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.
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