SS57—Manor Mends The Mat Game 2021

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

Except diehard wrestling fans.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

In this case, exactly my point.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

RAW should be expanded to four hours

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

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

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

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

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

But only for the broads.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

SS54—Social Media Wrestlingese Codes Revealed!

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Professional wrestling has long had its own language and codes—and it appears that wrestling fans have followed suit.  If you are new to social media outlets covering wrestling (or even a veteran on the scene, for that matter), here is a glossary of common expressions, along with their REAL meanings.

 

*”S/he is better off staying in NXT.”  Working for less money is a blast.  That’s why I’m sticking to running the french-fryer instead of trying to be assistant manager at my Wendy’s job.

*”That balcony dive onto a burning table was awesome!!!”  I pretend to “love” wrestlers, but couldn’t give a crap about the permanent damage they suffer.  The only thing that matters is entertaining me.

*”Dave Meltzer doesn’t have any sources.”  I, on the other hand, have loads of insider info I get by reading sites that copy their “news” directly from Dave Meltzer.

*”(Disliked person) is an old man.”  I righteously make public stands against racism and sexism—primarily, to look cool.  Ageism?  I am fine with that…boomer.

*”MJF is a tremendous heel.”  I define a heel as someone to cheer for because he’s fun and doesn’t really mean anything he says.  A heel shouldn’t do anything that makes people hate them.  In other words, I’m as clueless as a popsicle salesman in Antarctica.

*”I missed CM Punk.”  I missed being conned by CM Punk, the multi-millionaire who sued his “best friend” and pretend-rebel who changed absolutely nothing about the business.

*”Impact Wrestling has been a joke for years.”  I’ve never actually watched it, but I’ll cheer the hell out of the Lucha Brothers and LAX now that they’re with AEW.  And, hey, that Eli Drake is the best talker on NWA Powerrr!

*”Ratings do matter to fans, because ratings are a barometer of the health of the industry.”  I’m just repeating an excuse devised by someone smarter than me, while, in reality, I only care that my favorite promotion is “beating” their rival, so I can gloat about it.  Also, the lower the RAW viewership, the better I feel.  I’d like to see the WWE go out of business.  Screw the 900 people losing their jobs.

*”The Attitude Era ruled!”  Wasn’t watching WWE then.

*”The NWO was too sweeeet!”  Wasn’t watching WCW then.

*”Rey Mysterio is the greatest luchador ever.”  Never heard of Lizmark, Atlantis, Perro Aguayo, Dos Caras, Karloff Legarde, Santo, Blue Demon, etc. because they weren’t on Lucha Underground.  [Thinks Triple-A is a roadside assistance service.]

*”50-50 booking sucks.”  Everyone I like should never lose and all the wrestlers I hate should never win.  Never mind that mean the only serious contenders will be other undefeated wrestlers, then one will have to lose in the end.  Oh, wait.

[Closely related to…]

*It’s so unfair ____ is getting buried.”  My favorite lost one televised match.  I have no access to the long-term booking plans but will just shoot my mouth off like a spoiled brat.

*”I was only joking.”  I totally wasn’t but am saying this because I got busted over something idiotic I earlier claimed.

*”The women should have been in the main event.”  Maybe a real live girl will see this and LIKE ME!  Then she’ll become my official girlfriend and and and I’ll finally get kissing by someone besides Grandma Jenkins.  Whoa, all the other guys will think we’re actually “doing it”!!!

*”sports entertainers”  My condescension for those who don’t have 352 moves and dives stolen from Mexico and Japan has no limit.  But I’ll cheer a guy dressed as a dinosaur taking on an invisible man who kicked out after a hand grenade attack.  That’s different.  The dinosaur did a 450 twisting springboard tope makiwara off a 60-foot ladder.

*”Mauro is the greatest.”  Shouting catchphrases and a long prepared list of pop culture and hip-hop references to get YOURSELF over is a play-by-play announcer’s role.  Even though he vanity searches and calls detractors “troglodytes” and such, never ever call him names.

*”organic”  A mega-pushed talent I like, otherwise I’d be whining about them being shoved down our throats—even though they are getting the same amount of airtime and high-profile matches as Roman Reigns did when he was being shoved down our throats.

*(female wrestler’s or commentator’s name) followed by heart and flames emojis.  Oh boy, oh boy, oh boy, a new girl to drool over as I rub my wee-wee under the sheets each night!  I’m going to tag her in Tweets and call her “Queen.”  Don’t know what I’d do if she flirted back.

I mean that literally, since no woman has ever shown interest in my lard ass.

[Often followed by…]

*”(female wrestler) is so overrated.”  My cream dream Blocked me on Twitter after my Tweet asking if she’d sell me her dirty panties.

*”_____ of all time.”  (Most frequently used with lists such as The Top Ten Brawlers Of All Time.)  Since I became a fan, because I’m too self-centered to recognize great things occurred before I got interested.

*”The @NWA has the most perfect show ever, #NWAPowerrr. @Billy and @Lagana are geniuses!!!!!! #IntoTheFire”  I am desperately trying to get my name onscreen during the pre-show crawl of flattering posts.  This is the only shot I’ll ever have of getting on TV, until my arrest for trying to have sex with a 14-year-old.

*”I met _____ and s/he is really cool.”  I stood in line for twenty minutes to pay for an autograph, and s/he didn’t call me a sucker to my face during the three seconds it took to sign.

*”(Promotion) should sign (Wrestler X, Y and Z.)”  I don’t even begin to comprehend how budgets work or care if a company turns a profit.  I also have no comprehension of how time works, and thus demand these three and the existing 57 roster members get many minutes on a two-hour show.

*”outlaw mudshow”  A rare few who actually understand what the expression means and its origin throw it around, so I will, also.  Okay, I’m too lazy to research what it means.  But, luckily, so are 98-percent of my fellow geeks impressing each other with our vast knowledge of insider terms.  It’s like a signal to each other, saying “I’m cool and in the know, too, dude.”

*”Wrestling has evolved.”  My all-purpose excuse for blowing off valid criticism from anyone over age 35.  Somewhere around 2015, this big invisible ray from outer space completely changed human nature, so things like “good guy gets revenge on evildoer” no longer register with anyone.

[Often uttered while the latest superhero movie is grossing hundreds of millions.]

*According to Reddit user”  “There’s a sucker born every minute” was never any more true than at the moment of my birth.  Why not trust an anonymous individual with no credentials to validate any claim he makes?

*”I’ve watched 36 hours of wrestling so far this week.”  My life is so empty, this is the one thing that stops me from crying myself to sleep.

Sometimes.

SS49–In AWE of AEW

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Because every online wrestling “expert” has assured us All Elite Wrestling is going to “change the world,” drive the WWE right out of business and reverse climate change–even though the man in charge and his growing list of Executive Producers have never previously spent a single day in their positions and the promotion has yet to have one match—I am completely convinced said mat world wizards are indeed correct.

I mean they must be correct; because, if you check their entire history of postings, you won’t find a single apology regarding ever being incorrect!  Like, for example, no one in 2018 claimed the WWE had irreversibly “buried” Daniel Bryan and Becky. Or, in 2019, declared Kenny Omega was going to be the surprise entrant in the Royal Rumble.

Now that it has been firmly established beyond question that AEW will dominate the bonebending business for centuries to come, I have kindly put my mammoth brain to work, drawing up a few policies that, once implemented, will make this powerhouse promotion even more, um, powerhousey.

*Men in hazmat suits at shows’ doors to check for lice, and use a special Odorama device to detect if the potential entrant has showered in the past 72 hours.  No neckbeards will be permitted.  Ditto ridiculous sideburns or bandanas to hide receding hairlines—meaning the Jacksons will have to “executive produce” from the parking lot.

*Fans will not be referred to as a “universe,” but rather as “Elitists”…which they are anyway, with their highly unwarranted superiority complexes and smug attitude regarding “casuals.”

*The few broads in the promotion will not be subjected to wearing tiny outfits in order to allow lecherous slobs to get cheap thrills, a la Alexa Bliss.  That would be inexcusable.  Instead, the AEW women will be totally nude except for a thin coating of baby oil.

*Every time Omega is “selling” a now-ruined former finisher for two seconds, color commentator Stately Wayne Manor (oh, you didn’t know?) will shout “Oh, my God, they killed Kenny!!!”

*All pins will be for a six-count (since 98 percent of three-count pins will be kicked out of anyway.)

*Because AEW represents a serious sport for the mat connoisseur, only trained professional wrestlers will serve as Joey Ryan’s penis druids.

*All crowd chants must include the wrestler’s full name as it appears on his birth certificate.  This demonstrates the chanter is a true insider, unlike those peons who foolishly chant a grappler’s ring name or his former indie circuit moniker.

*Like in gymnastics and figure skating, every member of the audience shall hold up a card after each match, denoting the star rating it deserves.  Because AEW can do no wrong, the card set begins with four stars and goes up to ten.

*During the first intermission, there will be a WWE hating contest (even though it was the WWE who made most fans aware of the two biggest names on the card.)

*Security will bodily eject anyone caught cheering for babyfaces and booing the heels.

*Admission to pre-show meet-and-greet sessions will be absolutely FREE.  There will, however, be a $40 charge to exit.

*To satisfy the desires of the intellectuals in the Internet Wrestling Community, EVERY SINGE AEW employee will be pushed and hold a title, including the ring announcers, timekeeper and Martin R. Lipscomb of Dayton, Ohio, who prints up the programs.

*Streamers should be tossed into the ring not only before and after each match, but also with each near-fall.

*Small-talk between matches should be confined to what certain wrestlers “deserve,” which wrestlers already under contract elsewhere should “join” AEW, and namedropping NJPW talent from the past five years. Extra credit for adding “-san” to each Japanese name, e.g. Naito-san.

*Each arena entrant will receive a set of “opinion cards” in order to ensure everyone continues to Tweet the exact same thing throughout the following weeks.  Example:  Card #7 “Vince McMahon is a billionaire who disgustingly used his wealth to sign up the best indie talent…but Tony Khan didn’t do the exact same thing.”

*Providing intelligence tests for venue admission will allow AEW to make history by being the only promotion ever with an entire card consisting of empty arena matches.

*Because AEW is all about gender equality, brotherhood, being “inclusive,” and similar idealistic crap, the least-renowned former Bullet Club member will henceforth be known as Hangperson Page.

*Because Creative Control is very important to chatty social media masterminds, who have never been nor will ever be in matches and know nothing about the history of WCW, AEW will extend its roster Total Creative Control.  Anyone will have the right to refuse anything.  What could possibly go wrong?

 

The way I see it—and bear in mind I’m never wrong about anything, so this is incredibly important—All Elite Wrestling needs to be built around the one true star among their roster.  A charismatic young man with a real gift for addressing the masses and treating them exactly as they deserve to be treated.

Though only a complete numskull would project AEW to compete directly with the empire built by my good friend Vinny K. McMahon, I can see All Elite running a strong second—but only if Tony “Wrath Of” Khan centers the promotion on its most gifted individual.

That of course eliminates Kenny Overrated, either of the Young Dwarves and the son of the guy I called The American Drum because he got beat on so much.  And since I employed the adjective “young,” that means the chubby ghost of Axl Rose, Chris Jericho, ironically enough, doesn’t make the list.  Everyone knows Fozzy performed “The Star-Spangled Banner”…the day it was written.

No, I am referring to the one true standout amongst the signees.  An ideal personality for the yoots of America and beyond to emulate.  Unflinching in his beliefs while possessing the great bravery it takes to challenge the norm—and quite the snazzy dresser.

If you’re too dense to have figured it out by now, I’ll spell it out for you in three letters:  M-J-F.

I will have to check my road log to see if I was in his hometown nine months before his birth; but I suspect Maxwell Jacob Friedman may very well be my son.

Let’s examine the similarities.

*A dozen years ago, long before that Miz clone cat, I was walking around with “>U” stickers on my clothing. MJF’s slogan is “Better than you.”

*Immeasurably attractive—BOTH of us

*Keenly aware of superiority and not afraid to remind you—BOTH

*Recognizes the typical wrestling fan as a repugnant attention-seeker—BOTH

*Would rather belly-flop into a pool of porcupines than converse with you—BOTH

*Idol of millions yet couldn’t care less what anyone thinks—BOTH

*Immense talent being routinely suppressed by the jealous—BOTH

The only major difference between us is that M, as I call him, is very wealthy, whereas every tightwad publisher I ever worked for will verify I am a poor writer.  In fact, I defy anyone to prove I’m not!

At any rate, although my lawyers advise against it—due to terminology someone like you could never remotely understand—at this time, I would like to publicly and proudly bestow Maxwell with legal permission to refer to himself as SWMJF or Stately, Junior.

What higher endorsement could there possibly be?

SS42–A Holiday GIFt To One And All

First off, I’d like to thank everyone responsible for me being named 2017 Wrestling GIF Rookie Of The Year.  And what better way to repay the voters and mat fans everywhere than presenting a special encore, spreading the holiday spirit with the warmth for which I am world-renowned?

What wrestlers really think about fans’ opinions and suggestions….

What wrestlers REALLY think about your Tweets

 

The internet, over any mention of Kenny Omega….

drooling spongebob and pals Kenny Omega name mentoined

 

Hulk Hogan has given a new interview….

Pinocchio nose expand Every Hulk Hogan interview ever

 

RVD announces the identity of his new training partner….

Snoop big weed exhale better BIGGER for RVD quip.

 

The entire size of a typical wrestling podcast audience….

Simpsons Milhouse alone your entire podcast audience

 

The Shield reunion is not going as smoothly as expected….

Stooges Answer The Phone MY GIF FULL

 

When dopes who never watched WCW show up wearing their NWO shirts….

face palm MONTAGE VVVG

 

When people believe attendance figures because they were provided by the promoter….

VVG superanimation zoom to many laughing hysterically

 

Self-explanatory….

ICW crying MY GIF

 

Vince McMahon meets up with the guy who talked him into having a Cruiserweight division….

King Of Comedy Jerry strangles Rupert GIF

 

When your “clever” publicity stunt only yields a cease and desist order….

Jughead KOd GIF

 

Ryback embarks on a new career, carpentry….

Keaton GUTSY stunt sawing board GIF

 

The only women on the Chris Jericho cruise realize the type of nerds they’re stuck onboard with the entire time….

trio vomiting

 

Home footage of typical guy constantly posting feminist hyperbole about women’s wrestling….

Mondo Keyhole MY GIF family fun

 

All men really want from ladies wrestling….

Colleen Camp from Clue MY GIF

 

BREAKING:  Originator of the spinarooni identified….

Shemp spinarooni MY GiF

 

When you boast of being a big expert on Japanese wrestling because you’ve been watching NJPW for two years….

Samurai Cop shortie MY GIF

 

When you claim someone is “buried” after he or she lose ONE freakin’ match….Bowie GIF me reacting when some act as if only Sig Kids

 

When wrestling fans follow MMA because a top newsletter guy likes it….

mindless zombies

 

The difference between male and female fans reacting to Roman Reigns….

Project Moon Base MY GIF

 

The proper way to enter a wrestling fan convention…

Blackadder walks out reaction GIF

 

Typical indies match….

Frank Isle instant MY GIF karate watermarked

 

A suitable question at any gathering of obsessive wrestling fans…

Life of Brian any women here GIF

 

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

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

 

Have you ever…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Well, aren’t you?

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

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

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

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

 

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

Moron.

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

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

 

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.

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.

SS15–Pity Poor Bully Ray/JR = Just Rotten

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Ah, the power of your King Of Columnists. In our last installment, I chewed Mickie James out and, whattayaknow, after one tongue-lashing from Mr. Manor, Miss James realigned her whole outlook on life. Gone is the “Hey, hi, y’all” chirpiness–strictly a put-on to con dumbbells like you into buying her recordings of that awful hillbilly racket known as country music–replaced by the correct attitude.

Not that any of you people will ever be in a position to experience it first-hand, but when one is a clear-cut superior being like myself and Mick, it is his or her duty to remind all at every opportunity. Whereas while most of you think condescension is what makes steam turn back into water, for us, it is a calling, patriotically serving the community by pointing out the inferiority of its members. Besides, it’s fun proclaiming “Besides English, James Storm speaks two languages: Gaelic and Alcoholic” and “Hulk Hogan’s very first tag match was indeed historic–because Napoleon was timekeeper.” (I was going to write “Caesar” but 97% of you lunkheads would go “Caesar, ain’t he the guy who invented salad?”)

Speaking of Hogan, how about his son Ed–yes, I know his legal name is Nick, but I call him Ed, short for “Failed Drivers Ed”–breaking news that sis Babbling Brooke got engaged to some football player despite the fact the two-timing trollop was already married to Bully Ray?

Then again, the dizzy doll might have just plain forgotten she was already hitched. After all, if you add up the combined brain power of her, Ed, Mommie Dumbest and the Immoral Hulk, it wouldn’t be enough to charge the light on a termite’s mining helmet.

Still, pity poor Mister Ray, a sensitive caring soul who no longer has a bride to fetch beer, polish his boots, spray Glade when he cuts the cheese and obey his every command, like any good wife owes her man. In fact, two days before the tragic news broke, we were discussing how, once you’ve got a bitch properly trained, you hardly ever have to slap her around anymore.

(Unless of course she expresses an opinion or wants to vote or something. If you let that slide, next thing you know, the ho will be asking you to pay part of the rent!)

A gentleman to the core despite the hussy’s shocking betrayal, Bully told me he has decided to only post a portion of their honeymoon sex video and just a fraction of the Brooke nudie snapshots he covertly photographed with a nanny cam, and limit it to a private website he set up (www.TotalSlut.com) rather than his original plan of a 3-disc DVD box set–that’s the kind of honorable fellow the New Yawker is.

Despite being backstabbed by the sickening jezebel, the TNA champ waxed philosophically about the failed marriage, sighing, “Ah, well, I was going to ditch her on her 30th birthday anyway. I figured the old man would’ve croaked by then, I’d be entitled to half his loot and wouldn’t need Brooke ragging me about blowing it on hookers and Jack Daniels.”

Splendid words to live by for anyone considering betrothing a twenty-something, otherwise known as The Conniving Whore Age (to be followed by The Sagging Desperate Pig Age.)

Bully, a naive young man, failed to realize dames in their twenties are nothing but trouble. Plus, the age difference of about a dozen years is always a massive stumbling block. That’s why all the girls I, um, “date” are about 14 or 15 years old.

Yeah, boy, half-price when you take ’em to the drive-in; you can have them do all kinds of crimes for you because they’ll get no time since they’re juveniles; get drunk on half a can of beer; buy them a little Sponge Bob handbag to hold your piece in and the cops never think to look in there; tie their hair in pigtails and they panhandle about 90 bucks in an hour–pre-women, as I like to call them, are the greatest. And the amount of sex you get is….Hey, what’s with the hissing and chair-tossing?

OH, COME ON NOW, I wasn’t talking about doing the dirty with the tenderonis. The thing is, nearly all of them live with their divorced mothers, and those broads are so amped up to have a certain itch scratched, they’ll go along with anything as long as you slip them the stromboli on a regular basis.

ARGUABLY THE worst aspect of the internet is that it allows any bubble-brain to declare himself a writer and expert when he is neither. Oh, yes, I believe in Freedom Of Speech–but only my own. Here’s my message to everyone else: SHUT UP.

My cousin Sal recently acquired a large box of wrestling DVDs very shortly before a heavily insured warehouse somehow caught fire during a torrential rainstorm. And if there’s one thing that became crystal clear upon viewing these backdate discs, it is that Jim Ross has rightfully earned his unique status in the mat business…as the absolute worst.

Of course, you cant expect much from people who live in places like Oklahoma, Kansas, Missouri, the Dakotas and similar regions I call the Nowhere States. In fact, when the Monkees play places like Tulsa and OKC, in order to allow the locals to sing along, the lyrics to “I’m A Believer” are changed to “I’m A Big Loser.”

Jumbo Jimbo wasn’t always atrocious, Ill grant him that. Back in the UWF and WCW days, I’d rate his as highly as “adequate” and “occasionally close to average.” But the worm turned when he went to WWE and later vehemently insisted on wearing that ridiculous cowboy hat and being referred to as J.R. In no time, he had his head so far up the boss kiester, when Mr. McMahon yawned, you could see Ross’ face besides Vince’s tonsils.

If there’s one thing I can’t stand, it’s someone who sucks up to the extraordinarily handsome and talented Vince McMahon, as if this exceptional he-man doesn’t already know he’s a supergenius and the closest we have to Jesus in the modern world. You’ll never catch ME singing the praises of the impeccably dressed Chairman’s limitless and unmatched intelligence, that’s for sure.

Getting back to “gold old J.O.,” can you believe the man–seriously, I am not making this up–fancies himself a writer these days, authoring one of those blog things, like a zillion other clueless schmoes?!? What kind of buffoon goes on the web to post a series of unsolicited half-baked opinions, all of which are clearly biased and thus have no credibility whatsoever? (I bet eight sevenths of these goofs dont even know you’re not supposed to use a preposition to end a sentence with.)

Ross–whose entire print journalism background consists of standing on a street corner as a pesty eleven-year-old, selling copies of the Tulsa Times and asking passerbys “Brother, can you spare a donut?”–likes to position himself as this frank, no-holds-barred scribe, yet never ONCE has written anything harshly critical of WWE. Check for yourself. The guy handles more cotton balls than a teddy bear molester!

Here’s how a typical Ross blog reads.

Topic: Randy Orton’s arrest for strangling a ringsider in Perth, Australia

Ross: It seems to me nobody has looked into the possibility the child had swallowed a chicken bone and Randy was heroically saving the youngster’s life by manually manipulating the boy’s esophagus with a Heimlich maneuver variation he learned in nursing school. TMZ showed the punch to the kids head but they never explained it was emergency anesthesia, which is needed to perform the throat massage correctly from a vertical base. Good grief, WWE superstars are marvelous human beings who love the WWE universe.

Wow, real “smashmouth” journalism there. All that blubbering and not so much as a single “Santino is such a dummy, he once asked ‘What day is Saturday Night Live on?'” or a “Chris Jericho has written another book, and I predict it will be a top-smeller.” What’s the point of being an internet writer if you are not even going to ridicule someone behind his back from a great distance?