SS48—The Official Wrestling Fan Qualification Quiz

When the Commissioner Of Wrestling, the late and universally liked Harry White, passed away, I pledged to take up some of his duties, as he was a great admirer of the original “Stately States.”  This was a responsibility I took very seriously.

Although many have kicked around the idea for years, I have decided it is time to draw up an official Test To Determine Who Is Permitted To Be A Wrestling Fan.

Of course, promoters don’t want to go out of business: so, there won’t be any requirements along the lines of an IQ over 50 or male fans grooming.  Let’s not get carried away.

Instead, I devised a simple True Or False test that should only take a minute or two to complete.  And I wrote it at a fourth-grade reading level so that the typical not-too-bright fan can comprehend the questions.

Answers are provided below.

True or false…

  1. If you pay for a ticket, you have the right to do anything you please, damn it!
  2. Hardcore wrestling is an art form,
  3. Secretly, you’re glad Roman Reigns got sick, because he sucked and was being shoved down your throat.
  4. Chris Benoit belongs in the WWE Hall Of Fame.
  5. Most of my T-shirts have some sort of wrestling artwork on them.
  6. All of my T-shirts have some sort of wrestling artwork on them.

WWE Network subscription cancel notice

  1. You cancelled the WWE Network over the second Crown Jewel event.  7b.  Made certain everyone knows you quit watching WWE altogether, by being sure to post an announcement online.
  1. Your Twitter handle or Profile includes “heel”, “smark”, “mark”, “WOKEN” and/or #TooSweet, or contains “@WWE” even though you’re not a WWE employee, or is comprised of a combination of two grapplers’ names (e.g. SashaNaito13).
  2. Hot or not, you would never go out with someone who isn’t a dedicated wrestling fan, baby!
  3. Saw a “botch” GIF and expertly explained how the bump should have been taken.
  4. Hey, have you ever agreed that Kenny Omega or another guy or a promotion is great, and you weren’t really familiar with them but didn’t want to look dumb? We’ve all done that, right?  LOL
  5. A world champion needs to wrestle on all or nearly all of his brand’s TV shows.
  6. Asuka has had a terrible 2018.
  7. Having dozens of action figures makes you pretty freakin’ cool and the envy of others.
  8. Promoters should do their utmost to provide a loaded card.
  9. If you ever/have kids, they will be/are named after favorite wrestlers.

 

ANSWERS

Be advised, you need a perfect score to qualify to be a wrestling fan!

Key:  The correct answer to all questions is “False” unless noted otherwise. Consequently, the individual comments below pertain to those who answered “True.”

  1. A ticket purchase entitles you to be a spectator, not a participant. Shut up and sit down, instant test–and life–failure.
  2. Hardcore = retardcore. Any slob can light himself on fire and dive onto a table wrapped in barbed wire.  You should try it sometime.
  3. May your next pizza contain a secret topping—malaria.
  4. True. Much too much attention is paid to what wrestlers do outside the ring, most of it strictly hearsay.  (Did anyone actually see Chris kill himself and his family?)

Do you go to wrestling cards and watch the TV shows to get etiquette lessons, moral guidance, spiritual advice and similar useless crap?  Of course not.  You follow the sport to see someone get slapped silly from LA to Philly.  Heck, people murder their families all the time.  Snowflakes act like there’s something wrong with that.  Pfffft.

  1. True. Spend, spend, spend, friend!
  2. Get a death, loser.
  3. If you were so outraged about Arabian politics, how come you didn’t cancel before the first Crown Jewel? Hmmmm?    7b.  Nobody likes an attention whore.  Actually, nobody likes you anyway.  Lick a fire hydrant ASAP
  1. May an ejected toilet flush from a space station crash through your roof and land squarely in your mouth as you sleep.
  1. I would rather allow a flea-ridden Armenian zombie pickpocket with a loud cough and fatal flatulence into an arena than you.
  2. Go sand the zits off your back, windbag. The closest you’ve ever come to taking a bump is when the school bully slammed you into a locker and broke your clarinet.
  3. Wrong. You are a fraud and still look dumb…and ugly.
  4. Did Bruno Sammartino, Bob Backlund and Hulk Hogan, three of the W/WWF/E’s longest-reigning champions, wrestle of TV every week? NO.  When the Four Horsemen were running wild on WTBS, did Ric Flair wrestle every show?  NO.  Do you know anything about the history of the sport you claim to love?  NO.  Should you be allowed to be a fan?  NO.
  5. Well, yeah, carrying an undefeated streak as Raw champ into Wrestlemania 34 on April 8th—meaning the most dominant wrestler of the entire first quarter of the year—ending 2018 by winning a battle royal then participating in the first-ever women’s TLC match for the SD championship…that must suck.

I bet every wrestler on the planet who didn’t get a WWE contract, undefeated streak, world championship and Wrestlemania booking while remaining injury-free—which is about 99.86 percent of all active wrestlers worldwide—is relieved he (or she) didn’t have such a “terrible” year!

  1. You play with dolls.
  2. True. Promoters are all billionaires who will gleefully dump an unlimited stream of money into their shows.  After all, WRESTLING IS ALL ABOUT PLEASING YOU.

So what if the fee for top talent, refs, security, etc and the cost of the hall and ring rental, insurance, posters, flashy pyros and state-of-the-art lighting and sound system for a 500-seat venue with $20 tickets comes to 50 grand?  That’s only a loss of 40 thou per show, provided it’s a sell-out.

And after the promotion folds, once or twice during the following decade, you can fondly reminisce about it.  That’s all that really matters.

(A comical gnome from Atlantis with a shiny pirate’s chest full of doubloons and rubies will eventually come along and reimburse the promoter anyway.)

But if you don’t want to see the league crash, I suggest going into the locker room, standing on a chair and telling everyone they should work for free.  Do this at the next event you attend.  Don’t worry.  It’s perfectly safe.  When wrestlers apply for their license, they sign a form saying they won’t hit anyone.

  1. Seek professional help, sicko.

 

Becky Lynch is The Man!

Becky Lynch is The Man!

Becky Lynch is The Man!

Becky Lynch is The Man!

BECKY LYNCH IS THE MAN!

No, she isn’t.

I realize the vast majority of you have never spoken to a woman besides the bored girl at the Wendy’s drive-through window; but Becky has something called a “vagina” (google it) and thus can’t be a man.

I should know, the way she’s been throwing herself at me for the past four years.  Not that I can blame her, since there are no real men among her followers.

You see, bubbleheads, what most of you “experts” don’t know is that all the top wrestlers from the British Isles, including Bimbo Becky, Drew McIntyre, Grado, PAC, Sheamus, Jimmy Havoc, Drake Maverick, Paige, Marty Scurll, Katrina Waters and Finn Balor, all grew up reading England’s Power Slam magazine, for which I am the ONLY writer to appear in every issue.  As such, every man in the UK wants to be like me and every woman wants me.

Between my legendary 1985-2001 Wrestling World run and the additional twenty straight years in Power Slam, there’s no question SW Manor is the most influential journalist in wrestling history.

I’m just not one to brag.

“B-b-but saying she’s ‘The Man’ is a strong statement about gender equality.”

Meh, something they cooked up after realizing how moronic “The Man” sounds.

Calling oneself “The Man” as an expression of being the most over of either sex—as apologists claim—clearly suggests being a man is superior to being a woman.  And although it’s true, what kind of cockeyed “feminist” statement is that?

Raunchy Rebecca, as I call her–you know, the chick you claimed was “buried” four months ago—will drop her strap to another broad, and you bandwagon-jumpers will dump her quicker than Snoop Dogg can roll a joint.

Truth of the matter is, she loves being on her back.  At least around me, heh heh heh.

nudge nudge Python GIF

SS25–Breaking (them) News

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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