He's Sorry He Got So Fat

Dearest readers.
My sainted mother has observed that, based on my humble scribblings, the casual reader could be forgiven for assuming that all modern wrestlers are out-of-shape doughballs. I accept that this criticism is more than accurate, and I have resolved to steer my postings into more physically fit waters. Perhaps I'll do a piece on that nice Ron Killings fellow. Unfortunately for my new dedication to muscle mass, Jeff Nero Hardy made his triumphant return to the WWE on last night's RAW.

Holy crap on a Christmas cracker, that fucking mallrat looked bloated.

It's worth noting that the above picture is NOT from last night. Why this inexcusable lapse from YOUR Arabian Facebuster, a website renowned for its dedication to the bleeding edge of modern grappling? Because you can't find a current picture of this fat load ANYWHERE. I suspect that Vince McMahon's jackbooted thugs are entering the homes of all the photographers who attended last night's RAW taping, under orders to destroy the negatives. Yes, even the Japanese photo corps.

So, on to the fatness. Hardy raced out to confront Edge over some foofaraw or other. Doesn't matter. All that matters is that Jeff's once-taut tummy ballooned far beyond the confines of his spandex shirt, forcing itself outward, ever outward into the harsh glare of the arena lights. It was a grim and pasty thing. It's particularly unfortunate that Jeff's shtick consists almost entirely of raising his arms dramatically. Jeff greets the crowd with a raised fist. Tummy. Jeff thrusts his arm out before performing a "twist of fate." Tummy. Jeff does his extreme "my fingers look like guns" pose before executing the Swanton Bomb (kudos to the Pencil Neck Geek for pointing out that it should be rechristened "The Swanson Bomb"). TUMMY TUM TUM!

So Hardy retreated to the back to gear up for his match with Edge. When he came back out, some sage production assistant had slipped a t-shirt under the goddamn spandex. Anonymous production assistant: Arabian Facebuster salutes your wisdom. Sure, it bunched up around Jeff's flabby middle like a Sumo Diaper, but at least we were spared further glimpses of the Tum.

Listen, I'm no Adonis. Summerslam was on this weekend, so I've been sticking to a strict regimen of chicken parts and cheap beer. BUT, if I were to suddenly find myself booked in my first televised match in SEVEN MONTHS, I'd do some damn crunches. Maybe I'd jog around the block a few times.

Now, I am not knocking Jeff's in-ring ability. He seems perfectly capable of remaining upright, and The Swanson Bomb was capably executed, even though he seemed to be sucking on a Chiclet the whole time (I guess he's gotta keep that blood sugar up). I'm just saying that if Jeff's going to keep making his own outfits (true!) he should either get a personal trainer or a more realistic self-image. And spit out that Chiclet. He's gonna choke on that thing.