wrestling Sites defines “our sources” as “material we swiped from Dave Meltzer” and “buried” as “term never EVER used correctly.”

*John Cena’s retirement tour features merchandise emblazoned with “U Won’t C Me.”

*A survey reveals that 48 percent of fans tossing streamers at US indie shows do it “because everyone else does” and believe the practice originated in Philadelphia.

*Responding to the “one more match” chant, D-Von Dudley’s last words from within a ring are “Get your own damn tables, fat ass!”

*Viewer confusion hits an all-time high, moving the WWE to adopt “good guy, cheer him” and “bad guy, boo” subtitles on all broadcasts.

*New Flotsam streaming service airs nothing but matches held in school gymnasiums and dingy nightclubs.  Subscribers are paid $9.99 a month.

*Two gals wearing a combined 24 square inches of ring gear rave about how the “women’s revolution” has completely changed the role of females.

*Fans who have never once been in a locker room continue to state former WCW, WWE, TNA and ROH employee Jim Cornette “doesn’t know anything about wrestling, bro.”

*Eighty-nine percent of those who in 2016 claimed the just-released Damian Sandow “should go to TNA, that would be AWESOME!” can’t recall his current ring name and never bought a single piece of his TNA merch.

*The entire industry collapses when a wrestler does not kick out of the first pinfall attempt.  Millions roam the streets worldwide, glassy-eyed, mumbling “What just happened?”

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?

SCORING

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!

SS23–Latest Orders From Stately Central

Going forward…damn, do I hate that phrase. “In the future” worked perfectly well for centuries; but some business buffoons had to start saying “going forward,” and the sheep trying to look smarter than they truly are followed suit–yet again.

Speaking of simpletons who blindly repeat what other schmucks are spouting, the online wrestling “experts” have all weighed in on Wrestlemania 31. And as per usual, their observations run from unintentionally comedic to about as intelligent as a drug-addled brontosaurus with a migraine headache.

Typing with one hand while, um, “paying homage” to a photo of Paige with the other, pathetic souls flooded Twitter and Facebook like overheated 14-year-old fangirls just back from a One Erection concert wondering why there was moisture in their panties.

[I will pause here for a moment while the bulk of you, who have NO idea what that last phrase meant, go ask your mommies. And if your mother has difficulty remembering, due to your useless old man, show her a photo of me, and the memories will come “flooding” back.]

Of course all the internet chatter is superfluous dribble, as the only thoughts that really count on any subject are MINE.

With that in mind, and equating Wrestlemania with the equivalent of Wrestling New Years Day, here are my commands for what should occur over the next twelve months.

*Unbridled support for the New Day. Its been scientifically proven that 87.5 percent of all wrestling fans are racists, these statistics documented in the 2014 Harvard Study Of Ignorant Honkies.

Oh, that doesn’t mean YOU? Where is the outrage over no Asians being on the WWE main roster and only two in development? How many threatened (and, true to form, chickened out) to Cancel The WWE Network over Mexicool not taking their rightful place in the Hall Of Fame? That’s what I thought.

So here were three young brothers being held back by The Man yet still doing their best to entertain you crackers, and all you did was sit there downloading Iggy Azalea MP3s and thinking that showed you are down. Caucasian, please!

The first thing I want ND to do is invite R-Goof into the ring. At that point, Big-E should say “You all like this man, right? After all, he’s come out for years, rapping and dancing or talking funny as guest commentator. Why, he even went around stealing the Inter-Continental title for a while there!

“Yeah, you ofays get a real laugh out of all that. And who cares if he just reinforces negative stereotypes?” At which point the trio WAILS THE LIVING SNOT OUT OF R-TRUTH.

Cherry on top comes when Xavier stands tall over the half-conscious chump and says, “And that’s Whats Up,” before dropping the mic on the fool.

*Ditto the Beat Down Clan. MVP has retweeted SWM, conclusively proving the man is a certified genius and fine communicator deserving the respect of all. And by being associated with him, the same applies to Kenny King and the rest of the Clan.

The thing is, one would never know it by the rude reception they get despite a history of doing nothing but valiant public services such as kicking Bobby Lashley to the curb and Hopalong Melendez in the dome.

Nope, you’ll get behind milk-pie Drool Galloway and his posse as they continually interfere in fair matches and incite ringsiders to “Stand Up” when in actuality they should be told to shut up.

Don’t insult my superior intelligence by playing innocent. I know EXACTLY why you choose the Galloway goons over the courageous gents in the BDC.

In fact, it’s specifically spelled out on page 47 of the Harvard Study. I’d quote it here, but its not like any of you would comprehend the polysyllabics. (That means “big words,” dummy.)

*I fully support the Give Divas A Chance campaign–as long as the slogan is extended to include “To Strip.”

Let’s be real here. With the exception of Alicia Fox, none of these chickadees qualify to be called “wrestlers.” Even the WWE admits it, refusing to ever refer to the broads by the W-word. Eva Marie? Rosa? Cameron? The Bellends? Are you kidding me? These gals wouldn’t know a suplex from a soup spoon, a bearhug from a bearskin rug or a sunset flip from a potato chip!

Renowned for doing extensive research, I have concluded that part of the problem is the restrictive nature of ring gear…and the only solution is for the Divas–and TNA Knockouts–to slowly remove their attire as appropriate music blares, in the ring before each match.

They’ll still blow, but who cares?!?

*All wrestling fans–especially those in the “IWC” (Internet Wanking Community)–are hereby required to memorize and ABSORB the following.

1) CM Punk is done wrestling. Get over it.

2) Japanese wrestling did not start last year, you’re just too ignorant to have been aware.

3) It is entirely possible to support the WWE and TNA, unless you are a complete halfwit.

4) Most wrestlers think you’re a sucker and only act nice to you so you’ll buy their crap.

5) Rey Misterio was never close to being “the greatest luchadore ever” and you couldn’t name five who have never appeared on Lucha Underground.

6) Tough luck on him croaking and all that, but the Ultimate Wart was not “one of the all-time greats” and doesn’t belong on a Top 500 list, let alone a Top Ten.

7) That deep white thing near the toilet is called a bathtub.

*Reinstate Bashful Bill DeMott then replace NXT on the WWE Network with educational programming.

Mr. DeMott, an Eagle Scout spending most of his spare time snuggling puppies at the animal shelter, is a misunderstood humanitarian who tried his darndest to get a bunch of spoiled sissies prepared for the harsh reality of life on the road. Is it his fault the NXT performers–NOT “superstars”–are whiny softies who somehow objected to diving off 30-foot ladders, just because they had a couple of measly concussions, or thought there was something “wrong” with enjoying the outdoors on a 24-mile sprint while Bill patiently explained the inferiority of their heritage?

Luxury! Why, when I was in reform wrestling school, we used to dream of only having to do a thousand sit-ups before breakfast. And we did them underwater…in a polluted lake…full of rabid eels!!!

No, these NXT crybabies don’t deserve to be on the air; and, besides, Lawd knows wrestling fans can use some educational material in their lives. At Wrestlemania, Triple-H weighed 258–which was also the average SAT score of those in attendance.

*Raw after Mania tickets to be dumped directly into an incinerator. What’s worse than a roomful of the ironically named “smart fans”? A whole arena full of them!

Each year, Mr. McMahon, a long-time fan of mine, BEGS me to attend the broadcast following Wrestlemania; but, though I dread disappointing my old friend, I must respectfully decline. Imagine someone like me spending three hours with someone like, well, YOU. I mean, I have had all my shots; however, there’s no vaccination countering my allergy to nincumpoops! (Who often smell like doggie poops.)

Decked out in what can only be described as 2005 Dumpster Dive, these quasi-literates spend 18 hours a day complaining about something called “booking”–though they’ve never voluntarily been in a library their entire lives–and heaping absurd praise on obscure matches from twelve years ago (which they griped about at the time.)

They know everything about “this business,” including up to a half-dozen insider terms they spout to demonstrate their thorough understanding of the sport. And how did they gain such invaluable insight? Was it from spending grueling hours in a wrestling academy? Working on cards as a grappler, manager, commentator, ref or timekeeper? Covering the scene for decades as a paid professional international columnist?

Nope. Their unmatched wisdom comes from reading (and usually misinterpreting) a weekly newsletter and visiting internet sites, the bulk of which are authored by fellow clueless amateurs with no real industry connections!!!

Seriously, non-wrestling fans, I am not making this up: people who have never been in a locker room let alone participated in a single match or privately spoken to a wrestler beyond asking for an autograph ACTUALLY BELIEVE THEY KNOW MORE ABOUT THE BUSINESS THAN THOSE MAKING A LIVING AT IT.

“Let’s see, I subscribe to Prevention magazine and hang out at WebMD.com, so, yeah, I can perform a kidney transplant.”

SS20–RockStar Dud/Kiss My Christmas Balls

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.

SS16–Whistling (at) Dixie/Daniel Bryan, Satanic Commie Cult Founder?

Well, as Al Snow would say, another job well done. I am referring of course to the undeniable fact that, much like Mickie James last issue, Dixie Carter read previous comments about her in Stately States and came…albeit slower than Mick…to the conclusion it’s far better to emulate SWManor than to be “nice” to the ringside reprobates–or the public in general, for that matter.

I am sometimes forced to go out among the masses, and I must tell you, it is often akin to walking onto the movie set when they’re filming The Zombie Slobs Meet The Blithering Ignoramuses From Moronville. Have you ever been to one of those “mall” things? My usual stop closed for inventory and I owing Christy Hemme a set of replacement panties, I was recently forced to enter a human stockyard called “The Springfield Mall”; and I would rather attend a turd-tasting contest on a blind date with Khloe Kardashian than go through that horrific ordeal again.

Looking around, I would estimate that three-quarters of the U.S. population are unaware there’s a place to have breakfast, lunch and dinner other than Dairy Queen. A single glance down any street is all it takes to see the only exercise Americans get is running up cell phone bills. How ironic is it that most own smart phones but are so stupid they think the Theory Of Relativity has something to do with family reunions and that a naval destroyer is a bad belly-button piercing?

And other than when you’re locked out of the trailer park on a rainy day, do you people ever experience something called a shower? I was downwind when the mall doors opened, and the stench was so foul, I thought a manure truck overturned on a hog farm!

Getting back to FAR more pleasant matters, it’s impossible not to notice how much Dixie Cups is absolutely glowing with hotness since taking up the Stately Wayne Way. Take a gander at that gold-digging skank you (and half the other men in town) sleep with or, worse yet, the sagging blob of cellulite you married, who couldn’t fit back in her wedding dress today if you spotted her a can of Crisco and a crowbar. Now tell me you wouldn’t trade in a year’s worth of your welfare checks just to have your ho look like Dixie for the three minutes it would take to, um, “express your appreciation.”

Only a complete warpazoid would not leap at the opportunity to board the midnight train to Dixie. Which is exactly what Sting did. And is.

You may accuse me of bias because it is well known that I hate those who “borrow” their stage names from established people or places outside their field. (Are you listening, Edge?) But, no, in this case, the comment about Sting has nothing to do with loving or loathing the guy. It’s about…well, insiders all know Paint Puss may be married and all that, but he has always preferred decaf over dry-roasted, if you catch my drift.

The web hosts won’t allow me to use the popular slang expressions for what Sting unquestionably is, so let’s just say the man, you know, drives a French motor scooter, carries a spare key in his left pocket, digs a little pineapple on his pizza, owns the Blues Brothers soundtrack, has a yellow scuba tank.

Hell, I’m just going to blurt it out: Sting is a Ring Ding wrangler, a hydrant painter, a Portuguese coat hanger, a widget swallower, a hurricane juggler, a camouflaged chimneysweep, or whatever euphemism they use in your neck of the hood. If this guy doesn’t wear plaid suspenders, I don’t know who does!

That has to be it. After all, who among us hasn’t gazed upon Dazzling Dixiana, nudged a buddy and said, “I wouldn’t mind alphabetizing her laundry, heh heh heh”?

IT’S ABOUT time someone said it: Triple H and Stunning Steph are absolutely right about Daniel Bryan being an utter failure. Ratings have sagged, PPV buy rates have tanked and, most important, the Bellas have stopped spreading their joy from town to town, now that they sunk their claws into Diver Dan and the Cena Horse.

But more than a business bomb, Daniel Bryan is a subversive.

Hiding behind that mop-top and scruffy face-fuzz, disguised as a hippie to lure in the naive–just like his role model Charles Manson–Bryan is not fooling me. As his beady eyes scan the crowd, it is glaringly evident he’s scouting the simpletons for more potential members of his cult…precisely the way a certain failed paperhanger did it in Deutschland during the Thirties.

Scoff at the highly obvious connection if you wish, but when a platoon of brainwashed goons in uniforms bearing SS (Stopped Shaving) armbands comes goose-stepping down your street, don’t say I didn’t warn you.

Ever see footage from the massive Nazi rallies during WWII? Virtually the entire audience throwing up one arm and shouting “Heil.” Bryan’s ring entrance? Virtually an entire audience throwing up two hands and shouting “Yes.” That’s hardly a coincidence.

Do you know whose music played at said rallies in Nuremberg? Richard Wagner’s–the favorite composer of Adolf Hitler. In fact, Wagner’s The Ride Of The Valkyries was broadcast to accompany reports on German air attacks. [See www.theguardian.com/world/2007/jul/03/secondworldwar.musicnews ]

What’s this have to do with wrestling? While everyone besides CM Bunk has a catchy original theme song written by the WWE house composer, Herr Bryan’s handpicked tune “just happens” to be Wagner’s The Ride Of The Valkyries. Another “coincidence,” the Daniel Dupes say? Then notice how the last-name initial of Dan’s squeeze is “B”–just like Hitler’s honey, Eva Braun.

Oh, yeah, the shaggy Daniel may now have the appearance of a draft dodger selling incense at Woodstock; however, when he first arrived in NXT/WWE, he had the buzz cut of someone about three weeks removed from a skinhead boot camp. Excuse me while I roll my eyes at yet another “coincidence.”

I predict that, by this time next year, Bryan’s infamous beard–identical to Bin Laden’s, you’ll note–will be trimmed down to just a little square moustache (which the dense Daniel Dupes will claim is a homage to Charlie Chaplin), and Danny Boy’ll be encouraging ringsiders to embrace something called Danieltology, ripping a gaping hole in the very fabric of society by despicable acts such as urging dumb girls to attend Community College rather than becoming productive strippers, and convincing males there’s something wrong with snorting meth so you can play pinball until four a.m.!

I would not be the least bit surprised if Danieltology condemns tossing lit ciggies out the window when driving past national forests and advocates such bizarre practices as buying your own lunch instead of stealing someone else’s, the possession of a library card and–dare I say it?–“getting a real job”!!!!!!

Smile all day long, Goat Boy (“conveniently” rhymes with Goebbels), but I’m onto you and your nefarious scheme!!!

SS14–Bellabration/Brunobody

Isn’t it delightful to see the Bellas back (and front) on the boob tube? Of course, our gain is charitable organizations’ loss. Thought the gals are not ones to boast about their offscreen lives, let it be known that the twins were absent all those months because they were spreading joy throughout the world on a religious mission.

Spreading here, spreading there, spreading wherever it was most needed, the Bellas are warmly regarded in every corner of the globe for their work in the missionary position. Prone to please, that’s what I call the Bellas.

The good work has done wonders for their once-lacking self-esteem as well. In fact, you can see how it’s even affected the way one Bella carries herself, her chest protruding in pride noticeably more than it did before she left WWE. (Couldn’t tell you which one; but they’re only chick, so their names arent particularly important.)

Here’s hoping the Bellas have launched an industry-wide trend. I would love to have Tara, Rosa Mendes, AJ Lee and Taryn Terrell also assume the missionary position. And if they need a leg up, I personally will volunteer to assist in that endeavor, no matter how hard it may become.

That’s just the kind of gentleman I am.

It’s amazing how the attitude of female wrestlers has changed for the purer in more recent times. Gone are the days wanton tramps like Whorrie Wilson would shamefully pose for Playboy and even crow about it. Nonetheless, much of this aging-disgracefully material is preserved for posterior on websites that lack the profound respect I have for bitches. Why, just yesterday I came across several older nudie shots of Mickie James brazenly exposing her nether region!

Naturally, I was frozen in shock in front of the PC for nearly an hour. At first, I was about to soak my laptop in soap and water to remove the residue these images left on my hard drive. But I eventually settled on a better solution, enlarging each picture ten-fold and affixing several of them to my bedroom ceiling. That way, every time I lay me down to sleep and as soon as I awaken, I have Mickie’s girlie parts nearly mashing into my face, a throbbing reminder to always be on the lookout for ladies of low moral standards.

Fellas, you really need to give this method a try. Since starting, I never visit websites where the girls are clothed, their garments potentially hiding “tramp stamps” and below-the-neck piercings, surefire indicators of sluttativity.

In fact, I got in the habit of shouting at pupils en route to the nearby learning center, “Take off your clothes so I can determine your innocence.” At least until the buttinski crossing guard filed a complaint. “Ooh, look at me, I have a whistle and an aluminum badge I had to pay for myself.” Clown thinks he’s Master Of The Universe because he works two hours a day at a stinkin’ middle school.

I see the immense pressure exerted by and incredible international influence of my previous column forced WWE to induct another goomba into the Hall Of Fame. Which is all well and good except for one thing: Why on Earth did they pick Bruno Sammartino? Really, what has this guy ever done to merit Hall inclusion, especially before such truly worthy candidates as Masked Executioner #3?

Oh, sure, during the HOF telecast Bruno kept bragging about selling out one arena–like he was the only guy on the card, right?–and being a hotshot worldwide. But as wrestling’s only journalist with journalism training, I knew better than to take a public speaker at his word. Unlike my wannabe peers, I actually do some investigation before making a proclamation, and a look into official documents painted a very different picture of the so-called Living Legend.

Philly’s Wells Fargo Center, the Staple Center, Barclays Center, TD Bank Garden, Baltimore’s 1st Marine Arena, Wrigley Field, Orlando’s Amway Arena, Wembley Arena, Trump’s Taj Mahal, The Louvre, Hangover Sports Bar: there is not one single solitary Sammartino match on the records of any of these venerated sites!

And, yes, I took his age into account and, no, he never worked the Roman Coliseum or Hanging Gardens Of Babylon either (although I will admit there is a hieroglyph in King Tut’s tomb that bears a passing resemblance to Bruno during his Ital-fro days.)

Twenty-nine Wrestlemanias are in the books, and Sammartino appeared in only one, about 40 years ago, in a battle royal with of bunch of clumsy football players. Big freaking deal.

Bottom line: When it comes to Bruno Sammartino’s alleged appeal, the man lives down to his initials.

Hey, if he was such a major figure, why wasn’t he among the first batch of bonebenders inducted? Surely a self-professed great man like Bruno Sammartino and an even greater man in Vincent K. McMahon would not be entangled in years of petty squabbles, accusations, money issues and so on. And the exalted Bruno, who claims to love you numskull fans soooo much, wouldn’t let politics stand in the way of allowing said dimwits to kiss his hem one more time.

Heres how “important” Sammartino is: Rather than do so personally, having much more vital matters on his plate–like selecting napkin colors for the catering tables–Mr. McMahon sent his gold-digger son-in-law Nostrildamus to tender the invitation to Bruno. Nuff said?

And why didn’t Dribble H instead hand an invite to the far more deserving SWManor? Pure unadulterated jealousy. Every time Stunning Steph calls out my name in her sleep, add another year until I’m approached. By current calculations, I’ll be honored in 2713.

2714, after tonight.

SS4–Mad About Madison/Let’s Get Violence Out Of Wrestling

Well, well, well, I see Kaz finally decided to butt in after weeks of Kindly Karen Jarrett not only giving his old lady a legal job, but also courageously taking it upon herself to be Traci’s life coach.

Oh, the stress it must put upon the already overworked overseer of the Knockouts Division. After all, old habits are hard to break, and thus Karen must spend all day schooling Preposterous Pecs.

“No, no, no, Traci, when you deliver an inner-office memo, you don’t say ‘The more you tip, the more fun we have.’”

“When we’re walking through Disney World together, I need you to quit asking every passing man ‘Got a date?’”

“I don’t care how it went down at your previous job. When someone doesn’t bring in enough money here, they do not get pimp-slapped.”

It’s a wonder Karen completes any of her many other duties, what with mentoring a girl still trying to grasp the concept of working with three men yet remaining vertical, no crew videotaping her showering, no pole to dance besides or body oils to apply.

But that’s our Karen, always ready to help others, no matter how hopeless they are.

Of course, the big question that comes to mind is, what took Fearless Frank so long to come to his bride’s side? Could be he was distracted texting Kevin Nash about how super-cool it is for a guy to be sporting a ponytail in 2011. The two of them could also have been arguing over which is groovier, Nash’s “aging male desperately trying–and failing–to look hip” goatee or Kaz’s really happening triangular soul patch.

[One rumor has it Kazarian has been spending a lot of time on the phone, getting personality pointers from his namesake, aka “The other Frankie, the one people have heard of,” Gigi’s ex-boyfriend on Jerseylicious. Frankly, I think that’s a silly suggestion. I mean, why would the Jerseyite accept calls from someone with a spray-tan?]

It’s a crying shame Traci can’t be more like fellow KO Madison Rayne, an innocent young lass who would never consider exploiting her body, despite it being spectacular. All-natural Maddy even dyed her golden hair brown (just like her idol, Mary Poppins) in order to attract less attention while visiting orphanages and singing spirituals on USO shows. Why, instead of using sugar, the darling just daubs her little finger into iced tea, that’s how sweet and pure Miss Rayne is.

Perpetually shy, Mad is much more comfortable at home on the small ranch she purchased to allow endangered animals to graze in safety, and it often takes a great deal of coaxing to get her out of her flannel shirt and overalls–but I continue to try my hardest.

Some have examined the physical difference between the blonde beauty with the best butt in the biz and the slightly more voluptuous–due to taste-testing the chocolate chips she bakes for troops stationed in Afghanistan–brunette version of today, and use the word “unrecognizable.” But I can’t really comment on that, having never seen Madison’s face.

Must say I lend 1000% support to the WWE wrestlers and refs who sought legal counsel and cast a vote of no confidence against Triple-H.

Just because Mark Henry, Christian and Albert DelRio have been given multiple title shots and David Otunga really is “boring,” that doesn’t mean HHH can…um, whatever they’re complaining about, since they never actually mention specifics.

And just because it’s a wrestler’s job to get pounded upon nightly and there are often run-ins followed by beatdowns, and not a single person including the referees showed the slightest sign of lingering injuries after their encounter the night before with two of the more moderate-sized men on the 2011 roster, and it’s not unusual for a grappler to get a hot tag then easily bounce two or three attackers repeatedly, that’s no reason the entire staff shouldn’t live in abject terror over the possibility Truth and Miz will once again slip past alerted security and hit the ring.

If people were supposed to settle their differences with physical confrontations rather than lawyers, wouldn’t someone set up a platform enclosed by a series of flexible, horizontal ropes, in the middle of an arena, and perhaps charge folks admission or broadcast the most heated contests on a pay-per-view outlet? Surely, no one wants to see pro wrestling resort to such barbarism!

Imagine how much better the sport’s history would be if all disagreements were settled in a far more civil fashion. Perhaps Billy Graham, Bill Dundee, The Masked Superstar and Jesus Christ could have held a public debate to settle upon who had the sole rights to the handle “Superstar,” thereby avoiding “confusion in the marketplace.” And all that fuss in Montreal could have been completely avoided had Bret Hart and Shawn Michaels engaged in a lively round of rock-paper-scissors to determine the championship.

I, for one, would pay good money to annually witness the Undertaker present briefs explaining why The Streak should remain intact, the verdict left in the capable hands of Judge Judy.

I’m not so sure what the WWE announcers’ beef is, though. Helmsley taking the mic for a minimum of 20 minutes per show reduces their workload by at least 17 percent. And they’ve had nothing but gushing compliments about him since he got engaged to Stephanie McMahon.

Some have accused Jim Ross of “showboating” by being the last to bail on Big Nose. Those comments are both unfair and unfounded. I have it on very good authority that JR was not stalling for dramatic effect, but rather because he was simply attempting to finish off the 20-pack of McNuggets he had stashed beneath the announce table.

Boy, I hate it when people make wild accusations and take cheap shots.