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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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