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.)
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.)
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.)
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.)
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
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.)
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