During the Attitude Era, D-Generation X changed the wrestling business forever. While World Championship Wrestling had the infamous New World Order, the World Wrestling Federation responded with the brash, arrogant duo of Shawn Michaels and Triple H. Together, they said dirty things on a microphone, violated wrestling rings with enthusiastic, horizontal thrusting, attempted to convince the audience that Chyna was attractive, and bounced off ropes a whole lot. In addition, the late Rick Rude liked to stand next to or beside them. Whenever I recall D-Generation X, I think of everlasting greatness. Every night, I thank the wrestling gods above for providing the world with all fifty incarnations of DX. You guys are the first and best wrestling stable ever to feature the timeless X-Pac. Truly, you are the kings of rock who, the kings of rock what.
In 2008, D-Generation X are back now and again and better than ever sometimes. Whenever their schedules are flexible for another reunion, Shawn Michaels and Triple H prove their doubters wrong, turning the industry upside down with revolutionary and hilarious antics, like they did long ago. Break the fourth wall, you say? How about breaking the non-existent fifth and six walls? How about collapsing the ceiling? Twice or thrice per year, Hunter urges millions of wrestling fans across the infinite WWE Universe to muster up enough courage and energy to both suck objects and urge other people to suck objects. Meanwhile, Shawn does what any upstanding degenerate loves to do: make insider jokes and coax the fans to act lewd and obnoxious for him. Once every four and a half months, these crafty veterans bring the goods, then sell those goods for nostalgic purposes to wrestling fans with poor taste. If you think are a big man, you are but a little man in the company of Hunter and Shawn.
This week, we return to the month of July in the year 2006 when D-Generation X made their first of many returns. Even though Rick Rude, Chyna, X-Pac, Road Dogg, Billy Gunn, Tori, and Stephanie McMahon could not return with them, they felt like D-Generation X (minus the rest of DX). In the upcoming years, how will Hunter and Shawn keep the spirit of the group alive? I don't know. I am not Triple H or Shawn Michaels. Despite the fact that I cannot will myself to assume the identities of either Triple H or Shawn Michaels, I can pretend to belong in their legendary group. Therefore, consider me the third member of the new, new, new, new, old DX. If you struggle to envision me in the stable, imagine that I am the cartoon rooster on the “Vince Loves Roosters” t-shirt, or the stripper in their Titantron video. Then again, I have a better body than the D-Generation X stripper, or so I am told by nobody in particular.
Without further delay, let The Swerved drive a small tank into yesteryear, invading wrestling's past for the sake of present entertainment. I shall not leave the memories alone. In the middle of the night, I shall dig the memories from their grave and attempt to revive them with a defibrillator machine. In lieu of a defibrillator machine, I will dress up these memories in a suit, tie, and sunglasses, secure them in the passenger seat of my motor vehicle, and use them to gain access to carpool lanes. If you have a problem with my plans, shoot. I don't care. You don't know my life.
D-Generation X is back. In a day and age in which lost young men have zero heroes to whom to turn, Triple H and Shawn Michaels have arrived on the scene in their neon green and black glory. Now, who knows anti-authority better than the son-in-law of the chairman of WWE and a born-again Christian? The answer is not a single person ever in the universe.
(I often wonder about the relationship between Triple H and Vince McMahon, his father-in-law. While I bet they are cordial with one another, how close are they? On Sunday afternoons, do they ride a tandem bike through a European-style villa in Connecticut? Whenever Stephanie is out of town, does Hunter and Vince build birdhouses together? Due to his abundance of sledgehammers, I assume that Hunter is a skilled carpenter. A pastry chef is not going to have that many sledgehammers. A part-time florist has no use for hammers of the sledge variety either.)
To me, Hunter and Shawn represent success. When I go to job interviews in my green and black sequined robe, I dress to impress. All of the other potential hirees fixate their eyes on me. The men in the room are wishing they were just as awesome; the women are ready to have my illegitimate babies. With the previous teachings of D-Generation X from the late 90s in my mind and the current stylings of the modern day duo at my disposal, I walk into the boss' office with bucket loads of confidence. He offers his hand for a handshake, and I slyly accept. The interview goes quite well until he starts to disrespect the superstar before him.
"So, what do you think you can bring to this company?"
I sit there and ponder for a moment, looking very concerned. Suddenly, I jump up from my chair, let my robe drop to the floor, and kick him square in the nether regions.
(For aspiring teenagers who wish to become contributing members to society, I do not recommend this tactic for every interview. Before you schedule your interview, ask your interviewer about his or her feelings about occasional disrobing and kicks to the nether regions in the workplace. If the interviewer responds against the two actions, cancel the interview. You do not want to work for a company that disproves of surprise nudity and intense, inguinal discomfort. If the interviewer says that they enjoy one of the two actions, yet do not specify which they prefer, wear clothes underneath your robe and cover the tips of your shoes in bubble wrap for precautionary purposes. You do not want to display your hidden parts to an uncooperative spectator, nor do you want to hurt a potential boss in a sensitive area that he or she desires to protect. Finally, if the interviewer conveys his or her love for the two actions, where is this interview anyway? Are you positive that this is a legitimate business, such as a Korean massage parlour in the basement of a pawn shop slash gun store, or is this a seedy place, like WWF New York? Remember to find out about the work environment before you attempt to gain employment.)
"You think you can tell me what to do? Do you know who you're talking to?" I say this statement with so much gusto that the price of gusto at gusto stations go up two full dollars.
(Today, the price of gusto at local gusto stations is rather expensive. In these desperate times, I siphon gusto from a neighbour using a broken garden hose and my mouth. I know that I am stealing, but the gusto companies are stealing as well, providing necessary gusto to the public at ridiculous prices. Next time, I should find out how to run my statements on a mixture of peat moss and cod liver oil, also known as nature's dessert tray.)
As he scoots along the floor in immense pain, I pull down his pants and spray paint his buttocks with nW... DX. In the end, I not only get the job, but I become the new boss, too.
(I'm not saying that the New World Order invented the act of spray painting people and buildings in wrestling, but the New World Order invented the act of spray painting people and buildings in wrestling. In my opinion, D-Generation X was about eight years too late in their spray painting endeavours. If future incarnations of D-Generation X wish to vandalize in a hip way, might I suggest that they defame their surroundings in the style of the New Blood -- Vince Russo's most influential, wrestling creation? Falling corn syrup that misses its target and drenches the first five rows of the audience instead is quite insulting. For one, I am insulted whenever I remember these incidents.)
Life does not get any cooler than that, so let me give you some tips on how to be just as edgy as Hunter, Shawn, and I. Are you ready? Bow to the masters. Break that stuff over there down that is breakable and needs to be broken, which will be achieved by breaking the break thing.
Embrace being Amish, but a cool type of Amish.
Triple H says he doesn't use computers, and I completely respect him for that. He's above technology and that makes him better than the world. To use a computer in the year 2006 is a lot like filling your geeky pocket protector with objects such as pens made from the blood of obsolete geeks. People who are cool do not use pens; they crotch chop in Morse code.
(The first time that I saw Hunter and Shawn execute a crotch chop, I thought they were crossing their arms to create a makeshift tent for their crotches. If Triple H and Shawn Michaels are that concerned about exposing their crotches to light and heavy downpours, perhaps they should think about purchasing some crotch umbrellas. In the Northwest, a day is not one without rain. In order to protect my own crotch, I place a visor, a hood, and an umbrella over my crotch. On top of those three coverings, I construct an awning made of extendable tent poles and a large, water-resistant tarp. My crotch is one of the driest crotches in Swerved Nation. Go ahead and ask a few strangers walking on the street. They will support my claim.)
Just so you are aware, here are things you need to not use in order to be considered "cool":
1) The Wheel
2) Electricity
3) The Steam-Powered Telephone
4) Soap
5) The Bathroom
(Do not even think about touching that steam-powered telephone of yours. For every steam-powered telephone that I find in your place of residence, I shall punch an innocent child in the face with the broad side of my steaming iron. You want to be considered cool, don't you? Although we live in a different time, steam-powered telephones continue to be lame. Like any super cool professional wrestling analyst, I make calls by yelling in the direction of the person with whom I wish to talk. As you arrive home in your car with hexagonal tires, and wash yourself in candlelight using bacon fat over the sink, I hope you realize how cool I am in comparison to everyone else.)
When in Rome, do what the Romans do -- cover dudes in goo.
Speaking of the bathroom, DX has learned that falling, messy substances are funny. Not only have they dispensed copious amounts of green paint/slime on the Spirit Squad with slip and sliding action, they have also hilariously struck them and Vince and Shane McMahon with human waste, which I have dubbed DXcrement. Say, if descending manure is humourous, I must be made up of 80% descending manure and 20% water.
(Oh, I understand you, Shawn and Hunter. D-Generation X are good enough for cascading excrement, but falling blood is beneath you. What is your deal, gentlemen who are not so gentle? You managed to kill five, promising careers with your Number Two Showers. Mitch is gone, selling clothes with Torrie Wilson. Mikey is in a ditch somewhere, fighting pigeons for food scraps. Johnny is not of this earth anymore. Nicky is Dolph Ziggler; he is might as well move to another planet. Last of all, Kenny is out of a job. I blame the Spirit Squad's demise on both of you. You cannot wash your hands of these sins. You covered Kenny's headband in poop. Do not think that you can get away with this atrocity. For the sake of charisma-generating headbands everywhere, you are on my list of people whom I will never forgive, above Santa Claus and below Nick Hogan.)
I'm sure there are more solids and liquids to come, no doubt. Let me tell you what they may unleash upon their victims next:
1) Clamato
2) Bird Flu
3) Crunk Juice
4) Triple H Bottled Water Spit
5) Star Jones
(Triple H's bottled water spit gives him superpowers, such as the ability the dislike the taste of water. Of course, water has no taste, but we are human. Meanwhile, Triple H is a superhuman hater of liquids that are two parts hydrogen and one part oxygen. "I do not like water and I am excited and angry about the fact," he says and thinks to himself. If I give him a Shasta or a Sierra Mist, will he finally take a drink? A boy can dream a hopeful dream.)
Be like Shawn Michaels who is so cool, he needs to leave the room every time something cool happens.
Because Shawn Michaels' is super religious and loves Christ-y Hemme (WWE Diva Up in the Sky), he is not the same man that he once was when DX first formed. He can't really do anything that daring, but if you ask him politely, he'll probably call you a "stupidhead." With that said, he is a rebel of rebels and I salute him. Here's to you, HBK and your plethora of chaps.
Do you want to be like Shawn? Here are the guidelines for Heartbreak Kidality...
To be like Shawn Michaels, you must:
- Bare witness to scantily clad, muscly, male strangers
- Allow others to say, "Suck it!" on your behalf
- Have a barbeque of wieners
- Crotch chop your stomach
- Wear women's tanktops
(I have no idea why Shawn Michaels likes to chop his stomach rather than his crotch. He must be more concerned than Triple H about the safety of his crotch. He must believe that building a taller crotch shelter will keep him drier. Look, Shawn Michaels; you already wear a stylish, straw cowboy hat to protect what lies beneath it. Apparently, you are the sole owner of that cowboy hat because it has your name. Therefore, go ahead and build yourself a cathedral to the heavens to keep your crotch from the rain, but your crotch can't escape wetness forever. Take a hint from the immortal Rob Van Dam, who wrestled every match with a damp pelvic area. He never complained.)
To be like Shawn Michaels, you must not:
- Bare witness to scantily clad, attractive, female strangers
- Say, "Suck it!"
- Have a taco party
- Crotch chop your crotch
- Wear men's tank tops
(I know women's tank tops are stylish and trendy, but can Shawn Michaels, Batista, Shad Gaspard, and the rest of the WWE roster learn to wear clothes that are appropriate for their gender? Also, can Batista find a dress shirt to wear underneath his suit jacket? While he may be dressed to eat at a fancy soup kitchen and work in a coal mine at the same time, he should make a choice. He can't have his cake and eat it in a women's tank top, too.)
Purchase a surplus of floozies for sexually suggestive hijinks.
Whatever you do, you must, under all circumstances, be able to successfully portray yourself receiving mouth whoopie with jeans on in plain view of the camera. It takes a particular man to pull this off convincingly; only a perfect being is capable of such an act. An individual such as the mystery man who impregnated Stephanie McMahon might be triumphant. Oddly enough, I believe Triple H knows this guy. Now, don't tell anybody, but judging from his clues, I think it might be Mr. Plum in the library with a wrench.
(Former WWE Women's Champion Candice Michelle has a come along from her days of pretending to pleasure Triple H underneath a table that is unable to conceal what is actually happening. Back then, Candice was pretty classy. An outdoor barbeque is the ideal, private place to feign sexual interest in Hunter Hearst Helmsley. What is the second ideal, private place? I want to say a children's aquarium or a two-tier jungle gym, but I am afraid that I will be wrong.)
In the future, if Stephanie would just visit the Maury Povich show, we would have this business sorted out. "In the case of nine-month-old Slegdehammeria, Mr. Plum, you are the father."
Stephanie: "I dun told you! I dun told you! You my baby daddy! Look at her nose! It just like yo nose!"
(In my mind, Stephanie McMahon speaks like a stereotypical, borderline offensive, African-American, teenage, urban youth. On the other hand, I think several individuals speak in this manner. For example, William Regal is one sassy girl. After all, he was born naughty, which means that he has always been a street-talking whore.)
Profit.
If you follow these steps, prepare to be rolling in the dough. Dough is a money term. It is also a bread term, but not in this instance. My apologies.
(When dough becomes a money term and a bread term, I will finally be happy. Years of hard work and dedication to my craft will be worth the news alone.)
Alas, if you don't become filthy rich, I've got two words for you -- that's unfortunate.
Q: Did you know that 10 years ago, Hulk Hogan, Triple Hall, and Kevin Michaels formed the New Generation-X (nGx) at WCW's Bash at the American Bash when Hogan bodyslammed Andre the Giant?
A: Hey, you can write "BOOB OIL" on a calculator. Nice.
(When "boob oil" becomes a boob term and a oil term, the boob and oil industries will finally be happy. Stocks in breast petroleum will skyrocket. Capitalize, Jillian Hall, capitalize. Sing your soothing song.)
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