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NEXT WEEK
That pie came straight from the window sill. It was a-cool enough to eat.
AND
Innocence has no resistance against a wicked counsellor such as I.
NEXT WEEK
That pie came straight from the window sill. It was a-cool enough to eat.
AND
Innocence has no resistance against a wicked counsellor such as I.
As Black Friday shoppers line up for cheap, high-definition televisions and laptop computers, I'm lining up at my local Wal-Mart for a special sale. Actually, I see no line, but I guess that means I am the first to arrive. You people can have your futuristic electronics, but nobody — and I mean nobody — is going to get first dibs on the DVD release of The Marine 2 before me. While I'm not one for hyperbole, I have a feeling that The Marine 2 will be the The Marine of our generation.
Some people think I'm crazy, lining up for a film that does not come out until December 29th. In turn, I think they’re cuckoo bananas for not lining up with me. Of course, I'll be missing out on Christmas, but the sacrifice is worth it. Being the first person to get The Marine 2 on release day will feel like two Christmases This film is going to be huge. If his lively, on-air personality is any indication, Ted DiBiase is going to be the next big Hollywood star. I'm talking Rob Schneider big.
Until that glorious December day comes, I shall tide myself over with what I believe to be the trailer of trailers. You see, the trailer for The Marine 2 is so action-packed that whenever you watch it, your television screen explodes. I hope those Black Friday shoppers get two televisions because they'll need them after they witness the trailer for The Marine 2. As for me, I am always prepared. In my place of residence, I have a wall of televisions that will simultaneously play the movie trailer. As they all explode at once, I shall dramatically dive away in slow motion.
This week, breaking down the ground-breaking trailer shall be a great privilege. For those of you who are on the edge of your seats, you won't even need the whole edge. By the end of this trailer, you will be on the edge of the edge of your seats. Do you smell what I am smelling right now? I'm smelling Oscars for The Marine 2. Let us commence with the viewing experience.
0:00: This film is Rated R for I really, really, really want to see this movie. WWE Films in association with 20th Century Fox present The Marine 2. This film is inspired by true events, like that time when marine existed, or that time something blew up somewhere.
0:01 to 0:11: "Hi, baby," says the mildly attractive, blonde lady who sits in front of a computer webcam. "Hey, sweetheart," says Ted DiBiase on the other end, showing off his excellent conversating skills in this talking picture. Next, the mildly attractive, blonde lady says, "You remember me talking about my super-rich client who owns like a bazillion different businesses, real estate, hotels, casinos?" "Yeah," says Ted. Hold on, Ted DiBiase. You don't want to win too many awards with your acting.
Apparently, Ted DiBiase's baby is in charge of a super-deluxe, invite-only, opening bash at her client's new resort. That's some mighty fine responsibility for a mildly attractive, blonde lady.
0:12 to 0:18: According to the announcer, a faraway place that few ever see is very mysterious. According to my eyes, a faraway place that few ever see contains a bunch of grassy islands, beautiful beaches, an airplane, a wooden canoe, and a kid, knee-deep in the ocean, catching who knows what with his fishing line. Well, I don't know what the kid is catching, but I do know what The Marine 2 will be reeling in come December 29th: DVD sales aplenty.
Riding on a plane, the mildly attractive, blonde lady and Ted DiBiase's character stare at each other, pretending to be in love. Unlike you fake love birds, I don't have to feign love. I already love this movie. I want to take The Marine 2 to a faraway place that few ever see.
0:19 to 0:26: The mildly attractive blonde lady and Ted DiBiase's character share fun, beach-y times that consist of dipping their hands into the ocean, walking along the shore, and grooming each other in the water. If I took my woman to this place, I wouldn't waste time grooming her in the water. We'd probably just get it on under the sea so Sebastian the lobster and his cartoon friends can sing a song about it.
0:27 to 0:36: A lady with a strange accent announces that they will be having an opening party to the resort tomorrow night. For a faraway place that few ever see, this resort sure has a lot of people. Fast forwarding to tomorrow night, extras are having a jolly good time with other extras at the party. These extras are trying to out mingle each other in the hope that a casting agent will take notice. Sorry, extras. Casting agents only cast quality actors, such as Ted DiBiase.
When the fireworks go off, capping a successful party, Ted shows up in the foreground. He has two drinks in his hands. This predicament makes him look away from the fireworks somehow. Your drinks are fine, Theodore. Those little umbrellas will protect them.
0:37 to 0:41: In the smoky fog, a masked man uses a rocket launcher. He shoots a rocket through a walkway lit up with Tiki torches and nails a guard tower. This man's mask appears to be made of hardened white and dark chocolate, which almost discredits my theory that Rey Mysterio is the villain of this movie. At this point, the announcer claims that a trip to paradise has become a mission that only a marine can handle. With this announcement, Ted has decided to put on a jacket. Good for him. He doesn't want to catch a cold during this mission.
The fact that some strange man has shot a rocket at a guard tower isn't alarming to me. What is alarming is that this man is wearing two types of chocolate on his face. In my opinion, he shouldn't be wearing chocolate at all.
0:42 to 0:48: Back in the smoky fog, a group of masked and armed men invade the once peaceful resort. The middle-aged jazz singer from the opening party asks the main villain, "Who are you? What do you think you're doing here?" I hate that jazz song. Play something else.
In return, the man with the chocolate mask points a machine gun at the singer’s throat. Upon closer inspection, his mask has a skull on one side and the face of Tiny Lister, Jr. on the other. That mask is racist, yet delicious if it is truly made of two types of chocolate.
0:49 to 1:01: The mildly attractive, blonde lady clears things up and calls these masked invaders “separatists,” who are fighting the spread of Western influence on their country.
A computer monitor shows us breaking news from a network called NAN about the luxury resort under siege. The chocolate masked man and his cronies have the island visitors hostage. Ted DiBiase’s character wants NAN of this. "Over the last century, we have watched helplessly as the disease of the Western world has spread across our isles. Now it is your turn to watch," says the chocolate masked man. One balding hostage cannot help but cringe at the thought of wearing chocolate on his face.
I don't think the Western world is that bad. We brought them Hooters.
1:02 to 1:08: A sharp-dressed man who looks kind of Samoan thinks that this ordeal could turn into an international incident. Thanks for your opinion, Samoa Gary. Meanwhile, the people of the resort look on in horror. Perhaps they are looking at the unbuttoned top of Samoa Gary's dress shirt. They’re not buying what you’re selling.
In a dramatic and emotional voice that others will confuse with being robotic, Ted DiBiase (sans jacket) says, "With or without you, I'm going in." Next, Ted DiBiase looks behind him with a determined expression. He isn't wearing his jacket anymore. He’s super serious.
1:09 to 1:14: At night, Ted DiBiase snaps the neck of one of the henchmen. He runs toward another group of bad guys, who wait for him at the front entrance of the resort. For three seconds, the trailer makes sure that we know that Ted DiBiase can run by focusing on his running. This film teaches as much as it thrills.
1:15 to 1:21: On the balcony, an Asian man with a ponytail jumps away from an explosion. On the ground, Ted DiBiase shields the Asian man from the explosion. One moment later, Ted DiBiase and the Asian man pull themselves up and over a small wall. Finally, Ted DiBiase and the Asian man use a jeep to drive away from another explosion. I'm glad that Ted DiBiase and the Asian man are bonding. They don't get to see much of each other anymore. These times are rare and fleeting. Wait a minute. Who is this Asian man? He must be Ted's exotic man-mistress.
1:22 to 1:26: Ted DiBiase fights one of the henchmen underwater. I never thought I would say this, but I wish they didn’t have to fight like that. I would prefer that they groom each other instead.
1:27 to 1:32: Lots of things are happening at the same time. DiBiase throws a knife. Two henchmen double as ninjas and pose. Explosion among shacks. Ted DiBiase demands a henchman to tell him where the hostages are. He battles with the two ninjas. A villain with wet hair tells a villain with no hair that they must make a statement by killing the hostages now. Neither man is wearing a chocolate mask. I have no clue which one is the main villain. I’m losing interest.
1:33 to 1:40: More things are happening. My interest has been regained. A pillar explodes. A person off-camera throws water, urine, or Skittles on Ted DiBiase, whose hands are tied above his head.
Ted changes shirts and screams at a henchman, wanting to know the whereabouts of his mildly attractive, blonde lady. He’s not going to tell you unless you change your shirt back. You made a mistake. Ted DiBiase gets no answer, so he engages in a gun fight with the baddies. During the fight, he is holding a Snuggie for some strange reason. On second thought, he is simply holding a Snuggie. You don't need a reason to hold one.
A long-haired bad guy tosses a grenade at the screen. This isn’t Monsters vs. Aliens in 3-D, fool. Meanwhile, Ted DiBiase winces behind a pillar, holding a machine gun. Don't worry, young Tedward. I will go in there and get the Snuggie for you.
1:41 to 1:42: "Noooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo," says the mildly attractive, blonde lady from a balcony. I know how you feel, mildly attractive, blonde lady. That was your Snuggie.
1:43 to 1:53: Bald baddie tells wet hair baddie that the message will be sent. This message is sent in the form of a timed explosion that the bald baddie secures on the back of some guy, or a pillow. I'm not sure. Ted DiBiase stands behind a pillar. Cue explosion. Ted DiBiase stands behind a pillar. Cue explosion. Get away from that pillar, dawg.
Taking my advice, DiBiase emerges from the smoky fog with his gun and what appears to be a backpack. Looks like Ted is going to take you guys to school. Somewhere out there, Shelton Benjamin adds that they better pack a lunch.
Ted rolls on the floor with a henchman, does an STO onto a table to remind you that he is a wrestler in a WWE film, and punches the henchman in the face. Wrestlers doing wrestling moves in mainstream movies is always cool and never not cool. I hope to see a testicular claw in the full-length feature film.
1:54 to 1:56: The announcer says, "Ted DiBiase stars in..." What does he star in, announcer? I can't take it anymore. I need to know. Ted's heavy breathing is making me more curious than before.
1:57 to 1:59: A grizzled man in a sleeveless shirt tells Ted that not everyone can be a hero. Oh yeah, sleeveless shirt guy? Explosion. I think I proved my point.
2:00 to 2:10: "The goal is to save people, not kill them to win," says a wise man whom I like to call Ted DiBiase, Jr.. The following people tend to agree or disagree with this statement: sad, third-world children, the mildly attractive, blonde lady, the guy with a bomb on his back, some guy with a Van Dyke, an explosion, Ted DiBiase, an injured black marine, that same guy with a Van Dyke (who is enjoying a water, urine, or Skittles shower at the moment), and Ted DiBiase using a rifle.
2:11 to 2:12: Ted DiBiase leaps into the water, avoiding another explosion. All that explosion wants is your forgiveness. Why don't you know that?
2:13 to 2:21: The Marine 2 is premiering on DVD and Blu-ray December 29th. My dinner premieres on my dinner plate every night at six-ish. In conclusion, I am excited for both premieres. Go America.
********** out of *****
In the future, I'm going to name my second child The Marine 2 for he or she will be the riveting sequel to my first, less entertaining child.
Team Mickie vs. Team The View
You're not enough for The View (Oh, your sassiness is lacking)
Just another woman who watches The View (Oprah isn't on until later, ooh)
Gotta find something else to do (How about spending quality time with your loved ones?)
You're not enough for The View (Oh, you don't talk enough about things you don't know enough about)
See, at first, you had a problem with Star Jones
Whose girth invaded your living room when you were home alone
But then you had a beef with Joy Behar
Because you liked forbidden sandwiches, pulling pork apart
You turn off, turn on the television again
Beyotch please, let me assure our discussions will never end
Just sit back and relax on your couch in your Hello Kitty pajamas
As Elisabeth Hasselbeck's soothing voice takes your mind to the Bahamas
We've never lost touch with your current events
Meredith is given out millions, we're giving you our two cents
'Cause we're women, ha ha, living in middle age
You just ain't ready for this menopausal rage
You're not ready, no you're not ready
You're not ready for this menopausal rage
You're not enough for The View (Oh, the amount of sassiness you possess is minimal)
Just another woman who watches The View (Regis and Kelly was a rerun, ooh)
Gotta find something else to do (How about attending one of those strip aerobics classes? Those are cool)
You're not enough for The View (Oh, we got Whoopi and you don't)
The Question:
Who wins and how?
*****
NEXT WEEK
Somewhere out there, Kofi Kingston is supposed to run in during a wedding, but is waiting for his theme music to play. At the same time, the bride and groom are staring at the camera with a confused look on their faces. Also, Roddy Piper is on the ground for some reason.
AND
I have no interest in art. Let me clarify: I have no interest in non-nude images.
Ladies and men who are mostly gentle: the feature you haven't really missed all that much has returned. Years ago, I vowed never to risk my life for a wrestling diary again. Today, here I am with many unlocked secrets to reveal to you. On this deadly quest, the cuts and bruises are many, but they will heal. Although my chiseled body will show the scars of my excursions forever, I am glad to sacrifice myself for truth. While wrestling's greatest superstars and personalities wish to keep their private thoughts and feelings under wraps, I will engage in the process of unwrapping.
Some of these diary entries are disturbing, while others provide deep insight into a mysterious world that the average wrestling fan will never visit. The underbelly of professional wrestling is equal parts ugly and beautiful, like a vomiting swan or a hairless George "The Animal" Steele. Reading these entries, I experience mixed emotions. At times, I laugh, only to cry soon after when I realize the physical and emotional pain that professional wrestling individuals endure.
In this installment of The Wrestling Diaries, you will discover the truth behind the lives of such superstars as The Undertaker and Rey Mysterio. Somewhere in the fold, regular stars like Sheamus, Hornswoggle, and Chris Masters will bare their souls to you. Whatever you do, please refrain from taking these diaries lightly for this is heavy stuff. The fact that Hornswoggle can communicate in written English is heavy enough.
Before I risk five more lives and limbs, let us enjoy today's spoils in the form of the fourth edition of The Wrestling Diaries. The Swerved's presentation of The Wrestling Diaries is part of a complete understanding of life as we know it and or wish it to be.
The Deadman is a closed book. No matter what you do or say, you will not get one revealing peep from him. Ask him about his disappearing Sara tattoo and he will tell you that magic made it disappear, which is far from a convincing explanation for the disappearance of tattoos. If he didn't want to spend money removing the tattoo, he could have just befriended a girl named Sara instead — that's what I would do. Well, I would either do that or change my neck's name to Sara.
Dear Hellish Keeper of My Darkest Secrets,
This past week on Smackdown, I teamed with my brother Kane and took on Chris Jericho and The Big Show in a thrilling, main event matchup. While we didn't win or lose, I was happy to reunite with The Big Red Machine once again. Together, we form The Brothers of Destruction, but I like to think of our team as The Brothers of Construction. You see, every time we tag, we build our brotherly love for one another. This Christmas, I plan to get Kane a new set of tights to replace the one that he currently wears at all times in the day. I swear. Those tights are like his security blanket or something. He is Linus.
In turn, Kane doesn't have to get me anything. Actually, I would love a lifetime supply of eyeliner, but I know times are tough. It's hard out there for large rouge machinery. Meanwhile, undertaking things is on the upswing. If everybody was an undertaker, learning MMA moves at funeral parlours, the recession would be over. Honestly, I don't know how the economy works because I am not living. I simply like to talk as though I am knowledgeable about life’s many problems.
Rest yourself all up in that peace,
Taker
As of late, Hornswoggle's job is to defeat Chavo Guerrero until the definition of defeat changes into one that involves wearing dark ponchos indoors. At that time, Hornswoggle will still win a bunch of matches over Chavo, but at least Chavo will have some moral victories. These days, Chavo Guerero needs a victory anywhere he can get one.
Dear Diary,
Recently, Triple H gave me the Pedigree in the face. As a little person in leprechaun and DX-themed clothing, I am doubly appalled. It's as if Triple H took my heart, gave the Peidgree to my heart, handed me my Pedigreed heart, then Pedigreed my face again. You would think that after all this time looking like the super hobo version of Shawn Michaels, Hunter would treat me with respect. Oh well. I guess this means that I get to go back to beating Chavo Guerrero every week with hilarious results. At least Chavo Guerrero is a decent person. At his worst, he is someone who doesn't Pedigree me in the face.
I rid my hands of you, Hunter Hearst Helmsley. Those Pedigrees may please your wife, but they don't please this guy right here. Your days of wearing your hat backwards are over. Why? For one, you’re forty-something years old. You shouldn’t be wearing hats period. You should be drinking aged wines and increasing the size of your prostate.
Until we swoggle again,
Li'l Bigg Horn
If you have been living under a rock for the past few weeks, you should pick a suitable living environment that does not use rocks. If you have been watching RAW while living under that rock, you have witnessed the revival of Chris Masters' fledging wrestling career. From one particular dance alone, Masters has guaranteed himself some face time every Monday night. On second thought, the talent doesn't originate from his face. Go lower, but not that low. There’s nothing dancing down there.
Dear Master Diary,
Thank goodness I have dancing pectorals. If I didn't, WWE wouldn't think of me as a current and future wrestling legend. "The Masterpiece" Chris Masters may not show up on RAW in a wrestling capacity, but you better believe that my dancing pectorals will be there. My dancing pectorals are thinking about auditioning for the next season of Dancing with the Stars, So You Think You Can Dance, and Top Chef. My dancing pectorals can't cook at all, but don't tell my dancing pectorals that. My dancing pectorals are pretty sensitive. They cried watching a video of themselves dancing.
If World Wrestling Entertainment releases me in the future, my dancing pectorals will be able to support me, personally and financially. They're going big time. More sooner than later, they will launch an acting career on the side, starting with a five-minute cameo in the fourth Mummy movie. They will follow that appearance with a starring role in a spin-off film entitled “The Dancing Pectorals King.”
See you later, The Master Diary,
Chris Masters
When Sheamus powerbombed Jamie Noble at ringside, he powerbombed Noble's career at ringside as well. As of this writing, Sheamus' reign of terror has only just begun. Hailing from Dublin, Ireland, Sheamus shall overwhelm Monday Night RAW with his threatening scent of Irish Spring and negativity. I, for one, bow down to this pleasantly-scented monster.
Dear O'Diary,
Being a Celtic Warrior is pretty hard, dearest diary. The amount of trouble I have to go through to get my skin this white is ridiculous. Even though my mother was a porcelain doll and my father was Casper the Friendly Ghost, I still have to avoid the sun whenever I go outside. Some celebrities avoid the sun by using an umbrella or wearing several layers of thick and dark clothing. As for me, I like to wear a cardboard box and walk around in it. That way, my skin doesn't call attention upon itself because the box hides the colour. You would think that the box would garner a ton of attention in public, but it doesn't. People just think they’re walking by a box that has somehow grown two pasty legs.
In the future, I wish to be the whitest man to ever walk the planet Earth. Vampires named Edward have nothing on me. I'll rule him. I'll rule him with my white skin so hard. Once those Twilight fans take one look at me, they'll be rooting for Team Sheamus. My skin doesn't sparkle in the sunlight. It's just really, really white. If you see my skin and think it's sparkling, see an optometrist. The mere sight of my skin is probably causing permanent damage to your eyes.
Later,
Sheamus
Without Batista by his side, Rey Mysterio is all out of love. He is so lost without Batista. Back in San Diego, Rey is lying by the phone, waiting for it to ring. First, it's a wrong number. The next time it rings, it's Sprint calling to ask him how satisfied he is with his current phone service. On the third ring, Batista will be on the other line, or is that what Rey wants to think? Rey is a needy dude.
Dear Diary,
Batista and I were tight. What happened? We were friends, muchachos, familia, and other crazy Spanish words that Josh Mathews never understands because he is not discernibly ethnic. I can't believe that The Animal would do such an animalistic thing and turn on me. Friends don't turn on each other. Friends share ice cream cones. Best buds wear each other's underwear. From one to three years old, sometimes they take showers together. If they are confused, sometimes they do it later in life. Why did Batista throw all of those good times away?
From this point forward, I've decided that I must distance myself from him completely. No matter how much I want to be his friend again, I must resist. That's it. I've had enough with the abuse. I'm unfriending him from every single online social network that I use. He's off my ICQ list. To be honest, that's the closest and most modern thing to a online social network that I use. Overall, I'm not good with technology. I don't have a Facebook. I have no room for a book on my face because I am already wearing a mask.
Dialing out,
Reymond Rey-Rey Junior Stereo
Uh, hi everybody
Uh, hi
And... dial it up
Can I borrow your ocean?
Could you lend me your friend ship?
A broken heart sets broken sail
Back into your veiny sea
What do you say, Batista?
Will you walk alone with me... again?
The Question:
Who wins and how?
*****
NEXT WEEK
Matt Hardy, Shawn Michaels, and The Undertaker put their heads together to create one full head of hair.
AND
Sometimes, it's the boring stuff that I remember the most.
Stepping down as the CEO of WWE, Linda McMahon is ready to step up and take on the man. She is not a career politician, but she sure is a career ass whooper. She knows how to stomp mud holes in places that do have such holes. Using her charisma, magnetic personality, and impressive physical strength, Linda is going to fly herself down to Washington D.C. and make many names for herself. One of those names is political legend. Another one of those names is immortal senator. Also, they'll probably call her Lindz for short, which is cool, she guesses. Whatever you call her, she'll be child-rearing the underworld, also known as raising hell.
Unlike those stiff suits in the capital, Linda knows the struggles of the common man or woman. Years ago, she was nothing, only to make herself into something. Her family may have millions of dollars in their golden bank accounts, but she's like the rest of you. Every day, she puts on one pant leg at a time. Next, she puts on one shoe at a time. Forgetting to put on a top like the common man or woman, Linda heads out the door. Cleaning off the dirt from her naked lady mud flaps, she gets in her pick-up truck. What does she do in that pick-up truck? She listens to some Backstreet Boys. Apparently, they are back, alright. Linda is here for you because she is you — the valued American individual.
The first thing Linda McMahon wants done is to get that piece of crap out of her senate. Actually, she doesn't just want to get him out of her senate, but wants him out of Connecticut. Why, you ask? Because Linda McMahon has proved, son, — without a shadow of a doubt — that Christopher Dodd ain't got what it takes anymore. He sits there with his legislative power and he votes yay or nay, yet that didn't get him anywhere. He talks about his propositions, talks about creating and revising laws. He talks about his Dodd 3:16. Well, Linda 3:16 said she just took his seat. All Christopher has to do now is to go buy him a cheap donkey and try to ride his Democratic ass out of her sight. As the Republican representative of Connecticut, Linda is serving notice to every single one of the senate superstars. She doesn't give a damn what they are. They are all in her rolodex, and that's Stone Cold Linda's rolodex. And Linda is fixing to contact all of them… with her fists.
As far as this upcoming election is considered, son, Linda doesn't give a damn whether Dodd gets to hobnob with Barack Obama, Michelle Obama, Yo Yo Mama, or a gigantic llama. Linda McMahon's time has come. When she gets that shot, you're looking at the next member of the U.S. Senate. And that's the cushioned chair because Linda McMahon will win the right to sit on it.
Linda McMahon doesn't give a damn if Jim Ross has one ball, two balls, or a large children's ball pit full of balls. If she wants the job done, she has no choice but to stick her Payless pump right into Good Ol' JR's Oklahoma state line. She's going for the extra point somewhere around the 40-plus-yard line. Linda is doing this for her state. Listen up, Connecticut; if you keep Senator Dodd in the U.S. Senate, who will be there to kick Jim Ross in the testicles? Nobody. That's who. Vote Linda McMahon for the United States Senate. She's on the ball.
As we all know, Linda McMahon is a beast. Her animalistic attitude inside and outside of the ring has proven that she always means serious business (as opposed to serious pleasure). Since she can dish it out like the best of them, she can take a bunch of punishment, too. Let's say her own daughter were to slap her in the face. Of course, World Wrestling Entertainment would never let that happen. Regardless, Linda McMahon wouldn't flinch. She would take it like a good mother would. If Linda McMahon concentrates hard enough, she may be able to shape-shift her cheek into a open hand of her own and slap back. She is that good. Linda for Senate 2010: A Linda McMahon in Washington equals a better tomorrow in Connecticut.
Here we go, people. Oh, no she is not going to do such a thing, except that she is. The hypothetical slappee shall become the slapper. Revenge is a dish best served as a hand to the face. If you have been an avid watcher of WWE in the past decade, you have seen Stephanie McMahon attack her mother with what I like to call "Open Fist Punches." Well those attacks were fine and dandy, but a mother knows that no open fist punch is sweeter than one unto the daughter.
When you grow up, turn into a middle-aged woman, and have children of your own, I bet you hope to open-fist punch your daughter in the face on national television. With these attacks on video, you and your family could relive such special moments at a later time. In place of a stack of photo albums, you would own piles upon piles of DVDs that show yourself pummelling your kin with open palms. I think Linda is on to something with this child abuse strategy. Child services in Connecticut are liking it. Linda McMahon: Open-fist punching the children of our future in their faces.
For those of you who are unfamiliar with WrestleMania X-Seven, it was arguably the best WrestleMania of all time. To compare it to something that the general public knows, WrestleMania X-Seven was the American Idol: Results Show to American Idol. Austin versus The Rock didn't get any better than this particular WrestleMania. In addition, you had a fantastic Tables, Ladders, and Chairs Match, featuring Edge and Christian getting help from a sweaty and toned lesbian. You got Undertaker versus Triple H in a WrestleMania match that wasn't the main event, wasn't for a world title, and wasn't another win for Hunter. Best of all, you had Linda McMahon looking sleepy in a wheelchair.
Towards the end of the epic Shane versus Vince match, Linda rose up from her wheelchair and gave her husband the Jim Ross Special. For a minute there, I thought she was sleepy. In my opinion, she’s pretty good at looking sleepy. Forget Ken Kennedy in Behind Enemy Lines: Colombia. Linda McMahon is the greatest actor/actress of our generation. As I watched her in that wheelchair, I was about to give her a blanket so she wouldn't shiver in her sleep, but she got me. She got me good. Linda McMahon: Asleep at the wheelchair. Just kidding, you guys. She’s kicking some nuts instead.
Linda McMahon will be the next member of the United States Senate, but did you know that she will double as a magician as well? Move over, David Blaine and your weird hanging class contraption that is usually in Times Square. Fun fact: Linda McMahon is the only Senate member who can deprive herself of food, water, and vitamins while standing upside down for seventy-two hours.
During her time in WWE, you saw her making magic in the arms of Kane. When the Big Red Machine forced her to the cold steel on an breathtaking edition of Monday Night RAW, Linda used her amazing wizard powers to keep her head from colliding with the ramp. You may have seen her mom haircut touch the steel, but that was part of the illusion. You were imagining things. She was acting, using her superior acting skills as the greatest actor/actress of our generation. Linda for Senate. She's David Blaine with a mom haircut.
In the future, robots shall rule the earth, roaming the barren lands in search of a place to build their new robotic civilization. To build this civilization, they will construct their villages, towns, and cities with our bones. Understanding this future to be inevitable, Linda McMahon has adopted a monotone robotic voice to fool the robotic overlords into believing that she is one of them. As she gains their trust, she will slowly corrupt their government, then kill the robot race with some kind of futuristic chainsaw she made out of her jewelry.
If you are still weary of the notion that a former WWE CEO can be successful in politics, Linda's initiative should ease your mind. Senator Dodd cannot and will not adopt a monotone robotic voice because he doesn't think such robots are real. Now, what does that tell you about the character of one Christopher Dodd, Connecticut? Linda McMahon knows that robots are taking over and is currently preparing for the worst. When these robots come for us, who will you trust? Linda for Senate. Thank you very much-o, Mrs. Linda.
Linda McMahon has enough excitement in her life, what with the fact that she will get to sit on a Senate seat in due time. After all, sitting in seats is exhilarating. In order to solidify her butt to that senate chair, she is willing to add a little more spice to her already exciting life. From his time in WCW and WWE, Eric Bischoff has taught us that he is a pimp and a half. He has pressed his lips against many lovely ladies, ranging from Mae Young to Mae Young's crotch area to Rikishi's ample backside to Stephanie McMahon. With all those ladies on his pimp score card, none compare to Linda.
For your vote, Linda is willing to feel the leather-jacketed embrace of Eric once more. Getting mack-attacked by Vince won't work. She has tried it again and again, yet the only thing that she got out of it were two children. Most likely, locking it up with Easy E will guarantee her one of them primo seats. If she is desperate enough, she may go for Dixie Carter to complete the wrestling business trifecta, but hasn't she made enough of your dreams come true, Connecticut? Seriously now. Linda McMahon for U.S. Senate 2010: Your mack mommy.
People of Connecticut; Stone Cold Steve Austin is coming for you. He is mad at the fact that you will not let him drive his ATV on your private properties. He is close to giving each and every one of you Stone Cold Stunners. Please let your representative will step in and take one for the state.
Snatching Linda by the neck, Austin will drop her onto his shoulder. In an act of great sacrifice and bravery, Linda will awkwardly slide away from Austin's shoulders and softly collapse to the mat. You, the people of Connecticut, will think that she has somehow blocked the move, but no. She will awkwardly slide off his shoulders and softly collapse to the mat for you. Chris Dodd doesn't deserve a pat on the back, but Linda McMahon does for taking the Stone Cold Stunner. Linda McMahon: She doesn't know how to take a Stone Cold Stunner, but that doesn't stop her, does it? I didn't think so. Now let's go back to the country club and be snooty on horseback.
*****
NEXT WEEK
Kobe Kingston takes after has namesake by running with the ball and never passing it.
AND
He said he wanted many, many thousands of green people from history times.
It's official: Hulkamania has migrated to TNA for the winter. From there, it should run wild. In a move that will surely put Total Nonstop Action Wrestling on a map that hasn't been invented yet, Hulk Hogan and Eric Bischoff are taking control. At this moment, somewhere in the distance, a man is shaking in his boots. I think that man is Vince McMahon. I, for one, feel sorry for the multi-million-dollar, WWE Chairman. First of all, his son has severed ties with the company. Now, with Hogan in TNA, who's Vince going to call when he needs a shocking Pay-Per-View cameo? He can only call Steve Austin so many times before he gets annoyed. One time, Vince phoned Stone Cold while he was taking a relaxing bath with beer salts. Austin was not happy.
With Jeff Jarrett out of the picture and barely hanging onto the frame, Hogan and Bischoff are ready to take TNA to the top. While the doubters doubt that this tight-knit duo can change TNA for the better, they are more mistaken than ever. Hulk Hogan back in wrestling is a good thing. Eric Bischoff reuniting with Vince Russo is a super good thing. If Bischoff and Russo can duplicate the success they had in running WCW circa 2000, TNA is in for many decades of monetary wealth. The New Blood shall rise again, raining thick corn syrup that doesn't go where it's supposed to, no matter how hard they try.
In the past, Hulk and Eric knew how to make superstars. In 2009, I think they can work their Orlando magic with the current crop of TNA talent. Ask Billy Kidman what Hulk Hogan did for his career and he will tell you a mouthful in a way that is informative, yet not charismatic at all. Ask Diamond Dallas Page about Eric Bischoff's influence on his career and he will tell you facts in an overly optimistic manner — a manner that is open to some sensual swinging.
In the eternal fight against the evil empire that is World Wrestling Entertainment, Total Nonstop Action shall be the victors. How do I know this outcome? Hulk Hogan and Eric Bischoff's mere presence in TNA have guaranteed this outcome to be true. Before we look at the benefits of their involvement with the promotion, let me cook something delicious for us on my Hulk Hogan Ultimate Grill. As we dine on flank steak, TNA will dig into its future greatness.
In his prime, you saw him win tag team title after title with Jerry Sags in WWF and WCW. For years, you heard him at Tampa Bay Rays games, being a standout, obnoxious, fat heckler behind home plate. On television, you watched him on Hulk Hogan's Celebrity Championship Wrestling reality show, teaching D-level celebrities about the fine art of technical wrestling — Brian Knobbs style. With Hogan's signing in TNA, get ready for some mullet-y, Mohawk-like, rat-tail-esque action. I'm not sure what to call his haircut, but I'm liking it. I'm liking it a lot. His haircut is like a wild animal, which he has tamed to rest atop his beautiful head. If you're not down with Brian Knobbs in TNA, you best believe that you're living in Pity City because I pity you and your ignorance.
Before Hulk Hogan made bandanas famous, they were relegated to the craniums of tough bikers, effeminate pirates, and gangsters doubling as doctors. Due to the struggling economy, today’s supply and demand of bandanas remain at an all-time low. Everywhere you look, tough bikers are wearing fancy bowler hats. These bikers battle for territory against other tough bikers, who wear those Puritan hats with the large buckle on it. Effeminate pirates have traded in their bandanas for silk neckerchiefs and pashmina shawls. Meanwhile, gangsters doubling as doctors are simply using disposable face masks, which is a wise choice for such individuals in their profession. Hogan's arrival to TNA can only lift the stock of bandanas. Hulk Hogan's interest in bandanas increases my own interest. His bandanas are something else. I think they give him super powers.
If you're not convinced, Horace Hogan never wore a bandana. Look where he is now. Honestly, I couldn’t tell you his general or exact location. He’s not wearing a bandana.
Listen, buttheads and buttressheads. Jason Hervey is an talented actor and producer. Even though he is not a professional wrestler or wrestling personality, he did get it on with Missy Hyatt. That act of getting it on with Missy Hyatt makes him more of a professional wrestler than actually wrestling in a professional fashion. If you're an up-and-comer who wants to break into a wrestling business, you can do one of two things: get in Missy Hyatt's Regency or train hard for a decade. Either way, you’ll be set.
Hervey's working relationship and personal friendship with Eric Bischoff should get him a role in TNA. Perhaps, he shall be one of eight commissioners in the promotion. His job will involve booking himself in matches against Fred "The Macho Man" Savage for the rights to the Arnold family furniture business. Outdated reference alert.
Whether Hogan knows best or Brooke knows best, I feel safe and secure knowing that Brooke Hogan sings like an angel. Do not be hating with your hater glasses on your hater face, and your hater galoshes in the hating rain. She's just trying to live, but you're all up in her grill and similar outdoor cooking appliances. How is a girl to breathe with all the media staring down her angelic mouth with a four-inch lens, which extends to five inches when excited? Brooke just wants to hit the mall with some of her friends and whore it up via hulking.
Brooke's brand of sexually suggestive pop music has not come ten years too late. If anything, Brooke's music is ahead of its time. Her music must have been made in the year 1999 A.S.C.E. (After Second Common Era). As Hulk comes to TNA, I have no doubt that he will bring his daughter along to sing national anthems aplenty. Those people on vacation at Universal Studios deserve to be treated to her timeless tunes. Their vacation would not be a vacation without Brooke Hogan’s music.
Hulk Hogan is one of the biggest stars to ever step one or two wrestling foots in a wrestling ring. Around the world, his name is synonymous with professional wrestling. Gold diggers in that same world like to dig their gold from guys who are rich and famous. I am not surprised that the rich and famous Hulk Hogan can get attractive girls at his age, but I wonder why he would date women who resemble his own daughter. In most countries, dating your own daughter is sort of looked down upon, so at least Hogan is keeping things legal. On second thought, gross, dude. You're dating girls who look like Brooke Hogan. Now that you have additional exposure in TNA, you're only going to attract more clones of Brooke Hogan. In Florida, Brooke clones are everywhere. I know how it is. I've seen CSI: Miami. I’ve heard their sound machine.
From his series of reality shows produced by Eric Bischoff and Jason Hervey, I have learned many things about Scott Baio. For instance, depending on the type of day and weather condition, Scott Baio is single, married, and or pregnant.
The former star of Happy Days, Joanie Loves Chachi, and Charles in Charge has many accomplishments to his name, but his biggest accomplishment will come in the form of his first TNA World Championship reign. Using his finisher called "Ham and Baio on Rye" (powerbomb into reverse electric chair drop), Scott will defeat AJ Styles and take what is rightfully his. Acting as the first domino in this domino effect, Willie Aames will debut soon after and win the TNA Knockouts Title. Willie Aames is not a woman, but his acting performances always manage to knock me out. He’s like Jenna Morasca in that regard, except he is not.
When a normal wrestler gives his opponent a leg drop, mild pain is involved. Mostly, the giver inflicts that pain onto the receiver, who usually lightly bounces off the mat in reaction to the move. Whenever Hulk Hogan gives his opponent the Legdrop of Doom, the tectonic plates beneath us violently shift. In fact, the tectonic plates switch positions, creating a new world landscape. Asia combines with the western part of North America. Furthermore, Antarctica distances itself from the other countries, making us not want to live there.
Throughout its history, Total Nonstop Action presented many a legdrop, but none rivals the one produced by Hogan's tanned and meaty leg. If any of you need to move within the next few months, allow Hulk Hogan to walk into your old home and execute a legdrop onto your floor. In seconds, his legdrop will move your furniture and other belongings to your new home. Do not tip him or he’ll use that money on a girl that looks more like Brooke Hogan than the one he previously dated.
At the height of wrestling's popularity, the New World Order was the definition of cool. Adults cheered for them because they brought an edge to the once family-friendly World Championship Wrestling. Teenagers loved the stable because they were rebellious and anti-establishment. Most of all, little kids admired Hollywood Hulk Hogan because they liked to paint beards on their faces as well. Over a decade later, the founders of the nWo could very well bring the band back together again. Once Big Gandalf (Kevin Nash) and Hulk Hogan lure Scott Hall from the shadows with a bulk pack of toothpicks, the New World Order will take over TNA. Then again, scratch that thought. WWE owns the rights to the nWo. Oh well. Nevertheless, I'm sure they can call themselves something cool, like the New World Joy Luck Club. Bring that thought back again.
As for me, I want nothing more than to see Hall, Nash, and Hogan back in the ring. Sadly, I don't think TNA will grant my ultimate wish: the return of core New World Order member Michael Wallstreet. You were balling for real, Rotundo.
*****
NEXT WEEK
Ric Flair wins the North Carolina Education Lottery and buys his next five ex-wives. Might as well stock up on them for the winter.
AND
I will eat a bowl of cherries and some ghost meat in his honour.
January 15, 1970 is a day that will not be forgotten. Combining the powers of Vince and Linda McMahon's world-famous loins, the golden one known as Shane McMahon came into our world. Once the doctor assisted him out of his mother's womb, Shane danced his first ever Shane-O Shuffle. In response, the entire world stood up and cheered for the boy they thought would become their ultimate saviour. In 2009, the saviour is gone. Against my wishes, Shane McMahon has resigned from World Wrestling Entertainment, breaking free from the sports entertainment chains. Where will he go? I do not know. How long will he stay away? I cannot guess. Will he be doing the Shane-O Shuffle, no matter the occasion? You bet.
Shane's accomplishments in World Wrestling Entertainment are infinite. He is a former European and Hardcore Champion. Also, that is all. Then again, legends are not measured by the gold around their waist, but by their impact on the business as whole. As Shane leaves the company that his own family built with their narrow-minded, stubborn hands, his impact is clear. Before he entered the squared circle, the wrestling world had never seen a wrestler who did everything he could to not execute a wrestling move. When a wrestler pulled off a suplex, Shane reacted by giving him the Coast 2 Coast with a trash can. When his opponent pulled off a submission hold, Shane would squirm out of that move and give him the Coast 2 Coast with a trash can positioned slightly askew. In other words, Shane innovated professional wrestling for the better.
Back at the McMahon family home — where every family member resides, creating an inconvenient and uncomfortable Full House situation — Vince, Linda, Stephanie, and Hunter are not taking the news well. Vince McMahon has refused to leave the living room, preferring to distract himself by watching current films like B*A*P*S. At the same time, Linda McMahon is searching through YouTube, flagging any video that hurts her run for senate. Without her big brother around, Stephanie McMahon is playing with his complete collection of Rollerball action figures. He has duplicates of LL Cool J. In the bathroom, Triple H is listening to Air Supply while thumbing through a photo album, which captures the good times he had with Shane at the roller disco.
Dear Shane; you will be missed. We will miss the way you wowed us as an on-air personality, hurling childish insults like nobody's business. As a part-time wrestler, you clearly proved that McMahons who wrestle once or twice per year are superior to individuals who frequently wrestle for their livelihood. Wherever the Mean Street Posse may be (I assume they are in heaven), I bet they are proudly looking down on you, grinning from sweater vest shoulder to shoulder. You did well. Now, let me tell you why we need you back.
Your name is Shane McMahon, and you are the master of gingerly falling from high places. As a result, you must be skilled at gingerly falling from low places as well. After all, many low places put together equal one high place. Out of all those falls, perhaps my favourite type of fall is the one you did on your head. Whatever you do, don't be modest, Shane. A thousand brain busters to a thousand WWE Superstars cannot match up to the brain-busting fall you took in that 2001 King of the Ring match with Kurt Angle. Despite Kurt's tireless effort to suplex you through that glass pane, you determined to fall head first onto that sweet arena concrete. You could have kept it safe by wearing some sort of comical pimp chapeau, but you decided to make one of those immortal King of the Ring memories instead. Risking your health and life, your head fell badminton birdie style onto that floor. I don't know about your neighbourhood, but in my neighbourhood, that sort of act makes you a megastar.
Your ability to fall on your head has humbled this soft spoken gentleman, who uses a helmet whenever he needs to fall on his head. In this era of low-risk, formulaic wrestling, WWE needs a person like you who can teach others how to almost inflict permanent damage to their brain. Redundant and repetitive storylines, matches, and personalities are not the factors that are hurting the wrestling business. In my opinion, the fact that nobody knows how to properly fall on their head is most troublesome. Without these falls, the current crop of WWE Superstars will never know what neck surgery feels like. I never had one myself, but I'm guessing it tingles.
In all my years of analyzing professional wrestling, I have seen numerous instances in which a wrestler will convincingly punch another wrestler in the face. Supposedly, wrestling schools teach their students how to make grazing contact with their punches in order to make it look as though they are actually punching others. Therefore, these students are amateurs compared to you, who has the best punches in the business. Since you are no longer with World Wrestling Entertainment, who is going to punch at nothing? Lately, Randy Orton has been quite healthy, showing no physical signs of a cold or a flu. For me, that is terrible news because that means you have not been around to punch the air in front of Randy, creating a cold-inducing draft. To my dismay, Randy's bill of health will remain cleaner than clean.
Your flurry of punches rivals that of Mike Tyson and Muhammad Ali, if Mike Tyson and Muhammad Ali were pastry chefs rather than legendary boxers. To this day, I believe that swine flu was caused by Shane McMahon pulling off lefts and rights in a crowded, Mexican hog pen. Even Stephanie McMahon's Special Slap, a finishing move that is illegal in fifty-seven countries, cannot compete with the power of your punch. Whenever mother nature's windy punch blows right by me, missing by several inches, I shall think of your punch and gently weep in memoriam.
The day that Kane tied you to the ring post and shocked your man business was special. For you, it was special because your man business was running low on energy and needed a boost. For the fans, the electrocution left them wanting more. "More testicular violence," they said, angrily and passionately with their salivating mouths. Although you never went for seconds, I hoped your WWE future would hold another battery-powered incident. Because you are leaving, you'll never get another chance to repeat history.
With your absence, WWE’s need to see this visual has skyrocketed. Every member of the RAW roster wants to try it for themselves. Surely, this electrocution shall make them the envy of all their friends. I'm not on RAW at the moment, but with this trend, I wish I was. The amount of times I get to electrocute my balls is minimal. I feel like half of a man without car battery cables on my Member to Remember. If anybody asks, let's just pretend I have that type of connection there. You should do the same, Shane. Wherever you go, people are going to ask why you don't have your junk hooked up to a car battery. What are you going say? You've got nothing. Please come back so your chestnuts may roast on that electrical fire once more.
X-Punk. Which Way Did He Go? Vince, We Have A Problem. These sayings will forever live in infamy for one reason and one reason only: they were on your baseball jerseys. You were never a professional baseball player. You never hit a home run, pitched a perfect game, or took performance enhancing drugs to hit home runs and pitch perfect games. Even though Cooperstown wasn’t calling for you, we knew the deal. With those baseball jerseys on your back, fans everywhere knew that you were a professional ass kicker. One look at your jersey-adorned person sent shivers through the spineless spines of your rivals. You had the sculpted body of a Greek god, yet you chose to hide it under a sculpted jersey, occasionally worn by such gods on game day. Good choice.
In addition to your wondrous jersey, loose track pants and a pair of sneakers completed your major league attire. In a land where muscly giants donned glittery spandex, leather, and nylon, you stood out from the bland crowd. Some say your appearance made you look like an out-of-shape physical education teacher who lived in his car, but I always disagreed. At worst, I told them that you resembled an out-of-shape jogger with low self-esteem. For hours, we argued back and forth, until I held up an actual picture of an out-of-shape jogger with low-esteem. In the end, I won the battle and the war. You're welcome in advance.
Back in the day, you were serious business. When Shane McMahon stepped into the building, money followed. World Wrestling Entertainment is a multi-million dollar corporation, but Shane McMahon was the one who gave them that money through his presence alone. If you listen closely to Naughty by Nature's "Here Comes The Money" and play it backwards every other second, you will hear a subliminal message that suggests a correlation between Shane and monetary bills. Unless you return post haste, the message will be lost. We will have no money, yet more problems. Think of what the WWE stockholders will do when they discover that the money is no more. In a panic, they might stumble upon Total Nonstop Action and invest the rest of what they have over there. Do not let these great people waste their money on TNA. Let them waste it on your father and the greater people of WWE.
According to your catchy theme — which touches upon real-world, money-related issues that are plaguing today’s society — money talks. If the wrestling fans' money could talk, they would tell you that are you needed in WWE. Without you in the company, your sister will rule the promotion, touching upon issues such as growing up and continuing to grow in the upwards direction. The WWE Universe doesn't need to grow upwards or downwards for they are never going to get any more mature than they are now. You may think that the WWE Universe consists of little children, but you would be wrong. In actuality, those little children are malnourished elderly people. In this economy, elderly people need two things: scooters rolling on dubs and money for their baby nanas. You, Shane McMahon, can give them at least one of those things.
I'm returning
As I run my knees are aching
And you see my back can't hold up
With all these matches I'm wrestling
Between all of the hirings and firings
I pump my fist up in the air
In these dated tights I wear
Trying to save my own career
But he thinks he's awesome (He thinks he's awesome)
This Monday, I woke up many years older
Years ago I looked much younger
But I just chose to come back anyway
I'd get a payday anyway
And there would be no windows
No breakable barbershop windows
When I'd show myself again
But he thinks he's awesome (He thinks he's awesome)
He thinks he's awesome
So what if he gets to pin me?
I've got many more appearances in me
And I'm good friends with other old guys
He thinks he's awesome
So what if he gets to beat me?
Though I don't think the youthful crowd can say
That they know who the hell I am today
The Question:
Who wins and how?
*****
NEXT WEEK
Don't go, Shane McMahon. There's no soft cushions where you're falling.
AND
A book hasn't caused this much trouble since Where's Waldo went to that barber pole factory.
Halloween is a special holiday in which children wear poorly-fitted clothes, wander around in the dark, and receive unopened packages from strangers. If December 25th is Christmas, October 31st is Christmas Version 2.0. As for me, society looks down on young men who dress up as a slutty Josh Mathews. This unfortunate truth means that I see no use in participating in this year's Halloween festivities. Even though I not will be out and about, I shall grace the internet with a spooky edition of The Swerved.
The wrestling world is a scary place. Everywhere you look, wrestling's greatest companies are lurking in the shadows, preparing to invade our living rooms with their ghoulish brand of entertainment. I shudder and shiver at the thought of wrestlers, staring at me with their dead eyes, talking into microphones with their dead mouths, and wrestling against their opponents in dead arenas. Get away. I don't want to hear about never giving up, no matter what. I don't want to see elementary-school-level acting. Just go.
I'm afraid of a lot of things: heights, snakes, overcrowded places, bears, flying, commitment, fruit carts in non-action films, one-piece bikinis, long pants, tofu, ghosts, sails on sailboats, the sun, the moon, half of the stars in the sky, moons made out of cheese, up escalators, old computers, Juicy Fruit, and Velcro that is left unused. Perhaps the only thing that I am not afraid of is telling you what frightens me. In World Wrestling Entertainment, many things do.
For the first time ever, I am going to use sarcasm in order to cope with my fears. I am a truthful person who lives a truthful life, occasionally borrowing candy from babies for research purposes. No matter what you think of me, please let me off easy this one time. In the future, I promise to never use sarcasm again. A promise is a promise, and mine cannot be broken. Isn't that right, Ken Kennedy: the man who has never told a lie? I thought so.
For the benefit of the young children out there, I shall present the background behind the Katie Vick storyline. Kane, a violent monster with a disturbing childhood, was a teenage chick magnet. Apparently, teenage girls like large, sweaty, and disturbed pyromaniacs with masks. One of those girls was peppy cheerleader Katie Vick. To cap off a night of drunken teenage partying — a weekend staple for any Big Red Machine — he took Katie home in his car. Because he is Kane, I assume he owned a ruby red AMC Pacer. Unfortunately, a horrific car crash took the life of the lovely cheerleader, leaving Kane alone and guilt-ridden. By the way, I'm guessing that at some point in this time period, a teenage Undertaker tormented Kane in his sleep with reminders of the accident. At night, he probably crept up towards Kane’s top bunk and made car crash noises with his mouth. After Kane threatened to tell their father, Paul Bearer, about the traumatic teasing, the Undertaker threw Kane's ColecoVision out the window. This ungodly act began their lifelong feud.
The storyline was brought forth on a 2002 edition of RAW in a wonderful segment, which appalled nobody in particular. In a pre-taped skit, Triple H dressed up as the casual-wear version of Kane (red t-shirt, jeans, and a mask), climbed into a coffin with a Katie Vick mannequin inside, and went to town on her mannequin body. After the act, he took out a handful of hamburger meat and claimed to have screwed her brains out. I feel as though WWE is screwing up my brains just thinking about it.
Wasn't that storyline great, WWE? Today, I'm glad you're able to laugh about it, what with the fact that you took it seriously at first and thought it would set the wrestling world on fire. Oh, you guys and your ability to have so much fun. Remember how hardcore fans hated the angle and vowed never to watch wrestling again, taking money out of your pockets and eyes off your programming for several years to come? That was super stupendous. Jokes about the past are awesome.
The WWE Diva Halloween Costume Contest is a time-honoured, Cyber Sunday tradition that annually determines which WWE Diva tries the most to be more sexy than they actually are. Last year, Mickie James beat out the women of RAW, Smackdown, and ECW with her Lara Croft: Tomb Raider outfit. This particular costume was inspired by the notion that socially awkward nerds everywhere want to raid Mickie James' tomb. While I don't mind WWE Divas dressing up in these revealing outfits, I don’t want to watch them stand around any longer. Getting paid to stand around may very well be the greatest job in the world, but as an admirer of divas who don't stand around, the segment does not interest me. Don't get me wrong, though. They don't have to attempt to wrestle, or act, or do anything that is physically or mentally exhaustive, but can't they do something new? Can't they run in place or something like that? How about a WWE Diva Running in Place Contest? I bet Mickie James would win that contest as well. As far as her career is concerned, running in place is what she is doing right now. Dang.
Let's face it: WWE women's wrestling is pretty sad at the moment. The RAW Women's Division is made up of a girl that smiles a lot (Melina), a girl that sings poorly a lot on purpose (Jillian Hall), and Gail Kim (Gail Kim). At the same time, Smackdown consists of WWE Women's Champion Michelle McCool and girls who are not undertaking it with The Undertaker. Wearing nostalgic glasses to correct my nostalgic near-sightedness, I yearn for the days of the Trish Stratuses/Trish Stratusi and the Litas. Although they competed in a few Halloween costume contests themselves, they spent the rest of the time doing entertaining things. Whether it was making up convoluted moves in which the opponent does all of the work, or occasionally landing on their faces, the divas of yesteryear were dynamic. These days, they're just chilling.
Currently, the WWE main event scene is as fresh as fresh can get. Don't even bother to stop and smell the roses for the WWE main event scene has a scent that I liken to a newborn babe. On the RAW brand, total unknowns like John Cena and Randy Orton are getting their names out there to a public that is not yet familiar with them. Meanwhile, Friday Night Smackdown has been rejuvenated with the young animal Batista and the Undertaker — a Deadman who is only getting less dead. Although ECW is a WWE brand, nobody should care about them anyway because ECW is filled with super old dudes.
Taking the talent roster of all three brands into account, I think WWE needs to knock certain individuals down a peg or twelve. If these certain individuals wish to make themselves into stars, maybe it's time to insult them. Perhaps WWE should insult them to a point where the audience sees them as eternal losers. This is where The Game plays his game like no other gamer can play games that are gamer-friendly.
Get going with your bad self, Triple H. Last week on Monday Night RAW, you showed those new guys who's their future boss. In case you weren’t aware, I'm talking about you. Those up-and-comers deserve your scorn. Look at what they're going to do to you in a few years. I fear for the safety of your main event spot for they could be main eventers themselves. For the sake of you and I, let's pray that they won't be. You're right; Eric Escobar doesn't have a name. That's why WWE took the creative time and effort to call him Eric Escobar and pair him with former Smackdown General Manager Vickie Guerrero. He doesn't matter. Yes. You may be a 13-time WWE World Champion, but to me, you're a 13-time champion of cutesy yet harmful insults. Those insults are the best kind.
When there's some nonsensical brand trade in the WWE neighbourhood, who am I going to call? Well, I'm going to call everyone to inform them of this exciting, monumental move that will send shockwaves throughout the industry. I ain't afraid of no nonsensical brand trade. Why, you say? Nonsensical brand trades make the WWE Universe do whatever a WWE Universe does. A WWE Universe manufactures Milky Way and Mars bars, right? In actuality, the more nonsensical a brand trade may be, the more sense it makes. Due to all those times she has dealt with wrestling talent on Access Hollywood, Nancy O'Dell understands the value of WWE Superstars. If anyone should make trades, it should be her. Now, compare her to someone like Mary Hart. If you ask me, Entertainment Tonight is Clueless Tonight. When you have Access to Hollywood, you have access to anything, including WWE talent. Whenever you want, hook RAW up with some stars that are of the super variety, Nance.
After receiving my associates degree from the University of Phoenix, I am now qualified to host WWE programs and make brand trades. As RAW General Manager for the next few minutes, I am going to hit up Theodore Long and Tiffany and talk about some serious business. I'll trade back The Bella Twins for a McDonald's Monopoly piece. Any takers? Nikki and Brie are valuable, but you have to give something to get something. I think I can win the contest this year. Scratch that. I know I can win this. I have 14 Park Places, but if I try a few hundred more times, I can get Boardwalk.
While you're having a blast, chomping down on your precious Halloween candy, I will be cowering in fear before celebrities who wrestle. I am completely in favour of adding glitz and glamour to the dull Monday nights, but once these guest hosts start pulling off holds and submissions, we have a problem. Not only a problem, but a glitzy and glamorous problem. As a loyal and steadfast supporter of World Wrestling Entertainment, I think I deserve to get what I want. After all, I keep them afloat by criticizing every single one of their decisions. Hence, I know what's best for them. At this point, the very best that is for them is getting those celebrities out of the ring. I've had enough of Snoop Dogg clotheslining Santino with his noodle-like arms. Maybe he should pick up a weight once in a while, rather than a marijuana cigarette. That way, he wouldn't have to attack people with his noodle-like arms. In my opinion, he has enough noodle-like arms to make a spaghetti-like dinner, but I bet he would clothesline that, too.
RAW Guest Hosts like Shaquille O'Neal and Ben Roethlisberger are the exception. With their intimidating builds, I can buy into the possibility that they could get the better of a WWE Superstar. Then again, what is WWE doing with these celebrities anyway? The promotion doesn’t need them. As Vince famously said, the WWE Superstars are the true celebrities. He's right, you know. Those WWE Superstars are always in the gossip magazines, rubbing elbows and other body parts with A-listers. The other day, I saw a picture of Ashton Kutcher buying cereal at some Los Angeles grocery store. You know who else was there? Hornswoggle. That leprechaun was betraying his people, buying Good Luck Shapes — an imitation Lucky Charms cereal. Wait until Nancy Grace gets a hold of this news. A leprechaun caught buying Good Luck Shapes? He might as well move from RAW to the Four Horsemen. The sight is that shameful.
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