NEXT WEEK
I squash five other blogs. I may also tell a joke which pertains to the male testes in an obvious manner.
AND
Shut Up Juice is actually Shut Up Drink. The company that makes it uses artificial shut ups. Yeah, that makes me sad too.
Monday, September 24, 2007
Appropriate Wrestling in Inappropriate Places
NEXT WEEK
I squash five other blogs. I may also tell a joke which pertains to the male testes in an obvious manner.
AND
Shut Up Juice is actually Shut Up Drink. The company that makes it uses artificial shut ups. Yeah, that makes me sad too.
1
You cannot see me at this moment but I am wearing a handsome tuxedo. For your information, I'm the sixth finest butler to ever author a professional wrestling blog. As you may recall, this is no ordinary butler's professional wrestling blog.
Welcome to the one-year anniversary of The Swerved with Stephen Rivera. This week, I celebrate the life and times of this little site on this here internet in the company of my friends and loved ones. Ever since I was a little girl in a flowery sundress, I longed for a place on the information tremendous turnpike to call my very own. It was in the month of September of the year 2006 that I started up The Swerved. When I began to follow my dream, I did not know how the venture would go; I was not sure how the public would receive my full-on personality. Now that I sit here with a year of golden stupidity under my comedy belt, I can look back at the work that I have done with pride and satisfaction. One day, I will reminisce in my bungalo for one with the knowledge that I have made a difference in this world which turns and turns. Today, I look to the future in hopes to dish out more potential greatness to the mass audience. I'll be pouring on the funny sauce until your hilarity cup says, "When." References to laughs are neat.
To those of you who have followed my work from the start, you are in my heart for all time. For those of you that have just joined me on this uphill journey to Glory Mountain, I hope you do not fall off this wondrous wagon, this e-Sherpa of wrestling delight. Finally, to those of you who despise The Swerved and or its creator, I have this to say--oh no you did not with finger snaps of a sassy nature in the general vicinity of your facial structure. Somebody hold my weave. Somebody hold my weave up. You want to tango, Bunter Bitch Belmsley? I've got the monkey claw pose going now, fool. Cufflinks. I've got the cufflinks off too.
Stephen Rivera... to many people, that name can mean so many things.
Awesome student. Stellar son. Big brother. Great neighbor. Sweet boyfriend. Best damn babysitter on the block.
But to me, and to those of us at The Armpit (which is about to re-launch imminently; cheap plug), the name Stephen Rivera brings to mind images of heartburn, gas, and the Heimlich Maneuver.
That's not because Stephen is spicy (though women have told me he is), but because he is high in fiber.
It's because he's friggin' hilarious, and we've busted many a gut and choked on many a popcorn kernel by reading his weekly doses of comic genius. But he is high in fiber, too. The insoluble kind.
I call myself many things (loser, dork, dumbf***, pipsqueak, unlucky S.O.B), but one thing I call myself every Monday morning is lucky. Why? Because I have a great wife and she initiated all verbal contact, physical contact, and wedding plans while I stood there quivering my lip. That, and also because I get to work with Stephen Rivera.
You see, Rivera is a rare breed. He's half poodle and half St. Bernard. But he's also funny without trying to be funny, and that is a trait as rare as a natural physique in the WWE locker room circa 2006.
What drew Stephen and I together? Our eyes met across a crowded room, if by room you mean thousands of miles of mountainous region, and by eyes you mean cable modems. He slipped me his business card, if by business card you mean an email containing his first article. And I hired him on the spot for a huge salary, if by hiring you mean copying and pasting, and by huge salary you mean working for free.
We got lots of guest articles back in the day, and I was too nice to tell anyone they sucked. We posted some real clunkers, and people let us know about it. But with Stephen, the difference was obvious. He had real talent, real humor, and real breasts. No one complained about Stephen's articles; they wrote in with gushing praise. This was unheard of for anyone except two people: Stephen Rivera and Jimbo.
But this column isn't about Jimbo. Or is it? Oh, it is? Shoot, ok never mind everything I just said. Replace the word "Stephen" with "Jimbo." But what about the word "Rivera?" That would confuse people into thinking I'm writing about Jimbo Rivera. There is no such person. And if there is, I would alert the authorities because he would have dual citizenship.
Stephen is the most awesome comic mind I've ever seen who wasn't selling out stadiums with their HBO specials. And I've seen a lot of minds, especially in my Biology lab. And Rivera may have even done an HBO special, but if he has, he hasn't told me. Have you, Stephen?
Stephen's creativity is unmatched, and if someone were to match it, he'd beat their price.
Stephen's graphics are top notch, and that's a notch on a bedpost with hundreds of notches below it.
Stephen's blogs are diamonds in the rough, and diamonds are forever, and so is Ric Flair.
It would be an honor if Stephen Rivera were to work with me, or by himself, or for a major motion picture. As good as he is, he represents a lot of shame. Shame for anyone with a Human Resources budget who doesn't hire this man immediately and make him a star.
If I worked for Conan O'Brien, I'd hire Stephen and fire all the other writers. If I worked for Jay Leno, I'd hire Stephen and make the other writers prepare his lunch. If I worked for David Letterman, I'd hire Stephen as the host and make David the band leader. If I worked for Howard Stern, I'd toss Rivera's resumé in the trash and soak in all the glory myself.
That's how highly I think of Stephen Rivera, and I never get high. Congratulations to Mr. Rivera for his blogs of glory, and thank you so much for writing me the most awesome material in the past, present, and future.
Stephen Rivera rules the world, and that's one Sid Vicious reference you can take to the bank. I'm proud to call him my friend, and even more proud to call him collect. He's that damn good, and HHH, you aren't man enough to even dust his mousepad.
I'm Swerved, you're Swerved, we're all Swerved. Here's to another year of Swervin' it up.
First and foremost, I would like to congratulate my good friend Rivera on the first year anniversary of The Swerved. Do you know what the traditional gift for one-year anniversaries is? That’s right, satire. And here’s to a wondrous future of much more of it, and hopefully, us getting paid some day.
I prefer to liken Mr. Rivera with his hero, Conan O’Brien. They’re both funny as heck, and they’re able to pull off abstract humor with bravado, gusto, and a whole lot of other-os, which is particularly hard to do in the world of interneting.
Where do I see The Swerved, and thusly, Mr. Rivera, a year from now? Well, on top of course. I’m not quite sure which object they will be atop of, but I’m sure that it will provide a pretty sweet view.
Finally, to mark this momentous occasion, I decided to construct a haiku poem in Rivera’s honor. It goes a little something like this:
Blogspot king of comedy,
Out of syllables."
Good luck with everything
J. (JIMBO) Swift
Thank you for providing The Swerved with sports, entertainment, and sports-like entertainmentesque source material on a weekly basis:
World Wrestling Entertainment
Total Nonstop Action
Thank you for your friendship, support, and free cheese:
Archibald "The Wrestling Professor " Gutierrez
James "Jimbo" Swift
Thank you for being a friend:
The Golden Girls a.k.a. The Four Horsewomen
Thank you for joining in on the insanity:
Alex Reimer
Justin Shapiro
Thank you for featuring me on your site that one time at the end of that one thing with other things over there:
Big Dave Meltzer
Thank you for the acids:
Jemaine Clement
Bret McKenzie
Thank you for being my audience:
The Swerved Nation
The Followers of The Pit
Thank you for being foxy and relevant to this blog:
Rachelle Leah
Mickie James' Psycho Persona
Thank you for being foxy and irrelevant to this blog:
Jade Raymond
January Jones
Thank you for being so awesome:
Me
Thank you for your thank yous:
Everyone
Thank you:
Come Again
Monday, September 17, 2007
The Swerved Presents: Dream Match the 26th
Mike & Ben Seaver vs. Cade & Murdoch (c)
Show me that show again (Ooh, show me that show)
I think they were partners for a little while
Boner might've managed them
The Rednecks' reign is gonna end
Ooh
As long as they help each other
They'll be sportin' tag gold right around their waists
People, you and me
We will truly be
The most entertained viewers who never stopped viewin'
As long as we pay the forty
We'll see them use Carol as a foreign object
On Sunday or replayed
On the couch we'll stay
We get to watch them
Make their Pay-Per-View debut (Make their Pay-Per-View debut)
The Question:
Who wins and how?
*****
NEXT WEEK
The Swerved celebrates its one-year anniversary. Bring the whole family. I have one hot dog and a half-full can of Pepsi. It's first come, first swerved.
AND
To begin year the second, I am getting a check-up. What? You have to put your what where? That's where I keep my safe deposit box, doctor.
A to Z Criticisms
Due to laws I cannot comprehend, wrestling analysts are given free range to say whatever they please without retribution. They can claim the moon landing never happened and be thought of as geniuses. They can try to prove that evolution does not exist through an intricate play involving shadow puppets and the world will believe them. I did not know until recently that I am a wrestling analyst myself. Yesterday, an old, strange, and crotchety man came up to me in the street and said, "You're a wrestling analyst. Now give me a dollar." In the end, I gave him that dollar, or did I express my opinion so well that he thought I gave him that dollar? Who knows? Even I do not know. That's how good I am at convincing people.
Wrestling analysts criticize until the cows do something involving transportation and their home. To fit into the mold of the professional wrestling critic, let me put on my critiquing hat, galloshes, weight belt, and cummerbund. There are many problems with World Wrestling Entertainment; twenty-six to be exact. I will express them to you thusly:
Ashley Massaro will appear on the next installment of Survivo(u)r on CBS. According to Ashley, there will be no running water for the contestants. According to Ashley, there will be no bathtubs, albeit I am glad she will be able fo find herself a backwards hat somewhere in the mountains. Thanks for the information, Ashley. I'll store it next to my Surreal Life DVD set/encyclopedia featuring Chyna Doll.
I am beginning to not care for you much at all, Suity Tie Individual. There is no need to dress as if you were attending a summer wedding on a beach each Friday night broadcast. You are not a wine coinosseur from the 80's. Wrestling fans at home do not care whether or not you appear dapper. They are on their sofas in their heart-patterned boxers with three holes in the crotch, two of which were man-made. If you want me to fight me for this, Sir Animal of Smackdown, I will take you down. Although, let me put on my neckerchief to make you more comfortable.
I will not compare Carlito's new hairdo to that of a bald Sampson, but it appears as though he has lost most of his charisma because of the cut. Carlito is not cool but room temperature. You cannot find him in the freezer aisle. You will have to look for him on the shelf that holds lukewarm mayonnaise. Part of what made Carlito unique was his hair, which is now down to a modest Cosby fro. I would like to spit in the face of Carlito's barber. But, before I do that, the barber will have to pump his foot a couple times on the lever to raise my barber chair so I can spit directly in his eyes.
Ron Simmons' catchphrase is wearing thin. It has lost 15 pounds of funny in only 2 weeks. Ron Simmons' "DAMN!" is like the friend you invite to the party who stays until the end of the party just to take home the leftover food and drinks. "Wha happened" to the zing, Far Rooq? Your wrist tape is too tight, Acolyte.
With the mass clearing of many ECW Originals from the television show, the roster is down to about three performers, a quarter of a diva, and a broken chair. CM Punk is the ECW Champion, but what does that even mean when he only has one opponent to face? In other words, I can safely say that I am the greatest Stephen Rivera to ever write for The Swerved though that is no accomplishment. I am but one of a handful of Stephen Riveras in this world who write for wrestling blogs entitled The Swerved. That is a minimal achievement at best, friend.
Here's a tough test question for the student readers out there in Onlineville: A bus runs its route and stops at various destinations. At this moment, there are 5 people on the bus, including the bus driver. At the first stop, 2 people get on and 2 people leave the bus. At the second stop, 7 people get on while 1 person leaves. Before the driver heads to the third stop, 2 more people make a run for the bus and get on just in time. At the third stop, 8 people get on as 5 people leave. At the fourth stop, 2 people get on while 3 people leave.
Q: How many people in total are on the bus?
WWE's A: Let's all watch a bunch of females play volleyball in their bikinis instead.
Attractive females playing volleyball is WWE's answer to everything. You see, chairshots are dangerous. I say WWE will rectify this problem by replacing all chairs in the arena with footage of WWE Diva contestants playing volleyball.
To stay healthy and fit, I take multivitamins on a daily basis. One of those vitamins is Vitamin G, which stands for Todd Grisham Television Moments. Todd Grisham doing anything winds up in unintentional hilarity. There is not enough Grisham to go around these days. What the world needs now is more Todd Grisham. It's the only thing that there's just too little of.
Imagine the following scenario: You spend over a half-century of your life with the knowledge that you're a successful wrestling mogul who likes to walk in an awkward way. You wear your successes with confidence on your Muscle & Fitness face. You have a wife with Mom Hair who may or may not be a robot with real-feel flesh. You have a son who was the champion of Europe for a short period of time. Your daughter is the wife of the King of Kings of Kings of Kings of Kings who lives in a King of Kingdoms.
Then, one day, you find out your son is a leprechaun who lives under the ring. It's rightly terrible, but it doesn't have to be.
Vince, your realization will be entertaining if and only if you try to bond with Hornswoggle. You must live under the ring too. You must don a grown-up leprechaun's outfit. You must heel-click your way into your bastard son's heart if you are to gain my approval as a critic and fan. If you do not do all of these things, you will lose me forever. I will never watch RAW again until next week. I'm warning you.
The Injury Voice is utilized by commentators on RAW, Smackdown, and ECW. Jim Ross employs it with the frequency when he wants to convince fans that a serious occurrence is or has appeared on the screen. "This is terrible, King. I don't know what to say," Ross utters in a subdued and defeated tone. "I can't believe it, JR," says Jerry Lawler in a low squeal as they witness emergency personnel transfer Val Venis (who suffered slight indigestion due to an attack by Snitsky) onto a stretcher. This solemn tone is in no way convincing and ridicules previous instances in which true tragedies happened in the ring. As penance, I command Jim Ross to slap Jerry Lawler, while Jerry Lawler must slap Jim Ross. At the same time, they should both slap Michael Cole.
In years past, WWE cruiserweights were treated like royalty. They would defeat gargantuan monsters with ease and run roughshod all over Smackdown. They put the cruiserweights that made WCW enjoyable in its heyday to tremendous shame with soon-to-be-classic matches, most of which involved Funaki. Today, Jamie Noble is in charge of a non-existent division. Shannon Moore is also there with a lot of tattoos and junk. Each week, Jimmy Wang Yang howdowns into the sunset. Jamie Noble wears a shirt that defames Hornswoggle and attempts to lure him into his traps with Lucky Charms; I am wearing a shirt that defames Jamie Noble. I plan to lure him into my traps with a blind Nidia. Get rich again, Nunzio's country cousin. I demand to see your purchase of a gold bidet.
When I think of Ken Kennedy, I become a bigger fan of the boxing ring microphone that he uses than the actual wrestler. Ken Kennedy is like The Boy Who Cried Wolf. In The Boy Who Cried Wolf, The Boy went on news talk shows and proclaimed that he was never a wolf user. He swore up and down that World Wrestling Entertainment had a zero tolerance policy on wolf usage. The Boy announced that there was no wolf problem in wrestling, chastizing the performers of the past and supposed abusers of the present who engaged in the taking of wolves. When it was finally revealed that he was a wolf user, wrestling fans stopped believing in anything a wrestler had to say about wolves.
Perhaps the most peculiar and intriguing storyline in WWE is the blooming relationship of Kelly Kelly and Balls Mahoney. When Balls gave Kelly a cuddly teddy bear in front of a "Together" sign on ECW, DVD copies of The Notebook ran down my face. I could not help but shed those DVDs for it was a tender and beautiful moment seldom seen on WWE programming. As Kelly Kelly attempts to break away from The Miz-obessed Extreme Exposé, I want to root for her and for Balls, except I cannot. I find it quite difficult to buy into a Kelly-Balls relationship.
Does Kelly Kelly actually believe she can get a hot tamale like Mahoney to be her boo? I don't think so, girlfriendly girl.
Major Brothers? What? More like Minor Brothers. Am I right, ladies? Not so funny jokes about dating and snide remarks about men and stuff. Something about a tampon that is rather gross than clever. Right, ladies?
Oh, gadies and lentlemen. What a show Santino has put on for us. I want more shows, Marella.
Santino is what a bad guy should be in today's WWE. If he had someone who could wrestle his matches for him, he would be my favourite of all-time. When he tried to crack Sandman's love stick over his knee and failed, I guffawed like I never guffawed before. Due to this wonderful scene, Sandman is now gone from the company. He could not compete with Santino's acts. I bet Sandman would never take Santino's Maria and try to break her in half. Even if he could, I wouldn't guffaw in response.
I'm looking at you, Jillian Hall. Your talent is overshadowed by your face, which reminds me of the Travelling Circus. I did not enjoy the Travelling Circus. The elephants moved too fast for my liking.
In a twist that is not so twisty, CM Punk defends his ECW Championship against Elijah Burke at Unforgiven. I do not know if my being is willing to shell out money to see a bout I have witnessed numerous times before. Sometimes, I have nightmares involving excessive repetition. I've been having trouble sleeping lately due to the fact that every time my head hits the pillow, I picture Booker T and Christian fighting for the Intercontinental Championship. I cannot get this image out of my conscience; it will linger until the day I perish. If a nuclear bomb ever hits your city, I am told that you should find a bomb shelter made out of Booker T vs. Christian matches because they will stand the test of opposing forces.
Be quiet, Michael Cole. I'm going to hit you in the skull if you do not listen to me. The Three Amigos performed by Chavo Guerrero is disrespectful to his late uncle Eddie, whereas the Three Amigos performed by Rey Mysterio is a tribute to his late friend Eddie. What am I trying to say? I am going to Three Amigos your skull if you are not silent in my presence, Cole.
It seems to me that Randy Orton is not as passionate for wrestling as he is for playing soccer with human heads. He has toppled legends and fathers with the kicking move before, yet I do not buy it as a legitimate final blow. Think back to the days of Mortal Kombat when Sub-Zero would finish his adversaries by tearing their spines out from their very persons. If I had to compare Randy Orton to Sub-Zero, which I do frequently, Randy's Kick to the Face has the equivalent force of an infant punching a concrete wall. I long for the days when Randy did nothing to the face other than RKOing. When I grow up, I wish to take RKOs everywhere I go. I want Randy Orton to attend my wedding some day in the future so he may give away my future wife via RKO. I hope RKO will be right there in the delivery room to RKO my son and or daughter's umbilical cord.
I am not a fan of Kick to the Face. It's been done better before, is done better now, and will be bettered for the rest of our days.
Mark Henry is akin to a grizzly bear who has just competed in the Boston Marathon. I'm positive that Mark Henry does not make frequent trips to the bathroom to relieve himself from the front. I think he simply sweats any trace of liquid waste through the pores of his skin. Why did Mark Henry walk across the street? To sweat.
I am all for letting the body cool itself naturally, but Mark Henry is ridiculous. He is a walking waterpark of fun in the sun for the kiddies, yet it will be Fall soon. Fall is the unhappiest of seasons because the waterparks close.
Vickie Guerrero is a bundle of entertainment and a potpourri of laughs. Vickie Guerrero is ten times the General Manager that Theodore Long wishes to be. If Kristal Marshall's marriage to Theodore Long was a ploy concocted by Vickie to usurp the General Managing Throne, I applaud her. She mated a curvaceous booty to a peanut in order to make Batista vs. Finlay matches. She can do no wrong because she is all right. Get Thaddeus out of there post haste.
Three cheers for Vickie Guerrero. May you one day wrestle Jonathan Coachman at Wrestlemania, Vickie. This is my boyhood dream; I want it to come true. Do not let me down.
I feel I am committing a sacrilegious act when I comprehend snippets of promos from the Punjab giant. One of every 20 words he utters is a word that is kind of English to me. Therefore, I do not need interpreter Runjin Singh anymore. He can leave through enthusiastic jumping. When I watch The Great Khali, I feel like I am in Lost in Translation. I am Bill Murray selling alcoholic beverages, while The Great Khali becomes Scarlett Johannson, which is both an exciting and frightening turn of events.
Mr. McMahon's lavender suits should be the image that flashes in my line of vision before I descend to heaven. I will leave my body as it is groped by many beautiful ladies in a pile of I.O.U.More.Beautiful.Ladies. I know Vince McMahon is searching for his illegitimate son and all, though he doesn't have to interact with all the women he sexified to find out. If the son was a WWE superstar, couldn't Vince have just asked each one? How many wrestlers are there? Four (three of which are Triple H)? Plus, it's not like the wrestlers will spend time explaining in detail why or why not they are his child. Big Daddy V isn't going to use words. His left pectoral boobage will simply nod twice for yes and shake twice for no. Things are looking up for Vince McMahon because down and eye level are already overflowing with his grapefruit-fueled tirades.
I know his suspension is a necessary punishment; I support it. With that said, don't go, William Regal. What will become of Youmanga? Do not play my heart like a fiddle.
In 2007, the entrance themes of WWE lack the pop and personality of the tunes of yesteryear. I used to hum along to the melodic sounds of the wrestling world, but the banality of current music has left me without song in my life. I have heard enough of the electric guitar; if Cookie Monster sings one more song about "rocking it out", I will dropkick an orphan.
The xylophone is a percussion instrument invented by Xylo, who wanted to invent a telephone but messed up during production. A xylophone's sound is crisp and beautiful. World Wrestling Entertainment gets negative points for the exclusion of the xylophone in every modern entrance theme. What do you have against the xylophone, McMahon Family? Did the xylophone try to attack you like those who attacked Vince during the steroid trial? Give me xylohpone or give me nothiing.
Speaking is an art form. In history, the aural word allowed stories of the past to be later documented on paper. If WWE was smart, they would execute their angles and storylines with briefness rather than utilize long-winded speeches and soliloquies that meander without a true conclusion. Yes, the Attitude Era of the late 90s was built on the 20-minute RAW segment, but this is the 21st century, Gramps and Grans. This past week at the start of RAW, it took almost a full half-hour to get to a point of a point--Mr. Lawyer told Mr. McMahon he would know the identity of his illegitimate son that night, but would have to wait until the main event to find out. First of all, that lawyer is a pretty good wrestling booker, putting a major storyline payoff in a main event timeslot like that. Then again, the wrestling audience already knew when and where the story would be revealed. So, what happened during the wait? Vince McMahon proceeded to take the rest of the show speaking in 20 different segments, rambling 100 essays worth of expression into two hours.
Watching WWE is like watching a box of wind-up chattering teeth. You start to question why you have such a box. You want to throw the box away because the chatter never ends.
Today, no performer is sporting the Zubaz pants. No grappler is riding a zebra to the ring. This upsets me. I quit.
Monday, September 10, 2007
The Swerved Presents: Dream Match the 25th
Who's that chucking barrels at me?
K-O-N-G
Donkey Kong's barrel throng
When the ape is here, the princesses jeer
The plumbers show fear, better stay clear
Go!
Up the steel girders it's Mysterio
Scaling up the ladders toward his foe
What's he gonna do when a barrel comes close?
He better jump over it or he's milk toast
Kong's like, "What in the world?" in an inquisitive tone
"This dude is racking up points while I fight up here alone?"
Straight from WWE, working for the W, see
No losses clocking in at victory factory
Scamperin' and hammerin' on enemies
You can't beat Rey clean
Because he's wearing silver paint and it's really gross when he's all sweating and you try to grab him, but then there's this silver slippery paint all over your hands and you can't get it out with regular soap because the paint he used was heavy duty
The Question:
Who wins and how?
*****
NEXT WEEK
Money, money. I guess not, I guess not.
AND
The Swerved Anniversary is nigh. Two weeks nigh.
The Never Dones
What feuds, matches, and team-ups have Vince McMahon and the Technicolour Hiptoss Association neglected to give us in copious amounts in the past and the present day? What sports and entertainment have wrestling fans not yet enjoyed? Taking ingredients from all three brands, here is my take on the type of greatness we continue to live without.
What's interesting about the Irish is that many embrace the alcoholic fighter stereotype as if the label was a badge or participation ribbon of honour. Fit Finlay is a man who embodies the Irish brute persona yet his character is missing one important characteristic. What is typical of the Irish people? I know you know it. Say it with me now--they hate getting kicked in the face. Ireland is a country bred from strong arms and steel fists. An Irishman has never used his feet in a fight because ankles, heels, and toe attacks are for sissies. Whoever fights with their lower body is a pretty little princess. If Michaels wishes to superkick Finlay in the face, he will have to be stealthy. Finlay does not prefer it.
WWE likes to start off feuds by having people throw liquids onto other people. I suggest the Michaels-Finlay feud begin with Shawn Michaels accidentally throwing holy water onto Finlay. In turn, Finlay will throw potatoes at HBK.
For lack of a better description, Shawn Michaels and Finlay will have excellent bouts. Shawn will use his speed and agility to his advantage while desperately trying to keep the stringy hairs on his head in place so we don't see that his once boyish mane is thinning. Meanwhile, Finlay will deal clubbing blows and smacks to Michaels' noggin with his meaty knuckles. A shillelagh will be there. Hornswoggle might be there. Triple H can be Shawn Michaels' Hornswoggle. He can wear a leprechaun's outift. He will wear a leprechaun's outfit to amuse me. If you are not joining the Triple H-echaun Bandwagon, I have no use for you. Be gone.
Sir William Regal is a distinguished gentleman who drinks Earl Grey Tea and bathes in a tub of dry wit, which he purchased at an online Bed, Bath, Pharmaceuticals, and Beyond along with other things. In turn, John Cena once drank a mixture of cough syrup and Ovaltine while swimming in an inflatable pool of money. Regal versus Cena is not a money-making feud, though it is worthy of a few upper-card Pay-Per-View matches. William Regal tends to bore casual fans for they do not understand his European uppercuts because the accent of the uppercuts are too thick. Casual fans also do not enjoy seeing Regal wrestle because he is an old-school performer who makes big things out of little things. One knee from William Regal becomes about four knees since he performs the move with such precision and accuracy. On the other hand, Cena is a flashly performer. Young children adore him because he too likes shiny things. Little girls and women love him for his personality. If this feud were to go down, the clash of styles in the ring would be great, but promos between these two personas would make up for any weaknesses tenfold. If I were to write this feud, William Regal would be inspired by Cryme Tyme and adopt his Summerslam 2007 Dancing-Hip-Hop-Self as his new character. He would come out with his hat on sideways and pour a 40-ounce bottle of tea on downed opponents. One day, Cena would ask, "What the dilly, Regal?" In reply, Regal will say, "It's Slick Willy now, homes and gardens," before decking Cena with a pimp cup. Why am I not writing for WWE now? Because they have begged me numerous times but they have always phoned during my beauty rest; I do not like that at all.
The most noteworthy feature of Cody Rhodes is his tights. They are very colourful; he stands out because nobody in the company wears yellow and green. Having interesting wrestling gear is probably the easiest way to get noticed on television and by arena audiences, but so few wrestlers choose to don the colours. This is neither here nor there nor far nor away, but if Ken Doane kept on wearing pink and black tights rather than his super charismatic plain black trunks, I think he'd be in a better place now on Smackdown. Currently, he is a ghost. A very bland ghost.
"The American Dream" Dusty Rhodes is a fantastic talker. I do not know why he is not ulitized as a manager for a young grappler or a rising star not yet polished on the microphone. Yes, Dusty tends to talk about the funkiness of monkeys a lot, but who doesn't? I prefer kangaroos, but I am willing to stand his monkey talk as long as he appears on television alongside his son and provides the goods. The possibilities are limitless with a long-term Rhodes-Rhodes tandem. Dusty Rhodes can come out dressed as a Texan oil mogul, equipping himself with a bull rope. If Cody (wearing yellow and green cowboy boots) is in trouble in a match, Dusty can interfere by tripping the opponent with the rope or draping the cowbell over the top turnbuckle as a weapon. With this pairing, a feud with Cade and Murdoch is a given. Who is the best representation of Texas? I don't know. I've never been there. What do I know? WWE would be foolish fools to not make this pairing a reality.
Due to recent findings, the King and Queen will not be celebrating anything for a few months. Why? There is no laughter in their lives. They need an entertainer of fancy humour and flighty feet. Stevie Ray should don the multicolour jester hat with jingle bells that hang at its pointy ends. He will juggle with slapjacks to the merry delight of all witnesses. To tell you the truth, I do not know the exact materials required to make a slapjack. I have always assumed that a slapjack is a black Dr. Scholl's insole, loaded with pennies or metal washers. I know I'm wrong.
Jester Stevie Ray will be the third wheel of the group, trailing behind the King and Queen, playing his bugle. He will skip down the aisle, then skip around the ring while the King battles unworthy challengers. "Here ye, here ye," the Jester will say. "Thy moveset is weaker than my Lord's sword. May he slay thou with his mighty might. What ho, you speak? Spinaroonie, spinaroona. Spinaroontie, spinaroonta. Thy suckles at the teat of a yak, I holla." Do not scratch your head at Jester's aforementioned speech because he does not take kindly to suckas. After the bout, King Booker will raise his pinky in the air in triumph; Queen Sharmell will bow to his pinky; Jester Stevie Ray will bring out the King's trusty steed--Ahmed "Big T" Johnson. Finally, the King and Queen will ride together into the sunset with the Jester not far behind, performing the Harlem Heat theme on a pan flute. I'm all for serious gimmicks. Jester Stevie Ray is pure drama. This is serious material here. Jester Stevie Ray will raise several roofs. Are you ready? Are you insured for that much structural damage?
The Armando Alejandro Estradaless Umaga is a Monday Night RAW terror. Due to his Samoan stomach tattoo, his Samoan strength has increased to level fourteen. What can he do with his newfound power and furious will? I feel Umaga needs to take on the bigger and the badder, rather than the smaller and the weaker. In the buffet that is WWE, Umaga has devoured all the side dishes and entrées. I do believe it is time for him to take on the big steak. Oh no, Jim Ross, this is no two-dollar steak. In fact, this steak is one juicy piece served on a gigantic platter. Umaga can't Samoan Spike his way through his one. He'll have to get his grill all up in it to win it. He'll have to purchase that win online, along with some other things.
Undertaker enjoys resurrecting himself up from under the earthy soil. Since he does it so much, why doesn't he marry the soil? Nevertheless, Undertaker will live again at Unforgiven. He will sit on Mark Henry, confusing him with a puffy bean bag chair, then defeat him by Tombstoning that bean bag chair into a mess of polystyrene beads and broken pleather. After Undertaker defeats Henry, Umaga needs to make himself known to the Undertaker by stealing his Quaker Oats Hat and gloating about it. Umaga will put it on in matches, grinning with a big smile all the while. In backstage and frontstage segments, he will wear it inside out to taunt the Undertaker. Finally, when Undertaker chases Umaga for the hat, Umaga will sidestep him and steal his coat too. Undertaker will be all cold and perish by hyperthermia in his cloud of billowing entrance smoke. This is but the beginning of a Wrestlemania calibre feud. Umagataker will run free on WWE programming while Underaker waits his six months to rise from the ground and retaliate once more. Although, he might even have to wait longer for it's not summer in his billowing smoke fog until about mid-March. This is a Wrestlemania calibre feud. Undertaker need not rise and shiver.
Weeks before the last WWE Draft Lottery, Jim Ross showed his sensitive side and feared for Matt Hardy's well-being. He said, "The Hardys might be broken up. Matt Hardy could go to Smackdown!" Ross uttered these words without knowing that Matt Hardy was already on Smackdown. I guess what I'm trying to say is Matt Hardy is powerful like that. He can trick Oklahoman wrestling announcers into believing that he belongs where he does not. Matt Hardy must use this gift to his advantage when he and his brother feud with Paul London and Brian Kendrick.
The Smiling One and Spankilicious Jones are just as insane as the Boys Hardy. London and Kendrick wear masks to the ring for no reason. They have colouful pants. Somebody lock them up. If I were in charge of this feud, London and Kendrick would be backstage eating something outrageous, like a pizza. Matt and Jeff Hardy would walk by eating something crazy, like spaghetti. As both teams head in opposite directions, London and Kendrick would accidentally spill pizza toppings over The Hardys. At the same time, The Hardys would douse London and Kendrick in spaghetti sauce. The two would begin to fight in the halls before the battle is broken up by WWE officials. As you know, wrestlers spilling stuff on other wrestlers is what makes professional wrestling feuds great. I am merely continuing the exciting tradition.
The Hardys and London and Kendrick would feud for several months, culminating in a ladder match at Wrestlemania. The first team to grab the OxiClean stain remover hanging high above the ring wins. By the conclusion of this match, we will all know which team is better than the other. We will all know who can get their whites the whitest.
CM Punk lives hardcore straight-edge. Oddly enough, Edge lives hardcore straight-CM Punk. In a day and age of drinking and debauchery of all types, CM Punk is that shining light in a hall of darkness. Perhaps it will be Mr. Punk who will lead the children of today into successful lives of tomorrow, but for now, he must deal with those who embrace a hedonistic and careless existence. Edge, The Rated R Superstar, is currently injured on a shelf with a torn sexing muscle which is used for the sex, but he will soon make his return to the ring. He is an individual who throws the moral and ethical rulebook out the window in a window store. If one man is the antithesis of CM Punk, it is Edge. Their feud is as much a given as the sky is blue (depending on whether or not the observer of the sky is colourblind.)
On the next episode of the Cutting Edge, the host will be the embodiment of all that is wrong in society. He will be drinking on the job while driving in a car which is having unprotected relations with another car. CM Punk will walk down the aisle in protest of his antics, drinking Pepsi moderately with a sizable straw. A fight will ensue between the fellows in an attempt to determine the supreme lifestyle. The months shared between these wrestlers will be entertaining, full of Edge forcing booze into CM Punk's ears, nose, and throat, and CM Punk showing Edge an instructional video about appropriate and inappropriate conduct in the workplace.
You can thank me later, World.
The Kingly Cerebral Gaming Assassin of Kingly X is back and better than ten torn quadricep muscles combined. The baddies of RAW are shaking in their tightly laced wrestling boots, fearing for their lives under the colossal shadows cast by Hunter Hearst Helmsley. Pedigrees to those who oppose his viking power. Pedigrees to his critics across the land. Pedigrees to the butcher, the baker, and the candlestick maker. Pedigree in a pile of Pedigree dog food. Triple H's rampage tour began with a bang, but will conclude with a whimper due to a confrontation with Umaga.
The wrestling world will change forever when Triple H tangles with Umaga. Hunter's sledgehammer is mighty, but what if Umaga had a sledgehammer too? Triple H has travelled far and wide, vanquishing giants on land and superstars in space. Sadly, Umaga is a force that is beyond the comprehension and power of a normal human being as well as the limits of time and space. Triple H can spit water, grow and shave a beard with the snap of a finger, and fold his brow into infinite furrows. Alas, Umaga spits on the talent of spitting water; beards are no match for his dreadlocks; brow furrows bow down to his gut furrows. The feud will initiate when Umaga interferes in a WWE Title Match between John Cena and Triple H. From corner to corner, Umaga will run his butt into Triple H's face. Unfortunately, Hunter's nose will be lodged into Umaga's hefty backside. This predicament will be quite uncomfortable for both wrestlers. Let the billions of dollars roll into WWE on a red carpet as Triple H and Umaga fight throughout the winter on RAW, trying to separate their body parts from one another while struggling to co-exist as Tag Team Champions.
ECW's Elijah Burke has the whitest teeth in the game. When studying for classes, college students stay up long nights under the bright light of his teeth. Sometimes, doctors display their patients' x-rays right on his incisors. Ric Flair is the dirtiest player in the game. In fact, Flair is so dirty that one must rent a high-power wet-dry vaccuum in order to clean him. More often than not, WWE interns must follow Ric Flair around with a mop and bucket as he leaves his dirty tracks behind him. It is a shame that these two charismatic juggernauts have not yet tussled, but don't you think it is about time that they battled? I do.
Burke and Flair have a lot in common. For one, they like to slide their kneepads down to their shins. Do they have anything else that is comparable? I'm looking at a Viewmaster right now; I'll get back to you later. Don't go there, Aladdin and Jasmine. Jafar is there.
The bottom, top, left, and right line is that the promos and interviews of Burke and Flair should be outstanding. In an unexpected turn, Flair will say, "Woo!" so hard in Elijah Burke's face that Burke's hair beads will fly completely off his head. As payback, Burke will execute the Figure Four Leglock on Ric Flair's loose skin. Burke has chosen a very poor way to fight back yet this is what happens when his dreads are not decorated with colourful beads aplenty. Many fans claim that Ric Flair is in no condition nor age to compete. Although I agree to a certain extent, Ric Flair: The Old Wrestler is more talented and competent than most of the roster. Even the idea of Ric Flair: The Old Wrestler is more talent and competent than most of the roster. Of course, Ric will probably have to take a nap halfway through each match with Burke, but I don't think the fans will mind. Ric Flair needs his rest. If he does not get his daily recommended nap, he will not have enough energy to love the women. The virgins will escape without blood loss. Who wants that to happen?
World Championship Wrestling is like the girl I once knew who used to be attractive but turned gruesome overnight. In addition, the girl had a lot of management problems and lost millions of dollars and viewers for poor decisions. I remember you fondly, Jane.
In the dying days, one of WCW's brightspots was the three-man stable of Shane Helms, Shannon Moore, and Evan Karagias. Together, they formed a boy band trio named 3 Count. They stood on their green circles, dancing and lip synching horribly in unison. Tank Abbott was there; he was moving with the grooving too. In conclusion, I loved 3 Count. If World Wrestling Entertainment can find it in their pure soul to reunite Helms and Moore together as 2 Count (and a Kickout), I will be grateful. I will throw coins into all wishing wells for them. I will thaw out my seven-year-old leftovers from WWF New York and eat them with glee.
I do not take kindly to the name Gregory Helms. He probably bought it at an online store, along with some other items. I do not take kindly to the name Shannon Moore either, but that is his real name so I can't really do anything about that. Evan Karagias is no longer with us because he was too Karagias. Even so, to bring back two of three of the best boy band singers slash wrestlers to national television would be Christmas and a half. I propose a feud with Jamie Noble and Jimmy Yang, the former Jamie-San and Yang of the Jung Dragons trio. Kaz Hayashi can come too, if and only if he brings the Glacier costume. I love Glacier like I love glaciers. If you ask anyone who knows me, the first thing they will tell you is that I adore glaciers very much. They are a natural wonder.
I can't get 3 Count outta my heart, people. Everybody 3 Count with me. One. Two and three are coming in the mail.
Monday, September 03, 2007
Playin' the Feud: Touching Down
*****
NEXT WEEK
1-2-NO! I'm kicking out of my own teaser.
AND
This house paint tastes really good.
The Next WWE Play-By-Play Announcer
The following entry was written all the way back in August of the year 2005. At the time, World Wrestling Entertainment was swimming through the announcing talent pools for the next big Marc Lloyd. In my opinion, I have announcing talent at or slightly under the level of a Steve Romero. Hence, I chose to plead my case to the higher-ups. I didn't know this fact at the time, by it turns out that I wasn't actually selling myself to WWE executives but people in suits who were standing on really tall shelves. For that joke, here's my comedy license. Somebody cut it up. I am terribly sorry for causing you drastic pain and suffering.
-Stephen
To my understanding, World Wrestling Entertainment is searching the fifty galaxies for the next great play-by-play announcer of our modern day. As I am a spectacular specimen in both appearance and intelligence (my pet fish told me this years ago before his untimely passing in his counter-clockwise coffin), I have decided to apply for the position. While I am not 100% certain I am qualified for the job, I will get by on my looks as I am told that’s what the American dream is all about. Actually, I don't know even know what professional wrestling is exactly. Don't get me wrong as I have watched it on the rectangular viewing box, but I have no clue what's going on. In my opinion, it looks like people yelling at, then hugging each other, mixed in with extreme shuffleboard. Call me insane, but I'd be a damn fool not to want to be a part of that. Here is what I have to offer:
(I'm hoping that the 2007 Raw Diva Search will feature the contestants engaging in a free-for-all extreme shuffleboard battle. All shuffleboard cues for themselves. Think about it--disks sliding everywhere, broken bones, and fallen ladies. If this happens, World Wrestling Entertainment must give the winner a shuffleboard gimmick. She will feud with those who play Bridge on a Sunday afternoon. If WWE does not go down this route, they will make money; I know they don't want to do that.)
1) My Skills
These are tools that will make me stand out from the rest of the pack. I believe I have them in spades.
(I also have them in hearts and diamonds but not clubs. I need a heart to live. A diamond is a girl's bitchy friend who's trying to put a barrier between my love and I. Finally, clubs are not relevant to my life. Clovers can Kiss My Ass Club.)
-The English Language (I learned English with the help of such learning aids as mathematical flashcards and this wrestler I met once; I think his name was Jimmy Snooker. That gentleman had eloquence.)
(Today, I learned his name is actually Jamie Snuka. "The Supperflew" Jamie Snuka.)
-Sitting down (I can sit down, one leg at a time, just like anybody else. Though, the significant difference about the way I sit is that every time I do so, I throw glitter into the air. I'm a showman. What can I say?)
(When Rico Constantino was employed by WWE, his finishing move should have been Glitter in the Face. Why was he released? Because his finishing move was not Glitter in the Face. Mariah Carey's movie was called Glitter. Why didn't it do well? Because it should have been c... it wasn't good.)
-Standing up (I can stand up, one leg at a time, just like anybody else. I'm usually out of glitter by the time I do this, so I throw grizzly bears instead.)
-Wearing a headset (Little do people know that the headset is one of the most difficult accessories to place on the head. That is why I use children’s laughter to keep mine in place. I don't want to sound arrogant, but I am amazing at it.)
-8 years tap (Jealous?)
(I summon the image of The Great Khali performing a soft-shoe routine with either Shirley Temple or Fred Astaire. Is he wearing a straw hat with streamers off the back? Yes he is. Disengage missiles of funny onto Haha Village.)
2) My Stage Name
I will need a flashy persona that will grab the attention of the viewers. Who is going to remember a normal name anyway? That is why I am searching for one with lots of style and flare. Years from now, it will be the kind of name that will make people think back and smile. When I die, it will say on my tombstone "Man he had a great name! I so wanted that name!" with a small picture of a guy looking envious below.
(I summon the image of The Great Khali appearing green with envy, and green with wrestling ability.)
-Johnny B. Troublesome Sometimes (This has a lot of potential, making me popular with both rebels and the cautious. The rebels will say "This guy likes his risks." At the same time, the cautious comment "Although, he has his limits and I respect that." That cannot not get over.)
(Marc Mero is a thorn in the side of World Wrestling Entertainment. A marvelous thorn. He puts frowns on the faces of WWE.)
-Crowny McBarbeque-Sauce (I read that Kingy "The Lawler" Jer and Jim Joss are announcers for Monday Wrestling Raw Show. I've decided to combine aspects of both names into a single excellent one. As the saying goes, when life gives you lemons... you keep them.)
(As you can see, Crowny's mother wanted to be a forward-progressing feminist. She took her husband's name, but also put hers in front of his to pass on to the child. Because wrestling does not currently have a character with a hypenated surname means that the entire industry are chauvinistic bacons. Now I'm being a forward-progressing critic--I've progressed that pig into a breakfast-themed delicacy.)
-Skippy Saskatchewan Scrabble (Listening to digital music, wearing baseball caps slightly to the side to resemble a human sundial, and alliteration are all the rage with kids today. It only makes sense for me to be Skippy Saskatchewan Scrabble as I can do introductory vignettes from the Regina cornfields, spitting triple word scores in the faces of people that don't want to play Scrabble. The crowds will chant "There are no more letters in the bag," whenever I come down the entranceway for announcing duties. I'm definitely considering this one.)
(I've been relegated to simply Skippy for abbreviation purposes. My name on a scrabble board only gets me about ten points now. I am of anger. If I were a county officer, I'd snatch my hat from atop my head and crumple it up all mad-like. I'll get them varmints. I'll get them good.)
3) Trademark Sayings
Everyone loves catchphrases. "Where's the beef?" "Wassup?" "I did not have sexual relations with that woman." They all blow my mind. It's time for me to be equally prolific.
-"Knock, knock. Who's there? Sports entertainment." (Anytime Vince McMahon appears on television talking about his excellent business savvy and groundbreaking ideas, he will be received with this response. After speaking this comment, I may be offered to write for the WWE creative team but I will politely decline as that occupation is too prestigious for my lowly peasant way of living.)
-"Guys just wanna have pun." (When Orlando Whatever asks Captain Lou Super Mario "Oh Daddy, don't you know you're still number pun?", I unleash this gem. Orlando then dyes his hair red and skips along the streets with John Hatman Hatfield, happily clad in their leopard print skirts.)
(Poor Orlando Jordan. Yes, he must be pretty poor these days. I bet your bindle is filled with additional bindles.)
-"This is why you love wrestling." (The statement is uttered during every match of the Visceroy vs. Snitsko Best-11-Out-Of-21 Falls WWE Championship Series.)
-"He just put his chocolate in his peanut butter." (This will be used when a heel wrestler clocks the babyface with a sweet object, such as an oversized lollipop, to the crotch a.k.a. the creamy center.)
(I know that WWE will hate this catchphrase. On the other hand, ESPN Sportscenter will love it.)
-"They're not Americans. They're Americools!" (I thought up this phrase for the resurrection of controversial characters Muhamhock Something and Cosgrove Watchamacalit. Instead of feeling discriminated against America, they criticize Wal-Mart for having strangely affordable prices.)
4) Product Knowledge
These are tidbits of wrestling that I know, but many others don't. I've heard the fans talk about all kinds of things, but do they really know all there is know about all there is to know about all there is to know? I'm not sure, but they sure do look funny. How do you chew food with only half of a tooth?
-The longest reigning world champion is Edmund "Crazy Left Buttcheek" Gillespie (This guy was a wrestler from March 2, 1965 to March 3, 1965. His gimmick was a news reporter by day... and a guy whose left buttcheek fought crime by night. He was cremated in 1993 and his ashes are contained within monsel powder. His greatest matches DVD is currently the number one seller.)
(Stupid gimmick pitches like these make me a bonafide Golden Child. "I'm Crazy! On the Left! With the Buttcheek!" his music will say à la Super Crazy's entrance ditty.)
-Every time a bell rings, an angel buys a condominium (When the ring bell sounds to signify the beginning or end of an extreme shuffleboard tournament between sweaty males, the heavenly being finds a quiet place to live somewhere on the West Coast.)
(I. Love. Shuffleboard. From this week forward, this blog will be about shuffleboard and shuffleboard-related news. Thanks for reading, fans of the wrestlings.)
-Wrestling was invented by Thomas Edison (The inventor of the light bulb and the kinetoscope thought up the idea of professional wrestling. He sold it to Vince McMahon shortly thereafter. Edison's inventions later invaded the WWE in 2001, but were defeated and buried once and for all at that year's November Pay-Per-View.)
(The 2001 Invasion Pay-Per-View will be memorable for two things. Firstly, Lita almost fell off the stage until Trish Stratus saved her. Secondly, Jeff Hardy almost fell off the stage in a match with Rob Van Dam. In history, when inept armies tried to invade enemy countries, they would fall off the stage too. This type of event is why they failed.)
In conclusion, watch me on WWE programming very soon.
(Nix that. Catch me on The Shuffleboard Channel instead.)
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