Damn Clever, Those Japanese

For your consideration: footage from the HUSTLE promotion in Japan. This is apparently an attempt to weld traditional Japanese style action with Sports Entertainment storylines. Whatevs, it's all basically three scoops of insane with awesome sauce drizzled on top.

Here we find long-time Facebuster fave Tajiri teaming with Taiwanese swimsuit model Yinling to face the offensive stereotype "Real Gay" and... the motherfucking Great Muta. While there's a bit too much "erotic" posturing and ridiculous effeminate clowning for some tastes, Muta and Tajiri have some top-notch exchanges that look pretty goddamn stiff. And, of course, Muta blows th' Green Mist into Yinling's crotch.

Nice to see that the WWE aren't the only promotion monitoring my dreams for angles.

Big Daddy "V" For Victory!

Ladies and Gentlemen of the Facebuster Nation, it has been a long four months. There were times (mainly during Great Khali matches) that it seemed our nightmare would never end. There were times (whenever Batista touched a microphone) that we looked to the heavens and begged for an end to the atrocities of war. There were times (usually involving someone or other writhing in the clutches of "the Masterlock") that we wished we had never started this fucking blog at all, and wondered if we could ever again look on mainstream pro-wrasslin' product without feeling shudders of PTSD and Survivor's Guilt.

Well, we can. 'Cause we won. And we will keep winning.

A brief moment of exposition for the newer recruits to le armee Facebuster: Back in August, renowned shitheel Michael Cole inadvertently slandered the legendary Bruiser Brody. Acting on an undeniable moral imperative, the Facebuster Editorial Staff moved to declare war on the entire WWE organization, sparking a hellish ordeal of scorn, bluster, and Hornswoggle matches. Demands were issued, progress was made, but many doubted that we could ever acheive True Victory In Our Time.

Fuck off, doubters.

Has it occurred to any of you that it's a bit odd that the injured and suspended Edge was just allowed to waltz back into WWE title contention? Did you notice that he's currently providing at least a solid half hour of top-shelf entertainment every week? Did you watch the video montage of Edge and Vickie Guerrero frolicking in the park and say, "That's so much like my dreams, it's scary?"

We did, too. And that's because we LITERALLY HAD THAT DREAM, two weeks before it aired on Smackdown!. We also dreamed about there being three Edges, and y'all know how we feel about Big Daddy V. It's almost as though... (dare to say it) the WWE has been monitoring our dreams for story ideas. Finally.

All this was purest conjecture until last Friday's Smackdown!, when Rey Mysterio's entrance montage included the typical "pan across the glowing faces of the fans" shot... and there I was. Apollo Spas, circa 1997. Clad in a vintage Ramones T-shirt, shrugging off my ridiculous Echo & The Bunnymen trenchcoat, laughing and clapping for my wrasslin' favorites (photographic evidence pending, as we try to figure out how to work our computers, but feel free to come over to my place and watch the tape). No shit. As a token gesture of humility, defeat, and submission, the WWE bigwigs pulled some footage of me at a Tacoma Dome RAW taping and spliced into their latest, cutting-edge (har?) efforts. The war is over. The Facebuster Meme will be allowed to infect the WWE corporation at all levels. Victory is ours.

TNA? You're fucking next.

Yr Old Skool Legends of the Week

Bruiser Brody (furry boots) and Stan "The Lariat" Hansen (cowboy boots).

Yes, Virginia, There Is A Xanta Claus

"Dear Pencil Neck Geek: I am 8 years old. Some of my little friends say there is no Xanta Claus. Papa says, 'If you read it in Arabian Facebuster, it's so'. Please tell me the truth; is there a Xanta Claus? Sincerely, Virginia O'Hanlon- 115 N. Fessenden St."

Dearest Virginia, your father is clearly an discerning connoisseur of fine wrestling journalism. Your little friends, on the other hand, are a bunch of half-wit nincompoops. They have been affected by the skepticism of a skeptical age. They think that nothing can be that is not comprehensible to their rotten, mushy brains. They will try to tell you that Xanta is nothing but an illusion- Balls Mahoney with a funny hat and miserable gimmick. One more in a seemingly endless parade of desperate ratings grabs by Vince McMahon. A concept to be embraced and appreciated by only the most boorish and depraved of this society.

Let's face it Virginia- our nation is nothing if not boorish and depraved. The charity and benevolence of Old St. Nick reflects the spirit of our holiday season no more. In keeping with the times, Santa has evolved into Xanta- a hairy manifestation our culture's selfishness and crass commercialism. Who stands to benefit more from our beloved holiday than the "Million Dollar Man" ? What is more real to us than violence and greed?

When Xanta Claus stumbles in my back door on Christmas Eve reeking of Thunderbird and Slim Jims, I will arise to greet him with open arms. And though Xanta may wallop my head with a sack of discontinued WWE merchandise and disfigure my spine with a vigorous Camel Clutch, I will thank him. For I will know that I- and the rest of America- have received exactly what we deserved*.

Warmest regards,

Pencil Neck Geek**

* Hey Xanta- If you are reading this, please bring me a King Kong Bundy Stretch Wrestler and and an Ultimate Warrior Suck Cup. The Camo Black Ice will be waiting for you on the mantle.

** With apologies to Dr. Phillip O'Hanlon

Congratulations Edges...

...on your WWE Title victory.

To Our Newest Sponsor, Welcome!

Arabian Facebuster has formally terminated its affiliation with Socko, makers of the WWE branded energy drink for willfully conspiring with a certain dastardly terrorist...and for selecting a supposedly, and I quote, "more qualified, emotionally stable, and physically desirable" candidate than yours truly for the prestigious position of "Hot Air Balloon Operator Apprentice" within their venerated Street Team Division.

We wish Bliss Beverages all of the best in their future endeavors. Scratch that, we hope that all of their employees and those that continue to purchase their products get AIDS and die prolonged, agonizing deaths.

Arabian Facebuster would also like to take this opportunity to welcome our newest sponsor -- Mello Yello -- as the official non-alcoholic elixir of this mothership...

Yr Old Skool Tag Team of the Week

Percival Pringle III presents "Maniac" Matt Borne (aka Doink The Clown) and "Mad Dog" Buzz Sawyer, the World Class Wrestling Association Tag Team Champions. 1986.

Reason #209 to Despise Hulk Hogan

Oh, sweet Lord Jebus! It seems that Hulk Hogan is now embroiled in a heated, media driven celebr-feud with bloated, loud mouthed carpet muncher Rosie O'Donnell. Republished most certainly without permission from America's premier news outlet, TMZ.com:

Hulk Hogan's got it out for Rosie O'Donnell. For the love of Elisabeth!

At today's press day for his new show "American Gladiators," Hulk was asked which celebrity he'd like to see a Gladiator pummel. His answer "Without a doubt Rosie O'Donnell. Somebody needs to shut that big mouth up." Class!

Sorry, brother. Our money's on Ro.

UPDATE:
O'Donnell has responded to Hogan's crass comments on her blog -- in classic Rosie prose -- calling him and his cronies "a gang of gross guys," adding that they are "a club almost old dumb white and on tv".

Call Hulk Hogan what you will -- megalomaniac, broken down shell of a man, world's creepiest father, orange hued dirigible, melanoma ridden devil incarnate, chrome domed terrorist -- but you've got to give the founder of PastaMania! credit, he's keeps himself incredibly busy. Why in just the last month alone he's appeared on the Monday Night RAW 15th Anniversary special, taken umbrage with The Great Khali's treatment of midgets of Irish descent, gotten served with divorce papers from his top-heavy wife, watched his son's legal woes go from super fucked to super-duper fucked, whored his daughter out some more (well, probably), and tried to pinch his son's bestest friend out of a coma. And now this!? For Chrise Sakes, Arabian Facebuster hasn't even had the time to convey how much we already loathe his latest project, a prime-time relaunch of American Gladiators. Take that you no good, nasty, wart infested Hollywood writers!

What's next, then, for this youthfully dressed shitbag? I have a sneaking suspicion that a protracted beef between Hulkster and Chyna or that kid who played Steve Urkel on TV's Family Matters looms on the horizon, followed by a stint in a drug rehabilitation facility, followed by yet another "final run" in the creative vacuum otherwise known as World Wrestling Entertainment.

Think about it.

An Open Letter to Hulk Hogan, Part II

Facebuster nation, I have obtained an excerpt of a what appears to be a first draft letter The Ultimate Warrior ghost wrote for Linda Hogan as a way of informing her leathery skinned husband that she was leaving his sorry ass. While The Warrior's proclamations and thematic partitions might come across as a bit meandering and nebulous to some of our more pragmatic readers, overall I found his prose refreshingly assertive in tone, forthright in purpose, and sound in reasoning.

I knew that sifting through the Hogan family's trash would eventually pay off! Onto the letter...

Dear Hulkster:

(On why you are leaving him) What happened tonight was already written, Hulk Hogan. It was written a long time ago when the warriors that came before me and you... ...that what we must do is beyond us Hulk Hogan. I stood with my back to you Hulk Hogan. And I knew that you were not dumb. But Hulk Hogan, when I looked into your eyes, I saw walls...walls filled with fear...fear running thick through you, Hulk Hogan.

(A declaration of liberation)...I need no friends. I need no partners. Every man woman stands by himself like The Ultimate Warrior I always has [sic]. But Hulk Hogan, you still do not understand. You still have mistrust. I need not your protection.

(On moving on) Look on the walls...the warriors that could not come have attached thereselves to the outer structure, Hulk Hogan. They see me through. Feeling me, feeding me with the power to survive. They ride on my back for my protection. I need not you Hulk Hogan, and if you look closer, you will notice red and yellow, the colors of Hulkamania. Hulkamaniacs, they're questioning. Do you have, Hulk Hogan, what it takes to be the most powerful force in the entire universe?

(On fighting for sole custody of your bastard son, Nick) Hulk Hogan, look at me, Hulk Hogan. Look at me! Without the pain, Hulk Hogan, the desire to withstand the pain and give you the utmost in battle and combat...still stands, Hulk Hogan. For I am the chosen one.

Regretfully,

The Ultimate Warrior Linda Hogan

Yr Old Skool Crimson Mask of the Week

Bruiser Brody

15 Years and 2,500 Beers Later...

This Monday, WWE's flagship program "Monday Night RAW" celebrates its fifteenth anniversary. Fifteen years of poorly thought out storylines and hastily conceived angles bafflingly green lighted onto television. Fifteen years of long winded, crowd energy sapping promos. Fifteen years of wrestling matches with regular commercial interruption. Fifteen years of utterly worthless and forgettable characters that are, paradoxically, also infuriatingly unforgettable. Fifteen years of concurrently objectifying and degrading women, or as NBA Hall of Famer Isiah Thomas and I like to refer to them as, "juicy titted nut gobblers." Fifteen years of ring introductions that take longer than the actual match. Fifteen years of consistently mailing it in inside the squared circle. Fifteen years of Vince McMahon using the broadcast as a vehicle for his own inflating his own ego, self-perpetuating an aura of eminence, and compensating for his own fallibilities and limitations.

To commemorate this milestone, the WWE is bringing back most of its biggest and brightest superstars from the RAW era....America's favorite beer swilling wife beater "Stone Cold" Steve Austin, unfit parent and all around glory hog Hulk Hogan, Mick Foley, a one-night reunion of Evolution, the trite dysfunctionality of the McMahon family, Eric Bischoff, Trish Stratus, Lita, Bob Holly for one night only resurrecting the character that launched his career into the stratosphere -- Sparky Plug, Truth Commission members Kurrgan and Rekon (or will it be Kurrgan and Sniper!?), Headbanger Mosh, Mae Young performing unspeakable acts on the mummified corpse of The Fabulous Moolah, Headbanger Thrasher, TL Hopper, Duke "The Dumpster" Drosse, Disciples of Apocalypse members Skull and 8-Ball, an Oddities reunion necessitating Kurrgan to pull double duty and featuring Big Daddy V dawning the "Golga" mask worn by the late John Tenta, the Portuguese Man O'War Aldo Montoya, Salvatore Sincere, The Sultan, Farouq in his turquoise gladiator regalia, Todd Pettengill, and of course the one, the only, Naked Mideon (the heavily tattooed, patchily tanned, white trash speed freak pictured above).

So from all of us at Arabian Facebuster, Happy 15th Anniversary WWE Monday Night RAW! Oh, and after 15 years, we want out...we're sick and tired of putting up with all of your lies, self-delusions, broken promises, unfulfilled expectations, and all around bullshit. Is this a bad time to tell you?

Yeah, we thought so.

An Open Letter to Hulk Hogan, Part I

Dearest Hulk Hogan:

Hulk Hogan, I must ask you now, as you asked me, do you Hulk Hogan want your ideas, your beliefs to live forever? For Hulk Hogan, in this NORMAL world, physically, none of us can live forever. But the places you have taken the Hulkamaniacs, the ideas and beliefs you have given them, can live through me Hulk Hogan. That is why I breathe; that is why the warrior's have come.

Hulk Hogan, there are ones who question where you are taking them. Do you no longer want to walk or step into that darkness? Hulk Hogan, the darkness I speak of is nothing to fear. It is about the beliefs and accepting any and all challenges at the cost of losing everything, Hulk Hogan.

You have lived, Hulk Hogan...for this one belief. Now Hulk Hogan, I come to take what you believe in further than you ever could. I come, Hulk Hogan, not to destroy the Hulkamaniacs and Hulkamania. I come, Hulk Hogan, to bring the warriorahs and Hulkamaiacs together as one; as we, Hulk Hogan, accept all the challenges with all the strengths of the warriorahs and the Hulkamaniacs together.

Hulk Hogan, the colors of the Hulkamaniacs are coming through the pours of our skin. And Hulk Hogan, when we meet, Hulk Hogan, I will look at you and you will realize then that I have come to do no one no harm. But only, Hulk Hogan, to take what we both believe in to places it shall never have been.

Sincerest regards,

The Ultimate Warrior

PS: That Sean Mooney is nothing but a NORMAL, he doesn't deserve to breathe the same air that you and I do.

The Smell Of Combat

Arabian Facebuster presents one of many (and I mean MANY) epically deranged Ultimate Warrior promos from the early 90's. I'd try to sum up the madness on offer here, but seriously... what the fucking fuck? How about the part where Warrior 's all, "I need not the NORMALS!!!! To protect me... from what I find... most comforting..." ? How about the way he screams Hulk Hogan's name every five seconds? How about the way he turns slowly in place, with no regard for camera placement? Yeah, dude stank it up in the ring, but why can't we get promos like this anymore? Too bad th' WWE has scrapped its policy of aggressively hiring the mentally ill (see also: Randy Savage) in favor of fast-tracking half-wits like Randy Orton. Crazy beats stupid for entertainment value every time.

Yr Old Skool Foreign Object of the Week

With the assistance of "Beautiful" Bobby Eaton, Jim Cornette prepares to smash Flyin' Brian Pillman's throat with the handle of his tennis racket. 1990.

Reason #7 to Despise Hulk Hogan

Yesterday, the 2007 world's worst father nominee, bachelor to be, and all around scourge on our polity -- seen here absolutely owning the red carpet at the launch party for the latest Axe Body Spray fragrance, beef n' cheddar, and dressed in an outfit reminiscent of what his lead footed headed son Nick wore when he recklessly wrapped his car around a tree and put his child molesting sidekick into coma -- turned 54 years old.

Happy Birthday, shitbag.

Yr Old Skool Tag Team of the Week

The Brainbusters.

Hulk Hogan Is Fucked... Allegedly.

The monstrosity pictured above is the alleged lime-and-salt-flavored cheap shit beverage that allegedly caused an allegedly tipsy Nick "Idiot Son" Hogan/Bollea to allegedly wrap his Father's Supra around a palm tree, allegedly sending his friend and passenger John Graziano into an alleged coma, in which the alleged friend allegedly languishes, allegedly blinking and responding to the alleged pain caused by his alleged Pinch Torture at the alleged hands of the aforementioned alleged Father. Allegedly.

Despite a curious and total TMZ News Blackout on all things Nick Hogan Beer Binge related, a number of other (and admittedly less reputable) websites have followed up on the recent Arabian Facebuster scoop: Nick Hogan scored several cases of cheap-to-less-than-cheap beer on the afternoon of his retarded car crash. The specifics of the score, however, are where the real schadenfreude seeps in.

Not to put too fine a point on things, but Hulk Hogan bought the beer for Nick (allegedly!). Hulk's credit card was used in the purchase, and witnesses report that Hulk (assisted by one of Nick's allegedly underage hoodlum alleged friends) carried the beer out of the store, accompanied by Nick and a gaggle of his (allegedly underage) pals. Hulk then spent the day with Nick et al on board Hulk's boat, the U.S.S. Dirigible. One can only assume that vast quantities of the beer (which, for the obsessives among you, consisted of 2 cases Miller Light, 2 Cases Corona Extra, and 1 Case of the malted abortion pictured above) were allegedly consumed by the alleged friends aboard the alleged boat. There's also some nonsense about the drunken mob trying to pillage a Tiki Bar, and some gay-sounding lounging-around-the-pool action involved, but the meat of the thing is this: Nick and friends got all allegedly-loaded, hopped in two of Hulk's alleged cars, and ended up wrapping on of the alleged cars around an alleged tree and sending John Graziano into an alleged Vegetative State.

How do the staff of Arabian Facebuster feel about all this?

(ahem.)

Fuck Hulk Hogan. For Real. Here at th' Facebuster, we talk a lot of shit about the man being a terrorist, a dirigible, a rubbery bronze-skinned little bitch, and countless things besides. All of this pales compared to what Hogan really is... a barely-talented charlatan and a piss-poor father. His development arrested sometime in the early 80's, Hulk feels compelled to act out a pathetic, adolescent fantasy of what a father should be. He panders to his Idiot Son as though desperate to impress the feeble-minded punk. Terrified of losing his son's affections, Hulk Hogan postures awkwardly, desperate to seem like a "cool dad." The result is a disaffected, petulant, and amoral teen. While poor Brooke Hogan is obsessively sheltered, isolated, and controlled, young Nick is allowed to run rampant. Hulk Hogan ignores his son's misdeeds, dismissing them with a "boys-will-be-boys" attitude and an almost pathological disregard for the potential consequences of his son's actions. All of this "buddy dad" crap reached its logical conclusion with the crippling of John Graziano.

Congratulations, Hulk. This is where your greed, arrogance, and solipsism have gotten you. Your son has put a man in a coma and is facing felony charges. Your wife is leaving you. Your daughter is whoring herself for a record deal (not true!). And you have contributed to the delinquency of minors (allegedly).

How's your energy drink doing?

Phantom "News" - Nick Hogan Beer Receipt Vanishes!

Just moments after putting the finishing touches on my Hogan Family Divorce Report, I swung by the always-useful TMZ (mainly to make sure my link worked) and saw, basically, the holy grail: TMZ had a copy of Nick Hogan's convenience store receipt from the night of his idiotic and tragic car crash! And said receipt showed underage Nick using his AMEX to purchase at least 42 cans (or bottles, as the case may have been) of cheap-to-midrange beer (the delicious Corona pictured above being the most high-class beverage on Nick's ticket)!

Hands a-tremble, I raced back here to let y'all in on the sweet sweet gossip, but further attempts at verification were met with utter frustration: the story had vanished, leaving only an infuriating "story redirected" marker as testament to its passing.

So, I cannot inform you what shitty Miller product Nick was (allegedly) shotgunning before putting his best friend into a coma. I cannot inform you what brand of Light Beer the Idiot Son will be using to self-medicate his way out of his pre-prison depression. I cannot inform you how much he spent on ice (I think it was $1.99, but whatevs). All I can do is promise to give you fine people a link to the story at such time as it reappears on our plane of existence, much like the fabled city of K'un Lun in the excellent Iron Fist comics. Hopefully it won't take ten years, is all.

Reason #1 To Pity Hulk Hogan

His estranged wife will soon be taking him to the fucking cleaners.

The fine folks at TMZ have once again provided us with a life-enriching dose of shadenfreude, reporting that the second-least-leathery member of the Clan Bollea (pictured here out shopping with her idiot son, who happens to be the Number One Least Leathery family member) has finally tapped out of her marriage to freedom-hating terrorist Hulk Hogan. She filed for divorce on November 20.

Subsequent rumormongering states that the Hogans have been effectively separated since June, with Nick Hogan's recent cataclysmic bout of high-speed idiocy adding straws to the back of the critically-overloaded camel that was the Hogan Marriage. Your Beloved Arabian Facebuster, of course, scooped the whole tawdry, publicity-generating tale back in April.

Can this marriage be saved? Will Hulk take time out from pinching coma patients and whoring out his failed popstar daughter to interrupt Linda and Nick's alimony-fueled shopping sprees? Does anyone give a fuck? And will Paramount ever return our calls about the script for our Hulk Hogan biopic Dirigible? Only time will tell, true believers... and Arabian Facebuster will be there to tell the tale!

Why We Watch Wrestling, Exhibit A-2

More improvised talking points, eloquent proclamations, and vociferous swagger and pomposity that only Ric Flair, apparently just back from a coke binge in the Big Apple, can so consistently deliver. This interview takes place on the NWA's flagship/mothership program, World Championship Wrestling in the summer of 1985 during The Nature Boy's "tweener" period.

Enjoy.

Say My Name, Say My Name

Earlier this month, renowned novelist, actress, dysfunctional relationship expert, drug addict, and all around walking propped up disaster Jonie Laurer -- seen here moments before contracting pubic lice (L) and genital warts (R) from her evening companions -- legally changed her name to Chyna. She now joins the ranks of The Ultimate Warrior as the only washed-up sports entertainers foolish enough to conclude that such an alteration could possibly elicit the care and concern of or regenerate some sort of cultural relevance or import (that is not immediately followed by ridicule and malice) amongst the populace.

According to TMZ.com, a triumphant Chyna emerged from a suburban Los Angeles Court House, postulating verbosely about her struggles, rebirth, and seething contempt for Vince McMahon (we here at Arabian Facebuster can't think of a sounder approach to coping with and moving forward from past hardships and personal failures than by legally adopting a moniker from this period in one's life).

Following the proceedings, Chyna was whisked away from the courthouse... to the unemployment office, in order to update her documentation.

Yr Old Skool Tag Team of the Week

"The North-South Connection."

WWF World Tag Team Champions Dick Murdoch and Adrian Adonis, circa 1984.

Yr "In Vino Veritas" Foto of the Week

Abdullah The Butcher

Ten Years Ago Today...

In the biggest screw job in professional wrestling history, Shawn Michaels defeated Bret Hart via phantom submission for the WWF Title at the 1997 Survivor Series, ushering in the "Attitude Era" and providing the creative impetus for a deluge of self-referential witticisms and angles.

A question to Team Facebuster: Ten years from now, when we look back at the contemporary sports entertainment landscape, what singular event will be toasted as the start of the Whimsy Era?

Reason #225 to Despise Hulk Hogan

His formation of The Mega Powers with Randy "Macho Man" Savage, who was clearly and completely out of his fucking mind even as far back as late 1987. The embedded clip above is from the episode of Saturday Night's Main Event where this unholy, albeit short-lived union was formally joined. In this correspondent's most humble opinion, not since the fusion of peanut butter and marshmallow (Fluffernutter, if you will) by some vengeful cafeteria worker has a more revolting combination been assembled.

Facebusterites, this clip warrants your scathing scorn and undivided detestation, as there are so many uninformed assertions and blatant falsehoods to disentangle...from Hogan's citation of discredited "junk science" that concludes Hulkamania is in fact the most powerful force in the universe, to the Hulkster foreshadowing his sinister sneak attack on America by nonchalantly vowing to blow up the whole planet, to Gene Okerlund's kindergarten level grasp of astronomical concepts, to the Macho Man's peculiar speech impediment that causes him to involuntarily stammer over the phrase "Mega Powers, yeah!"

Also, there appears to be some sort of mysterious centripetal force hindering The Mega Powers from disentangling their firm handshake near the end of this clip. Circumstantial evidence that The Mega Powers are in fact the most indestructible alliance ever created? Or proof beyond a reasonable doubt that Hogan spooged into his own hand just prior to this interview? I lean towards the latter scenario.

Chris Masters: You're Fired

Much to the chagrin of talentless, pea-brained, artificially enhanced lunks everywhere, "The Masterpiece" Chris Masters was fired earlier today for getting busted engaging in conduct unbecoming a WWE superstar: supplementing his training regimen of strawberry-n-banana daiquiri's and half eaten slices of pizza with banned performance enhancing and pain relieving drugs, thereby running afoul of the company's sanctimonious wellness policy.

Give the WWE credit for its consistency when it comes to adjudicating matters of discipline and punishment. When "The Masterpiece" fails a couple of drug tests he gets buried for months on television, suspended, and ultimately terminated. When Randy Orton violates the wellness policy, purchases a cachet of firearms fit for an anti-government militia, gets sent home from a tour of Europe for criminal damage to property, AND is caught making dookie in another superstar's gym bag, he is pushed to the moon and awarded the WWE Title.

Seems fair and equitable to this reporter.

And it doesn't take Nostradamus or even John Edward, you know that tool from Crossing Over, to foretell what the future holds in store for "The Masterpiece." Folks, we're looking at the latest retread to take up yet another valuable spot on the Total Nonstop Action! wrestling roster. Christy Hemme and the rest of the TNA knockouts better guard their duffel bags judiciously, for Masters is liable to take a more bellicose, revolting, and downright stinky approach to attaining that elusive professional wrestling superstardom...or he could follow in the footsteps of so many of his predecessors by screwing his way to the top.

***

After skimming back over this post, you might be wondering "What the heck does a particularly emaciated Larry King dressed like a 14 year old boy have to do with 'The Masterpiece' being given the ol' pink slip?"

Mercifully, absolutely nothing.

Survey SAYS...!

And now, a delightful palate cleanser, meant to wipe away the foul taste of outrage brought on by the Idiot Son. Though it lacks the price-matching genius of one Ox Baker, this clip does possess a certain panache. Fresh from this week's WWE Special Edition of daytime TV workhorse The Family Feud, we find King Bookah, Mr. Kennedy, th' Naitch, Coach, and Batista squaring off against the peerless Queen Sharmell and a stable of lovely (talented) Divas. The fellas really bring the pain in this segment, perhaps because they actually have two brain cells to rub together, whereas poor Sharmell is forced to handle all the thinking by her Own Damn Self, while her teammates (approximately 360 pounds of whinnying silicone and tooth whitener) graze placidly nearby.

A few observations:

1) Booker and Sharmell are the best looking couple in wrestling. I wants me that pink button up.
2) Kennedy needs to learn to clap farther away from his mic.
3) Coachman and Batista are morons.
4) If Ric Flair is really serious about vacating my Costco Mats, he should take a crack at hosting th' Feud. His "It never bothered me" quip is light years ahead of whatever lameness J. Peterman can come up with.
5) Speaking of which, where the fuck is Louie Anderson?

On a somber note, this clip really serves to highlight exactly how grievous the loss of Booker T is for the wrestling business in general. The man wears his CAPE to a GAME SHOW, and doesn't let his shtick drop for even a SECOND. That, fans, is called professionalism, and it's what separates your Kevin Nashes from your Scott Halls. Or something.

Nick Hogan Is Fucked...Allegedly

It looks like the producers of Hogan Knows Best are going to need to hold open casting for the part of Nick after all. My money's on that adorable kid from Forrest Gump and The Sixth Sense earning the opportunity to play the rambunctious, mischievous, insubordinate demon spawn of America's favorite meddlesome, controlling, incandescent father whose hair loss is in its last throes. According to TMZ, the antithesis of speculative, sensationalist, petty journalism:

Clearwater PD today released details of their investigation into the August 26 crash. In addition to being arrested for reckless driving involving serious bodily injury, cops also cited Hogan for use of a motor vehicle in the commission of a felony, a person under the age of 21 operating a vehicle with a breath-alcohol level of .02 or higher and having an Illegal window tint.

Police also concluded that although Hogan and a second car were racing right before the crash, the driver of the second car was not a direct cause of the accident. That driver has also been ticketed for reckless driving.

Hogan was going 60 mph in a 40 mph zone when he lost control and hit a tree.

Nick's Idiot Father could not be reached for comment...probably because he's still down at the hospital, trying to pinch and retch-induce suspected pedophile John Graziano out of his coma in order to possibly lessen his son's looming prison sentence.

Now that's parenting at its finest.

Yr Old Skool Facial Hair of the Week, Part II

Ox Baker in contestant's row on the Price Is Right, 1981.

BREAKING NEWS: Masters Suspended...Again

As the old adage goes, the fifteenth time's the charm...Dave Meltzer is reporting that "The Masterpiece" Chris Masters -- seen here making out with a filthy, filthy whore in exchange for a half eaten slice of pizza -- was suspended by the WWE for sixty days for violating the company's wellness policy. In other news of the day, it was revealed that Britney Spears is America's most unfit parent, narrowly edging out Andrea Yates, Madonna, this tall boy drinking fool, and even a certain idiot father in a recent Gallup poll.

Also suspended for conduct detrimental to the Wellness Policy, Harry aka DB Smith, who has made quite a splash on RAW the past couple of weeks playing the plucky and determined yet woefully inexperienced, overmatched, and easily outwitted babyface. Oh, I see...that's not his character...but rather his actual glaring limitations as a performer...sorry about that.

An offspring of "The British Bulldog" Davey Boy Smith enhancing his physique by putting significant quantities of banned substances into his body!? Unfathomable.

Naitch Is Back...Sigh...Again

"Nature Boy" Ric Flair (seen here closing yet another deal as part of his fledging predatory lending enterprise) has had enough of domesticity. No more leaf raking. No more driveway tarring. No more dust bustering. No more check book balancing. No more Live With Regis and Kelly. No more mid-morning games of cribbage and cup(s) o' scotch with the sweet, little old ladies from the neighborhood that are in the early stages of dementia. No more folding up his Costco Camping Mats with the utmost care and precision after another restless night spent on the breakfast nook floor of his yet palatial, yet sparsely appointed suburban Charlotte NC estate. No more filing frivolous lawsuits in his robe and slippers. And most certainly no more chauffeuring his son David thrice a week to sexual offender rehabilitation classes.

It turns out Flair was in Orlando earlier this week to promote WrestleMania 24, charm the pants off the handful of credentialed local media that actually covered this non-event for the purposes of not having to feature yet another toy dog on water skis story during the obligatory "wacky human interest item" segment at the conclusion of the 10:00 newscast, and coyly pontificate about his future with the WWE. What then does the future hold in store for one of the greatest performer's in the history of the business? If Flair's insinuations are to be believed, its back to the kiss stealing, wheeling dealing, leer jet flying, limousine riding life as an active member of the WWE roster...perpetually kissing Vince McMahon's ass both on screen and off, spending his afternoon's practicing over and over again his patented "Flair flop" in an empty arena, working on the pitch and cadence of his "Woo" with America's preeminent voice coach, and putting up and coming stars -- the guys that will carry this business into the next decade -- like The Great Khali, Mark Henry, The Miz, Festus, and Domino Deuce over convincingly.

Um, welcome back?

And The Winner, By A Nose...

The staff of Arabian Facebuster would like to offer our sincere congratulations to the lovely and talented Eve Torres, Your Diva Search Winner for 2007!

Ms. Torres cantered across the finish line on Monday Night RAW, in a tension-filled ceremony wedged between a Santino Marella promo and a Randy Orton match. Here's hoping that's not a bit of gym-bag-related foreshadowing.

Kudos to you, Eve. May your newfound Diva Status bring you all the career benefits implied by the long, prestigious history of Diva Search Winners Past. Now strap on that feedbag, girl. You've earned it.

Yr Old Skool Facial Hair of the Week

The Legendary Ox Baker

Why We Watch...Exhibit F

We watch professional wrestling for the technical execution of Ric Flair, the rugged, double-tough grappling style of Stan Hansen, the foreign object wielding chicanery of Abdullah the Butcher, the self-induced humiliation of Jim Hellwig, and the brazen tauntings of Dick Murdoch. (Sorry folks, I'm too lazy to link back to all of these references/posts...just a take a stroll through the Arabian Facebuster archives to relive these wonderful memories) We also watch wrestling to marvel at the spectacle of a most generously proportioned, two toned mullet sporting, Mulkey Brothers annihilating fellow named "The Ragin' Bull" Manny Fernandez repeatedly fly through the air, each time landing his knee squarely on the chest and throat of his hapless opponent, Invader III; not to be confused with Invader I, the dastardly son of a bitch that stabbed Bruiser Brody to death in a shower stall 19 years ago.

While this footage -- taken from Puerto Rico's World Wrestling Council promotion, circa 1989 -- may seem excessively graphic and violent for late 1980s syndicated television, the volume of splattered blood on the canvass and quotient of superfluous gore is not incomparable to more contemporary examples, be it a footage from the crime scene of a high profile murder covered ad nausea by Fox News, an egregiously botched plastic surgery on Dr. 90210, or a particularly malicious bum fight on Disney's acclaimed after school serial Hannah Montana.

Enjoy the ruthlessness.

WSX: Where Aren't They Now?

In news that surprises absolutely nobody, our beloved Teddy Hart has been released from his WWE development contract. Sadly, it would appear that his termination has little to do with projectile vomiting or fisticuffs. Instead, Our Ted got the sack for crowbarring his entire moveset into every match he wrestled, despited being warned by various officials to tone it down.

Well listen up, you WWE pigs! Don't hire the spinny-flippy if you can't HANDLE the spinny-flippy! He's on a mission from GOD, dicks! Jesus sent Teddy Hart to push wrestling FORWARD and if your atavistic pea-brains can't handle the AWESOME then Teddy will just have to start his own federation! AGAIN! And this time it'll have three different rings! Stacked on top of each other! With trampolines... FLAMING BARBED WIRE TRAMPOLINES! And a CAGE ON TOP!! And filled with ELECTRIFIED TASER PIRANHAS!!! WITH FLAMING DEATHMATCH BROKEN GLASS TRAMPLOINE CAGES ON THEIR HEADS!!!! And Teddy Hart will BY GOD AND THE BABY JESUS perform EIGHTY SIX CONSECUTIVE MOONSAULTS off the CAGES on the HEADS of the FISH in the CAGE on top of the THREE RINGS and the TRAMPOLINES until he FUCKING PUKES!!!!! ARRRRRRRRGGGGGHHHHH!!!!!! EXTREME!!!!!!!! ROCK!!!!!!!!!! GO!!!!!!!!

Heh... gasp... puff... ah... whew.

Anyway, the British Bulldog's kid debuted on Monday. I'll let you know how that went if I can remember to set th' VCR for RAW en Espanol. But without Teddy Hart it's just kind of whatever, you know?

Iron Sheik: Protect Ya Neck!

The Howard Stern Show brings us some predictably disturbing news from the world of everybody's favorite crack-smoking anti-Semite, the Iron Sheik!

It seems Sheiky Baby was enjoying a much-deserved hot shower before taking the stage with the rolling circus of retardation and prescription drug abuse that is the "Killers of Comedy" tour. His manager entered the hotel room to inform Sheik that the show was about to start. Outraged, Sheik emerged from the shower and began berating his manager for showing up too early. The manager countered that, while he WAS ten minutes early, that was because Sheik needed to get down to the stage ON TIME. Slightly mollified, Sheik began getting dressed for the show. It was then that he noticed that his manager's eyes were... er... allegedly "roving." When asked if he meant that the manager was a "pecker checker," Sheik confirmed that yes, his manager was indeed a "pecker checker."

The real kicker is that this scandalous bit of gossip came out at the breakfast table of a Stuckey's outside of Weehaucken (or some damn place), and was bellowed (by th' Sheik, of course) into a tape recorder held by one of his travelling companions.

When contacted by the Stern Show for comment, Sheik was asked which Superstars from his wrestling heyday were "pecker checkers." Without a moment's pause, Sheik declared, "Pat Patterson."

Thank you and goodnight!

Hulk Hogan: Scenes From A Life, Part One

The following is an excerpt from the forthcoming major motion picture Dirigible: The Life Of Terrence Bollea, coming soon from Facebuster Pictures.

Interior Hospital, Day.We find Hulk conducting a vigil at the bedside of John Graziano.

Hulk: Come on, brother, you just gotta open your eyes, dude.

Hulk reaches out a trembling hand and pinches John on the arm, hard.

Hulk: Little dude? Little dude? Come on, brother, Nicky's counting on you!

Pinch.

Hulk: My little boy can't go to court, brother! Now listen here, dude... (pinch) you've gotta take your vitamins... (pinch) say your prayers... (pinch. A welt begins to form.) You're only as comatose as you feel, brother(pinch), and dude(pinch), brother(pinch), man(pinch), dude (pinch) what are you gonna do when pinch-a-mania runs wild on you?!

Hulk pinches John five times in rapid succession, growing more aggravated after each pinch. Finally he collapses, sprawling over John's torso.

Hulk:(weeping) Nicky, dude. What are we gonna do, brother? What are we gonna do-hoo-hoo? Little dude, my little dude, my little dude.

The force of Hulk's sobbing shakes the hospital bed. Enter Nurse.

Nurse: Mr. Bollea? What are you doing?

Hulk:(jolts upright) Nothing! Er... just trying to comfort this little Hulkamaniac, here.

Nurse: Well, he can't hear you, Mr. Bollea. All he can do is blink and get pinched (glares meaningfully at the angry welt on John's arm).

Hulk: Just a minute, sister dude! I heard this little dude's gag reflex is working!

Nurse: Sir, one of the orderlies was watching a tape of your cage match against Lex Luger. Mr. Graziano may be in a coma, but he's still human.

Hulk resumes weeping. Fade out.

If You Want To Beat The Man, You Have To Cheat The Man

This morning began like any other. I rose early, fed the dogs, made a pot of coffee, and ran down to the corner to grab a paper. I read "Mutts," fried some eggs, and then headed over to the guest bedroom to kick Ric Flair awake.

"Up and at 'em, champ," I muttered, my voice thick with yolk. "I circled a few Want Ads, in case you felt like... you know, looking for work?" It was then that I realized my authoritarian bullshit was echoing across an empty room. The Costco Mats were vacant. Ric Flair was gone. All he left behind was a hastily scrawled note.

"Gone to South Carolina to bust some heads. Back soon. Save me some eggs. -'Naitch'"

Well, that's good, I thought. Maybe he landed a gig with Christian Pro Wrestling. I might actually see that back rent, after all.

It was then that the lovely Valerie emerged from her laboratory. "The Facebuster 6000 just ran its morning search of the interwebs for salacious wrestling gossip! Something's terribly wrong!"

"What is it, dear, is Brooke Hogan icing out her grill again?"

"No, it's..."

"Randy Orton tried to buy a gun again?"

"No, it's..."

"They finally turned BDV into the BGV?!"

"No... it's Ric. He's suing a car dealership for infringing on his intellectual property."

"Damn it, I told Ric that his LeSabre technically belongs to the bank. We've got to get him back here."

After another ten minutes of our half-assed Burns/Allen routine, it became clear that The Nature Boy was actually upset over the dealership's commercials, which feature some joker named "Captain Freedom" shouting "Whooooeee"(?) a lot and declaring that if other car dealerships want to "be the man, they have to beat the man." Or, presumably, the prices. Or the quality of the vehicles. Or... something.

Anyway, it smells like copyright infringement to me. I hope Flair gets every last cent out of those no good hucksters. Hurry back with my cut, Naitch. There's a burrito for you in the fridge.

Idiot Son: The Aftermath

Recent news reports indicate that John Graziano, the passenger in the Supra pictured above, will likely remain in a nursing home for the rest of his life. He is able to open and close his eyes (sometimes), responds to pain and displays a gag reflex. And that, fans, is about as good as it gets for the poor guy. His mother is applying to be instated as his legal guardian, giving her legal power over his affairs and access to his military benefits (he's an ex-marine).

No word yet as to any possible legal action against the idiot who was driving the Supra. Perhaps his idiot father will give him a stern talking to. "Listen here, dude..."

Yr Old Skool Rasslin' Family of the Week

Boris Malenko managing his sons Joe and Dean.

Kurt Angle: Drunk Driver?

Here at Arabian Facebuster, we are dedicated to chronicling the vehicular follies and transgressions of your favorite (and least favorite) professional wrestling superstars. From Eddie Gilbert's efforts to maim Jerry "The King" Lawler with his rent-a-car in a 10MPH zone, to Hulk Hogan's idiot son's reckless, high-speed, cocksure joyriding escapades, to the Big Shew's Congressional Medal of Honor worthy attempt to mow down Hulk Hogan with his monster truck, to the shirtless hitchhiking misadventures (are there any other kind, really?) of the Fantastics, to Randy Orton's defecation in the trunk of the newest WWE Diva Search winner's canary yellow Mazda Miata (likely to occur in early 2008), we've got it covered, baby!

The latest alleged menace to this great nation's highways and byways? Why that would be your Olympic Hero and current TNA! Heavyweight Champion Kurt Angle, who was arrested last week for suspicion of DUI in suburban Pittsburgh. Oh, it's true...it's damn true. Here's the local CBS affiliates' report:

MOON TWP. - Olympic gold medalist and professional wrestling star Kurt Angle was charged Friday with driving under the influence.

Moon Township police said they received a call from a motorist at 1:49 p.m. complaining that someone driving a white Cadillac nearly struck his vehicle in a restaurant parking lot.

The motorist, who gave police the vehicle's license plate number, also said the Cadillac was driving erratically on Beaver Grade Road and almost hit a traffic sign. Police tracked the Cadillac to Angle's residence, which they did not identify.

Angle, 38, who has admitted an addiction to painkillers, told police he had been at the restaurant and driven home. He failed a sobriety test but refused a blood test. He was charged with driving under the influence of alcohol or a controlled substance and careless driving. He was released to appear in court at a later date.

If you ask me, this sounds like a classic case of mistaken identity. Getting shit-faced at 1:00 on a weekday afternoon? That hardly seems like the type of risky, unhealthy, deviant behavior that Kurt Angle, or for that matter anybody in the professional wrestling industry, would engage in. Refusing to cooperate with authorities? An addiction to painkillers? Possession of a controlled substance? Clearly, law enforcement must have apprehended another gold medal adorned, bald, belligerent, chemically dependent, broken down man who also just so happens to be named Kurt Angle.

Let's hope Mr. Angle retains high-powered defense attorney Clarence Mason and is swiftly exonerated of any wrongdoing.

BREAKING NEWS: Cena Out 6-8 Months

Dave Meltzer is reporting that John Cena was diagnosed today with a complete tear of his right pectoral muscle and will undergo surgery to repair the tear, thereby necessitating him to forfeit the blingy, spinny belt instead of simply jobbing it off this Sunday at the No Mercy PPV to the scourge of responsible potty trainers everywhere, Randy Orton.

Let this be a lesson to all WWE superstars...never try to execute a hip toss on one-time recreational steroid user (until of course the WWE implemented its Wellness Policy and convinced him of the merits of staying clean and shrunken testicle free) "Golden Boy" Mr. Kennedy.

Never.

What then is Arabian Facebuster's official position on this unfortunate matter? "Thank fucking God!" followed by a "It's about God damn time!" Allow me to clarify, whatever it takes at this point to get the title off the stale Cena and breathe some much needed life into the main event scene on Monday Night RAW, we're all for it.

With that said, I'm sure we'll be getting a steady diet of plodding, garbagey, interference ridden brawls for the title between Hunter and Mr. McMahon while Cena recuperates.

Disregard that aforementioned official position, kids...Hurry back John! For the love of God, hurry back!

Yr Old Skool Rasslin' Family of the Week

Kerry, David, Mike, and Kevin VonErich, circa 1983.

Why We Watch...Exhibit E

Here at Arabian Facebuster, we are committed to exposing you to the very best that professional wrestling has to offer. And the very worst. This clip -- featuring the agitated, inflammatory, possibly offensive (assuming you are easily outraged by an unrelenting contempt towards fat, ugly broads), and downright hilarious ramblings of "Captain Redneck" Dick Murdoch -- falls squarely into the former category.

Based on Murdoch's nickname and "barroom brawler" physical stature, you would think that his promos would consist of rudimentary syntax, logical fallacies, and plenty of grunting delivered in a thick, practically indecipherable southern drawl with glaringly limited emotional range. Instead what Murdoch delivers is a cohesive, articulate, urgent, credible, and above all prototypical heel promo that features (a) the introduction of epithets like "scum belt," "mongoloid," and "Fat Albert" into the professional wrestling lexicon; (b) the use of a broom as both a prop and a rich metaphorical device; (c) an invective of ridiculing, vile, degrading remarks hurled towards the studio audience that would make the great Don Rickles proud; and (d) emotional breadth, depth, and versatility that allows Murdoch to incorporate fearlessness, seething rage, agitation, arrogance, contempt, begrudging respect, and even a hint of giddiness over the course of a single, 2 1/2 minute promo.

Enjoy.

Ric Flair: Really Busy Man

Despite an ongoing contractual dispute (or if the rumors on the internets are to be believed, replace "ongoing contractual dispute" with "quit the company") with the WWE that has necessitated his (glaring) absence from the Friday night ratings juggernaut and critical darling that is Smackdown!, "Nature Boy" Ric Flair isn't sulking around the house, waiting patiently for a phone call by a contrite Vince McMahon begging him to come back, and blithely sleeping his mornings away on Apollo's Costco Camping Mats.

Far from it.

Last week, Naitch not only opened the virtual doors to his very own financial services enterprise [insert topical and hilarious joke referencing Flair owing $1M in back taxes to the IRS here] that'll slap the old figure four lock on those evasive lenders, he also delivered the command to go NASCAR Busch Series racin' at Dover Speedway in seemingly the most embarrassingly self-parodied manner possible.

What then does next week hold in store for the former sixteen time world heavyweight wrestling champion? On Monday, he'll be the keynote speaker at the Winston Salem Warthogs end of the season formal awards banquet and fan conclave. Tuesday, he'll be cutting the ribbon to proclaim the new Sonic in Hickory, NC "open." And picking up his dry cleaning.

Woooooo! Indeed.

Yr "Blood, Sweat and Tears" Foto of the Week

Seemingly panting for air, a winded "The American Dream" Dusty Rhodes applies a rest hold on the lacerated NWA World Heavyweight Wrestling Champion "Nature Boy" Ric Flair.

Diva Search Prognostication 2007!

War can be a brutal experience that tries the souls of the strongest men. So it is that we here at the Arabian Facebuster Command Bunker seek spiritual solace in whatever paltry shreds of levity cross our paths. In particular, the boys in the trenches have taken a keen (and possibly unhealthy) interest in the outcome of this year's WWE Diva Search.

We were keenly disappointed to see the young lady at the top of the post (whose name is... Lynnsie? Kynnsie? Leynsie? Some goddamn thing.) receive her walking papers, as we thought she had all the qualities needed to make a truly top-tier WWE Diva. To wit:

As you can see, she was an early favorite. Alas, even our patented Facebuster Prognostication Methods can fail in the face of current market realities. Regardless, we urge our readers to keep the flame of hope a'burning. The fellows down at the OTB have assured us that they are still accepting wagers, so there is still time to roll your bet over to THIS lovely (and talented) young lady and recoup your losses:

Facebuster Nation, I give you Jessica Hatch. She attended Galveston Junior College on a Volleyball Scholarship (of course), is majoring in Kinesiology (which she can spell), and works at "fit gym" in River Oaks, where she hopes to someday build a large "clinetal" (it appears she had some help with "Kinesiology"). She is super talented (and lovely), is a big fan of Jesus Christ, and has that special something that all great WWE Divas possess:

If Jessica doesn't seem like a winner to you, don't panic, 'cos I have got a grade-a pure gold lead-pipe CINCH of a Diva for you. The drum roll really should have started three paragraphs ago, because that's how excited we are about this next hot young (lovely, talented) prospect:

Awww, yeeeaahhh. Eve Torres, ladies and gentlemen! Now THAT is a Diva-to-be! Eve is an LA-based actress/model/dancer. Wow! A triple slashie! She's lovely, talented, and is currently working as a "spirit dancer" for the LA Clippers, but hopefully that will clear up real soon. She is a strong advocate for women of color pursuing higher education (just look what it's done for her!), and her many fan web sites tout her "unique look". I know, right, tell me about it:

There they are, fans. The Arabian Facebuster picks for Diva Search 2007. I'm sure the entire staff joins me in wishing one of these ladies all the best in her dazzling new career. Hopefully she will enjoy all the stunning perks of Diva-dom, such as shaking her tits before ECW dark matches and having her gym bag crapped in by Randy Orton.

Thank you and goodnight.