This week, I take a stroll down Recollection Boulevard to September 2005. Why Recollection Boulevard? You see, I would take a trip down Memory Lane, but Memory Lane is for the poor, the ugly, and the uneducated. Conversely, Recollection Boulevard has a beautiful rose garden, pristine tennis courts, and a reinforced cage for street urchins. Thankfully, this cage prevents the urchins from begging for stale sesame crackers while I am trying to spend quality time with my lady friend, my other lady friend, her lady's lady friend, and some attractive stranger I met near the water fountain. Let me tell you, when two slate statues make eye contact with each other as they relieve themselves in a pond of pennies, you've got yourself some romance. Forget your fast cars and your blatant disregard for the safety of yourself and your fellow passengers, Nicholas Luscious Hogan. Elaborate water fountains are the ultimate panty remover.
On this edition of The Swerved: Special Edition, I look back on the many tidbits and secrets found from the diaries of popular professional wrestlers. Everything you think you know about the muscly men and women of World Wrestling Entertainment and Total Nonstop Action is false. Go ahead and throw your preconceived notions out the window for they will do no good. Before he asks the question, Booker T knows if you can dig it or not. He simply asks the question to break the ice. Due to their unmentioned inexperience in the boudoir, D-Generation X would prefer if you would not suck it. If you are going to physically express your love for Shawn Michaels or Hunter Hearst Helmsley, hold hands to start. Last of all, Batista does not stand alone. While you may not accept this fact, have you ever seen Batista stand alone with your own eyes? If you witness Batista riding a subway, space constraints prevent him from standing by himself. Do not get me started with Batista at a standing-room only concert. He is not as special as he claims to be.
As you direct your judgemental glares to these forgotten secrets of yesteryear, consider yourself lucky. Even though I have been to the diary well three times in my illustrious, professional wrestling analytic career, I will never visit that well again. The task is too dangerous. The risks are too plentiful. Death is but a single page turn away. The day that I borrow another diary of a professional wrestler is the day that I am no more. Truck driving is not the safest job in the world, though it is not as difficult as borrowing diaries. I scoff at the supposed plight of farm workers, airplane pilots, and policemen as well. Yes, a malfunctioning tractor or unpredictable farm animal may run over an unsuspecting farm hand. In turn, diary borrowers may strain their index finger as they attempt to pry open the diary's heavy front cover. Airplane pilots may perish in a horrific ocean crash which leaves zero survivours. On the other hand, A jagged key that opens a diary may slightly scratch a diary borrower‘s delicate epidermis. A policeman may get shot in the face by a stray bullet during an intense standoff with a manic criminal. Likewise, the printing on the diary page may be messy, which makes reading a definite challenge for the diary borrower. In the future, the plight of the diary borrower must be put into song for it is the most stressful task of all.
Until that day arrives, let us bask in the warmth of diary secrets. This feels so wrong, yet so right. One moment later, this feels so wrong for a second time. Let’s keep this meeting quiet. I don’t want to wake up the neighbours.
The following piece contains excerpts I have recently uncovered from the diaries of select professional wrestlers. Please do not ask how I got these entries because I am not particularly proud of the means through which I attained them. Although, be aware that my body is currently in sharp pain. Furthermore, I had to listen to a karaoke rendition of "Sk8erboi" sung by Torrie Wilson and Candice Michelle for the entire time. Whether you think this was a good or bad experience is up to you. As for me, I am confused. In addition, do not inquire about further entries from a particular person's diary. I cannot help you because 1) I do not have them at the moment and 2) you do not the have the expressed written consent of Major League Baseball. Nevertheless, please enjoy these intriguing snippets of what I consider be an excellent look into the lives of those in the business.
(Unlike the casual wrestling audience, I do not view professional wrestlers as larger-than-life superstars. Wrestlers are not any different than you and I. Do not be fooled by their glistening pectoral muscles or their willingness to cup another man's junk during gorilla press slam attempts.
We all make millions of dollars by play fighting with other grown men. If you don't partake in this activity yourself, leave our world. We all appear in cliché action films supported by no-name actors who wish to use said films as a springboard towards artist, erotic thriller serials on Showtime. We all mask our recreational drug use through complex, underhanded methods in order to keep our precious spot at the top. Don't lie to yourself. Last week, I took some horse steroids, ate a bale of hay, placed third in a steeplechase, produced liquid glue to help construct children's macaroni collages, then fathered several illegitimate colts and fillies. We are cut from the same sports entertainment cloth.)
This first excerpt comes from the "The Con-Man" himself -- Rob Conway. His diary was labelled "The Con-Journal." Well, he can't win them all, but I applaud his efforts. Good show, incredibly shiny guy.
(Rest in peace, Rob Conway’s sequined pageboy cap. I shall bury you in the dirt next to the other members of the Wrestling Headwear Hall of Fame. You will rest next to the greats, such as Buff Bagwell's magical top hat, heel John Cena's white bucket hat, Vince McMahon's jet black do-rag, and last but not least, Godfather's fedora with a feather on it. When the Godfather desired to discipline his hos for being too respectable and ambitious, he would not slap them with the back of his hand. In times of trouble, he would tickle them with his hat feather. Oh, the sacrifices that peacock made to complete the Godfather's wardrobe. Cristal on the sidewalk for that peacock. One day, may he regain his job as the NBC logo.)
Dear Diary,
Just look at me. Ain't I a sight to see? Just look at me. I'd like to know where that hat with the sequins went. I hardly wear it anymore. I loved that hat as it made me look like a flamboyant limousine driver. "Not only will I take you to the airport, but I'm also... gonna make couscous!" Yeah, that would've been great. A while ago, I used to be in a tag team with somebody who looked like that Jude Law person if you squinted hard enough. I used to call him Sly Captain and the World Wrestling Entertainment of Tomorrow. Now, he's on some Friday night show. I didn't even know there was television on a Friday. With him by my side, I was a 20-time World Tag Team Champion, beating powerhouse combinations like Sgt. Slaughter and Rhyno, Val Venis and Rhyno, and Tajiri and Rhyno. We totally revolutionized tag team wrestling. I wish the best for Almost Jude Law, but I wish better for myself (naturally, because I "con"). First we were from France, then we were from Quebec. Because we were moving west, our next hometown would have been the Pacific Ocean. Man do people hate that ocean. I've been told that a lot of Americans are furious that the Pacific Ocean made some very poor decisions for the country. In one of his 2004 campaign speeches, John Kerry was like, "Don't let the door hit you on the way out, large body of water!". Now that I think of it, he was wearing a hat that was exactly like mine during his speech. That magnificent bastard.
Just di-ar-y,
Rob Conway
(Three years ago, the WWE tag team division was no better than it is now. Between Conway and Grenier as La Résistance and a thousand random, makeshift teams, I choose a slow, painful demise via experimental cosmetic surgery in a dirty, abandoned, Venezuelan fruit stand. Why yes, my dream is to look one-half Beetlejuice. Why didn't you ask me this question sooner? Off the top of my head, I can count about five decent tag teams in the company today. Actually, four is the more accurate number. Don't tell me that Curt Hawkins and Zack Ryder are watchable because I will never believe you. They may be the WWE Tag Team Champions, but do wrestling fans even pay attention to them? One of them wears long tights; the other does not. World Wrestling Entertainment sure does love to develop their tag teams.
What will they do next? Will they make Curt Hawkins grow sideburns? Will they let Zack Ryder carry around a packet of yogurt everywhere he goes so the other wrestlers will know that he is the only man on this planet who publicly eats yogurt?)
This next journal entry is from Jeff Jarrett, one of the many people who will help launch TNA on SpikeTV, October 1st in the year 2005. Personally, I would love to see some competition for the industry sorely needs it. Therefore, best of luck to the company and the network. Spike is really making the case that TNA is THE alternative. More wrestling, you say? I don't even know what that is, but it sounds innovative.
(Total Nonstop Action has come a long way these past few years. Back then, Jeff Jarrett ruled the company as the reigning champion of the National Wrestling Alliance and the unofficial champion of white pants wearers across the galaxy. Fast forward to 2008, I have no clue what is going on during Impact. Who is this guy with the thing? Who is this other guy with the other thing? Why does Kevin Nash appear to be the love child of Los Angeles Lakers Coach Phil Jackson and a cumulous cloud? I couldn't tell you the number of times that I mistook Kevin Nash for an accomplished National Basketball Association coach or a puffy cloud on a overcast afternoon. The number is rather large.)
Dear Diary,
I'm running out of people to attack with silver guitars. I have hit pretty much everybody there is to hit in TNA. So, yesterday, I decided to hit myself with it and the guitar was still intact, except for the part that my head went through. After that, I was wearing the shattered guitar like a neckerchief and everyone was commenting on how great it looked. I saw myself in the mirror at the end of the day and started to shake my head forwards and backwards so it would twirl around like a hula hoop. That was fun, so I'm going to continue to wear it. I don't even need to be NWA World Champion again. I can just wear this instrument on my shoulders for the rest of my career. People will see me on television and want one of their own. The response should be very sweet. I think I want a feud with Samoa Joe in which he's jealous about my neck guitar. Why shouldn't he be? No submission move will win him a neck guitar anytime soon. Plus, fans will be able to hear Don West scream, "He's wearing a guitar, Mike Tenay!" Next, Mike will run down the history of it: "Emanating from Mexico, this guitar has wrestled in the United States, Japan, and many other countries all around the world. He has battled the likes of the Tambourine Kid, Ultimo Kazoo, and the team of Super Piccolo and Xylophone IV." That's Total Nonstop Sweetness right there.
That's N-E-C-K G-U-I-T-A-R,
Jeff Jarrett
(Although I don't follow Japanese professional wrestling, I continue to hear good things about the Tambourine Kid and Ultimo Kazoo. Since the buzz emanates from Japan, the buzz mostly consists of cutesy giggles from shy yet mischievous schoolgirls and early 1990s karaoke songs from creepy, elderly businessmen. I am told that the Tambourine Kid's finisher is a breathtaking top turnbuckle Tiger Driver called "The Tracy Partridge Tambourine Jamboree." I think I love you, Tambourine Kid. Other professional wrestling analysts who are not as fantastic as I am claim that Ultimo Kazoo has a tremendous workrate. In my opinion, Ultimo Kazoo has to have an impressive workrate because he is the last kazoo. Without Ultimo Kazoo, Edge and Christian would not have existed.)
WWE RAW interviewer Maria Kanellis is a charming gal. Judging from what I have seen from her, she seems to be likable enough and the company puts her to reasonably effective use. What I don't understand is her personality off-screen, especially from the words she has written in this diary entry. She comes off as cold and distant. What happened to the Maria whom I adored? You stole her soul, hardcover Hello Kitty notebook; I hate you for it. I hope your pages turn a tan-like yellow and become incredibly dog-eared.
That's right. I said it.
Dearest Diary,
I find this task rudimentary at best.
Respectfully yours,
Maria Kanellis
(Rudimentary is big word for a naked girl. For your mastery of the English language, you shall receive a jelly bean. Sadly, you will receive a black jelly bean. I hope you like your jelly beans how you like your men -- soft and chewy, yet often inedible. Are you sure you want to talk and be distinct from the other naked girls? Wouldn't your job be easier for you if you stood there and said nothing to nobody? Wait, isn't that your job at this moment? Ever since I was a handsome little girl, I wanted to pose for Playboy Magazine, but you know what? I knew I was better than a Playboy Magazine spread. In the end, I posed for North American Fisher Magazine instead. Silver carps were strategically placed on my thirty-three private areas. Match point, Maria. Your move. Ninth down. Fourth period. Bottom of the third.)
At first, John "Bradshaw" Layfield did not strike me as a man who likes to play with Bratz dolls and talk on his candy cell phone. Today, I admit I was in the wrong. I sincerely apologize for this assumption as I have now found out that he is more than a wrestling God. Truly, Bradshaw is a mentor of sorts for people from all walks of life. If I had to guess what influences his way of thought and action, I'd have to say that it could be Farooq. Although, I always thought Farrooq was more of a guy who enjoys making amazing cupcakes in his deluxe Easy Bake Oven. By the way, wasn't that what the A.P.A. was about? I thought beer was just a cover-up for fruit smoothies and the door to their office was built with care and tenderness.
(Deep down, Bradshaw is a pre-teenage girl. You know what JBL did behind the tinted windows of his limousine? Bradshaw, Cody Rhodes, and Ted DiBiase Jr. played People’s Court: Bratz Dolls Edition. In most cases, Jasmin looked to sue Sharidan for unpaid rent, stolen property, or irreparable damages to her whorish appearance. According to my sources, Bradshaw liked to mix it up sometimes. In response, my futures rise just thinking about these wonderful little plays, if you get my Tokyo Drift. Forget those WWE Divas with their stupid hair, faces, eyes, noses, teeth, breasts, arms, legs, torsos, pelvises, butts, and backs. Give me People’s Court: Bratz Dolls Edition any day of the year. Remember, the marquee reads World Wrestling Entertainment, not World Wrestling Swimsuit Competitions Whenever We Feel Like it.)
Dear Diary,
This entry is bananas. B-A-N-A-N-A-S. OMG OMG OMG you guyz I had ice cream and it tasted so so good. I luv choco-choco-chocolate oh ya. I'm gonna rename my finish to The Clothesline From Baskin Robbins LOL. HAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!! Ew the Good Humor Man tried to git my number. Ew. Whateva. I don't want no scrubs. NO NO NO NO NAH NAH NAH. Ok I'm gonna go roller blade and then I'm gonna go to the mall. Hot pink tights for me and OJ y'all. Hahahahaha I should blade all around the store. Every1 would be like "He's the fastest shopper evar!". OMG so tru. My dog George W. Sprinkles says holla. I love her so much. I keep her in ma lap all the timez haha. Anyway I'm bouncin'. Toodles LOL!!!!!
Luv,
Jizzle B Lizzle
(Fifty years from now, your children's children will read about our time within the pages of scholarly textbooks. Their articulate teacher will lead a discussion regarding reasons as to why the people of 2008 chose to converse in this abbreviated, dumbed-down manner through speech and communicative text. After several hours of intense debate, your children's children will conclude that our generation spent too much time rolling on the floor, laughing in an uncontrollable manner until our posteriors voluntarily detached themselves from our persons. Since we tend to simultaneously lose our knowledge for grammar and spelling and our posteriors on a frequent basis, your children's children will surmise that the human brain has moved from the human head to the human buttocks. Good work, everyone. You have created a disturbing future. Get in the ROFLcopter now if you want to live.)
You might not believe that I received this final entry in the most legal of ways, but I did. For the true believers, I give to you Bret Hart's journal. Now, he does not say much, though what he does say is quite important and informative. Thus, you must read this entry a few times over to comprehend what he's talking about. While I believe that "The Hitman" should be remembered as a legendary wrestler rather than the man caught in the middle of the Montreal Screwjob (Bret Hart and Shawn Michaels were playing hopscotch; Bret cheated), I do not know why he chooses to reveal the truth behind the incident now... in his diary... which I obtained legally... for sure.
(I have expressed my opinion on the Montreal Screwjob before, yet I will reiterate it once more. Shawn Michaels, Vince McMahon, and Earl Hebner did not screw Bret Hart on that fateful November night. In addition, Bret Hart did not screw himself. Out of all parties involved at the 1997 Survivor Series, I blame Milton Bradley's Karate Fighters for the incident. Damn you, Milton Bradley. Get your monkeys out of my barrel. First, you have the nerve to rip off the concept of Rock 'Em Sock 'Em Robots. Then, you kick Bret Hart right out of the company with your plastic karate killers. Do not swing your spastic legs at me, Skullcrusher. You have brought great pain to the industry with your-skull crushing ways. You have done enough physical and emotional damage for one night.)
Dear Diary,
My reason for coming back and working on a DVD with Vince McMahon is simple. Maybe Shawn Michaels will never get it, and Earl Hebner too, but I think they'll understand the reason once I reveal it to the public. You see... I did it... for The Rock. I did it... for the people. It's that simple. Nothing more and nothing less. It's not a given that I'll be in Chicago around WrestleMania time, but I do hope to be in the WWE 2006 Hall of Fame with fellow inductees like Randy Savage. Also, Mark Jindrak.
Sincerely,
Bret Hart
(What do you get when you combine Mark Jindrak, a free-standing mirror, and Theodore Long? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. In Swerved City, the official home of this glorious site, Mark Jindrak's narcissist gimmick is the official currency of failure. For only one-hundred Jindrakian narcissist gimmicks, you can bring shame to your immediate and extended families for life. If that gimmick is "The Reflection of Perfection," I vow to be as imperfect as possible. Don't be afraid to chuck Swiss Army Knives at my beautiful, symmetrical face. That gimmick natural born thrills me and natural born kills me. I think Mark Jindrak should drink my expired milk backwash. No offense, Mark Jindrak.)
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