Hello, Saint Nicholas;
I know that you like lists of the naughty and nice. I know that you have made your own list and are about to check it twice. What I suggest to you is to check it a third time. Last year, you gave me a present that was not to my liking. You gave me half of a baskeball and half of a piece of coal. I do not tolerate your mixed signals, Santa. This year, I believe I have been a good samaritan. I steal from the rich and wave my stolen riches in the faces of the poor; I help old ladies cross imaginary bridges that overlook cliffs; when that girl undressed before me, I only snapped a cell phone photograph of one of her mammaries. As long as you promise to give me better presents, such as the ones featured in my wishlist below, I promise to leave a plate of cookies and a glass of milk for you and the gaggle of foreign orphans who pull your sleigh through the night air when your reindeer get sick. With that said, if I catch you locking lips with my mother, I will kill you with cookies and milk. I refuse to reveal how I will use cookies and milk as a weapon, but be aware that I am fully capable of doing so. I'm not talking about ingestion either. I'm talking about straight-up gutting you like a holiday fish, Tubs. Merry Christmas to you and yours at the North Pole. Much salutations to the elves who cobble up ponies and Playstation 3s.
All the best,
The Swerved with Stephen Rivera's Stephen Rivera
Do you remember the good old days? I do. I recall a time when life was a whole lot simpler and fun. I remember the days of Matt and Jeff Hardy as an up-and-coming tag team. When they first debuted in the World Wrestling Federation, they were plaid-wearing, winless, and boring. With the help of many ladders, the Hardy Boyz became death-defying lords. While the Hardyz are not a full-time duo anymore, I wish to own a memento from their illustrious history. Do you recall the time when the Hardyz had a ladder match in a concentrated snowstorm? Who doesn't? From the top of the ladder, Matt Hardy executed the Side Effect on Christian into a snowball fort. Meanwhile, Jeff Hardy countered Edge's DDT attempt, shoved him onto the snow, then came off the top with a Whisper in the Wind (misnamed by Jim Ross as the Twist of Fate for only the 5,167th time that week). Sure, the Hardyz did not come out of this match victorious, but I wish to feel victorious with this snow globe. Won't you let me know the taste of victory? I have been a good Hardy Boy this year, Mister Claus. I sport rainbow hair. I wish life-threatening accidents unto those who plow my lady friend. I live life to the Xtreme, angering both English teachers and professional editors with the spelling of Xtreme.
I beg of you: please make my Christmas bright with crude depictions of Matthew and Jeffrey trapped in a plastic sphere. It could've happened at Wrestlemania 2000. Why can't I have that almost-momemt in snowglobe form?
Everybody three counts, except me. This Tank Abbott figure will allow me to count to three in a manner that has never been done before. For those not in the know, Jakks Pacific's Classic Superstars line features toy versions of your favourite superstars from the 70s, 80s, and 90s. This classic collection is not be confused with a legends series as the whole population is well aware that Tank Abbott is not a professional wrestling legend. On the other hand, perhaps Tank is beyond the label of legend. In my heartiest of hearts, Tank Abbott is a "superlegend." I put him right up there with the Artist Formerly Known as Prince Iaukea and General Rection.
The Tank Abbott figure comes with a steel chair, or a barbell, depending on where you look. Tank Abbott can use the chair to attack his plastic opponents. If I had to guess, Thank can use his barbell to strengthen his beard. One day, I hope that they release another version of Tank with an Evan Karagias figure as the accessory. Forget Shane Helms and Shannon Moore. Tank and Evan Karagias will sell for the remainder of time. If Jakks adds in a pair of bright green, circular dance mats, I plan to purchase one-hundred sets. I will be three-counting all damn day.
"We're Here But We're Not All There." The unofficial Hooliganz, also known as Paul London and Brian Kendrick, champion dementia and everything is right in the world. London and Kendrick are a couple of high-flying jokers, but this shirt is no joke. All in all, the shirt commands instant respect. Wearing this t-shirt out on the street is equivalent to wearing three tuxedos and one tweed suit at once. If you ask me, I would never take this shirt off. I want to be married and buried in this shirt. Threads as hip as these deserve to be on my golden person forever.
To my dismay, some fans refuse to wear wrestling t-shirts in public in fear of compromising their credibility. Why? What is so terrible about professional-wrestling-related apparel? For example, Carlito's "Spit or Swallow" shirt is classy plus one. Wearing Carlito's shirt is equivalent to wearing three tuxedos at once. Of course, London and Kendrick's shirt is classier, yet that fact does not take anything away from Carlito's superb merchandise. Chicks dig gangly, stringy-haired wrestling fans in wrestling t-shirts. It does not matter whether you agree or disagree with me; I read it in a pop-up book once. There is no way a pop-up book would lie. It can only pop up.
I want this yamulke more than life itself. Without this yamulke on the crown of my head, I have no life. Bless ye of Jewish and McMahonistic faith. Let Linda McMahon light the phantom tenth candle on my menorah. Let Stephanie lend her beautiful voice for a rousing rendition of the Dradle Song. At the same time, let Shane McMahon spin around the living room like a dradle. If Vince McMahon is a closet Rabbi, I believe that he is an excellent closet Rabbi. There's no pork, no pork in house. Sadly, Triple H is not nor will never be Jewish. Triple H follows his own religion--The Church of Latter Day Helmsleys. Basically, he prays on his D-Generation X tank from the late 1990s and wets his hair a lot. I fail to comprehend what Triple H believes in, but I will take his word for it. He's definitely praying for someone or something. Quite possibly, Triple H thanks himself each day for gaining immunity from the Chyna Syndrome.
With the WWE logo yamulke, I will finally get respect. "Oh, you are Jewish and a professional wrestling fan. At first glance, I thought you were subhuman. Today, you are great." Even though I am not yet Jewish, I hope to convert soon enough. Next week, I will receive my Jewish learner's permit. Until then, I will have to bring a Jewish confidant everywhere I go.
Batista unleashes himself into the literary world with his autobiography, ghostwritten by neither ghosts nor writers. If the publishing company knew that Batista was about to unleash himself, why didn't they release his story in paperback form? In my opinion, paperback has a lot more give.
In this tell-all, rags-to-riches tale, Batista (real name Sir David Bautista of Evolutionville) regales his fans with stories that range from his rough upbringing in the meanest streets of Washington, D.C. to his rise to the top of World Wrestling Entertainment. On the topic of his life, Batista Bombs our minds with details of the numerous problems he had to face along the way:
"Women were my drug of choice," the Animal confesses.
Batista describes one experience in which he went to the doctor to treat his flu and was given a three-way in return. He talks about his jobs as a bouncer and a lifeguard, which also led to three-ways. Sometimes, when Batista eats breakfast, he ends up having a three-way without even knowing it. Further, Batista dishes about the injury he suffered at the hands of Mark Henry and a three-way--two events which forced him to cut short his second of fifty World Heavyweight Championship reigns. This grandfather has lead a tough life. Brother can't get a four-way. Shoot.
At the 2005 Royal Rumble, Christain asked Tyson Tomko to provide him a funky backgrouind beat for a rap against then-WWE Champion John Cena. "No," said Tomko. Now that Tomko is in TNA, I say, "Yes"-- a million times yes to his t-shirt. Tribal tattoos represent so many things. Most of all, they represent cool things. Tomko sports his ink with great dignity and grace. While I am not Tomko, I do want to wear his shirt. What's good for AJ Styles is good for me. The duo of Tomko and Styles entertains me muchly. Tomko plays the serious enforcer role quite well; Styles is outstanding as the cocky underdog. When you top amazing with a condiment spread of amazing, that's quite amazing.
You should all buy this shirt for Tomko is a good man. He boots people in the face with accuracy. His goat beard is second to few. If there exists a reason to hate this individual, feel free to relay that information back to me. In the bland jungle of TNA, Tomko emerges as king. AJ Styles is his queen by title only. They don't like each other that way. They sleep in bunk beds. Racing car bunk beds with headlight cup holders.
Jeremy Borash pleads his case for a modelling job in a future Abercrombie & Fitch catalogue. Why must Jeremy steal the hearts of every woman on Earth? I do not hate the game; I hate the player. The reason why I wish to attain this sweatshirt is to also attain help from the man who comes dons it. Please tell me your surefire ways of seduction, Mr. Borash. I want to be a manly man. Although WWE's Todd Grisham gives me wonderful tips on the art of flirting with naked ladies, he does not know how to love. He may be happy, but his joy is fleeting.
I want to experience the total nonstop action of love's permanent embrace. In the moonlight, under these shooting stars, I long for the fairytale ending. Jeremiah was a bullfrog. Can this bullfrog teach me how to ribbit, or will simply sit on his stupid lilly pad with his frosty haircut and bug eyes and do nothing?
This is darling. *clap clap clap-clap-clap* This is darling. *clap clap clap-clap-clap* While I have no children myself, I want this bib just in case I spawn beautiful supermodels from my mystic loins. I will not send my hypothetical daughter(s) to college. They will go right to TNA Knockout School. I cannot tell the difference between a TNA Knockout and a WWE Diva, but knock has two Ks, which is a truth that is good enough for me. I hope I end up raising a Christy Hemme or a Gail Kim rather than an Awesome Kong. What do you feed an Awesome Kong anyway? Do you feel it people? I don't think I can do that. As a Plan B, maybe I could raise a So Cal Val to become an upstanding citizen who allows a few cameras to film between her legs now and again.
I'm going to save up a trust fund for my unnamed future knockout(s). Today, I put a penny in my piggy bank. Tomorrow, perhaps I place a dollar. Thirty years from now, they will have one dollar and one cent to spend on whatever they need. On television, you will see Stevette and Steveline prance around the six-sided ring wearing very little clothing. This vision is a sight that every loving father waits all his life to see. Live long and make the greasy fans uncomfortable in their chairs, girls.
Q: In actuality, did you know that all I want for Christmas is my two front teeth?
A: Sure, but I already gave you two Chiclets for your birthday.
1 comment:
u talk out ur arse
u think u know everything and you dont
just becuase u believe ur opions are right doesnt mean we all do, u have had a go at some of the best wrestlers and best wrestling matches and moves
get a life
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