I am not sure how long these memories have been forgotten. It's like I've woken up in a seedy, Latin American motel room with two of my three kidneys missing, and the memories aren’t here... because I can only relive the moments by purchasing them on DVD or something. But somehow, I know that they will be blurry. The blurs will be everywhere, especially on the turnbuckles.
If I could just reminisce about a time... sift through the past... and try to hear those themes, meet those personalities, and see those championships again for free, I would know for sure that they aren’t there anymore, but I can't. I know I can't get those memories back for good... but I don't want to continue to analyze the world of professional wrestling, thinking about the possibility that they might return. This week, I exist here not knowing how long it's been since I've listened to a great ditty, met a colourful character, or became blinded by the shine of an abundance of golden belts. So... how... how I can forget? How am I supposed to move on if I can't... move on in standard definition?
The Swerved Nation deserves to the return to the old World Wrestling Federation. On the other hand, I don't know whether or not the others should get the chance. Although, just because there are aspects of the past that some cannot and or should not be able to recall does not make my efforts meaningless. Yesterday's wrestling industry doesn't just disappear when you close your eyes, or does it? Maybe I will write a textual picture to remind myself and others of this time, at least before it slips from my mind. Hey look; I found a glittery button. To which article of clothing does this particular fabulous button belong?
Does anyone have any bread by any chance? Ladies, do I have two pieces of bread right? If I do, somebody get me some peanut butter and a knife because this is my jam. Aside from Eddie Guerrero, Chris Benoit, and Perry Saturn, Dean Malenko was my absolute favourite member of the Radicalz. When he turned from an technical wrestling iceman into a suave ladies man with a James Bond inspired theme, my love for him grew three times the original size of regulation love. Although a Light Heavyweight Championship reign was his greatest accomplishment in the World Wrestling Federation, I prefer his run in the company to his time in World Championship Wrestling. After all, Dean Malenko may have been a star Turnerland, but in Vince McMahon's WWF, he was a superstar. According to his brilliant Titantron, the new Dean was magnificent, marousing, malovable, malexciting, malenotorious, malenkinky, and malenkoutsanding. If you cannot be malenkinky like Dean Malenko, you do not know how to live. I tried to be malenkinky once, but I ended up bruising my dingle-dongle.
More often than not (with weather permitting), did you know that it is sexual, baby? "Sexual Chocolate" Mark Henry wants to give it all to you, but he must share his chocolate with his friends first before he gives you a taste. If he tries to keep his sexual chocolate to himself, others will perceive that he is a greedy person who hogs the world's supply of sexual cocoa treats for himself. During the Attitude Era, Mark Henry was my favourite sexual wrestler who was also sexual food, next to "Sexual Halibut" Chainsaw Charlie and "Sexual Tofurkey" DOA Member Crush. Unfortunately, Mark Henry’s sexiness attracted Mae Young, but that is the downside of being a sexual food product. As the saying goes, with great power comes Mae Young. Sometimes the chocolate mixes in with soft serve ice cream to create a refreshing and erotic treat. Other times, the chocolate melts into a creepy old lady's bowl of applesauce. Welcome to the life of late 1990s Mark Henry. Yeah, right on.
The late and great Owen Hart was a two-time Slammy winner, an exciting in-ring performer, and a man who had danger signs on his tights as a means to warn others that his hips and abdomen were dangerous body parts. As part of the Nation of Domination, Owen Hart became the best member of the Hart family with the rocking "Enough is Enough," a song about change coming to you from a steel mill or an industrial warehouse with sparks flying everywhere. During his theme, did you hear steel hitting steel? Well, that was Owen Hart attacking a steel pipe with another steel pipe, furious that steel was not willing to be a flexible alloy. Unbeknownst to many current wrestling fans, flexible alloys were one of two premium resources in the industry at the time. What was the other premium resource? If I had to guess, probably silicon boobies. Everyone had them, except Owen Hart because silicon boobies are not that flexible either. Unlike him, they are not willing to change for the better in a steel mill or an industrial warehouse with sparks flying everywhere.
In the year 1999, four WWF superstars were brave enough to take on their former allies in the form of the mighty Corporation, a stable led by one Shane McMahon. As the Corporation dominated the company, The Big Show, Mankind, Test, and Ken Shamrock joined forces to battle the corporate beast in the only way they knew how: with pieces of wood. How do four guys with 2x4s defeat a stable of over ten performers? As if they were avenging the death of their fathers by a vile group of sharp and rusty nails, they swung those pieces of wood fairly hard at them, but just for a month or so because that wood is heavy. Some may claim that The Union's theme song was too simplistic and bland, but repeating the word "union" and the sound of a steam whistle is intimidating to me. The next time that you see me on the street, please do not say, "union," and blow a steam whistle in my face. When I run my daily errands, I bring one pair of pants with me and do not wish to change into another pair.
I cannot help but deem the old Hunter Hearst Helmsley as wrestling’s most fantastic incarnation of Triple H. Grown men who can wear ribbons in their hair and equestrian pantaloons with dignity are admirable human beings. Furthermore, a Triple H who comes out to such a distinguished masterpiece as "Blue Blood" is a true king. Perhaps, he is a king of other true kings. In addition, he may gain additional employment as an assassin who is cerebral. On the other hand, the wisecracking Triple H does nothing for me. For the last time, I do not want to play any predetermined games with you; I want to ride white horses in the countryside, then sit down in a gazebo and have a delightful brunch of tea and crumpets to your old theme instead. Even though you do not care for the song, I'm loving the flute work. Your flutist must be a bomb expert because he or she is blowing me away. Because you cannot grant my realistic wish, why don't you be productive and help your friend Shawn Michaels make money? One of you can make lemonade, while the other builds the stand. Be gone, 2009 Triple H.
Deep down, I am a fan of Sean O'Haire for numerous reasons. Reason the first, he overcame the odds and won the WCW Tag Team Championship with Mark Jindrak. In turn, I can't even properly clothe myself knowing that Mark Jindrak exists somewhere on the same planet. Reason the second, he was a Natural Born Thriller. Compared to him, I was born to naturally born kill, not naturally born thrill. Therefore, I applaud his lifelong ability to thrill other people, places, and things. Reason the third, his devil's advocate gimmick in WWE was good in the neighbourhood, until Roddy Piper and Mr. America came into the picture with their oldness. I will always appreciate that Sean O'Haire wanted to be a devil's advocate in a period of angel advocates. I don't like to learn anything worthwhile, so his interest in telling me what I don't already know was rather convenient. Once WWE learned that he was telling wrestling fans what they already know, they released him for not fulfilling his duties as a wrestler slash performer slash actor slash teacher. How dare they. How dare they all the way.
A wise man once told me that you never realize what you have until you lose it. I did not perceive him to be wise because he gave useful advice, but because he kind of looked like the love child of Obi-Wan Kenobi and the Iron Sheik -- the Obi-Wan Kenobi of professional wrestling. As I recall his wise words, I think back to the WWF Divas of yesteryear and wonder about Tori. For those of you who are unaware of Tori's role in the WWF, I hope you recognize as soon as possible. Tori was psycho Mickie James before Mickie James turned psycho. She broke Kane's heart before Katie Vick, Terri Runnels, Lita, Kelly Kelly, and one-fourth of the world's female population broke it. She was Raven's ninja before Eve Torres dressed as a ninja. Now that she is gone, I miss the psychotic, heartbreaking ninja. Wherever you are, Tori, I would like to thank you for your dedication to your wrestling craft. I will never forget your decision to wrestle in a feline leotard at WrestleMania XV after performing as "Toricat" in the Philadelphia production of Cats. Memory, turn your face to the moonlight. Led the moonlight lead you until you fall back into the skinny arms of X-Pac.
Essa Rios, an extraordinary Mexican talent and former WWF Light Heavyweight Champion, first made his debut in the company as Papi Chulo. In Spanish, "Papi Chulo" means "Hot Sandwich Table." With a name like "Hot Sandwich Table," how can you lose? Of course, he became an instant hit with fans of Sunday Night Heat, who enjoyed to eat their hot sandwiches on a solid surface such as a table. Out of all the talented WWF light heavyweight contenders, Essa Rios became a featured player for he knew the least English. For some reason, I think his lack of knowledge about the English language made him better than the rest. Wouldn't you like to live a life in which you don't understand or communicate with Brian Christopher? In dreams, I wish to be like Essa Rios. I wish to not know English, flip a whole bunch, and flip a whole bunch with Lita, who flips a whole bunch as well. I shall call my alter ego, "El Pollo Guapo," also known as the Polo Playing Hamster. Look out, Juventud. Salamanders struggle against hamsters.
As I became a follower of the entertainment sport of masterful grappling, Ahmed Johnson captured my imagination like no other Ahmed before him. In my opinion that is humble, Ahmed Johnson was a great WWF Intercontinental Champion. Since I determine the greatness of WWF and WWE Intercontinental Champions by their ability to look shiny at any time of day, Ahmed Johnson ranks as one of the everlasting legends. Some words that I would use to describe Ahmed Johnson are the following: big, strong, powerful, resilient, skilled, and salty looking. In life, one tends to encounter an individual who manages to appear sticky, shiny, and sweaty at the same time. Now and forever, I refer to these sticky, shiny, and sweaty individuals as "salty" by their appearance alone. Once you take a look at old episodes of WWF RAW, you will find out that Ahmed Johnson looked the saltiest. In today's wrestling scene, doesn't saltiness mean anything anymore? His Pearl River Plunge was high in impact and sodium. For goodness sake, he can take the ‘T’ out of someone’s name.
Wrestling fans may mean well, but they are often forgetful creatures. Unless a certain performer is present to remind them of what they should be doing, they are lost young men and women. One day, Vince McMahon will realize that his promotion lacks a talent who can remind the fans that they need to call their mothers when they accomplish tasks to an efficient degree. From his days as the victim of Scott Norton's constant beatings to his shining moment at the 2004 Royal Rumble, I will be an admirer of Ernest "The Cat" Miller until I take my fatal dive into a pile of naked ladies and doubloons. So far, my unofficial name for my demise is the Scrooge McDuck Special. The night prior to the unfortunate event, I will wear ruby slippers and dance like nobody is watching, informing my mother about my dancing accolades over the phone until "The Cat" makes his overdue return. You are my majesty, Ernest. My words are earnest. Somebody call everyone.
As a golden rebuttal to Stone Cold Steve Austin's Smoking Skull Championship Belt, The Rock introduced the Brahma Bull Title to the wrestling masses. While I am not a fan of custom championships, the Brahma Bull Championship Belt is an exception. In order to become the championship of bulls, The Rock had to defeat an actual brahma bull. If The Rock was a part of WWE today, he could easily beat a brahma bull by showing him Southland Tales, but back then, he had to wrestle one in impressive fashion. He had to wrestle that bull with one hand behind his back, one leg behind his other leg, one eye open, one lip tucked into his mouth, and one elbow transplanted onto his other elbow. How do you like them fight-spoiling words, John Cena's WWE Spinning Championship Belt? I bet you will be speechless, but for now, you are spinning.
Speaking of championship belts that are championship belts to only one person, I remember John Cena's Spinning U.S. Championship as the better spinning title of the two. For one, the citizens of the United States of America love objects that spin rather than objects that do not (on the other hand, Canadians enjoy objects that eat at Tim Hortons refuse to admit that they are heavily influenced by American culture). I do not have much experience with American women, but whenever I visit the country, I try to spin around really fast and look diamond-encrusted to woo them. Nine times out ten, my technique works in a manner that doesn‘t work. To be honest, the Spinning United States Championship was superior to the world title for it was silver and not tacky. If I could, I would turn back the forward hands of time, take the spinning U.S. belt out of JBL's exploding trash can, and replace it with the spinning version of the WWE Championship. Why? I want to wear the Spinning United States Championship to my future child's wedding. I want to be classy.
TAKA Michinoku. Christian. Jeff Hardy. Gillberg. What do these aforementioned entertainers have in common? Not only are they future members of the WWE Hall of Fame, they are former owners of the illustrious WWF Light Heavyweight Championship. While diehard fans of WCW may consider the Light Heavyweight Title as a poor man's Cruiserweight Championship, they do not understand that poor men do not win the former belt. You see, poor men “borrow” the belt. Before they can lose this bet, they pawn the championship off for open cans of expired tuna because they cannot afford closed cans of expired tuna. In other words, poor men are poor and do poor stuff. At this point, World Wrestling Entertainment does not need the return of the Light Heavyweight Championship, but they need Gillberg to make a comeback. They have many sparklers and minimal opportunities to utilize them. The 4th of July is not a frequent holiday.
Am I cuckoo like a clock, or did WWF feature championship belts with coloured straps during the Attitude Era? According to my photographic memory, which is rated R for coarse language, scenes of violence, and adult situations, the European Championship had a green strap, the Light Heavyweight Championship had a red strap, the Intercontinental Championship had a purple strap, and Stone Cold's reign was celebrated with a new world championship, which sported a blue strap. I am not sure why WWF chose to colour these belts, but I applaud them for their attention to the small details. First and foremost, Stone Cold Steve Austin is an anti-authority, anti-hero for the blue collar, hardworking, middle class man. Secondly, Stone Cold Steve Austin loves to colour coordinate his belt to his jeans. Oh, underworld affirmative. If you agree, give Stone Cold an underworld affirmative.
For a brief period until the death of the WWF Hardcore Championship, title holders came down to the ring with their own custom belts. The original Hardcore Championship that you know and love is my least favourite belt of the Attitude Era for it appeared as though it was a prestigious piece of hot garbage. While I am not saying that Bradshaw's belt with the longhorns is any better than the shattered championship, Tommy Dreamer's title with the New York, New York license plate was the best improvement. At that time, I was glad that Tommy Dreamer registered his championship belt with the city because I do not care for wrestlers who illegally drive their belts to the arena. If Dreamer was to accidentally hit another championship belt with his own title, he would be unable to drive away unscathed because the victim would take down his license plate number and report him to the proper authorities. No doubt, Thomas Dreamer is extreme -- extremely responsible. Once in a while, he will hit his opponent with a cushioned chair. Also, he will use a cheese grater in the ring to make nachos for his rivals. Good for him.
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