skip to main |
skip to sidebar
First: I was right about the Raven/Abyss/Runt match. Everybody says so. Yes, the Ultimate X Tag match was (much) more polished, but the triple threat had HEART. I'm a sucker for people overcoming their personal limitations. Whether scrawny, kneeless, or mute, Our Boys pulled off a garbage wrestling tour-de-force t'other night, and lo! I sing their praises.
On to other things. While the LAX labor manfully to usher in a much-desired "new era of violence," a counter-insuregency has been launched. Deep in the bowels (haw!) of TNA, the leading lights of the X Division are dedicating themselves to exploring the heights (depths?) of faux-hilarious jackassery. In short, they desire a New Era of Whimsy.
From the initial Jackass 2 tie-in stunt (pictured in all its grisly detail above) to the awkwardly executed bowling-ball-to-crotch thing to Sunday Night's capital-D Dreadful laxative/blow-up doll double-header, the X Division Boys are cutting a swath of "Tom and Jerry" mayhem through the usually staid environs of the iMPACT! zone. While I will acknowledge that watching Petey Williams struggle to contain his impending "poop package" elicited a few juvenile chuckles, I am by and large opposed to all this "comedy."
Perhaps it is, in some small way, my fault. I have stated loudly and publicly that Chris Sabin, Jay Lethal, and (e-fucking-specially) Sonjay Dutt, whether singly or en masse, do not have the personality God gave a twig. Arabian Facebuster's influence is worldwide, and TNA cannot be blamed for responding to our critiques. Regardless, I must insist that dressing "The Playa from the Himalayas" up in an oversized baseball jersey and having Chris Sabin smell his ass is NOT what we had in mind.
I was wrong. There, I said it. The X Division stars are great BECAUSE they lack personality. I long for the days of faceless, interchangeable daredevils ping-ponging around the ridiculous six-sided ring. These fellows must not be allowed anywhere near a microphone, and should perhaps have their faces surgically altered so they all look like clones of each other. Then they can get back to flying around the ring like so many lucha-inspired popcorn kernels.
Take heed, TNA. This japery will not stand. Arabian Facebuster decrees it.
At the risk of overhyping this crippled, lumbering mass of hair dye and flannel, I must once again urge the readers of Arabian Facebuster to consider: Raven. The reason I have to shell out my hard-earned lucre for another goddamn PPV.
My attitude towards the upcoming TNA "No Surrender" Pay-Per-View could be charitably described as chilly. Disinterested. Totes Whatevs. TNA is clearly saving its full attention for "Bound For Glory" next month, leading the informed wrestling fan to conclude that "Surrender" will be a mere placeholder, marking time until the electrifying thrill-fest that is the biggest low-rent wrestling event of the year.
Then, curse them, the TNA booking masterminds started piling on the quality. The LAX/Styles/Daniels feud has provided that much-sought-after "next level of violence" your correspondent craves. Samoa Joe has promised to literally murder Jeff Jarrett. And the Christian Cage/Rhino matchup should be really adequate.
And, innocuously slipped into the undercard, we have Raven vs. The Monster Abyss vs. Brother Runt. Three men. Four knees. No Disqualifications. There's your match of the evening, right fucking there. I cannot for the life of me imagine why TNA is not sinking more hype into this bloodbath. Raven and Runt have more than proven that they are willing to drop a few pints for the cause, and Abyss is basically Kane if you replaced his "personality" with an actual work rate. I'm genuinely surprised TNA isn't saving this feast for next month's BIG DEAL show. I guess this is just the sort of effusive generosity Total Non-stop Action wrestling is known for.
I wish I could look away. I really do. I have things to do on Sunday. But here's Raven, and here's Abyss and Spike Dudley, and here's me buying the stupid Pay-Per-View.
The staff of Arabian Facebuster would like to offer our sincere congratulations to Scott "Raven" Levy on his return to wrestling actual wrestlers (see: last night's iMPACT!). We were all deeply impressed by his ability to conduct an entire match against The Monster Abyss without bending his knees. It's a good thing, too, since Raven's kneecaps were apparently unable to negotiate a new contract with TNA management. Still, that's what you get for hiring a separate agent for your own knees.
Anyway, welcome back Raven. We're glad you're not still clumping around after Larry Zbyszko. We'd also like to point out that we never made fun of your weight, not once. Besides, compared to Jeff Hardy, you're actually pretty fucking svelte.
Ladies and Gentlemen, a wrestling enthusiast must learn to take pleasure from small victories. The life of a WWE viewer, in particular, closely resembles a barren desert, punctuated by lush oases of quality. An Umaga desert, if you will, with Mick Foley oases. Again, only if you will. The wary traveller will only enter this desert when heavily stocked with provisions, for these must carry him through the wasteland.
So it was that last night found me, well-stocked with sixteen-ounce cans of malted beverage, wading intrepidly through the grim landscape of Monday Night RAW. I had anticipated quite the lengthy slog, and was packed densely with fluids. Then, a-suddenly, I came upon a hitherto uncharted oasis. Super Crazy. Versus "The Masterpiece" Chris Masters (seen in the picture on the left, which is approximately twice his current size). For the second week in a row.
A rematch between two perpetual midcarders, one dwarfed by his legendary past and one dwarfed by his own steroid-addled former self, seemed an unlikely place for quality to nestle, but Lo! I found myself riveted by this match. No, it wasn't quite as intense as their match from last week, but it was notable for two things: Masters displayed his newly adequate work rate, and Super Crazy won. Again.
I admit, Facebuster Fans, that one huge part of my aversion to Smackdown! stems from their mistreatment of Super Crazy and Psicosis (the [shudder] Mexicools). Taking two blindingly fast, savagely insane luchadores and shafting them with an inane ultra-racist gimmick (making them ride to the ring on LAWNMOWERS, f'r fuck's sake) seemed the ultimate insult to true wrestling fans. We at Arabian Facebuster have long lamented the loss of Old School ECW's "international flavor", and The Mexicools were the final insulting nail in an appallingly bigoted coffin. So it was with great surprise that I witnessed my beloved Super Crazy actually winning a match! Against a White Boy, of all things!
Which brings me (at last!) to a bit of advice for the WWE. If you expect me to cross the Racist Throwback Umaga Desert every goddamn week, there's only one oasis from which to sup. The Super Crazy/Masters Oasis. The oasis in which Super Crazy cuts that cracker on his stupid cracker face.
At the risk of straining last week's dubious metaphor to the breaking point, last night's ECW tag match was like extremely satisfying make-up sex. After watching Mike Knox and Test blunder into every delectable high spot Sabu and RVD could dream up, ECW and I snuggled in close, exchanged tender glances, and reaffirmed our love for each other.
Which is not to say I care about ECW more than I do about TNA. The very idea is absurd. One halfway decent tag match cannot wash away three months of Big Shew main events, and Kevin Thorn and his inflatable girlfriend are still skulking around giving each other "very sexual" Tarot Readings.
Still and all, it was quite nice to see Test and Mike Knox finally finding their niche in ECW. Not every performer aspires to be a dull-witted-but-durable punching bag for a pair of pilled-up sociopaths, but who am I to question Mr. Knox's career path? And while Arabian Facebuster would never condone steroid abuse, it's worth noting that Test took some pretty hefty punishment during the match and emerged none the worse for wear. So what if he can't really feel his skin anymore and his testicles seem to have retreated into his cheekbones? Rob Van Dam can throw a steel chair directly into Test's face, and Test barely even blinks. Of course, he CAN'T blink because if he closes his eyes he sees an infinite lake of fire consuming all of existence (I understand Scott Steiner has a similar problem), but blinking isn't exactly EXTREME, now is it?
So thumbs up to ECW for a lovely evening. I particularly enjoyed puffy-faced crybaby Shannon Moore, and I hope to see more of him when I (yes, I admit it) tune in next week.
I'm sorry, ECW... this is hard for me to say, but... look, I know we had some great times back in the 90's, and I know when you left I swore I'd wait for you, and I'd always be there for you, and I know I even said I loved you...
The thing is, you've changed. I'm not trying to blame you, but ever since you've been back, it's like you don't really care about me anymore. I keep making excuses to all my friends, saying stuff like, "They're booking shitty matches on PURPOSE so we'll all get really excited when they finally stage a Pay-Per-View and Sabu beats Big Show and the matches get good again and we'll hold each other's hands and kiss and it'll be just like before and...". I guess it does sound pretty pathetic. Everyone tries to tell me that you're just not that into quality wrestling anymore, and I guess that's pretty true. It breaks my heart to admit it, but the reason I haven't talked about this on Arabian Facebuster until now is that I've been ashamed. I knew I was being duped, but I just wanted to believe in you SO MUCH. I guess I let myself be fooled.
You can't even look at me, can you? It's alright, I know all about Vince McMahon. I know he can give you things I can't. Things like TV contracts, jobs, and a way out of total bankruptcy. All I can give you is twenty-five bucks for the world's ugliest Terry Funk t-shirt, the odd DVD sale if your merch is on clearance at Sam Goody, and a promise to buy every other Pay-Per-View as long as they don't get too shitty. It hurts me to know that Vince's money means that much to you, but I understand. I just want you to know that I feel betrayed.
Also, there's... um, I don't know how to put this, but there's someone else. Don't take that tone with me, it's obvious you don't even care about me anymore. I've been watching TNA pretty much every week, and it's been great. We make each other really, really happy. We can talk like adults. We can compromise (I put up with one Scott Steiner promo a week, and TNA gives me Christopher Daniels' bleeding head whenever I want). We can have a one hour TV program that contains more than six minutes of WATCHABLE FUCKING WRESTLING.
I'm sorry. I shouldn't have raised my voice. I'm just frustrated and upset. I thought we had something once, and it hurts me to have to let it go. I'd like it if we could still be friends. Heck, maybe I'll even get one of your Pay-Per-Views sometime, just so we can keep in touch. I just can't stand to watch your crappy show week after week. Not when there's a federation out there that gives me what I need. Not when you're hanging out with vampires, meth addicts, and convicts (actually, I don't mind about the convicts. Them boys got a bum rap). Not when Spike "Brother Runt" Dudley just had a Ten Thousand Thumbtacks match against The Monster Abyss that ended with Abyss going through two (!) tables laden with the aforementioned thumbtacks.
I know you'll be okay. You're going to make some new fans very happy someday. It's getting late. I have to go. Listen, I'll call you, alright?
