Attention children and adults--I have several creepy tales for you. They are stories of darkness and gloom. Gather the princesses, fairies, little cowboys, and borderline Indians around. As the rest of the planet knocks on the doors of strangers for raisin boxes and mint floss, why not spend Halloween with The Swerved, the 5th halloweeniest wrestling blog ever to be forced upon the internet? Grab that extra pair of underwear for you will soil the one you already have on your mid-region. Pop that corn that you pop and sit back. I will place a flashlight under my face. I will turn the flashlight on. The illuminated portions of my facial features are frightful. Cower in fear at my cheekbones. They are higher than you initially suspected.
Professional wrestling is a scary business. Every personality and wrestler has a tan that glows jack-o-lantern orange. The shiny metallic tights of United States, Intercontentinal, and Out-of-Statetinental champions send unknowing audiences into freaky convulsions. Look up to the rafters and you will witness the pyrotechnic light show of death that hovers over our arenas. Look to the stage and you will see ghoulish men with face paint crawl down the aisle to the ominous hum of the devil's song. He's coming to get you. He is not joking. Good Ol' JR is cuckoo. Jim Ross is the haunter of your dreams and the creator of your nightmares.
Throughout my television watching career, I have seen horrors in the ring, the kind that the common man cannot even imagine. Though, do not feel sorry for me. I may be scarred for eternity but I live to see the days. Let me relay my experiences to you, the reader. May you use this information to ward off the the crazies and weirdos who run rampant throughout life.
One buttock can be a trick or a treat, depending on the quality of the buttock and the gender of its owner. In my opinion, human existence improves with every display of the attractive female form. If modern rap videos would show sexified girls with only one buttock exposed, the war would be over by now. Although, the display of a male buttock is offensive. How can we, as a distinguished society, allow exhibition of a half-naked guy? How can women, who are in no way obsessed with Oprah and shoes, gain arousal from this sight? The horror of one buttock is painful. The horror of Vince McMahon's twin powers activate vomit from my mouth and brownies and lemonade from my Hershey and Country Time factories.
As of late, Vince McMahon has stopped showing his backside. His unwillingness to do so fills me with equal parts joy and fright. When and where is Vince McMahon's Kiss My Ass Club going to strike next? I'm living in fear, people. I've boarded up my windows with wood; I have put ten deadbolts on my door. Call me insane if you wish, but when you least expect it, Vince McMahon is going to drop his Dockers, and you will be met with a face full of pasty gleam. Just look at the ass' path of terror. William Regal has blurred vision in one eye now. Shawn Michaels has to wear chaps. Are you the hunted? Am I? I don't want to stick around to find out.
Shawn Michaels and Triple H loved to shove the mugs of Kenny, Johnny, Mitch, Nicky, and Mikey up their DX-ian posteriors. They also enjoyed placing opponents, such as Vince McMahon, into the butts of others, such as The Big Show. Little people got into the fun too as the midget version of The Spirit Squad mooned it up for the viewers at home. What's with WWE wrestlers and their fascination with butts? Apparently, butts are hilarious, scary, and in need of pie in the world of Stamford. I am afraid. I am so cold. I am very afraid and very cold. It's as if I've been forced to watch Georgia Rule in a meat locker.
Please, WWE. I know your favourite sleeping garment is that pair of pajamas with the trap door opening on the fanny, but keep it to yourselves. No ifs, ands, or asses.
Brian Kendrick also known as Spanky is wrong. Sliced Bread #2 is a not a twisty-flippy-interverted-turnbuckle-assisted-DDT maneuver. In actuality, the greatest thing since sliced bread is the female bosom. Invented in 1977 by Zachariah Bosom, the lady boob is a moon landing, a cure to a deadly disease, and a microwavable breakfast food in one. At its peak, mammaries provide food and shelter for the needy. Sometimes they will provide water but you can't will it to make water. Like a watched pot that does not boil, a watched breast does not irrigate the village soil in time for the harvest. Though, these fleshy sandbags can bring forth an apocalypse of Calypsonian proportions too.
Let us turn back the hands of time to the month of January in the year of 2001. The then-World Wrestling Federation held their annual Royal Rumble from Madison Square Garden in the York that is new. Mae Young was one of seven or so entrants in the Miss Rumble 2000 swimsuit contest. Other participants included Jacqueline, a woman who once had numerous classic matches with Disco Inferno, and emergency medical technician Barbara Bush (B.B. for short), a lass with double-d hearts of gold. When Mae Young undressed, she undressed more than she should have. The crowd groaned with disgust at Young's floppy ones. At home, I ran so fast from the living room that I travelled to Pluto by accident. Let this be lesson to all the eager pre-teen and teenage fellows out there who want nothing more than to see female nudity. Don't wish too hard, friends.
The introductory vignettes for Nathan Jones, billed as 'The Collosus of Boggo Road", were scary--scary freakin' awesome with two cherries on top of a sundae made of gold doubloons. His maddened mindset was conveyed on-screen in perfect fashion. The camera panned around Nathan Jones, shirtless in the outdoor area of a prison like a crazed maniac who was unsure as to where he put his shirt. Right after that, Jones screamed in various places in the prison, such as a bathroom that did not have any toilet paper left. At the time, there was no wrestler on national television scarier than Nathan Jones. Then, he debuted and made holy statues weep clownish tears.
Santa Maria. A roundhouse kick at Wrestlemania 19 was his shining moment. One kick and he was gone. That's it?
I am not afraid of the 1-time World Heavyweight Champion. The Great Khali has hands like frying pans, legs like tree trunks, and a face like a large human being--he's majestic but most of all stationary sight. When Khali stands there being Khali, he is the gentle mouse. Perhaps the mouse has a nightcap on with a fluffy ball at the end of it. If the Great Khali could just stand there in the ring forever, I would donate all of my possessions to the needy in gratitude. Alas, Khali is a mobile wrestler. The Punjab giant puts opponents in his vice grip, brain chops people in the brainal region, and lifts his feet an inch off the mat for big boots. When Khali starts his physical rampage, my heart stops. No, Khali. Don't exert yourself at all. Please listen. You are making the villagers flee with slippers on their feet. That's cruel.
I do not care if Khali fails the fitness test as long as he passes the Stand There And Look Menacing Test. Khali is like that love of your life whom you met online. Their picture paints them beautiful, but they become queen (or king) of Ug Mountain when you meet them in person. I have never tried online dating because online dating is for those who are desperate, which I am not nor will I ever be, what with my alluring symmetry and all. In conclusion, a still Khali is bananas. A moving Khali is half-eaten apples with worms in them.
Brother Ray has a big mouth. Brother Ray has a tank top shirt that he made out of a regular t-shirt. I have no problem with Devon, though Ray is a different story in another book on a brand new shelf in a room that is not mine. As of now, Team 3-D are destroying TNA's X-Division week after week. They wish to make it an Ex-Division (Get it? I said division.) Brother Ray berates the amazing duo of Alex Shelley and Chris Sabin, then slams them through tables. Ray comes out and says derogatory remarks towards the audience and the under-200-pound wrestlers in the ring. In response, they do nothing but take it. Will his reign of destruction ever end? Brother Ray is the fat dragon up on the pointy mountain that must be slayed. I may be the slayer, but I need to get my slaying permit first. I hope to slay the fat one day.
Two can play at the insult game, Bubba. Listen up, your hairstyle is too short for your head. Your arms appear to be bigger than your arm bones. Your mother is promiscuous because she likes more than one brand of instant coffee. You strike fear and bacon into the souls of the innocent. Well, it's freakfast time, muthasucka.
The event was WCW Sin 2001; it was the day of the sun; the Sid was vicious; the opponent was Scott Steiner. Sid Vicious attempted to do what appeared to be a double-axe handle on Big Poppa Pump and failed. Over the television, I heard his leg snap like a million Slim Jims at once. I would not wish such an unfortunate accident on my worst enemy. I would rather share my ice cream cone with my worst enemy than break my leg like Sid. In fact, I would spoon with my worst enemy if it meant that my leg would be spared. From that event forward, I promised myself that my limbs would not suffer a similar fate. Today I wrap my legs in bubble wrap, tin foil, and sofa cushions; I add three leg braces onto each knee.
If The Ruler of the World cannot get through a match without suffering, how great of a chance do I have to endure through this lifetime without harm? I'm out. I want to become a recluse. The moment I leave this abode, I have a feeling that my leg will crumble. I can't let this happen. I have a full brain, not half of a brain. I am not taking the chance.
This past TNA Impact, I fainted at the vision of the ever pertrurbed Mike Tenay. He pouted in reply to the actions of one Jimothy Cornette as he let the travesty that is the Kurt Angle title victory stay official. Tenay, in his tuxiest of tuxes, screamed and yelled like he has never screamed and yelled in the previous few seconds. This was uncharacteristic of a TNA announce team member for they are always golf tournament silent.
Don West will never be able to sell me Angry Mike Tenay. Even if he swims in a pile of Angry Mike Tenays, even if he adds a Ken Griffey Jr. Rookie Card to the deal, I am not sold. I am going to make myself a necklace of Tony Schiavone portraits for protection. Be gone, evil spirit. You doth protest demonry. Show your face again and I will destroy it, Tenay. Let's go to Jeremy Borash in the back. He has an exclusive interview with the silver gun I plan to use to take Angry Mike Tenay down. Oh no. Somebody is fighting Abyss again. Abyss is so bloody that his blood is bleeding bloody blood. We'll return on Spike right after this clip of a lady gyrating to nothing...
I bet Ron Simmons thinks he is all great with wrist tape constantly on his wrists. Ron Simmons probably wears his DAMN shirt to formal and informal gatherings without hesitation. Well, I have news for the former Farooq (Formrooq)--it's Friday the 13th every time he puts on his damn wrestling boots and wrestles the one and only Santino Marella. Is Farooq aware that Santino Marella is a former Intercontinental Champion? Has Farooq read the most recent issue of Santino Weekly where Santino Marella dishes about his solid relationship with Maria? Whether he has or he hasn't, Farooq better not interfere with Santino again. Their battles disappoint the parents of the universe. Let Santino live his Italian life, Farooq. Take solace in the fact that you drank beer and smoked cigars real good in front of that door to nowhere with Bradshaw at your side.
I cannot jumble the letters in DAMN to make a funnier or more efficient word. Therefore, I will just say NAM'D. You got Vietnamed in my new reality show for MTV. Have fun starting up restaurants with delicious foreign cuisine, Farooq.
The used-to-be Billy Gunn's bellbottom pants is reminiscent of the attire of WWE Diva Torrie Wilson. In a recent interview, Kip James admitted that he wears outlandish ring attire to get noticed. I believe that one must embody the gimmick in a physical sense as well as a verbal sense, so I agree with Kipwell. With that said, I do not agree with him that much. I tolerate his man pigtails whenever he sports them like any upstanding North American does, but I draw a double bold line at Torrie Wilson pants. This year, I have decided not to decorate my front door with a cardboard skeleton and cheesecloth ghosts as per the usual. For Halloween 2007, I'm putting up a blown-up image of Kip James in Torrie Wilson garb.
Help me. A picture of Kip James in women's clothing is on my house.
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