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.
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