Check one two, then check one two again You know what "one two" stands for? One two stands for "Only Naysayers Excel Twice Without Optimism" Make sure you check one two out
You got teeth, where you want teeth But your grin can't stretch farther than mine Cause you know I don't know what I know you think you don't know you know, and I know you That knowing that you know is of the unknown
Yes, that knowing has known you, has owned you It's the mindset where the underworld overlord has set you So consider me to be a slightly less unkempt Nick Nolte I'll tell you about a cape to fear after I french this monkey
The Question: Who wins and how?
*****
NEXT WEEK
We are three weeks away from the 3rd anniversary of The Swerved. That's just 3 Sweet.
AND
Soft lips are open, knuckles are pale. Feels like you're dying, you're dying.
As World Wrestling Entertainment takes desperate measures to retain your viewership, Total Nonstop Action is effortlessly on the rise. Homegrown stars such as AJ Styles, Samoa Joe, and Beer Money, Inc. are shining in the spotlight. Currently, the TNA Knockouts Division is head, shoulders, knees, and toes above the lacklustre WWE Women's Division. Most of all, Dixie Carter has dethroned Linda McMahon as the best looking figurehead in the professional wrestling business. Sorry, Linda McMahon. I hope you don't take this news falling down to the side of Steve Austin's shoulder five seconds too early. At least you have your honest and loyal husband to console you.
Without question, World Wrestling Entertainment is the number one wrestling promotion in the world. Then again, Total Nonstop Action wrestling is lurking in the total nonstop shadows, ready to usurp the industry throne. In the fight for wrestling supremacy, WWE will not have an easy time for TNA brings what they do not. Total Nonstop Action has two more sides of the ring, one more entranceway hole, and one more Bobby Lashley than WWE. Your move, Vince McMahon. Your move. I await the coming of the Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, or Friday Wars. On the weekend, WWE and TNA will rest, but on weekdays, you better believe they will be warring. Both promotions will put on their warring galoshes and everything.
Today, WWE reminds me of a elderly grandfather who cannot and refuses to understand popular culture. In this case, TNA is the hip and trendy grandson, playing his Li'l Wayne CDs while eating from a disposal tube of yogurt. In his grandfather's day, yogurt did not come in tubes. They came in cups and nobody complained. In 2009, tubes are in and cups are out, Gramps. Once WWE realizes that they must get with the times, I predict that TNA will pass them by, leaving them in their dusty dust. The start of the revolution begins with TNA merchandise in all its glory.
Last week, WWE took centre stage with their product line. This week, Total Nonstop Action will blow many things out of the water with their products. First off, they shall blow WWE out of the water. With time permitting, they will blow your collective socks off, but you must get out of the water before they can do so. In the meantime, cop these products like an looter of expensive underpants during a riot.
Shop TNA
Suicide Autographed Baseball
Do you like professional wrestling? How about baseball? If you are one of the millions of fans who have always wanted professional wrestling and baseball to combine into one incomprehensible sport, the Suicide Autographed Baseball is your ticket to confusion. Be one of the 30 lucky owners of this unique piece of merchandise before the other 29 owners realize the mistake they made in their impulsive purchase. Don West claims that the Suicide Autographed Baseball will serve as a priceless conversation piece in your beautiful home. Like West, I wholeheartedly agree with this statement. When people ask why you own an Official Major League Baseball with some professional wrestler's name on it, watch the sweat drip as you try to find a satisfactory answer. Imagine the amount of weight you will lose from your brow sweat alone when a lovely lady arrives at your place, looks at that autographed baseball on your mantle, and begins to question your sanity and sexuality. "Suicide” “Comes” “Alive," the baseball says? I can't think of a better way to promote TNA, Suicide’s maturation into manhood, and the act of ending one’s own life than a baseball protected by glass.
If you don't take advantage of this fantastic piece of merchandise, I will. Truly, I want the complete set; I don't want the collection to end with Suicide. I want a Homicide Autographed Baseball. Once TNA debuts a wrestler by the name of Apicide, I will buy ten baseballs sporting that man's autograph. I hate bees with the passion of a thousand romantic novel covers. Don't even bring up the possibility of an Algicide Autographed Baseball. The only thing I hate more than bees is algae. Total Nonstop Action can help me express my hatred in the outside world.
TNA Championship Belt Display Box (Belt Sold Separately)
One day, you will become a TNA World Heavyweight Champion. Maybe it'll happen when you sleepwalk to the Universals Studios lot, or when you bump into Kurt Angle as he shops for discounted linens at a Wal-Mart. However you become champion, please do not deny yourself of this honour. Few men get to hold a title as prestigious as the TNA World Heavyweight Championship in their lives. Off the top of my head, I can only think of about twenty or so belts that hold greater to equal prestige. As the owner of said belt, you will gain mad respect in the wrestling world. You will be able to be as crazy as you want to be without repercussion. Furthermore, you will have unlimited access to mahi-mahi dinners. Take that, Road Dogg Jesse and or BG James.
As long as you're the TNA World Heavyweight Champion, you might as well put your title in a fancy box. Of course, this TNA Championship Belt Display Box does not come with a world title, but it's best to be safe. You’ll get that title soon enough.
Think of a scenario in which you are carrying around the TNA World Heavyweight Championship. You have to put it down for a minute, but where? Don't put it on the floor for that would be disrespectful to the title. Don't hand it over to a friend. Your friend isn't the TNA World Heavyweight Champion. He's just a friend of the TNA World Heavyweight Champion. At this point, the best option you have is to place it in this box. Some wrestling fans believe that you can solve this problem by simply wearing the belt, but nobody wears championship belts anymore. That's foolish. I put every single one of my belts — clothing or championship — in a display box. My pants are always falling down, but look how cool that piece of rope looks in that box.
Kevin Nash "Big Sexy Tour 2008" T-Shirt
Unfortunately, I did not have time to celebrate Kevin Nash's Big Sexy Tour in 2008 as I was too busy celebrating my own Medium Attractiveness Festival that year. Medium attractive bands from all over North America joined me during last year's celebration of medium attractiveness. For example, that Randy Newman rip-off who sang Rob Conway's "Just Look at Me" attended, not to mention many other huge names in the medium attractive business. For missing Kevin Nash's Big Sexy Tour, I don’t deserve souvenirs, but that doesn’t mean that you have to pass on this item. While I don't think I deserve this shirt, you are different. You were present for the tour. Even if you didn’t know you were part of the tour, you were. If you or anyone you know met eyes with Kevin Nash when that tour occurred, you are now carrying his big, sexy, and grey-haired child. I'm happy for the both of you.
Kevin Nash is so exhausted from his Big Sexy Tour 2008 that he is not ready for a tour in the year 2009. In the tour’s absence, recall the oodles of noodles of fun had by Nash, you, and yours with this commemorative shirt. Perhaps the big and sexy question that everyone wants answered is if Nash will have a Big Sexy Tour in 2010. On second thought, maybe the Big Sexy Tour is similar to the Olympics in that it occurs every four years, featuring hundreds of nations from around the world. If so, you better get ready as soon as possible. I shall carry the Big Sexy Torch along the Pacific Coastline. Buy this shirt today if you wish to be the next torchbearer.
Super Eric 8 x 10 Photograph
The team of Super Eric, Shark Boy, and Curry Man made up the Prince Justice Brotherhood — a rag-tag group of masked superheroes who saved the day from the baddies of TNA. Curry Man had the power to wear a plate of curry on his head. Shark Boy had to power to shamelessly imitate Stone Cold Steve Austin. Finally, Super Eric had the power to put "super" in front of his first name. Together, their powers rivalled those of one Jessica Alba. Since Super Eric has become an angry young man without hair, we must remember better times in the form of a Super Eric 8 X 10 Photograph. Why 8 x 10? Super Eric was so super that TNA fans ate up his comedic shtick ten times over.
Super Eric did not have time to autograph this picture, but please forgive him. Superheroes have people to save. Also, superheroes don't use pens. Spider-man prefers using the silk that comes out of his wrists. Aquaman talks to sea creatures, who then type out his responses on a typewriter under the sea. If anything, Super Eric gave TNA fans an emotional autograph whenever he entertained them on screen. You cannot sell an emotional autograph on EBay, but would you want to? Or, would you rather frame that emotional autograph to place over the wounds in your fragile soul?
Samoa Joe "Tiki" Baseball Cap
Samoa Joe is a one man Nation of Violence, which means that he wears baggy pants and draws on his face with a black magic marker. Luckily, being the Nation of Violence comes with certain perks, such as getting the chance to use scented magic markers on your face. On the other hand, that black magic marker usually smells like stale licorice. Therefore, being Samoa Joe is both good and bad, depending on your opinion of licorice. Although, this minor setbacks shouldn't stop you from buying a Samoa Joe "Tiki" Baseball Cap. At night, Samoa Josephs love to hunt and kill their prey with a rusty knife. In the day, they enjoy keeping a low profile as they shop for lettuce at the grocery store.
With this baseball cap, hardly anyone will suspect that you an out of shape, Samoan version of Elvis Presley. In my life, I have tried to distance myself from being an out of shape, Samoan version of Elvis to no avail. This time, you and I are going to get what we want. Execute the Muscle Buster and Kokina Clutch in secret by placing this casual chapeau on your noggin. Many fans will suspect an out of shape, Samoan version of Elvis Presley to pull off a sneak attack, but few will suspect a man in fashionable disguise to do the same. Stop trying to keep your baggy pants from falling and start living a carefree lifestyle. Hats off to TNA for this great cranial accessory. Or, is that hat >on to TNA? Ha ha. Laughter.
Unified Tag Team Championship Match Kid 'n Play vs. Chris Jericho and The Big Show (c)
Look it's the Big S-H-O-W, we've had enough of you Resembling King Kong Bundy in an Al Snow wrestling suit Picked up Jericho so you could break down the walls But Kid's towering 'fro will never fall
The tag team hosts with the most, proud to boast, see Even though we're not really relevant after 1993 Two forces collide, better step to the wayside Players hold titles, but pretenders unify
The name is Kid 'n Play, don't dare take us over the line Cause we're in talks to star in House Party 29 We've got those neon clothes ready, wearin' two shirts at a time That leather jacket with a 8-ball, we rockin' it all night
It's no mystery, we're makin' competition history When you Kris, we Kross, we're going for backwards victory And when the ref counts one and two and three, and one, two, three Kid n' Play is going to attend those Summerfestivities
The Question: Who wins and how?
*****
NEXT WEEK
Re-Generation X urges you to build it up. If you're not up for that, they've got two words for you: think optimistcally.
AND
Did you question the knowledge? You have to question the knowledge.
Stephen Rivera here from The Swerved with Stephen Rivera to tell you about the best, the coolest, the most fantastic wrestling merchandise I have ever seen in the history of seeing wrestling merchandise. A lot of people know my background. I was in the professional wrestling analysis business for days, then months, then years; you've seen my superior, expert analysis on an invention of mine that I like to call "The Internet." Although, the thing I admired the most, the thing that gets my attention no matter where I am or what I'm writing about is — believe it or not — overpriced wrestling memorabilia. In my mind, overpriced wrestling memorabilia are the most overpriced products in entertainment sports. So, I got to thinking, why keep this great merchandise under wraps? Why can't I show you what WWE and TNA have to offer their fans? I'm not just talking about any overpriced wrestling memorabilia. I'm talking about the kind of overpriced wrestling memorabilia that you can display in your homes, bronzed and placed within the safe confines of a bullet proof, glass case.
As some TNA fans may know, Don West is a salesman. Before he was a part of Total Nonstop Action wrestling, he was swimming in Ken Griffey, Jr. rookies. Now that Taz(z)[z] has taken over Don’s position as Impact's colour commentator, West is back where he belongs. Don West might be a seller unlike anyone in the business, but I can sell, too. Many people call me the ultimate sell out because I am great at selling products to anyone and everyone. One time, I sold a glass of lemonade to some guy. While that feat is not impressive in itself, were you aware that I sold that glass of lemonade in November? The weather wasn't even that hot. Plus, the guy wasn't that thirsty. Checkmate, sirs and madams. All your Monopoly pieces are mine.
To all the tightwads and penny-pinchers on the world wide web, I suggest you take out your purses, wallets, and coin purses this instant. At first, you may struggle, but under my influence, you will cave in and buy yourself something nice. As a salesman extraordinaire, I have never failed. Therefore, you might as well give your money to someone you can trust. I solemnly swear that I will use this money for the good of the industry. I will purchase decorative hats for millions of fans. I will buy confidence for lonely males. I will pay off sexy women, who will pretend to like those lonely males. Do not think that I will waste this money on a solid gold statue of myself because that is a ridiculous thought. Seriously, that idea is the seventh to last thing I would do with the cash.
Without further delay, let's make this article worthwhile to the buyer. Let's make this article one of the greatest ones that has ever appeared on The Swerved. For those of you who do not have enough money to buy these valuable items, please look away from this site for about two weeks. When those two weeks are up, please don't look here again. I don't think I can face someone who doesn't have fifty dollars in his pocket to buy an embarrassing t-shirt with a picture of a sweaty dude on it. Sweaty dude pictures keep wrestling alive, son.
WWE Shop
D-Generation X Christmas Stocking
Do you think you can tell Santa Claus what to do? Do you know he's coming down the chimney for you? You better crotch chop some carrots for Rudolph, or crotch chop some type of colourful garden salad. Rudolph isn't picky. Unlike myself, wrestling critics said it couldn't be done, but World Wrestling Entertainment has done it (whatever "it" is). For wrestling fans, Christmas comes early with the D-Generation X Christmas Stocking. I am told that if you hang this stocking with care, your mantle will look as though it is adorned with The Grinch's severed foot. All in a day's work for Triple H and Shawn Michaels. They'll deal with you later, Scrooge. One body part of their choosing will be missing from your person soon enough.
The Attitude Era alone has proven that Hunter and Shawn are naughty fellows, but don’t they deserve one to one thousand dollars of your hard-earned money? They told you a whole bunch of pee-pee jokes already. Give them a break for once. Feel free to let a strange old man into your home to fill your stocking. Surely, that man will stuff your stocking in the middle of the night as you sleep in your bed, unbeknownst to his arrival. The next day, you shall be in for a surprising wakeup call indeed. The preceding statement cannot be construed in any way, other than a PG fashion.
Before their online shop runs out of stock, I need to get me one of those stockings. My current stocking is not comically rebelling against any sort of establishment. I don't want to be left out of the d-generating loop.
Rey Mysterio Lunch Cooler
Little children love Rey Mysterio because they can relate to him. If I was a young lad, I know I would find characteristics of Mysterio in myself. When I was younger, I ran around in neon pleather masks and baggy pants, too. Nobody wanted to play with a shirtless, tattooed child, but I knew I was cool. I could feel it in my cool bones. Now that children have the Rey Mysterio Lunch Cooler, their lunch can be as cool as him. Never again will kids have to spend useless minutes eating their meals at lunchtime. Now, they can wait until the end of the school day to eat while they spend their lunchtime whooping Dolph Ziggler's ziggling ass.
Upon my next physical fight with a rival professional wrestling analyst, I will make sure to bring a Rey Mysterio Lunch Cooler with me. Since that battle is an inevitability, I want to be prepared. Learning my fighting techniques from the Smackdown: Here Comes the Pain video game, I will manhandle all one hundred or four hundred pounds of that scrawny or bulbous analyst by jumping out of helicopter onto a car. Next, that car will explode and send me flying onto an ambulance, which will explode as well. After I am victorious, I shall celebrate with a cool ham and cheese sandwich. I will have that ham and cheese sandwich on whole wheat bread, not white bread. I’m not an animal.
Jim Ross' Beef Jerky - Championship Original Flavour
Jim Ross is one of the greatest play-by-play announcers in the history of professional wrestling. His ability to accurately convey the drama and suspense of the entertainment sport to the viewer is unmatched. In my opinion, nobody will be able to match the greatness that is Jim Ross. With that said, eat his jerky. Jim Ross' Beef Jerky is made to your liking. First of all, Kane has personally set JR's jerky on fire during an awkward sit-down interview that goes on ten minutes too long. Secondly, Vince McMahon has forced Jim Ross' Beef Jerky to join the Vince McMahon Kiss My Ass Club to seal in that Vince flavour. Furthermore, Santina Marella is in love with Jim Ross' Beef Jerky. They have done it several times under the pale moonlight. In other words, this jerky is cured to perfection.
That ladder is not made out of chocolate. That ladder is not even made out of imitation chocolate. That ring is not covered in barbeque sauce. I'm not sure why one would want to cover a ring in barbeque sauce, but just so you know, that ring has no barbeque flavour whatsoever. On the other hand, Jim Ross' jerky is made out of real beef. In a world where I don't know what to believe anymore, I am glad that Jim Ross' jerky continues to be beefy. They say the grass is green, but is it really green? Is the sky actually blue, or does our heart only wish it to be so? Does Jim Ross' Beef Jerky consist of beef and or beef-like ingredients? Yes. Always mostly yes.
Shawn Michaels Teddy Bear
"The Heartbreak Kid" Shawn Michaels has been an enigma to me for several years. I never understood why Shawn Michaels treated Bret Hart the way he did. I can't get my head around Shawn's wacky performance in a Summerslam 2005 match against Hulk Hogan. Although, as I look at the Shawn Michaels Teddy Bear, I get it. I feel as though I finally know him. Shawn Michaels is this teddy bear. This teddy bear is Shawn Michaels. One gander at the teddy bear's face serves as my window into HBK's sexy-boy soul. He is not the man I thought he was. In fact, he is not a man at all. Underneath that rough, hobo-riffic exterior is a scared young one, unsure of the future.
The facial expression of the Shawn Michaels Teddy Bear says it all. That face expresses doubt, fear, and a hopeful sadness. In those chaps, the Shawn Michaels Teddy Bear is urging the ladies to keep their hands off the merchandise. In actuality, the Shawn Michaels Teddy Bear is afraid of intimacy. Sometimes, a boy toy does not want to be a toy anymore. He needs others to see him for the person he is, not for the person he is to them. It's not wonder why Whisper fell in love with Shawn Michaels. While everyone else was throwing Nitro parties, he was at home, having a raw dance battle with himself. What a complicated and fascinating individual. Get this teddy bear and you will know the real Shawn Michaels.
Kung Fu Naki Bandana
The Kung Fu Naki Bandana is a perfect gift for any diehard fan of Kung Fu Naki. If you know or know of any Kung Fu Naki fan in your general area, please contact World Wrestling Entertainment immediately. They would benefit from having such useful information. Even though I haven't seen him for forever, I think Funaki deserves better than one bandana. For the sake of all that is Funaki, he's a former WWE Cruiserweight Champion — the most prestigious champion in the cruiserweight land. He follows in the footsteps of such luminaries as Oklahoma, Jacqueline, and Hornswoggle. Yes. Even the living legend that is Hornswoggle.
Smackdown's Number One Announcer need not be represented by a single bandana. If you wish to support Funaki, buy this bandana several times over in hopes that WWE will make more. I, for one, urge World Wrestling Entertainment to transition themselves from the Age of Orton to the Funtastic Future of Funaki as soon as possible. They must make enough kinds of Funaki bandanas to cover an entire person’s body. Wearing many bandanas at once, Funaki fans will look like Funaki mummies. Randy Orton can only take the wrestling business so far. Of course, Funaki has not shown an ability to take it further, but I have confidence in him.
He’s the best Smackdown announcer we’ve got. Unfortunately, I continue to be weary of Josh Mathews. At least Funaki's nose doesn't bleed out of nowhere. I demand consistency.
Extra, extra: D-Generation X is back for the first time ever almost. As a wrestling fan, you should be glad to see Shawn Michaels and Triple H together again because they haven't been D-Generation X in a long while. Unless one thinks back to about September of last year, one could say that D-Generation X has never graced WWE with their d-generating presence. Truly, nobody is happier than I that D-Generation X has come alive for my entertainment and enjoyment. I have gone too long without telling people to put their mouth on my business via hand signal that resembles a railroad crossing sign. You better put your mouth on my business because the train is about to pass.
With the return of D-X comes to the return of Shawn Michaels. RAW has not been the same without Shawn Michaels. Before his return, the amount of heartbreaking children in World Wrestling Entertainment was staggeringly low. There I was, watching WWE in a state of depression, knowing full well that the children on my screen could not break hearts like Shawn Michaels. Of course, those children could have tried, but they only would’ve failed. Now that HBK is about wrestle Cody Rhodes and Ted DiBiase at Summerslam, I can breathe numerous sighs of relief. Check me out, taking oxygen from every single one of you.
For Shawn Michaels' Superkick, the legend continues. I don't know if you aware of this fact, but the Superkick ended World War II. Shawn Michaels ventured to the corner of Italy, tapped his boot against the Italian canvas several times, then lifted that same boot to Germany's German faces. In turn, the Germans surrendered. I got somewhere between an A and an F in history, though trust me in this case. I know these events like I know my third cousin Yoplait — rather sufficiently. No need to doubt me.
While World Wrestling Entertainment prepares for Shawn Michaels' return, I shall prepare for the coming of Shawn Michaels Superkick. Your reign of terror has just begun, my move. May you wreak chin-like, sweet musical havoc on your adversaries and opposition until your adversaries and opposition say, "Man, stop doing that. I get the point already." Who will become the victim of the next Superkick? I don't know. Ask your parents. I'm not Google.
Little Girls
When Chef Shawn Michaels gave the Superkick to that annoying, bossy young lady at the commissary, I cheered a thousand cheers. First of all, young ladies should not talk to cross-eyed wrestling legends that way. These days, cross-eyed legends have it hard. Out of sheer respect, nobody has the nerve to tell them that one of their eyes is veering in one direction, while the other is heading in the opposite direction. Other than me, somebody needs be to truthful around here. I'm tired of watching Shawn appear as though he is watching a bee on his nose in a comical fashion. Monday Night RAW is not a comedy show. RAW is a drama that fails to be dramatic. Get it right.
Secondly, Shawn Michaels is a man with manly feelings. He does not need negative energy in his Christian life at the moment. For all the good things he did before Christianity saved his soul, karma should even things out to the point that Shawn finally gets what he wants. Lastly, there is nothing I despise more than little girls made of salad. If you saw Monday Night RAW, the lettuce they were a-tossin' when Shawn kicked that girl. I, for one, believe salad girls are evil. Pair a salad girl up with a boy made out of Thousand Island dressing and you might as well take residence in the underworld. Shame on you, salad girl. And shame on the bowl in which you were mixed.
Babies
For the most part, I do not condone unmitigated violence on children. They cannot defend themselves with toys because those toys are plastic. A plastic sword cannot kill you in a fast, nor a slow manner. Then again, infants are pretty cocky. Look at them, all cozy in their blankets. Look at those pacifiers. Take a gander at those tiny ones, eating their Gerber puree like they think they're better than me. Let's see them chew something difficult, like a steak or a large building. I bet they can't do it. I bet they will never do it.
I may not be the strongest man in the world, but I think I can take on a baby in a fight. As for Shawn Michaels, I suggest that he serve as my back-up during this hypothetical fight. Sure enough, their baby teeth might not be coming in yet, but these fists are ready to do so… on their face. In my opinion, babies are the infant version of Shane McMahon. Whenever I see Shane do his crazy dance, I feel like punching him in the face. My only reason as to why I would punch him in the facial region is because he is Shane McMahon. Likewise, I only want to punch babies because they are nothing more than babies. Here comes the babies (they cannot talk). Here comes the babies. Infants, infants, infants. Infants, infants, infants.
The Elderly
So far, World Wrestling Entertainment has taught me to respect the elderly. For example, Mae Young and the late Fabulous Moolah were so respected by WWE that Vince McMahon and company made him bark like dogs as they exited a doghouse. Mad respect for sure. When I become an attractive octogenarian, I can only hope that I receive similar treatment from the McMahons that be. On the other hand, Shawn Michaels does not want to grow old. Until the day he is no more, he will proceed to hide his baldness under thin layer upon layer of stringy hairs. He does not respect the elderly for he does not want to become an elder himself. Shawn Michaels wishes to install the Fountain of Youth in his home, but he cannot find it listed in the IKEA catalogue. Somebody help him.
As HBK reaches old age, he will give a Superkick to every nurse, doctor, and old person within a leg's reach. According to his entrance theme, he is just a sexy boy. Nowhere in that song does it claim that he wants become a sexy man and or geezer. Since there is no faux-pair of chaps in the world that can cover his aging, bony legs, Shawn Michaels must use his Superkick in his ongoing battle against the nursing home.
Aliens
Whether I'm watching Independence Day, Mars Attacks, or Raise Your Voice starring Hilary Duff, the thought of aliens invading our earth does not scare me. In the past, I have seen unidentified flying objects in the night sky, but do you know what? They weren't unidentified flying objects to me. I could identify them with ease. Those objects were alien spaceships, much the like one used by John Cena at the 2006 Royal Rumble.
If a race of John Cenas were to invade earth, I am well prepared. You see, I have in my possession many bags of nuts. When they land, I shall ask each John Cena to suck on said bag. In response, they will leave the planet, collectively insulted by my comment. If they choose to remain, I shall call upon Shawn Michaels to execute the Superkick on every John Cena trying to invade earth. That Superkick should be powerful enough to send each John Cena into orbit, forcing them into a feud with the planet Jupiter. Can those John Cenas put Jupiter in the Attitude Adjustment and or STF? I've seen him do it many times before, but today, I want to pay current, inflated Pay-Per-View prices to see it again.
Triple H
In my lifetime, I have had many friends. Specifically, I have met tremendous beings like Albert Einstein, Harry Houdini, and the mullet of Scott Hall, all of whom I befriended with the assistance of my time machine. In Shawn Michaels' lifetime, he has had one and only one great friend. That man goes by the name of Hunter Hearst Helmsley. Due to their crazed history, I doubt that Triple H is the best friend that he claims to be.
Would a friend force you to say, "suck it," against your will? Would a friend reunite with you to form the most famous stable in current WWE history, only to give you the Pedigree and a beating of violent proportions for your efforts? Would a friend visit you at your new workplace, sporting that kind of facial hair? I don't think so. I don't think so forever. Hunter Hearst Helsmley is not your best friend, Shawn. He is the enemy. Phase him out of your life via the grandest Superkick of all time. Send him back to the days when he had a ribbon in his hair. He was nicer then. He was carefree and had a flowing mane of gold locks. Those locks jangled in the air like beautiful chimes.
The year 2006 is quite historic. In 2006, the Blu-ray made its presence known to the world as the future killer of the DVD. The Avian Flu overshadowed the regular flu to become the Marcia to its Jan Brady. Gnarls Barkley's "Crazy" became the only song in music, played to an incessant degree in order to eliminate every other song in the world. Charles Barkley must have been proud to see his brother — made up of two different pepole — succeed. Most of all, the year 2006 marked my final article for The Armpit, thereby leading to the underwater, hippie birth of The Swerved.
The Wrestling Diaries was an iconic series of articles that featured the innermost thoughts of feelings of wrestling's most colourful personalities. Time and time again, I risked my well-being and life to gain access to these diaries. Looking back, perhaps I should have refrained from invading a stranger's privacy, but I'm still young. I'll make sure to learn important lessons such as this one in a few years. For now, I think I'm going to party it up with random women. Fifty-percent of these ladies have venereal diseases. With that figure in mind, I'm willing to play Canadian Cooter, the North American version of Russian Roulette.
As you will see from this gander into the past, I have grown on a professional and personal level. I am more mature than ever before. I am writing at my goodest. Also, my word has turned into wrestling gospel. The next time you see someone copy my beautiful critiques, please inform me. I will handle this issue like an adult by handing out whoopings that are appropriate for an adult. I've seen a lot of fruitbooties in my life, but these copycats are something else. Together, they are equivalent to a fruitbooty basket. You know who you are, whoever you are.
A month from now, The Swerved will celebrate its 3rd anniversary on the internet. Previous to the internet, The Swerved was a serial radio play featuring myself as a sassy shopkeeper named Eunice McGinty. The radio play had no plot and was a complete failure. As we approach this anniversary, let's forget that radio play ever existed and enjoy fonder memories. I don't want to take that skeleton out of my closet of antique skeletons.
***
Ever since professional wrestling aficionados found out that the entertainment sport was staged, they have wanted to know everything about everything in the industry. If matches were pre-determined, were wrestlers post-determined? If a wrestling ring was, in fact, a trampoline made of soft and fluffy marshmallows, how come wrestlers don't take out twigs mid-match and toast that bad boy on a campfire? If feuding grapplers didn't actually hate each other, why should I pay money to see them settle their fake differences live when I can witness them go on fun paddle boat rides instead?
(In my opinion, professional wrestling is stale at the moment. The thought of Randy Orton facing John Cena at the second biggest Pay-Per-View of the year is stale. Triple H failing to be hilarious by being a successful ass is equally stale. Furthermore, Hornswoggle can only embarrass Chavo Guerrero so many times before I begin to feel embarrassed for the television screen on which this act is shown. WWE is somewhat fresh now, considering that Summerslam has become Summerfest without my knowledge, but frankly, it is not fresh enough. Therefore, I yearn for the day when feuding wrestlers gain the courage to take scenic, romantic paddle boat rides around a lake together. Once again, Chavo Guerrero will be embarrassed because Hornswoggle is not tall enough to reach the peddles. He'll be paddling around in a circle for hours.)
While these are all great questions, I can't answer them with honesty. Though, I believe I can answer a much more serious and thought-provoking inquiry — what are wrestlers really thinking? It is a question that has plagued our youth and adulthood for ages. Luckily enough, I have in my possession the key to their thoughts. Some of you are aware of what I am about to present, but for the few that have no clue, boy are you in for some surprisement.
Once again, I have used my extra stealthy-esque skills of running up walls then falling off those same walls to borrow a selection of diaries owned by several wrestlers we all know, love, and admire. In this instance, I think I had the hardest time attaining these journals. I won't go into details, but the first thing I did was cover myself in glow sticks and Velveeta. In the end, I exited in exhaustion with these diaries and Linda McMahon's personal phone number. I feel unclean.
(When Linda McMahon turned heel on Mick Foley a few years ago, I thought she would become a super-sexy heel, like the nWo version of Miss Elizabeth. To my dismay, Linda McMahon turned into a Linda McMahon-type heel, like David Arquette with a mom haircut. Despite my love for David Arquette's work with gigantic spiders and Scott Caan, my admiration doesn't translate to wrestling. My apologies, David Arquette. Please accept this coupon for a free mom haircut from Supercuts as an apology.)
Entry 1: Kneel Before Todd
Todd Grisham is an immortal being. He's way better than Marc Lloyd, and he most likely uses Steve Romero as toilet paper. If I could meet five people in Heaven, they would be these individuals (in no particular order): Oprah Winfrey, Ryan Seacrest-Winfrey, Villano IV, Flash Funk, and Inspector Gadget. Todd Grisham would be sixth, but I guess he should've been fifth or fourth to make that list useful. Well, you can't win them all.
(In 2006, Todd Grisham was a measly presenter of upcoming WWE events in your area. In 2009, Todd Grisham is The Swerved's official pope and the voice of Friday Night Smackdown. When I see Jim Ross with Todd Grisham at the Smackdown announce table, JR looks miserable. Well, he should be miserable because he cannot compete with the Pope Todd Grisham. All the ladies want to attend the Todd Grisham-related events that are about to occur in his pants. I'm not going to lie; I'm curious about these events well, but not that curious. I hope Todd's pants have balcony seats. No need for front row. I‘ll leave those seats for the diehards.)
Dear Diary,
Welcome my favourite writing receptacle that starts with a D. Did you know that WWE and Todd Grisham are coming to your area? Just take a look at this. WWE in association with Sears has employed I, Todd Grisham, to model their Super Pimp line for hip and happening gentleman. Super Pimp clothes employ Grishamian technology, which enables the wearer of the garment to stand out from his or her surroundings. While regular folk with their dress shirts and khakis look bland and ordinary, you can look like Todd Grisham. It's a win-win situation.
Call your local cable company and tell them, "Hey, I'm keeping it fairly sexy right now." In reaction to this, they'll order WWE 24/7 for you and bill it to the President of the United States of America. That's how powerful this line will be.
I'm out, Toddy 2 Naughty
(According to several internet sources, Todd Grisham likes to call himself "Toddy 2 Naughty" in the boudoir. He doesn't gel his hair until it looks like a medium serving of McDonald's French fries or anything, but he does the worm. Apparently, the move takes a long time to execute. He's into tantric worming. I have never tried tantric worming, but man do I want my hair to look like a medium serving of McDonald's french fries. I can only get it to look like a medium serving of Burger King fries. Forget that, though.)
Entry 2: His Name is The Little Bastard, and He Loves to Crochet
Do you remember when you were younger and thought there was a monster living under your bed? Your parents assured you there wasn't anything under the bed that was going to hurt you, but you didn't believe them. They would fish under that bed for hours to make sure no baddies had deemed the under carriage of your room as their home. Do you remember that? Do you remember that time your dad went under there and was quickly devoured by that serpent-dragon-werewolf hybrid you dubbed The Midnight Beast? How about that time when your mom tried to save your father, but was mauled to death by the claws of a radioactive velociraptor?
You don't? Actually, neither have I. Good thing that never happened to anyone ever in anybody's lifetime. So, speaking of things living under other things, let's see what Finlay's own leprechaun has to say.
(Today, wrestling fans often forget that Hornswoggle started from humble beginnings. Whenever Finlay needed assistance in a match, he'd let out The Little Bastard for a minute or two, use him as a weapon, then kick him back under the ring. Back then, I wanted my own leprechaun to assist me in my daily activities. My little bastard could have ironed my shirts, or helped me come to terms with my past as an involuntary pastry chef and prostitute. Now that I see the real Hornswoggle, I don't want helpful leprechauns anymore. All they do is sit under the ring for two hours, not become your son before becoming your son, and copy old Looney Tunes cartoons. To be honest, I'd rather have a genie. They never pull off comedic shenanigans.)
Dear Diary,
I'm writing this entry from under the ring. I hear slams on the mat, large men grunting and moaning, and Michael Cole. I swear these are related in some way, but I cannot prove it for I am a rabid leprechaun in a publicly-traded wrestling company.
I don't do much under here. I can't sleep or eat well. I tried to find a Taco Bell in here, but I guess they don't serve Mexican food in the area. The only reason I help Finlay win matches is so he'll get me some soft tacos, but they're homemade. That's not the same. That's not the same at all. Maybe that Regal guy can help me, except I bet he'll just mess up the order and buy blood pudding or horse faces or whatever royal people eat.
(William Regal eats pig slop, yet he doesn't seem to enjoy it. In fact, I've never seen Willliam Regal eat anything. He just wears old-lady bathing suits while drinking coffee with a dollop of Chris Jericho's urine. For your information, I enjoy doing one of two of these things. I bet you can't guess which one. I don't want to wait for your guess, either. My yellow-tinted coffee is going to get cold.)
Entry 3: Terra Raising
On July 24, 2006, Stephanie McMahon and Triple H welcomed a healthy baby girl into the world. Right after that, the child executed a kick to the doctor’s midsection, followed by the Pedigree. The infant quickly embraced her father and joined D-Generation X to the dismay of Stephanie, grandfather Vince, and uncle Shane. That damn DX. Get the Spirit Squad, damn it. That damn DX. Umaga. It's gonna Hell in a Cell with a Bell and Some Gel. DX. Damn it.
(Aurora Rose Levesque is three years old right now, which means she is only five months away from debuting on World Wrestling Entertainment television. Because she is the daughter of Hunter and Stephanie, she will not have to wrestle in developmental, or even gain experience in ECW. By the end of the year, she'll show up on Monday Night RAW with a Dora the Explorer gimmick. Most likely, she will attack John Cena with a boot-wearing monkey while asking the viewers at home where she can find the map to Randy Orton's dressing room. Triple H got revenge on Randy a long time ago, but it wasn't enough revenge. It never is enough revenge until we learn some Spanish at the same time.)
Dear Diary,
Behold the baby. The baby of babies. I can't talk or comprehend the outside world yet, but I can write an amusing and informative journal entry for the purpose of entertainment. Furthermore, goo goo.
While I was in my mother Stephanie's womb, I used to hear her talk to my father about what they should name me. It was sort of muffled in there, but one suggestion he had was "Pedigreena." Personally, I thought that name was beautiful. Pedigreena sounds like a person who pins people a lot, but also receives a lot of free dog food. Both scenarios sounded great to me, but they ended up calling me Aurora Rose. When I first heard that name, I thought they meant "I, Whore Arose", but good thing that wasn't the case.
When I first appear on television, expect the arena to go dim. Out of nowhere, colourful strobe lights will beam down upon the arena and its spectators. My parents will appear on the ramp with a stroller adorned with several company logos. I think one may be Herbal Essences, which my father uses constantly to keep his hair and neatly-trimmed beard shiny and vibrant. As they roll me towards the ring, my father will hoist me from the stroller and sit me down on the ring apron. With milk bottle in hand, I will take a drink, pause, then spit a cascade of cow juice on the adoring crowd below. They pay good money to get doused in cow juice, so by golly will I douse them in cow juice.
Bow down to the, bow down to the kid.
Sincerely, Aurora Rose McMahon-Levesque-Motorhead
(I have no doubt that Triple H is a good father. On the other hand, he sure likes to ruin denim jackets. What do you have against denim jackets, Hunter? Denim sleeves aren't worthy of your arms, but leather jackets are welcome? Motorhead is not that great of a band, you know. Their songs sound too much alike. Plus, Lemmy is a hobo Christopher Lloyd.)
Entry 4: Spaceback Mountain
Ric Flair's skin is like a leather handbag. It's a good thing he's a legendary performer because if he wasn't, some woman would probably purchase him, carry him over her shoulder, and place her belongings inside of him. Of course, that makes him the greatest. Only gold can emerge from The Man Who You Have to Beat to Become The Man According to the Man's pen. Let his gold rain down on all of us.
(For the most part, retirement in professional wrestling is meaningless. With that said, I hope Ric Flair stays retired. The business gave him more than enough money, but now he's aching for the dollar-dollars again. You should've saved your money, Ric, rather than wasting it on limousines, jet planes, wheels and deals, kiss robbery, and wiggling your junk. I am aware that wiggling one's junk is free, but not if somebody sues you for doing so. Keep that Figure One in a robe lock.)
Dear Diary,
Now that I'm getting a lot older, I've decided to tweak my gimmick from The Nature Boy to something more age appropriate. From now on, I want to be called "The Nurture Boy". I aspire to be a day-caring, child-baring, mom-jeans wearing, arts-and-crafts fairing, hot-flash flaring son of young ones.
My persona will consist of gathering branches from the forest to build a comfy and stable nest. I plan to house orphans and feed them nutritious berries I have knife-edge chopped from dangerous and pointy bushes. I will protect my kids from predators by begging off, then poking vultures and scarecrows in the eye at the last moment. Before my children are ready to fly the coop, I will embrace them one final time, then watch them head into the sunset. As a sigh of relief, I will say "WHEEEEEEEEEW!" with confidence, knowing that I have raised potential leaders of the world. With a tear of blood running down my bloody face which was bloodied by having a case of the hiccups somehow, I will retire and flop into slumber.
As of this moment, I can see each step of the process perfectly in my mind, except the retiring part. My fingers are crossed for success.
(On second thought, I will welcome Ric Flair back into wrestling if he returns as "The Nurture Boy" Ric Flair. I am a fan of watching sixty-year-olds trying to look convincing in a wrestling ring. Also, I am a fan of nature documentaries. I never get sick of birds vomiting food into other birds' mouths. If Ric Flair can do the same, that will be entertainment to the highest degree. Then again, I know Ric Flair pretty well. He'll probably run to the corner of the nest, flip over, and get clotheslined by a squirrel looking for a meal. That's not going to feed his young. Those steps are simply unnecessary.)
I can't help that I'm custom made, "The Nurture Boy" Ric Flair
Entry 5: I Cool in the Face of People Who Don't Want to Be Spit
Being the hot superstar that I am, readers beg to know the real me; they wish to know what I'm really about. A lot of individuals believe my articles don't reveal my actual likes, dislikes, and ambiguities. They see a facade instead of a true blue human being. With that said, I want to make a few things clear. Just because I appear to be an egotistical, selfish, and shallow person does not make me so. To tell you the truth, I steal from the rich and give to the poor. I'm a lot like Robin Hood when you think about it, except better.
(If Pro Wrestling Illustrated created a Top 500 list for professional wrestling analyzers, I would be the number one by default. Not only do I provide interesting analysis about the wrestling business, but I bring forth my views in a patronizing and pretentious manner. As far as I know, I must be the first professional wrestling analyzer to critique the business in this way. I am the Neil Armstrong of professional wrestling analysis.)
Dear Diary,
I came across a historic song I wrote many a year ago. It was about a mythical creature who used to be one of my greatest pals, until one day, I just stopped visiting him. I think this piece truly proved that I not only had great musical skills, but I was an excellent storyteller as well. I'm a humble fellow, so let's just say this will be the defining anthem for the current and future generation. It hasn't been recorded yet, but that's only a technicality.
Buff, the magic Bagwell Lived by the sea And strutted with a top hat on Made by his mom Judy
Little Scotty Norton Loved that rascal Buff, He brought viciousness to his deliciousness And proved he was the stuff
Oh Buff, the magic Bagwell Lived by the sea And strutted with a top hat on After starring in B-movies
To you and yours, S
(Buff Bagwell's top hat is magical. Mr. Monopoly can only wish to have a hat as magical as the one atop Buff Bagwell's head. I don't think Bagwell's short run in the WWF failed. In my eyes, fans weren't ready for a hat that high. They were used to regular sized hats. Buff Bagwell took hats to a new level. If you sit on Buff Bagwell's top hat, I heard you will be able to touch the heavens. No fooling. Buff. He's Buff Male Parental Guardian.)
And just the other day Eating an air soufflé I knew food needed me
Until they force me treats, I will not eat I knew food needed me It could be spaghetti, oh no I don't want to get sauce on my Lady Gaga hair because...
Food needs me Food needs me Food needs me Food needs me Food neeed me Food needs me
I think I'll weigh around One hundred pounds, I will 'cause food needs me A girl like me can't rest in peace with foods never needing me "But I don't, But they do."
Maybe it's because I'm lean I can double to pipe clean
Food needs me Food needs me Food needs me Food needs me Food neeed me Food needs me
The Question: Who wins and how?
*****
NEXT WEEK
Let's hug out the pain, Jeremy Piven. I'm all messed up inside.
AND
We're gonna do what they did in the movie Weekend at Bernie's.
Shaquille O'Neal is one of the most dominant centres in National Basketball Association history. As a four-time NBA Champion, he knows what it means to be a winner. As wrestling fans look up to modern heroes like John Cena and Triple H — who enjoy winning titles while joking with each other with hilarious results — I believe they should look to number 34 as their new saviour. Shaq cannot comprehend losing. Every time he steps onto the court, he is out to destroy the competition. This is Shaquille O'Neal. This is the life of a Shaquillicious superstar.
After watching Shaquille O'Neal rule Monday Night RAW for a week, I can only hope that he will return in the nearest of futures. No RAW Guest General Manager has been as great as Shaq. For me, a World Wrestling Entertainment without Shaquille O'Neal is like a World Wrestling Entertainment with Lilian Garcia — better than nothing, even though I'd rather have something. Years from now, I don't want to look back on Shaq's appearance in sadness. This can't be the end. Rap your way back to me, Shaquille. I know you “gotz skillz.”
I cannot show you how to be Shaquillicious, but I can tell you. More often than not, Shaquilliciousness just happens. One minute it’s not there, the next, it’s at your doorstep. You can't do anything about, nor can you get rid of it. Becoming Shaquilliciousness is similar to blossoming into a woman, except you're not blossoming into a woman. You're blossoming into Shaquille O'Neal. Many men before me have tried and died in the fight to be Shaquillicious. Last year, a group of miners ventured one-hundred feet underground in search for Shaquilliciousness, but never returned to the surface due to a lack of oxygen. The canary barely survived to pass this tale onto me, which I now pass onto you. I pray that you follow these steps so you do not suffer the same fate.
While I wait for the Titantron to display the instructions you will need to become Shaquillicious, dream about a world where everyone is as cool as Shaquille O'Neal. Next, dream about a world where everyone is as Michael Cole as Michael Cole. Welcome to heaven, my friend. We are currently living in a pearly-gated community.
Call Males by Female Names
When Shaquille O'Neal called Chris Jericho "Christina," a naming revolution was born. Now, everybody is using girl names in place of boy names. I have never called male wresters by female names before, but if Shaq is doing it, I better start. You see, Chris is a boy's name, but Christina is most likely a name for a girl. Oh, snap into it like a Slim Jim. Also, snap into it like a Slim Jimmifer. The winds they are a-changin’.
O'Neal is dropping diss bombs from his Kazaam-inspired flying carpet, which is somewhat shaped like a ghetto blaster. Take cover or suffer. From this point forward, I suggest that Chris Jericho should lay low, perhaps in some sort of fallout shelter with girl name protection. If guys named Leslie, Courtney, and Kelly wish to enter said fallout shelter, let them in, Chris. Shaq is relentless. First of all, he won't even need to alter their names to insult them. Second of all, he's up for another forehead make out session. Whatever you do, you must look out for your fellow men, who appear to be women on paper.
Back Yourself Up with Positive African-American Role Models
Shad Gaspard and JTG are the best liars, cheaters, and stealers since the late Eddie Guerrero and that other dude who keeps losing to Hornswoggle. I think his name is something Guerrero. In this parentally-guided era of World Wrestling Entertainment, the children need proper role models. At the same time, Shaquille needs a hip, professional wrestling posse who appear as though they accidentally stumbled out of a commercial for Lugz boots. As a means to kill two birdlike stones with one stony bird, Cryme Tyme is here to appease both of them.
When I grow up and become a contributing member of society, I want to be just like Cryme Tyme. That way, I can have it all: money, money again, the ability to be in agreeance with another, the ability to be in agreeance with another twice, and Kanye West's sunglasses with poor UV protection. What more do you need? An education? I got an education, white-skinned gentleman. Cryme Tyme's "Word Up" segment teaches me random words they found on Urban Dictionary. They are excellent teachers. I don't know about you, but I'm about to give a pair of positive Rate My Professor reviews. Shad and JTG get a 4.5 for ease, which is a jackin' score, I guess. I'm not sure. I wasn't paying attention to that lecture. I was too busy understanding English.
Place an Official NBA Basketball Hoop in Your Office
For those of you who dislike the idea of a weekly guest host for Monday Night RAW, I think I know why you do. So far, Batista, Seth Green, and ZZ Top have been adequate general managers, making matches the WWE way (for no reason whatsoever). Although, they have been missing one important ingredient. When wrestlers walk into a general manager's office, what is the first thing they want? A match with somebody. What is the second thing they want? A impromptu basketball game in an office. Shaquille O'Neal, with his Official NBA Basketball Hoop, can bring the goods to you.
The next time Randy Orton and Legacy storm into the office, I hope Shaq is there to greet them. They can argue all they want about unfair treatment, lost title opportunities, and handicap matches, but you know what? Pickup basketball games in executive offices are pretty fun. They should try it some time. Randy Orton, Ted DiBiase, and Cody Rhodes will be the Los Angeles Lakers. Shaquille O'Neal, Hornswoggle, and Michael Cole will be whatever team Vince McMahon despises at the time. How dare Stan Kroenke treat Vince in such a disrespectful manner. Monday Night RAW is the greatest show around. For instance, there's an Official NBA Basketball Hoop in the general manager's office. That’s entertaining enough.
Ruin The Big Show's Big Aura
Depending on what he ate or how long he slept, The Big Show is a seven-foot tall, five-hundred pound monster with skillets for hands and hands for skillets. Next to Shaquille O'Neal, The Big Show might as well be Floyd Mayweather. To be Shaquillicious is to stand eye to eye with The Big Show. Of course, Show may weigh five hundred pounds, but when you're Shaquille O'Neal, your celebrity status somehow weighs more.
This invisible weight gives you the extra power and strength that is necessary for making The Big Show look bad. Snoop Dogg had that weight when he took out Santino at WrestleMania XXIV. Seth Green was one thousand pounds when he punched Cody Rhodes in his Cody face. Judging by his attack on an unsuspecting Show, Shaq is large. In fact, he is so much bigger than The Big Show that he is actually made up of smaller basketball players. When Muggsy Bogues retired, he became Shaq's left shin.
Be Michael Cole
Until I turn Shaquillicious, only two people on Earth can claim to retain this quality. These two people are Shaquille O'Neal and Michaelle O’Cole. In the past, I have been Cole's harshest critic. When I discovered that Michael Cole was "Shaquillicious," I realized I was in the wrong. Michael Cole has always been Shaquillicious. Mine eyes were simply too ignorant to see this pleasing sight. When Heidenreich pinned Cole against the wall and had his poetic way with him, that was Michael being Shaquillicious. The day that Michael Cole first said "Oh my!" was the first time that Michael was Shaquillicious. Michael Cole is Shaquillicious in the morning, Shaquillicious in the evening, and Shaquillicious from 4:00 to 8:00pm every other Saturday. On Sundays, he is Michael Cole.
If you are Michael Cole, you are living the good life. I hope Kobe knows how your ass tastes because you're about to give him a running butt avalanche of Shaquilliciousness. As a warning, I do not recommend non-Shaquillicious wrestling fans to force Shaquilliciousness onto them. Shaquiliciousness is not a right; it is a privilege, such as living every day as Michael Cole. Shaquille O'Neal never gave you the fist pump, Michael, but I will. Shaquillicious twin powers active. Form of Dr. Phil. Let’s get out of these shackles via absurd methods.
