In my spare time, I like to build things with the might of my tough, masculine hands. To be more specific, I like to build practical things for professional wrestlers to use in their everyday lives. If the man upstairs in the heavenly attic was a gentle carpenter, this gentleman before you is an aggressive and ruthless carpenter. In a few professional wrestling analytic circles, I am known as “The Carpenter of Carpenters.” My leisure time entrance theme begins with the line, "It's time to be proficient at carpentry. Time to be proficient at carpentry." When I approach my peers, I appear in a casual three-piece suit. Then, I construct a water bottle out of rich spruce to collect water during torrential rainfalls. After I fill up that wooden bottle, the spitting begins. While the man upstairs can construct a charming breakfast nook for Shawn Michaels, I am one to construct an abrasive breakfast nook with a bunch of pointy spikes and deadly traps. This way, Shawn Michaels can eat an English muffin in the comfort of his own home, but if he thinks about putting his elbows on the table, a wall of spikes shall emerge from the breakfast table and attack his good eye. Apparently, religious folk believe in everything except decent table manners.
Two months ago, I chose to provide the world with a state-of-the-art facility for continuous, unfiltered wrestling observation. I wanted this building to let fans analyze the outer and inner workings of the industry without the distraction of jam-packed, rambunctious, arena crowds or biased, weekly television programming. In order to build such a structure, Home Depot instructed me to use a certified, construction contractor for my project. In the end, I made this conservatory by myself with a single nail, a garbage bag of shredded newspaper, and an entire landfill of unwanted Lilian Garcia CDs. With the uplifting power of Latin music from this WWE announcing songstress, The Swerved's Random Observatory was born. Although the project cost me thirty million dollars and three fingers to complete, I am quite content with the results. Finally, fans have a place to watch wrestling the way it was meant to be seen -- through the lens of a massive telescope that is pointed to the sky for some reason.
At the Random Observatory, we take pride in random wrestling observations. On any and every occasion, we do not shy away from calling out World Wrestling Entertainment on their minimal triumphs and maximum mistakes. We do not criticize the good people of this promotion out of spite. In fact, we criticize these World Wrestling Entertainers out of love. If we observe a bland matchup between two emotionless competitors, we will not stay silent. If we observe underdeveloped characters with laughable verbal and or acting skills, we will inform the company. If we receive mercy for forty dollars when the promotion promises that we will receive no such intangible gift, we will be up in arms and other possible body parts. In turn, we will give WWE praise when necessary. In humble fashion, the Random Observatory accepts World Wrestling Entertainment as the number one wrestling company in the universe. However, number one does not always guarantee perfection.
This fall, you might stare up at the stars and see Copernicus, the Sea-Goat, eating a bunch of sea-cans. In the middle of the night, you may gaze out your bedroom window and notice Taurus, the Bull, looking down at Taurus, your Ford automobile. This week, the Random Observatory looks up at World Wrestling Entertainmentus, a constellation in the northern sky that resembles the WWE logo. When one connects the stars, this constellation looks to be an accurate depiction of one W lap dancing on a second W while they ride together on a skateboard without wheels. In other words, this constellation conveys an alternative and extreme bachelor party.
On September 12th, 2008, Primo Colon utilized his magical teleportation machine to transport himself from Monday Night RAW to Friday Night Smackdown. With the assistance of his ill-fitting vest, no particles were lost in this act of teleporting. As a brief aside, Primo's device may or may not be the same machine that brought Matt Striker from the RAW ring to ECW's announce table.
Out of numerous, magical teleportation machines in professional wrestling today, Primo Colon's teleportation machine is one of the best. While Primo's magical teleportation machine is rather dangerous, he can dematerialize and rematerialize like no other member of the Colon family. File that fact in the scattered folds of your scarred forehead, Carlos Colon. I'm not faxing this fact to Puerto anytime soon.
A few days prior to Primo's successful teleportation, Carlito tried to use the machine to leave World Wrestling Entertainment forever. To his dismay, Carlito remained on Friday Night Smackdown, but somehow attained Rey Mysterio's shiny, baggy pants in the process. In response, Carlito was so shocked that he swallowed an apple piece for once. In addition to the machine's transporting capabilities of physical matter, Primo's device works as a part-time seamstress. This time, the machine altered the Mysterio pants to say "Carlito," rather than "619." For professional wrestlers, this slight pant alteration is important. If the wrestler's name or persona is not present on his or her pants, that wrestler may lose his or her sense of self.
At this year's Summerslam, Chris Jericho accidentally punched Shawn Michaels' wife Rebecca in the mouth. Apparently, RBK ("The Rebecca Break Kid") lost her ability to move when she became the love of Michaels' life. A long time ago on many past moons, Rebecca was known as Whisper, one of the energetic members of the WCW Nitro Girls. For those of you young whippersnappers who did not catch World Championship Wrestling in its prime, the WCW Nitro Girls were similar to ECW's Extreme Exposé, except every member of the Nitro Girls could dance without doing nonsensical backflips.
Since every Nitro Girl could move, I expected Rebecca to be somewhat quick on her feet. When Jericho gave her that busted lip, Rebecca proved my assumption wrong. How come you can't move anymore, Whisper? Can't you rhythmically dance out of harm's way? Do you require an up-tempo dance beat before doing so? Do you need to move out of harm's way in unison with five other girls? Should I get Kimberly or AC Jazz on the phone? I will have to consult my rolodex slash Nitro Girl black book first. Because Rebecca has a slow reaction time, I fear for the well-being of future wrestling wives.
From this point forward, I urge wrestlers to refrain from bringing their wives into the ring during intense feuds. If a Nitro Girl can't move, token blonde trophy wife has no chance to save herself.
Despite Kane's efforts to kill Rey Mysterio's spirit, the Biggest Little Man is bigger and littler than ever. In fact, Kane was such a failure in his quest to break the man that he could not prevent Mysterio from getting two symmetrical eagle faces tattooed on his chest. Rey Mysterio does not die, nor will he ever die. He is a cactus with a surplus water supply. He is a cat who has not yet perished. He is a hand-crank radio that does not use batteries. In place of death, I assume Mysterio falls off the screen, then flickers back onto that screen at one-half size.
On RAW, you saw the fight in this thirty-three-year-old man in a children's mask. Because of Kane's actions, Rey had to take time off to rehabilitate his body and regain his strength (at a tattoo parlour). Now that his spirit is alive and well, Rey Mysterio is nobody's victim. You will not see Mysterio in Bitter Taste of Your Violence: The Rey Mysterio Story, a Lifetime Original Movie of the Week co-starring Cybill Shepherd as Kane. As much as you want to see this emotional flick with your feminist aunt on a lazy Sunday afternoon, Mysterio does not want this film to be made.
Last Monday, Rey Mysterio emerged from the entranceway with arms flapping like a bird. On that night, he proved that he was a believer. In particular, Rey Mysterio believes in Angels -- the California Angels circa 1994 in Disney’s Angels in the Outfield. In the film, a prepubescent Tommy Solomon from 3rd Rock from the Sun plays an orphan who prays for the California Angels to win the pennant. With the flapping of Tommy Solomon's arms, a group of angels show up in the outfield to assist the lowly Angels as they cheat their way to divine victory. Even though Mysterio beat up Kane beforehand, Rey prays that angels will come down from above to help him defeat the Big Red Machine for a second time. Since Rey Mysterio believes in angels, you should believe in angels, too. If you believes in angels, I will believe in angels. And if I believe in angels, a pitching Tony Danza will understand that the angels are not in the outfield. At the end of the day, the angels are within him. They were within him all along.
In my opinion, Evan Bourne is a rising star, but does WWE agree with me? After his exciting tag victory with Rey Mysterio, World Wrestling Entertainment will pay close attention to his performances to determine whether or not he is "WWE Superstar" material.
On one hand, Evan Bourne is a tad small for a WWE performer. As a rough estimation, two Evan Bournes can fit in one Batista with significant room left over in the vessel to house an undeserved sense of entitlement. On the other hand, Bourne is an innovative high flier who has injected new life in Extreme Championship Wrestling. In the past, I watched ECW on Sci-Fi at the highest possible volume out of habit. For a long while, they were the official soundtrack to my Kegel exercises (until I found myself a Kegelmaster 2000 and a copy of WWE - The Music: Volume 4). On the third hand, Bourne does not fit the mold of past WWE greats. In ECW, Bourne is at a grave disadvantage for he is not a lumbering big man with negative charisma, nor is he an overly tanned women with poor coordination. On the fourth hand, Evan Bourne's in-ring act is clean, crisp, and fresh. On the fifth hand, I have too many hands. Where do I get these hands? I cannot reveal my sources.
Whether WWE admires Evan Bourne or not, he is the reason why you should tune into Extreme Championship Wrestling. I don't care what you do in order to view this program. Without question, just do whatever it takes to watch. Punch a police officer with his own fist. Ride an urban prostitute on a winding road in the countryside. Knife fight with a tired baby in the confines of your local Thunderdome. Before you go to jail for these nefarious activities, bare witness to Evan Bourne's glorious Shooting Star Press. I'm not positive that his Shooting Star Press can cure world diseases, but I think it did solve the oil crisis a bit when I was not looking. Truly, Bourne's Shooting Star Press is beneficial for our lives. For couples who continue to struggle to have children, try the Shooting Star Press on each other and see whose shooting star presses where. For elementary school children with disabilities in reading comprehension, visit the Sylvan Learning Centre and Shooting Star Press a book until it reads and comprehends itself. For faithless individuals who seek a glimmer of hope, have a friend or loved one curl himself or herself into a ball. When he or she shoots across the sky, you can wish upon him or her.
Like Cody Rhodes, Ted DiBiase, and Randy Orton, three men who only wear shirts with fancy, Olde English fonts, Manu is a second-generation WWE Superstar. In today's industry, second generation wrestlers are all the rage. Every company craves second generation talent on their roster. Second-generation talent are number one on every wrestling promoters' Christmas wish lists. As a promotion, you are not cool until you have a piece of that second-generation pie. Next to the tiny dog in the gigantic purse, second-generation wrestlers are the ultimate fashion statement. In the year 2008, second-generation superstars are the Pogs of WWE.
As the son of Afa, one-half of the legendary Wild Samoans, Manu is ready for his time in the spotlight. Even though Manu has the talent to succeed in the business, wrestling ability alone cannot break the glass ceiling. Thankfully, Manu understood that he needed an eye-catching, marketable look to compliment his natural skills. Therefore, Manu underwent an Extreme Makeover: Umaga Edition. For this Extreme Makeover, Manu received black, knee-high tights, Samoan tribal ink, shoeless feet that look like black wrestling boots, and a new recreation room with its own private theatre.
I am a well-known fan of Samoans who double as bulldozers, but even I think World Wrestling Entertainment should not have two superstars whose appearances suggest a tendency for Samoan bulldozing. According to my eyes, Manu is not Umaga. If I close my eyes for a year, Manu is still not Umaga. Manu is a Samoan Julia Roberts before he is Umaga. Do Vince McMahon and WWE think they can dress Manu in Umagan ring gear and pass him off as Umaga while the true bulldozer is on the injury shelf? Unlike most wrestling fans, I cannot be fooled. Go ahead and play the Umaga Shell Game with me. Put Umaga inside one of the shells, mix Umaga with two fake Umagas under two other shells, then ask me to pick out the real Umaga. One thousand times out of nine hundred and ninety-nine times, I will choose the right shell. Your contrived carnival games amuse me. Of course, the real Umaga is the one with the "Samoa" tattoo on his stomach. Manu is the one who does not need permanent abdominal text to inform other people of his ethnicity. He prefers to use the newfangled concept of telling others that he is Samoan:
Manu :"Hey, everyone. I'm Samoan. Feel my head. Grope the bumps on my skull. Don't be a stranger. My head is not soft."
Everyone: "You are correct in your claim, mocha-skinned sir. Can I finish sleeping with my wife now?"
No comments:
Post a Comment