*****
NEXT YEAR
The Swerved Choir defeats all other choirs.
AND
The Swerved buys its own island.
Monday, December 17, 2007
A Special Message from the Swerved
*****
NEXT YEAR
The Swerved Choir defeats all other choirs.
AND
The Swerved buys its own island.
Year 2007: Part 2
This Christmas/Hannukah/Kwanzaa/Cap'n Crunch's Birthday Celebration, let the Swerved remember the bad times of professional wrestling so you don't have to. Go ahead and sit by the cozy fire with your friends, family, and loved ones. Sing your carols about anthropomorphic snowpeople, bells that jingle all the way, and grandmothers succumbing to gruesome acts of reindeercide. Although I am much thankful this year for the gifts that World Wrestling Entertainment and Total Nonstop Action have given me, I feel that is it my duty as a wrestling admirer to complain about the industry to my heart's content. I am a card-carrying member of the Professional Wrestling Fan Association of North America. This card permits me to bitch and moan about whatever and whomever I want for however long I want. That match was too long, that guy is too short, this porridge is not extreme as it used to be. I hope you enjoy the following article. This piece is intended for audiences who love to complain as well.
Before I begin, season's greetings from your friends at the Swerved. If you do not have friends at this blog, what do you want me to do? I can't suddenly grow you an affable personality. You may think that I am a magician, but I am most certainly not. The comedy I bring to you each week comes from my genius mind, not mystical beans. You smell the way you smell. Work with what you got. Deal with it and be happy that you're not a troll.
Batista (c) versus Undertaker (WWE: April)
- Brad "Johnfield" Layshaw at Wrestlemania 23
"This is a World Championship in front of 80,000 people, Michael."
- Shaw "Laybrad" Fieldjohn at Wrestlemania 23
BJL and SLF were right. Undertaker and Batista put on a World Championship that was unlike anything the wrestling audience has ever seen before. If you are a fan of brawling outside the ring, this is the World Championship for you. If you enjoy the visual of Batista acting like a cruiserweight and shoulderblocking Undertaker from the top turnbuckle, you have got yourself the ideal World Championship. If you can't get enough of boots to the face, there is no better World Championship to see than Undertaker versus Batista at Wrestlemania 23. If you admire Undertaker behaving like an ultimate-fighting-undead-zombie guy, your perfect World Championship is waiting. If you have car parts strewn about your front yard, you might be a World Championship. Undertaker, the 2007 Royal Rumble Winner, put his undefeated streak on the line against Batista's title and won with the Tombstone. I told my friend Gibralter to wake me up when it got interesting. In the end, the match never was interesting, so he let me sleep for a while.
In reaction to Undertaker versus Batista at Wrestlemania 23, gag me with a utensil from the 80s, such as a spork of some kind. Shimmer shimmer everywhere but not a star to give. Zero stars to be shared among the Deadman and the Animalman. You're both welcome very much.
The April 23rd edition of RAW gave wrestling fans a treat in the form of a near sixty-minute rematch between WWE Champion John Cena and WWE Challenger-to-the-Champion Shawn Michaels. I show no love for Cena versus Michaels II beacuse I cannot forgive John Cena for glamourizing wreckless vehicular driving at Wrestlemania 23. The entire time I saw Cena in this match, I wondered when he was going to get behind the wheel of that Ford Mustang GT of his and ram into Shawn Michaels like he crashed into that Wrestlemania 23-sponsored glass pane at the Pay-Per-View. Oh, that poor Wrestlemania 23-sponspored glass pane.
Spanning several commercial breaks, the match brought the fans to their feet and or the edge of their seats. The marathon bout came to a close when Shawn Michaels nailed Sweet Chin Music on the champion and pinned him for the uno, dos, tres. Fans across the nation heralded the Wrestlemania Rematch as one of the best matches of the year, except me. I will not even consider the match as decent until John Cena apologizes to the late Wrestlemania 23-sponsored glass pane and the relatives of said pane. Terrible, terrible, horrendous, and terrible again. This match gets zero stars because I'm donating my stars to the glass pane's family.
Triple H (c) versus Randy Orton (WWE: October)
In the main event of October's No Mercy, Triple H defended and lost the WWE Stationary Spinner Belt (which he won earlier in the evening) to young Randall Orton. The Legend Killer's victory secured him his first reign as WWE Champion. The drama and action of the title match was reminiscent of classic bouts from the Attitude Era, though I did not and still do not care to visit that time again. To tell you the truth, I'd rather revisit the year 2003 when Triple H, complete with groin injury, beat opponents using a single sledgehammer shot. The world never lets me have nice things. I can't complete my Bratz doll collection, yet Randy Orton gets to RKO Triple H and win the number one belt in the company. Nobody ever gets to beat Triple H. When Triple H naps in his bed, he slumbers with one shoulder up in case an opponent enters him home and wants to attempt a pinfall. Randy is lucky while I am not.
I give this match one star for Triple H. He is the Game, you know. WWE should advertise that Triple H is the Game once in a while because I almost forgot.
LAX versus Triple X (TNA: October)
In the realm of the internet, fans claim that the Bound for Glory opener between the Latin American Xchange and the X-tin X-ican X-change was the best match of that night and possibly the whole year. Well, pish-tosh to their opinion. In my mind, internet wrestling fans not named Stephen Rivera have no valuable opinions. I will now turn my nose up at internet wrestling fans and reference something about parents and something about the basement. I can't believe you doofuses/doofusi, living in your basements' parents, thinking you're better than me. Stop yackety yacking about a business you do not know about and start living your own darn lives. Also, stop being skinny and ugly. I see your facial hair--it's patchy and under your chin, which does not impress anyone.
My problem with LAX versus Triple X stems from the match itself. I do not understand why the Ultimate X Match is not an Ultimate X and O Match. Each team tries to climb across the cables to get a hug but not a kiss? Pure blasphemy. A pox on Hernandez and Homicide. How dare they refrain from lip-to-lip contact. A plague on the head of Senshi, but not Elix Skipper. For those of you who follow the Swerved on a regular basis, you are well aware that I believe that Elix Skipper is the best person ever. On my watch, it will always be Prime Time, babies. I reward seven stars to Elix Skipper; I give negative seven stars to the match. You know, I bet Elix wanted to get a hug and a kiss in that match but Senshi was jealous and didn't let him do so. He doesn't like you that way, Senshi. You are buddies, not buddies with benefits.
To defend the honour of the X-Division, Alex Shelley and Chris Sabin took on the half-brothers from Brotherville in a fast-paced bout that garnered the attention of the wrestling world. Genesis 2007 meant many things to many people. For the Swerved, Genesis marked the death of the X-Division. Sure, the Motor City Machine Guns pulled out the upset victory when Sabin backflipped off of a table set in the corner and helped Shelley kick Brother Ray in the face fifty times in a row, yet I did not view their accomplishment as an actual victory for the X-Division. If anything, the match proved that Team 3-D are the best tag team going today. Brother Ray doesn't need to do a flip or move in an intriguing manner. Brother Devon never has to raise his boot to get the job done. Together, they employ their largeness to absorb punishment, transfer that punishment into energy, then use that energy to attack the backs of smaller wrestlers with leather belts or Johnny Devine. Since I have leftover stars from last year's nonexistent retrospective, I give one-half stars to Team 3-D versus MCMG. I'll save the other half for a rainy day.
The R Rated Superstar is lewd, crude, tattooed, and makes me miss his stint with Gangrel's Brood. I have no interest in the Edge of 2007 because I find that the Edge of 1999 was much more enjoyable. To the few who do not remember the Edge of 1999, I can describe him in one word--supercalifragilisticexpialagreat.
On Monday Night Raw, vignettes of Edge lurking in the shadows of a dark alley and a darker subway car made him an instant star. When he finally appeared on television, he entered the ring through the crowd and never spoke a word. The World Wrestling Entertainment of today does not condone speechless entertainers, but the Edge of 1999 broke the charisma barrier without speaking. I beg of the lords of WWE to take the microphone away from Edge's R Rated hands. Believe me when I say that a mute superstar equals many moneys in many banks. If WWE would only let him free, Edge could be a money-making panda who goes by the name of Ching-Ching ($-$).
The United States Champion is MVP, but he is no MVP to me. Porter showed much promise when he first appeared on Smackdown, sitting on the sidelines in his snazzy suit with a sassy girl on each arm. When he finally put on his blingy wrestling attire and competed in the ring, I threw my hands up to the sky in anger and frustration. Like Edge, MVP suffers from overexposure on the microphone. His VIP Lounge talk show segment is a mediocre, lackadaisical mess of overplayed street catchphases and idioms. I am well aware that certain wrestling fans enjoy his persona, though his character is derivative and uninspired. The number of past WWF and WWE superstars who have played the cocky athlete is literally infinite. Off the top of my head, wrestlers like Andre the Ballin' Giant, Billy Mr. Asstavious Gunner, and Lance Storm took on the exact same character with much better results. In 2008, I hope that Montel Vontavious Porter obtains a different gimmick. He will be big in WWE if and only if he adopts the gimmick that I have in mind. What is this gimmick, you ask? Why it's a breakdancing busker with silver make-up and clothing, of course. What else could it have been?
In the past, I have praised Santino Marella for his distinct brand of Italian humour, but somewhere along the line, he lost me. I have taken a one-hundred-and-eighty-four degree turn on Santino (the extra four degrees was accidental). When Santino mocked Stone Cold Steve Austin, I cheered until the cheerleaders of the world said, "Hey, if we may be so blunt, your cheering is excessive." I stopped cheering the moment Santino was knocked silly by the elusive Stone Cold Stunner. I can only get behind an overconfident sunamagun who always loses for so long. Every time Santino appears with the lovely Maria, he gains a moral victory in my eyes, but that makes his current record 100-9, which is nothing to be proud about. I do not know how Santino will be able to win me back. Perhaps he may retain my support once he finally reveals that Nunzio is his cousin. When I wish upon a star, I pray for WWE to form a stable of cousins that consists of Santino, Nunzio, and Jamie Noble. Sooner of later, that wish will come true. I believe in you, Santino. Don't disappoint me.
My sixth favourite macho-themed wrestler of all-time is "The Macho Man" Randy Savage. Thus, I was shocked when I found out that Jay Lethal was to don the neon tassles and checkered cowboy hat as the African-American version of the Macho-American Macho Man. Lethal as Savage sounded pretty darn swell, until I saw his character in action. My conclusion is nay to Black Machismo. Go ahead and twirl your finger, Lethal. Don't fear saying, "Ooh yeah!" No matter what you do, you are no Randy Savage. Where is your Jims that are Slim? Where is your rap album with a diss song about Hulk Hogan? They're nowhere to be found--that's where. The boots that Jay Lethal attempts to fill are too big for him. Sure, I give him permission to make SoCal Val his Miss Elizabeth, though I do not give him clearance to bore me. In my opinion, Petey Williams has a better character than Jay Lethal, which is no character at all. Petey flexes his muscles and stuff. Whether or not this behaviour is equivalent to an actual gimmick, Petey Williams trumps Jay Lethal every other day of the week.
I have changed my mind for a second time. I look at AJ Styles as TNA's version of Santino Marella. AJ Styles' alma mater is Gainsville Vocational. I love Gainsville Vocational for its impressive telemarketing program, but I have a problem with one of its star graduates. As one half of the Boobs and Butt Tag Team Champions, Styles attempts to play the comedic role, but his goofy character pales in comparison to Tomko. Watching Tomko on television is similar to witnessing twenty dapper men slip on the same oversized banana peel and fall into the same sewer at the same time. Tomko knows many things. Apparently, he knows comedy. Styles could learn a thing or twenty from his tag partner for Tomko makes milk come out of my nose, which is strange because I am never drinking milk at the time. The very thought of Tomko makes me giggle. Tomko injects chuckles aplenty straight into my funnybone. In my mind, his Good Ol' Goat Beard can do no wrong. Maybe AJ Styles should grow a goat beard too. In fact, I shall sport a goat beard at this time next year. Indeed I will.
The three-on-one Evolutionian beatdown of Umaga was the straw that broke the strawman's straw hat. You see, Umaga requires no protection for his win-loss is already abysmal. I think Umaga needs to stop thinking with his ass and begin to use his head. Not all moves beg for the assistance of your posterior, post-Jamal. As a frequent viewer of RAW, I suggest that Batista, Triple H, and Ric Flair take Umaga under their collective wing and form a new incarnation of Evolution. Umaga will wear a handsome suit and learn the ways of wrestlers who know when and when not to use butt-related offense. Evolution doesn't use their butts because Flair prefers to make forearm contact with opponents' nuts. Evolution is no mystery to me; I know their secrets.
Let Evolution shape Umaga into the wrestling machine that is Ric Flair several years past his prime. Chop, nut shot, chop, chop, nut shot, chop, chop, win via nut shot.
Year after year, Shawn Michaels dishes out wrestling gems. With that said, Michaels' performances left a lot to be desired in 2007. Although Michaels is Christian, why must he have a God-fearing moveset too? He elbow drops, atomic drops, and rainbow gumdrops his opponents because the Lord thinks fondly of a hands-free moveset. If you look up to the heavens, you will see the faint scene of ambitious wrestling students training in the Christ Family Dungeon, dropping bows and legs onto each other while God nods with approval in the background. In the Christ Family Dungeon, those who attempt suplexes and abdominal stretches are kicked out.
Next year, Shawn Michaels must expand his arsenal. I do not see what is wrong with using your hands in a wrestling match. There is nothing sacrilegious about the pumphandle slam; the move is rather sacridelicious to me. The one message I want to relay to Shawn is that professional wrestling is not soccer. In addition to your feet, you can use your hands.
I think hardcore grappling afficionados adore Finlay for the wrong reasons. In his forties, Finlay makes terrible matches decent, decent matches good, good matches great, and great matches amazing, but this is Finlay we are talking about. In World Championship Wrestling, he wrestled his way to the Television Championship and nobody cared. Why? We all know that Finlay has always been a safisfactory worker. What we fail to admit is that Finlay needs a companion to make himself entertaining and intriguing to the audience. In the modern WWE, I deem Finlay as a poor wrestler because he turns into a poor performer without someone present to support him. Without Hornswoggle, Finlay is a shell of a great wrestler. If Finlay the hardworking, solo, Irish brawler was a crab, he'd be the crab shell, not the delicious innards. Hornswoggle completes him in the same way that Rene Zellweger completes Tom Cruise in that movie Tom Cruise Wants People to Show Money to Him for the Benefit of Cuba Gooding Jr. The bottomline is the following: the McMahonic leprechaun makes Finlay great. When Hornswoggle stands by his side, Finlay becomes three fantastic wrestlers at once. When Hornswoggle is with the McMahons, I do not have a reason to see him fight.
White wrestling shoes. White wrestling shoes. White freakin' wrestling shoes. In TNA, Kurt Angle's gold medal should be downgraded to a pewter. On the one hand, ship jump to Orlando took Angle to a company with a lighter schedule, which should add years to his career. On the other hand, the move snatched the wrestling ability out from under him. The more time Kurt Angle wrestles for TNA, the more people that TNA needs will hire to distract viewers from his dwindling talent. The 2007 incarnation of the Angle Slam does not slam the opponent as much as it puts him gently to rest. The Ankle/Angle Lock tickles title challengers into submission. I suspect that Angle's performance suffers as the condition of his neck improves. Now, I do not suggest that someone breaks his neck, but maybe Karen can scream at it a little bit, accompanied by dope beats and background rapping from the Trademarc. White wrestling shoes. White wrestling shoes. White freakin' wrestling shoes.
Fatty fatty fat fat encased in a gelatinous bucket of lard. Samoa Joe Samoan dances his way into my shortlist for the worst wrestler of the year. I have no use for his balls-to-the wall wrestling style. If it were up to me, Joe would have the soft phantom touch of a lucha libre wrestler. He would knife-edge chop his opponents with a feather, kick them with a shin covered in packing peanuts, and suplex them into a bin of applesauce. This year, his matches against induced comas for the narcoleptic.
My mind is full of suggestions pertaining to how Joe can turn himself into a better wrestler. Several of these thoughts incorporate Joe's girth into his moveset. His running back splash would be much better if he could somehow channel his gut ripples to propel him forward like some kind of gigantic hummingbird. If he wants to facewash his opponent in the corner with his boot, he should try to envelope the guy with his buttcheeks in the style of Umaga and Rikishi. As we all know, Samoan wrestlers are only capable of doing Samoan things. Samoa Joe should not break the Samoan mold.
The Latin American Xchange fail as a tag team for several reasons. First of all, Homicide and Hernandez are not identical. Tag teams are supposed to consist of two guys who dress alike, have the exact same arsenal of moves, and weigh the exact same weight. When I look at LAX, I envision Homicide as the second stage of the Russian nesting doll that is Hernandez. When LAX had Konnan, they were a fairly decent tag team, what with the fun, reverse racism and all. Now that Konnan is not there to compliment the company then run down TNA for being unfair to minorities, Homicide and Hernandez have lost their edge. Today, they are one guy with a belt buckle ring and another guy who uses a Puerto Rican flag as a surgeon's mask. Whom is Homicide operating on? I do not know, nor do I care to know.
I am afraid that my days of tolerance for tiny flippy wrestlers have come to an end. The former WWE Tag Team Champions are an exciting duo in the ring, but they have never dazzled me on the microphone. I bet if I gave London and Kendrick a microphone, they would probably panic and execute the Shooting Star Press on it. In the near future, somebody should teach them to speak well. This request is code for you help, Khali. Get to work.
Also, when I watch London and Kendrick wrestle, I get creeped out. You see, London often sports a beard akin to the greatest of hobos, and Kendrick's hairdo and youthful facial structure rivals the preteeniest of young women. If your idea of a fantastic duo consists of Jasper, who lives under the overpass, and the fourth member of Hanson circa the late 90s, London and Kendrick is your hookup.
I am happy for Jesse and Festus for they have learned how to appreciate biscuits and gravy like a normal human being. Then again, Jesse and Festus fail as a team in the same manner that LAX fails. Small cruiserweight wrestlers and large powerhouse brawlers do not belong together. Is this claim true? Absolutely positively yes. Mismatched teams never work because the tag team section of eHarmony looks down upon this type of union. I would trust eHarmony with my unborn children; they are never wrong. Although I see potential in Jesse as a singles competitor, I have little to no faith in Festus. When ring bells dwindle in population and become extinct, what will become of Festus' aggressive wrestling style? This question is something to think about, no doubt.
I used to believe that Cade and Murdoch succeeded as a no-nonsense, rough-and-tumble tandem. I thought Lance Cade brought a natural charisma to the ring. Trevor Murdoch's scowl proved to me that he was not messing around when it came down to the business of wrestling.
A few years ago, I weeped into my spitoon when I found out that World Wrestling Entertainment had broken up Cade and Murdoch. When the two reunited, I shed tears of joy into that very spitoon. Jim Ross heralded them as the best tag team in WWE. I was quick to accept his words, but today I regret it. On the tenth day of the twelve month of the two-thousand-and-seventh year, my opinion changed. Lance Cade and Trevor Murdoch lost their tag team titles to Cody Rhodes and Bob "Hardcore" Holly. On that Monday, you lost me forever, Cade and or Murdoch. Forget you guys and your Texan and Tennesean ways. I have pulled off the High Low on myself. I don't want to exist in a world where Cade and Murdoch cannot defeat Cody Rhodes and Bob "Hardcore" Holly. That world would be some kind of crazy apocalyptic planet of some sort, which I want no part of.
Alex Shelley and Chris Sabin's trademark gesture involves pointing to their hand since that is where they take my hard earned dollars. I pay for and watch Total Nonstop Action Pay-Per-Views to witness total nonstop action. Motor City Machine Guns provide total nonstop failure. I lost faith in Shelley and Sabin the moment they appeared on television without Kevin Nash. Team 3-D continue to pick on the X-Division and its representatives because Nash is not there to help out his crew by standing there and telling jokes. "Black Machismo" Jay Lethal does not have his title because of the lack of Nash. Without Nash, "The Guru" Sonjay Dutt has to act against his own beliefs and use violence on Team 3-D. As Brother Ray and Brother Devon punk out Shelley and Sabin on a weekly basis, I remind myself that the Motor City Machine Guns are out of ammunition. I hear clicking but not shooting, fellows.
Three jeers for the Legend Killer's RKO. Boo-boo, booray (times three). I despise the RKO like I despite Diamond Dallas Page's Diamond Cutter. As a wrestler, you are not supposed to adopt a dynamic finisher that fits your character. Your signature move is supposed to be basic, clean, and used by everyone else. Every time Randy Orton utilizes the RKO in a match, I long for the day when Mark Jindrak finished off his opponents with a punch to the face. Mark Jindrak's Punch to the Face was the perfect finisher; the same cannot be said on the topic of the Randall Keith Ortonizer. Let me compare the RKO to internet-loved finishers of past years. For example, Matt Morgan and his stalling vertical suplex into a uranage of sorts was the talk of the internet wrestling town in 2005. Because Morgan's finisher is unique, I automatically hate it. Why did he feel the need to add in an uranage to that vertical suplex? He should've been happy with the vertical suplex alone. I know I would. Call me when Randy Orton's RKO involves Randy poking his opponent twice in the eye.
The fellows, the females, and the childrenses adore Sweet Chin Music. As a professional wrestling analyst slash jaw straigtener, consider me neither a fellow, nor a female, nor a child. The newspaper story of the day in the Stephen Rivera Tribune is that Shawn Michaels is taking my business. He realigns jaws for a living and he doesn't even know it. Last year alone, Sweet Chin Music cost me Sweet Cash Money to the tune of one hundred thousand dollars. I would ask Shawn for the money, but I am afraid that he will simply kick me in the chin in a super fashion, which will do me no good as I have already had my jaw straightened. In the next few days, I will create a petition that calls for the Heartbreak Man to utilize the Teardrop Suplex once again. Once World Wrestling Entertainment fans see the Teardrop Suplex, they will want nothing more. Are you in or are you in? First, somebody needs to get me a piece of paper for the petition. Do not Sweet Chin Music a tree to make this paper. If you do, you will become my enemy.
Thank goodness for the Chokeslam. If I have to see the Tombstone on a regular basis, I will Tombstone myself in the face. Do not get me started on the Undertaker and his precious Tombstone. In the history of history, the number of undertakers who have gone into the profession of professional wrestling is nil. Of course, I can buy that one undertaker slips through the cracks and becomes a wrestler, but I cannot buy that he finishes adversaries off with a move as complicated as the Tombstone. The only way I can picture Undertaker's Tombstone as a devastating and effective finisher is that when he holds the guy in the Tombstone position, his opponent has to stare directly at the Deadman's man business. When you look into the Deadman's man business, you are staring into the abyss of eternal damnation. Rest in crotch, my friends. Try not to inhale.
Former ECW Champion John Morrison may have the best named finisher in the company but the move itself is second to none in suckicity. Am I to believe that his opponent gets groggy enough to wait in the middle ring, bent over like a foolish fool, as Morrison poses and raises his hand in the air for eternity? Using my official Swerved stopwatch that counts backwards and is actually a toaster, Morrison's Unnamed Corkscrew Neckbreaker takes five hours, twenty-two minutes, and fifty-three seconds to execute. Let us face the Muzak--Booker T's axe kick takes only five hours, twenty-two minutes, and zero seconds to pull off. Every time that John Morrison signals for the Unnamed Corkscrew Neckbreaker, I make sure to have my survival emergency kit with me. Around the third hour of Morrison's move, I will need to fire a flare for help. Damn you, Morrison. Double damn you, The Miz. Double damn you all the time.
I nominate Samoa Joe's Muscle Buster as the most convoluted finisher in the history of Total Nonstop Action wrestling. Let me bring you, the reader who is reading, into the following scenario: You are wrestling a match with a weary opponent. He is exhausted and is one step away from collapsing. This is your chance to finish him off. What do you do? If you are Samoa Joe, you pick your opponent up, sit him up on the top rope, pack him neatly in a tight little ball, prop the back of his head onto your shoulder, grab both of his legs and hold them in mid-air, hoist the opponent all the way over to the middle of the ring, spin around a lot, drop your opponent back-of-the-neck first onto the six-sided canvas, then pin him. Because I chose to describe Samoa Joe's Muscle Buster in detail, I am now sixty-three years old. Where did my youth go? I never got to take a cruise on the Titanic. I never got to open up my very own speakeasy. Samoa Joe's Muscle Buster busted my life up real nice. Thanks for nothing, buster of muscles.
Monday, December 10, 2007
The Swerved Presents: Dream Match the 32nd
Batista (c) vs. Merv The Perv vs. Undertaker
He's talkin' love
Lockin' lips with a widowed wife
He's sayin' love
For her he'll win the title fight
Feel free watch him and touch him
He's gonna pin them with his small package
With his small package
That's his small package
With his small package
The Question:
Who wins and how?
*****
NEXT WEEK
With the final post of the year, I take a look at the worst of 2007.
AND
I take a ride on the Polar Express. Everyone on this train has freaky, computer-generated eyes.
Year 2007: Part 1
The calendar year of 2007 is coming to a close. This time, the Swerved is about to cap another year off not with a whimper but a bang. How do you like that play of poem, T.S. (Too Sweet) Eliot? You better like it good. You see/read, loyal readers, many professional wrestling fans believe that this year has been one of the worst in a while, not only due to the mediocre in-ring product but the disappointing out-of-ring product as well. In my opinion, World Wrestling Entertainment and Total Nonstop Action dish out angles and matches of white gold greatness every week, except none of you out there wish to accept reality. Of course, I admit that these two companies manage to shell out bad entertainment too, but cup your eyes and open your ears--WWE and TNA are wonderful. Why should we complain? Why won't you admit that the only reason you attack these promotions with such harsh criticisms is because you enjoy complaining? You like to have your wrestling cheese with your scripted wine; you can't get enough of taking pictures of that whinenoceros at the Masterful Tussling Zoo. Feminine gentleman and masculine gentleman, I urge you, for this one week, to look on the brighter side of the wrestling industry. Do not hesitate to bask in the light of optimism. Your pale, brittle skin will thank you.
So, with zero amounts of adieu because it's hard to say goodbye to wrestling's yesterday, this artiicle starts now. The time on my watch tells me that it's analysis o'clock. The following piece is dedicated to the lovely days of January, February, March, Apil, May, June, July, August, September, October, November, December, and the forgotten thirteenth month that is Swervedtember. You are beautiful like what.
Faux Rosie O'Donnell versus Faux Donald Trump (WWE: January)
The build-up to Wrestlemania 23's Battle of the Billionaires was filled with highlights up the collective wazoo. McMahon employed an independent wrestler with Ace-Award-winning potential to play the Left-Leaning Lesbionic, Viewriffic, and Koosh Balltastic fighting Irishwoman. With a Carval Fudgie the Whale Ice Cream Cake in her Left-Leaning Lesbionic, Viewriffic, and Koosh Balltastic possession, Rosie waddled down to the ring to await her opponent's entrance. Moments later, "Money, Money, Money, Money (Mun-ay)" played over the speakers to cue the appearance of fake Donald Trump. Oh man, what crazy hair Faux Trump had. I guffawed two guffaws. At that moment, I wanted to propose marriage to this parody, but such a union is not permitted in my province. The two proceeded to have an excellent giant (Faux Rauxsie) versus little man (Faux Trauxmp) match. Oh woman, what crazy hair Faux Trump had. After twenty minutes of this mat classic, Fake Trump utilized dirty tactics and chucked that international object Fudgie the Whale at Rosie's Fudgie the Face. A swandive headbutt from Donald secured victory for the Trump brand and the lowly workers of Trump Tower. In the end, the arena gave the winner a standing ovation. "This one's for you, Ivanka, but not you, Donald Jr," said Faux Trump at no point during the match. Oh infant, what crazy hair Faux trump had. I give this battle five billion stars up in the midnight sky.
Christy Hemme versus Lazlo "Big Fat Oily Guy" van der Velden (TNA: February)
TNA's storyline between Christy Hemme and the Voodoo Kin Mafia (BG James and Kip James) proved to wrestling fans that woman are of equal social standing to men. Hemme transformed from an adorable bumper girl who said, "Coming up next, Samoa Joe does stuff" before commercial breaks to a passionate torch runner for women's rights. Millions of little girls who make up the majority of TNA's audience could finally root for a respectable heroine. Hemme went on to fight for the worthy cause of gender equality by facing TNA's version of the massive, rotund, oil-slicked exotic dancer from WWE. At this year's Final Resolution Pay-Per-View, the 2004 Diva Search Winner stripped the dancer of his tuxedo and got the pinfall. It was one more for the good girls. I thought the point of a tuxedo match was to rip the tuxedo off your opponent's body for the win, but I was (fortunately) mistaken. Hooray for you, TNA. During her post-match celebration, Kip James came out and took Hemme's top off to furious rounds of applause. Hemme displayed her equalities to the audience, then ran to the back to celebrate further. God speed, Miss Hemme. This battle got six stars in my non-existent newsletter.
Melina (c) versus Ashley Massaro (WWE: April)
From Ford Field in Detroit, Michigan, Melina defended her prestigious WWE Women's Championship that she never put around her waist against 2006 Diva Search Winner and Playboy Covergirl Ashley Massaro. I have learned many lessons from the world of wrestling. One great lesson is that every girl's dream is to get naked for a magazine. Even the ugly ones enjoy showing their balloons and opening up their taco stand for the children. The Lumberjill Match was innovate in that women surrounded the ring instead of men. Also, I bet somebody really pushed for the name Lumberjill because they love to laugh. A writer thought it up in 1988 and kept the name to himself until 2007; I assume that his idea rewarded him with several riches. The lumberjills were Trinity, Kellandra Kellandra, Brooke, and Layla from ECW, Jillian Hall, Michelle Carribbean McCool, and Kristal Marshall from Smackdown, and Victoria, Mickie James, Torrance Wilson, and Candice Michelle from RAW. I gave this match a present before it even started. The finish involved Melina pinning Backwards Hat with a delayed bridge. After that, the lumberjills came in and brawled with each other because they could. I gave this match a second present for just being this match.
Kane versus Big Daddy V versus Mark Henry versus The Great Khali (WWE: October)
On the Halloween edition of ECW on Sci-Fi, four behemoths smashed their girth into one another to the delight of the crowd. The ring shook, the fans sat on the edge of their edgy seats, and I applauded with white-gloved hands from my theatre box seats. Bravo, gargantuans. With these rounds of applause, I encouraged them to show the world why big men are always better than smaller men. Big Daddy V and Mark Henry engaged in fisticuffs as Khali and Kane paired off to rekindle the feud of the century. A double clothesline of chunky proportions knocked V and Henry down to the mat; Khali saw some evil and kicked Kane in the face; Big Daddy V executed a flawless version of the Slippery Black Hole Slam on Big Reddy K. The order of elimination was as follows: V was eliminated by Kane like the proverbial hefty bag of garbage, Khali was eliminated by another double clothesline from Kane and Henry, and Kane was tossed over the top rope by Mark Henry. Kane lost, but at least he didn't get his wig split because he doesn't have hair. I gave this match an avalanche splash, but I ended up falling asleep in Big Daddy V's bosom. Comfortable.
In the month of October, we were treated to two potential match-of-the-year candidates that occurred on two consecutive days. The day before the Monster Mash disrupted the delicate balance of the wrestling world, the slow burn feud between Hornswoggle McMahon and Jonathan Coachman was brought into the ring on the October 2th edition of Monday Night Raw--complete with Warner Bros. cartoon-like antics and Mick Foley as the special guest referee. During the match, Hornswoggle showed off his leprechaun cruiserweight prowess with dropkicks to Coach's knee and a Reading Rainbow Wizard to his face. In Stephen Rivera's Smackdown vs. Raw 2008, Coachman has about a 98 rating, but I guess I didn't press the right button combinations during this bout. Highlights of the match included Hornswoggle using a miniature version of Socko to grip the Coach's testicles, which is never not a heterosexual act, and Hornswoggle finishing off Coachman with a Tadpole Splash. From this day forward, I enthusiastically declare that Hornswoggle vs. Coachman I will never leave my wrestling tape collection. This match between Hornswoggle and Coachman got a heel kick in the air from me. I've done it once whle Hornswoggle has done it 3,495,484,284,847.99 times.
Lazlo "Big Fat Oily Guy" van der Velden (TNA)
The Big Fat Oily Guy must've been dreamt during the following heavenly TNA creative meeting:
"Nobody does parody like us. WWE's Big Dick Johnson is ridiculous. Say, why don't we make a mockery out of their company by making our own version of the character? That will show them. TNA creative team disassemble. You will make many homestyle omelettes from all those eggs that will be on your face, World Wrestling Entertainment."
Big Fat Oily Guy was genius, lest we forget. Bow your head and thank the Lord for giving us this hilarious bounty of tubbiness.
Robert Roode is rich out of nowhere. Millionaire and billionaire wrestling gimmicks are the best. Where did Roode accrue his riches? I think he sold former Team Canada Manager Scott D'Amore for parts. D'Amore's hockey stick was a graphite Bauer, which sells for around $250 dollars alone on the market. Robert Roode is fully aware of value, though Ms. Brooks wants Roode to keep it. Oh, Traci Brooks, Roode didn't suddenly get rich from keeping expensive things. He sold his desirable wares and made his out-of-the-blue fortune the honest way. Now, be quiet and continue to stand there like a trampy secretary. The fans love it and you're an inspiration to me. I have recently adopted three trampy secretaries into my home.
This year, Cody Rhodes lost to Hardcore Holly a whole bunch, was RKOed by Randy Orton at random, and formed a tag team with Holly for an unknown purpose. At the same time, Rhodes birthed a tremendous gimmick of wearing yellow and green and existing as Dusty Rhodes' son. He plays his character with a level of panache unlike any other performer. When I watch him wrestle, I say to myself, "Wow, he is really Dusty's son. In the ring, there is no way that he is not the son of Dusty Rhodes. He will never be the daughter. He is always XY in my book of books. You can take that to the bank and smoke it."
In 2007, Snitsky matured and took responsibility for his actions. When he finally learned that it was truly his fault, he went into hiding and contemplated his five to ten-year life goals. He returned to ECW with a fury, attacking all comers with violent slams and deadly stares. His move to RAW later in the year was successful too, keeping his fabricated undefeated streak alive until Jeff Hardy recently ended it on RAW. Snitsky has yellow teeth. Snitsky is angry. Your pain is his pleasure. He snarls a lot. His character has four dimensions. Three of those dimensions are bald.
Chuck the Biker is a promising character. In recent weeks, Jamie Noble has made "Pulambo" look like a fool in the face of his friend Michelle Caribbean McCool, but Palumbo will get back at Noble somehow, perhaps by using his motorcycle as a weapon. I assume that one significant part of his revenge plan includes riding his bike. In actuality, all of Chuck's daily activities involve his motorcycle. Before the motorcycling version of the Undertaker, I was not aware that you could base a gimmick off of a wrestler's mode of transportation. Now that "Moto" Chuck Palumbo is here, I feel like borrowing my persona from the ride that I use. Sometimes, I like to take my Radio Flyer out for a spin. Within the rings of World Wrestling Entertainment, I shall adopt the gimmick of a red wagoner. I've come to entertain you, fans of WWE. My finshing move is called "The Tuesday and Friday Local Newspaper Delivery Service."
Road Warrior Animal (TNA)
Road Warrior Animal, the last surviving member of the legendary Legion of Doom, showed up at TNA's Slammiversary as the replacement partner of Rick Steiner in a battle against Team Three-Dimensions. Although I was looking forward to seeing the Steiners face Brother Ray and Brother Devon, I was pleasantly surprised to witness Animal wrestle once more in the ring. At Slammiversary, Road Warrior Animal executed a calvacade of holds and moves. He punched, he kicked, he punched and he kicked some more. My eyes had trouble keeping up with his rapid pace. Forget your Kurt Angles and Samoan Josephs because Road Warrior Animal proved to me that he was better than the rest. If I could see him again in the Heidenreich version of LOD, I would be happy. I pray to see their WWE return each and every night.
I don't think Jerry Lawler ever got the respect he deserved as an in-ring competitor, so here come the kudos. When I think of Jerry Lawler matches, I think of picture-perfect fists to the face. Secondly, I think of another picture-perfect fist to the face. After that, I ponder the notion of a piledriver that is somehow turned into a picture-perfect fist to the face. Finally, I envision a picture-perfect fist to the face from the middle turnbuckle. Jerry Lawler should be in ECW with his dangerous moveset. I enjoy his work to an immense degree, even though I'm sure there are those who believe that he tries to do too much in the ring. If you want proof of his wrestling prowess, watch his pair of matches with Santino. These matches turned Atheists into devout Christians.
The last time I saw the Boogeyman on ECW programming, he was giving worms out to children on All Hallows Eve Eve. If that doesn't tell you how talented he is, I don't know what action will. Sure, the Boogeyman is not the most technically sound wrestler, but he doesn't have to be. His talent can be found in how carries that staff with smoke coming out of it down the aisle, or in the impact of the large alarm clock against his painted face. Do not think less of the Boogeyman or I will think less of you. I will call him on his cell phone since he gets free Boogeynighttime minutes and ask him to get you. He doesn't execute suplexes because the worms do it for him. End of story.
Must I refer to the ECW Monster Mash Battle Royal once more to show you why Khali is awesome? I don't think I have to nor do I want to. Everyone and their surrogate mothers know that the Great Khali is the new wrestling machine. To the independent wrestlers out there waiting for their big break in the big leagues, take a page from Khali and learn how to squeeze stuff really hard with your hands. Khali started with a grape, worked his way up to an orange, and then took the air out of an inflatable punching bag with a clown on it. Today, he squeezes human heads for six figures. Dear pasty white tights, learn how to wrestle like Khali and you will make it. If you learn to chain wrestle, be prepared for a lifetime career wrestling at county fairs for leftover caramel apples and a knock-off Beanie Baby from Taiwan.
Kellandra Kellandra is a charming young lass. Every time I see her on ECW, I want to hug the television. She is like a baby kitten mixed in a basket with a koala and that creepy bear from the Downy commercials. She started off as an exhibitionst, but what she exhibits in the current ECW is wrestling talent. Her match with Layla from a few weeks ago was entertaining and perfectly crafted. When she executed that handspring elbow, she pulled off the handspring part of the move so well that Layla saw it and started to feel pain before the elbow. Take it from me that Kelly Kelly is the next Trish Stratus. Kelly Kelly knows how to get it done right. If you ever get the opportunity to have relations with Test, don't say no. He will make you a better wrestler and or performer. Like Kelly, certain personal experiences have taught me so. Actually, I don't want to talk about it. He was thinking about A-Train the entire time. If you will excuse me, I'm going to wash these memories from my conscience with alcohol and the viewing of a boob or five.
Brian and Brett Major - The Major Brothers (WWE)
Brian and Brett Major work well as a tag team because I can never tell them apart. If you told me that Brian had sandier hair, or that Brett liked to eat Thai food on Wednesday afternoons, I could decipher them. Then again, maybe my confusion enhances the team's charm. Now that I think of it, since World Wrestling Entertainment refuses to tell me anything about the brothers, I am more interested in their matches. They carry a certain mystique, a certain "Est-que je peu aller au toilette?" It feels as if I know everything about the Major Brothers because I know nothing. Go, Major Brothers, go. You are major superstars.
The team of Eugene and "Hacksaw" Jim Duggan made no sense, but Super Crazy and Jim Duggan make super sense. Crazy and Duggan have so much in common. For instance, Super Crazy is a wrestler and so is Jim Duggan. In addition, Jim Duggan uses wrestling moves, plus Super Crazy uses wrestling moves. Jim Duggan carries around a 2x4 while Super Crazy notices that Jim Duggan has a 2x4 most of the time. They are brothers separated at birth. Lastly, Duggan's favourite catchphrases are "Ho!" and "U-S-A!" This is quite comical since Super Crazy believes that the United States of America is a fairly rotten skank as well. Do Crazy and Duggan have the same birthdays? Do they both like food? When will the likenesses end? They should start an arts and crafts club where they make dreamcatchers and talk about relationships, like a Ya-Ya Brotherhood of sorts.
If I was going to form a tag team, I would borrow the Team Pacman formula: one guy who gets to name the tag team after himself does nothing while the other guy has to do everything to compensate for the non-active partner. Of course, I would take the former role. To those of you who thought that this type of partnership would not work, what did you say when Jones and Killings won the TNA Tag Team Championship belts? Oops? In case you were not aware, Team Pacman was a talented duo. Ron Killings flipped a lot as Pacman stood on the apron in his BeDazzled boxers. Within the pages of great American novels, the American Dream was explained to me as a goal which involved standing around in BeDazzled apparel until stuff was given to you. Well, Adam Jones achieved the dream. One day, I will achieve it too. As a side note, I share some similarities with Pacman. Like Mr. Jones, I had a childhood nickname that was based on a classic video game character. The neighbourhood kids called me "Duck Hunt" because I tried several times to assassinate actress Helen Hunt by throwing dead ducks at her. Therefore, my tag team will be Team Duck Hunt.
John Cena has the strength of not one, but two men. I recall an infamous handicap tag match in which he defeated World Tag Team Champions Cade & Murdoch by himself. Typical World Wrestling Entertainment tag matches involve one half of the team, usually the smaller member of the two, succumbing to consistent double-team moves by his opponents until he can make the desperate hot tag to his partner, who is able to clean house soon after. In this match, John Cena was so strong that he gave the hot tag to himself, in his own mind, using his own Jedi mind tricks. How did Cena get so powerful? At Wrestlemania 19, he was rapping at cardboard cutouts. In 2007, he could take on the entire RAW roster without help. I hope his pectoral muscle tear teaches him well. I want him to know that although Cena and Cena is the most popular tag team going today, he can't do it alone for the rest of his career. He'll most certainly need a clone to contine his reign of unstoppability.
The one-time appearance of Jillian Hall and Khosrow Daivari as Sandy and Danny from Grease comforted the world with a soft but temporary entertaining blanket. I loved it and the crowd wanted more, but the two would never tag again as Daivari was released from his contract a few weeks later. You know, World Wrestling Entertainment, you captured Grease Lighning in a Bottle. The day you understand that notion is the day that I will strive to love you once more. If you must tease my fragile heart, please give me warning beforehand. I am but a young man with a lot of adoration to give. I wish to hand some over to you WWE, but you won't let me.
The Playmaker - MVP (WWE)
In a legitimate fight, I like to place my leg over the back of my adversary's neck, grab his wrist, and twirl him back-of-the-neck first onto the ground. This particular technique garnered the attention of my high school wrestling coach, who recruited me onto the wrestling squad in a manner not unlike how that dog Bud from direct-to-DVD films gained a spot on various sports teams over regular humans, or how that monkey from similar direct-to-DVD films did the same. I applaud Montel Vontavious Porter for his finshing move. Also, I apprecitate his strenuous effort towards keeping Elix Skipper's Play of the Day in the hearts and minds of wrestling fans across North America. Elix Skipper is my Canadian and American Idol, people. He's got a Grey Gup ring. He's cash money any day of the week.
Cody Rhodes is a technical wrestling marvel. While the Triple Hs and the Undertakers of the world employ finishing moves that reflect their character, Cody Rhodes matches do not require the use of such interesting maneuvers. In fact, Cody is so adept at wrestling that all he has to do is execute a roll-up to gain an instant W. Cody Rhodes doesn't even need to name the move as anything other than the roll-up. The move is so effective that no flashy title can give it justice. This is no regular schoolboy. Even if it was, it would've been called a school man. As Rhodes ascends the chocolate ladder of World Wrestling Entertainment, he will not climb; he will perform several roll-ups until he gets to the top.
Like his Irish friend Finlay, Hornswoggle loves to fight. A fighting man needs two things in battle: outlandish facial hair and a spastic finishing move from a high place. According to my secret sources, Hornswoggle has both. If I had to guess, Hornswoggle adopted the Tadpole Splash during his lengthy moments of leisure time under the Smackdown ring. He probably started the day off with a Lite Brite self-portrait, then went into the den and studied Art Barr/Eddy Guerrero tapes. Hornswoggle is feeling froggy, but has not yet matured to the adult stage of amphibianesque development. You can do it, Horny. See the frog and you will be the frog. Just follow the Lucky Charms Trail of Wonder and Whimsy.
Christy Hemme's Flying Firecrotch Guillotine was my favourite move of the year. When Hemme violently attacks you with her female reproductive organ, you lie down and take it. When I first saw her perform that move from the top turnbuckle, my life changed for the better. I was able to breathe the fresh outdoor air like never before and smell the sweet roses of the world's homes and gardens. Bless you, Christy Hemme. May you find happiness in your awkward, televised make-out sessions with Lance Hoyt. Firecrotch forever, sadness never.
Because the target wrestling demographic yearned for Bob Backlund's return, he re-emerged on TNA programming at the beginning of the year. He fought and feuded with the likes of Alex Shelley, Chris Sabin, and Austin Starr. Good times, great memories, best battles I have ever seen. With his arrival, Backlund's Crossface Chicken Wing made a fantastic comeback. I adore the Crossface Chickenwing because it's the same I perform to tame bears that I encounter in the Canadian wilderness. Sometimes I will give them Labatt Blue because the rivers flow yellow-brown with frothiness, while other times I will slap on the Crossface Chicken Wing on fidgety grizzlies. The only downside concerning Bob Backlund's stint with TNA is that he took up a great deal of television time, yet Disco Inferno appeared once and hasn't been seen since. I am perturbed, Backlund. May you suffer from acute Disco Fever.
Monday, December 03, 2007
The Swerved Presents: Dream Match the 31st
I am Adora and I have no idea what a Glamazon is
Maybe Beth is He-Man's hairdresser or fashion consultant or what have you
This is Mickie James
I use her as my horse when she is not looking
A fabulous match was revealed to me the day I set foot in a WWE ring and said, "For the honour of Sonic the Hedgehog!"
Se-ga, Se-ga
Se-ga
Se-ga, Se-ga
I play Sega!
Only a few people care that I dust off my old Sega console and play to my heart's content--among them are Tails, Knuckles, and children from the early 1990s
Together me and my friends of yesteryear strive to beat Mickie James up because she prefers the Nintendo Entertainment System
The Question:
Who wins and how?
*****
NEXT WEEK
Why does a leprechaun buy door-making spray paint?
AND
The Swerved counts down the year with a two-part retrospective of 2007. Goodbye, 2007. You were a year. You were a year indeed.
My List of Wishes
Hello, Saint Nicholas;
I know that you like lists of the naughty and nice. I know that you have made your own list and are about to check it twice. What I suggest to you is to check it a third time. Last year, you gave me a present that was not to my liking. You gave me half of a baskeball and half of a piece of coal. I do not tolerate your mixed signals, Santa. This year, I believe I have been a good samaritan. I steal from the rich and wave my stolen riches in the faces of the poor; I help old ladies cross imaginary bridges that overlook cliffs; when that girl undressed before me, I only snapped a cell phone photograph of one of her mammaries. As long as you promise to give me better presents, such as the ones featured in my wishlist below, I promise to leave a plate of cookies and a glass of milk for you and the gaggle of foreign orphans who pull your sleigh through the night air when your reindeer get sick. With that said, if I catch you locking lips with my mother, I will kill you with cookies and milk. I refuse to reveal how I will use cookies and milk as a weapon, but be aware that I am fully capable of doing so. I'm not talking about ingestion either. I'm talking about straight-up gutting you like a holiday fish, Tubs. Merry Christmas to you and yours at the North Pole. Much salutations to the elves who cobble up ponies and Playstation 3s.
All the best,
The Swerved with Stephen Rivera's Stephen Rivera
Do you remember the good old days? I do. I recall a time when life was a whole lot simpler and fun. I remember the days of Matt and Jeff Hardy as an up-and-coming tag team. When they first debuted in the World Wrestling Federation, they were plaid-wearing, winless, and boring. With the help of many ladders, the Hardy Boyz became death-defying lords. While the Hardyz are not a full-time duo anymore, I wish to own a memento from their illustrious history. Do you recall the time when the Hardyz had a ladder match in a concentrated snowstorm? Who doesn't? From the top of the ladder, Matt Hardy executed the Side Effect on Christian into a snowball fort. Meanwhile, Jeff Hardy countered Edge's DDT attempt, shoved him onto the snow, then came off the top with a Whisper in the Wind (misnamed by Jim Ross as the Twist of Fate for only the 5,167th time that week). Sure, the Hardyz did not come out of this match victorious, but I wish to feel victorious with this snow globe. Won't you let me know the taste of victory? I have been a good Hardy Boy this year, Mister Claus. I sport rainbow hair. I wish life-threatening accidents unto those who plow my lady friend. I live life to the Xtreme, angering both English teachers and professional editors with the spelling of Xtreme.
I beg of you: please make my Christmas bright with crude depictions of Matthew and Jeffrey trapped in a plastic sphere. It could've happened at Wrestlemania 2000. Why can't I have that almost-momemt in snowglobe form?
Everybody three counts, except me. This Tank Abbott figure will allow me to count to three in a manner that has never been done before. For those not in the know, Jakks Pacific's Classic Superstars line features toy versions of your favourite superstars from the 70s, 80s, and 90s. This classic collection is not be confused with a legends series as the whole population is well aware that Tank Abbott is not a professional wrestling legend. On the other hand, perhaps Tank is beyond the label of legend. In my heartiest of hearts, Tank Abbott is a "superlegend." I put him right up there with the Artist Formerly Known as Prince Iaukea and General Rection.
The Tank Abbott figure comes with a steel chair, or a barbell, depending on where you look. Tank Abbott can use the chair to attack his plastic opponents. If I had to guess, Thank can use his barbell to strengthen his beard. One day, I hope that they release another version of Tank with an Evan Karagias figure as the accessory. Forget Shane Helms and Shannon Moore. Tank and Evan Karagias will sell for the remainder of time. If Jakks adds in a pair of bright green, circular dance mats, I plan to purchase one-hundred sets. I will be three-counting all damn day.
"We're Here But We're Not All There." The unofficial Hooliganz, also known as Paul London and Brian Kendrick, champion dementia and everything is right in the world. London and Kendrick are a couple of high-flying jokers, but this shirt is no joke. All in all, the shirt commands instant respect. Wearing this t-shirt out on the street is equivalent to wearing three tuxedos and one tweed suit at once. If you ask me, I would never take this shirt off. I want to be married and buried in this shirt. Threads as hip as these deserve to be on my golden person forever.
To my dismay, some fans refuse to wear wrestling t-shirts in public in fear of compromising their credibility. Why? What is so terrible about professional-wrestling-related apparel? For example, Carlito's "Spit or Swallow" shirt is classy plus one. Wearing Carlito's shirt is equivalent to wearing three tuxedos at once. Of course, London and Kendrick's shirt is classier, yet that fact does not take anything away from Carlito's superb merchandise. Chicks dig gangly, stringy-haired wrestling fans in wrestling t-shirts. It does not matter whether you agree or disagree with me; I read it in a pop-up book once. There is no way a pop-up book would lie. It can only pop up.
I want this yamulke more than life itself. Without this yamulke on the crown of my head, I have no life. Bless ye of Jewish and McMahonistic faith. Let Linda McMahon light the phantom tenth candle on my menorah. Let Stephanie lend her beautiful voice for a rousing rendition of the Dradle Song. At the same time, let Shane McMahon spin around the living room like a dradle. If Vince McMahon is a closet Rabbi, I believe that he is an excellent closet Rabbi. There's no pork, no pork in house. Sadly, Triple H is not nor will never be Jewish. Triple H follows his own religion--The Church of Latter Day Helmsleys. Basically, he prays on his D-Generation X tank from the late 1990s and wets his hair a lot. I fail to comprehend what Triple H believes in, but I will take his word for it. He's definitely praying for someone or something. Quite possibly, Triple H thanks himself each day for gaining immunity from the Chyna Syndrome.
With the WWE logo yamulke, I will finally get respect. "Oh, you are Jewish and a professional wrestling fan. At first glance, I thought you were subhuman. Today, you are great." Even though I am not yet Jewish, I hope to convert soon enough. Next week, I will receive my Jewish learner's permit. Until then, I will have to bring a Jewish confidant everywhere I go.
Batista unleashes himself into the literary world with his autobiography, ghostwritten by neither ghosts nor writers. If the publishing company knew that Batista was about to unleash himself, why didn't they release his story in paperback form? In my opinion, paperback has a lot more give.
In this tell-all, rags-to-riches tale, Batista (real name Sir David Bautista of Evolutionville) regales his fans with stories that range from his rough upbringing in the meanest streets of Washington, D.C. to his rise to the top of World Wrestling Entertainment. On the topic of his life, Batista Bombs our minds with details of the numerous problems he had to face along the way:
"Women were my drug of choice," the Animal confesses.
Batista describes one experience in which he went to the doctor to treat his flu and was given a three-way in return. He talks about his jobs as a bouncer and a lifeguard, which also led to three-ways. Sometimes, when Batista eats breakfast, he ends up having a three-way without even knowing it. Further, Batista dishes about the injury he suffered at the hands of Mark Henry and a three-way--two events which forced him to cut short his second of fifty World Heavyweight Championship reigns. This grandfather has lead a tough life. Brother can't get a four-way. Shoot.
At the 2005 Royal Rumble, Christain asked Tyson Tomko to provide him a funky backgrouind beat for a rap against then-WWE Champion John Cena. "No," said Tomko. Now that Tomko is in TNA, I say, "Yes"-- a million times yes to his t-shirt. Tribal tattoos represent so many things. Most of all, they represent cool things. Tomko sports his ink with great dignity and grace. While I am not Tomko, I do want to wear his shirt. What's good for AJ Styles is good for me. The duo of Tomko and Styles entertains me muchly. Tomko plays the serious enforcer role quite well; Styles is outstanding as the cocky underdog. When you top amazing with a condiment spread of amazing, that's quite amazing.
You should all buy this shirt for Tomko is a good man. He boots people in the face with accuracy. His goat beard is second to few. If there exists a reason to hate this individual, feel free to relay that information back to me. In the bland jungle of TNA, Tomko emerges as king. AJ Styles is his queen by title only. They don't like each other that way. They sleep in bunk beds. Racing car bunk beds with headlight cup holders.
Jeremy Borash pleads his case for a modelling job in a future Abercrombie & Fitch catalogue. Why must Jeremy steal the hearts of every woman on Earth? I do not hate the game; I hate the player. The reason why I wish to attain this sweatshirt is to also attain help from the man who comes dons it. Please tell me your surefire ways of seduction, Mr. Borash. I want to be a manly man. Although WWE's Todd Grisham gives me wonderful tips on the art of flirting with naked ladies, he does not know how to love. He may be happy, but his joy is fleeting.
I want to experience the total nonstop action of love's permanent embrace. In the moonlight, under these shooting stars, I long for the fairytale ending. Jeremiah was a bullfrog. Can this bullfrog teach me how to ribbit, or will simply sit on his stupid lilly pad with his frosty haircut and bug eyes and do nothing?
This is darling. *clap clap clap-clap-clap* This is darling. *clap clap clap-clap-clap* While I have no children myself, I want this bib just in case I spawn beautiful supermodels from my mystic loins. I will not send my hypothetical daughter(s) to college. They will go right to TNA Knockout School. I cannot tell the difference between a TNA Knockout and a WWE Diva, but knock has two Ks, which is a truth that is good enough for me. I hope I end up raising a Christy Hemme or a Gail Kim rather than an Awesome Kong. What do you feed an Awesome Kong anyway? Do you feel it people? I don't think I can do that. As a Plan B, maybe I could raise a So Cal Val to become an upstanding citizen who allows a few cameras to film between her legs now and again.
I'm going to save up a trust fund for my unnamed future knockout(s). Today, I put a penny in my piggy bank. Tomorrow, perhaps I place a dollar. Thirty years from now, they will have one dollar and one cent to spend on whatever they need. On television, you will see Stevette and Steveline prance around the six-sided ring wearing very little clothing. This vision is a sight that every loving father waits all his life to see. Live long and make the greasy fans uncomfortable in their chairs, girls.
Q: In actuality, did you know that all I want for Christmas is my two front teeth?
A: Sure, but I already gave you two Chiclets for your birthday.
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