Here are 1000-plus words concerning professional wrestling. From a man whose tax forms’ Occupation boxes read “Author.” Not “glorified blogger.” And most certainly not “write for site that publishes anyone who will work for free.”
A recent study verified this makes me 54.7 times superior to all those pretend-journalists covering the mat game. And to you.
With CM Bunk’s long-overdue dismissal, what has been quietly and conveniently swept under the rug is that “ongoing investigation” (Khanese for “my excuse for never commenting on it”) into the whole Punk/Elite brouhaha.
As pro wrestling’s only true journalist, I still want to know what went down. On the other hand, Skeptical Stately believes…
Things That Will Occur Before AEW Concludes Their Investigation
*John Lennon returns from the dead and apologizes for subjecting the world to Yoko Ono
*Surprise guest Donald Trump leaps onstage to join NWA on “Fight The Power”
*A blow to the head leads Elon Musk to believe he’s Elton John. Consequently, Twitter is rebranded again, this time as Candles In The Wind
*Malik Ibadookuza-Lavatzimanamarra is shunned by every NBA team because his name won’t fit on a jersey
*The latest technique to obscure baldness is to adopt a kitten and have it live on your forehead
*Netflix officials declare “Whoa, that’s way too much. Let’s lower the rate to three dollars a month.”
*A new Olympic sport, drunken archery, is immediately dropped after bitter and blitzed Mike Paffas fires three arrows into the crowd
*Pornhub announces their most popular performer of the month is Katie Vick
*King Charles dumps the traditional ceremony entrance music for a barbershop quartet rendition of “Iron Man”
*Kid Rock joins Neil Young in the duet “I’m Bald Under This Stupid Hat”
*The WWE introduces a full line of new Goldberg apparel—modeled by Bret Hart
*A partially deaf Siberian husky wows the America’s Got Talent judges by crooning “Bohemian Rhapsody” in Portuguese, with a slight lisp
*Folks from far and wide line up to cruise on the just-christened ship Titanic II
*The top-valued stocks for the year are Napster, My Space and Packard-Bell, all companies owned by Kmart
Wembley And The Wind
Over 70,000, in a country where bathing once a week is considered excessive–albeit fitting right in with the typical IWC wrestling fan’s monthly shower schedule–sweating in the August sun for several hours after eating the disgusting English breakfast of baked beans on toast, while wearing black T-shirts because it’s the only color they own.
Bless you, Mother Nature, for having the wind blow to the north, south or east, anywhere but towards the U.S., where the combined toxins in the British B.O. Bomb would surely have decimated plant life along the American east coast.
It’s bad enough a similarly sized crowd will be converging on my birthplace, the City Of Brotherly Shove, for Wrestlemania 40—for two days, no less.
I’ve already begun construction of a large dome over the Manor Mansion, with a pump circulating pre-Mania oxygen, and also added piranhas to the moat to “greet” any pesky autograph-seekers.
Mr. McMahon has personally assured me none of the typical ringside reprobates will be within 100 feet of me during my Hall Of Fame speech, slated to be the briefest one in history, primarily because I have no one to thank but myself.
“wHaT aBoUt Me? I bOUgHt tHE MaGAziNEs?” Ooooh, you contributed a penny towards the five grand a month I got paid. What a sport.
And how many times did you thank me personally through a letter, postcard, email, DM, text or tweet? What have you paid into my Ko-Fi account? When was the last time you bought a new car for ME?
But, yeah, I should waste precious time in a f’n HALL OF FAME speech to namecheck “DJ Trailer Park from the 215” or whatever you call yourself, because you swiped a few bucks from the purse of your mom after she passed out from drinking her newly arrived welfare check.
Oh, I see some of you find that last sentence funny. Some deprived kid with no father in the picture and a useless mother has to resort to theft in order to get a few hours of escape from the pure hell of his no-hope, prison-bound life. You sit there in your never-washed $40 T-shirt and the decades-out-of-style backwards ballcap, and think it’s perfectly fine to laugh at the predicament of yoots like this?
Go right ahead—Eminem Junior never thanked me either.
Look, if poor people don’t want to live in poverty, they can sell of their summer home in the Hamptons, just like I did when in a financial pinch. All those locals starving in Africa and elsewhere? Hop in the Land Rover and hit the Burger King drive-thru! Do I have to explain everything to you lot?
Father Issues
Rey Misterio may have performed the exact same match for 30 years except for adding the 619 ripped off from Tiger Mask Sayama, and be considered “the greatest luchadore ever” by clueless crackers who couldn’t name the father of El Hijo del Santo. But Midgetstereo did do one thing right—gave the world Dominik.
I remember Dom from when he was just a jovial tyke backstage, always happy to accept my dollar to drop a deuce in his father’s boots and claim Finkel did it. It was such a blast teaching the lad the life skills his lazy old man ignored. Like how to get around a deadbolt lock with just one wrench-turn, the proper way to start a warehouse fire, and how to avoid the cover charge at strip joints. And I never saw a slicker ten-year-old pickpocket!
If it were up to me, Dom would have his own Nickelodeon program, showcasing how kids can overcome being raised by a father who’s too busy chasing glory to be home most of the time.
Kind of like Cody Rhodes did. Wouldn’t it be great if, upon defeating Roman for the gold, Cody cut a promo laughing at everyone who believed “that crap about me idolizing my tub-of-lard egomaniac old man.
“Daddy dearest—whose father was an accountant, not a plumber, by the way—would stop home once a month and spend more time with our dogs than with his sons. Why do you think Dustin is so screwed up?
“And you fools couldn’t even comprehend I am the complete opposite of that creep, despite me calling myself the American Nightmare. Dream, Nightmare, duuuuh.”
But let’s face it, the odds of this going down are verrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrry slim. Because, when you get right to it, witnessing Cody Rhodes in action is about as exciting as watching the wrapper machine at a chewing gum factory.