This week, I go spelunking into the dark cave of the unknown. In the grimy depths of the earth sits The Swerved Vault, which holds wonderful treasures and forgotten gems rarely seen by human eye. Readers will be in for quite the privilege since I do not visit this vault often. The twenty-hour trek into the planet's core takes a mighty toll on a young man like myself. In addition, the vault is surrounded by a fiery moat filled with mammoth demons, flying serpents with venomous fire breath, and cobwebs. My body gets all prickly when I touch a cobweb. Did I just touch one now? What's that on me? Oh, frick. I feel something on me. Is it a spider? I feel spider legs on my left forearm.
Let these lost pieces of brief gold greatness bring happiness into your wrestling world above ground. Get whipped into the ropes, bounce off those same ropes, then click your heels in the air with glee. Like the Disney masterpieces Bambi 2 and Cinderella, this fantastication will not be here forever.
In the forgotten days of 2003 yore, my hatred for The Hunter Hearst Helmsley Domination Power Hour Variety Show reached an all-time high. If a watched pot never boils, the entire world took their eyes away from me as angry stream spewed from every orifice of my body. My fury can be traced back to the year 2001 when Triple H took The Hurricane's newfound popularity (from a surprise pinfall victory over The Rock on RAW) and squashed it in his veiny, forehead-crinkling grasp with one convincing pin. In that same year, he aimed an oscillating fan at his Wrestlemania opponent, cooling the Harlem Heat of one Booker T. The tip of the berg with ice on it was the formation of Evolution, which gave Triple H free range to try to be like Ric Flair and hit Goldberg one time in the face with the back of his hand placed firmly over the end of a sledgehammer. I was prepared to stop his unjust reign by appearing on WWE programming with the following diatribe soon after that event, but I had acute case of mono that week.
Everyone remembers their first. For example, remember the first time you and that special someone looked up at the stars at the night, and the two of you made that wonderful emotional and physical connection right there on the picnic blanket? You know how that felt? If you do, please tell me because I am an android that cannot comprehend the concept of love. Does not compute. Beep, beep. Downloading something involving technology.
What I am though is a being of frustration and anger. You say 'I Can't Believe It's Not Butter'? I say I will make you believe it is butter... and high quality margarine at the same time. Do it or die, earthling.
I'm tired of being knocked down time after time by 'The Man'. I don't even want to know who 'The Man' is, but I'm guessing he's not very pleasant. So, you know what I'm going to do? I'm going to take it out on the people that have forsaken me -- professional wrestlers. One by one, I will tell them my true feelings and they will have to simply take it and sign for it.
Triple H, the freight train is coming into the station. Clackety clack, mothersucker.
Do. You. Have. Your. Ticket. With. You?
"The only reason Triple H gets a constant push is because he and Vince McMahon share an interest in go-karts. I don't care that the guys in the back don't want me to say it. It's true. When nobody's looking, they engage in Figure Eights."
"Oh, Mr. Helmsley. I seem to be the only guy that remembers that you used to come out to that music that went something like 'twee-dee-lee-dee-twee-twee-dee-lee.' Remember wearing those equestrian tights too, man? I do -- I always have and always will. You know why I mentioned that? I liked that music, guy. Hell, as a youngling back then, I would always time my macho tea parties to that song. Garfield, Kermit the Frog in the hockey jersey, a cardboard cut-out of Betty from the Archie comics. and I would have the bitchingest tea party the world ever saw. Now, you have that Motorhead thing and you're screaming non-stop. It's not my fault that the water in your bottle tastes bad. Maybe you just have bad taste altogether."
"You talk about how you're the best, and the greatest, but are you a master chef? I don't think so. Like I always say 'To eat the bread, you've got to heat the bread.' You don't want to step to this, sister friend. I will smoke you out of the kitchen, shiny hair guy."
As a certified, licensed, and self-proclaimed genius, everyday life is a constant struggle not to be clever. If I had one flaw, it is that I am too flawless. I cannot help that my brainpower is superior to that of the supposed smartest men in the world. I do not understand why the ignorant and the imbecilic feel threatened when placed in the same room as I. Surely, I do not care for those who do not embrace the complex concepts of the world. For instance, the pun is a wonderful invention. Not only are puns quite humourous, but impressive ones tend to display one's mental accumen in an accurate and thorough manner as well. If you had the same IQ as myself, wouldn't you want to prove your mind power to the inferiors of the globe? Sure you would, but unfortunately, my IQ is at such an inhuman level that it cannot be measured numerically. If you wish to know, my IQ is given the symbol of a crescent moon. 'Tis the existence of a wordplay master.
Nevertheless, I hope you find entertainment in my genius display. Feel free to giggle in awe at my puniness.
Warning: The following column contains extensive pun use and may not be suitable for small children, giant children under some kind of voodoo curse, or people with heart conditions. Reader discretion is advised.
Punmania I
Live from Within This, Article
Attendance: 173,384,378 and a duck
He'd say this, but he'd hold a map that presents the different tectonic plates of planet Earth. He'd point to the San Andreas Fault, and claim that he is not its rightful owner.
It's revealed that he's been talking about seasonings the whole time. Visual: Booker T in a chef's hat, making you an airy and delicious quiche as fiery pyrotechnics go off in the kitchen background. You're welcome.
Shane McMahon dresses up as the Easter Bunny and sets a bunch of bunnies free at Wrestlemania 22. He then scales the top of the arena, only to land on the fuzzy creatures with a devastating elbow drop.
Triple H calls out Corey Haim, with the following promo:
"Cor-ee! Cor-ee! COR-EE! I'm Triple H! Please refer back to previous promos for clarification of my greatness. I can wait." He calls Haim out again, but ends up being attacked from behind by Corey Feldman. Feldman delivers The Feldigree to Hunter and stands over his lifeless body. Feldman then takes off his leather/denim jacket to reveal a shirt that reads De-Goonie-ration X. The theme song plays as Mikey (as Road Dogg), Brand (as Billy Gunn), Andy (as X-Pac), and Chunk (as Chyna) join him in the celebration. A new era is born-- here today, but definitely not "Goon" tomorrow.
If you are a wrestling fan, yet refuse to support your local arts and entertainment scene, you are no chum of mine. Go ahead and watch your reality TV show in which fifty people do nothing in house with nothing to do. I won't mind if you scarf down that three-tier bacon cheeseburger while dressed in your fancy underpants. There is no shame in listening to death metal in headbang mode while your mullet on top of a mullet accentuated by a side mullet flows poetic in the body-odour-smelling wind of your trailer. If you are too good for art, art is too good for you. Good day, gentleman and one lady probably. I turn my nose up at you. I drop my monocle. I look past the pages of New York Times, chock full of words longer than two letters, in disappointment at your filthy ilk.
Umaga (left) inserted two dollars into this vending machine for a refreshing bottle of Snapricot Orange. Unfortunately, this particular vendor was notorious for malfunction; it ate change and refused to return said change. This did not bode well for the Samoan Bulldozer for he had consumed an entire bag of salted pretzels and the parchness of his mouth was making him slightly perturbed. Armando Alejandro Estrada (right) tried to sort out the problem in a practical manner, Bill Clintoning the machine with a cigar. On the other hand, Umaga used his own Samoan ingenuity with a Samoan foot... for Samoa. Unsuccessful in their attempts, the pair walked back to their 2006 Umagamobile (with cigar wheels) in disgust.
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