Tuesday, February 27, 2007

Mike Awesome: Rest In Peace

Hardcore wrestling legend Mike Awesome is dead at age 42. He was found in his home, hung from the neck. No suicide note has been found,but...

I don't know if I can do this right now. It's been barely a month since Bam Bam died, and now this. I'd like to say something cruel about 6-Pac or Justin Credible, but I just don't have the strength. Wrestling is a rotten fucking business.

Awesome leaves behind two daughters.

Yr Black History Month Foto of the Week

"The Doctor of Style," Slick.

Friday, February 23, 2007

Will The Circle Be Unbroken...

I can't believe they're still dragging their feet on Bam Bam's toxicology report. The public has a right to know. That said, here's footage of Bam Bam's CWA debut in all its dated, ridiculous glory. Please ignore any similarities to the Abu Gharib torture tapes; this was filmed in simpler times. My favorite moment is when Larry Sharp sez, "Look at those flames," and Bam Bam's grimace slips for a moment. He appears almost beatific, and gamely tilts his head toward the camera while stifling a chuckle.

Goddamn I miss that guy.

Tuesday, February 20, 2007

Yr Black History Month Foto of the Week

Jim "Sugar Bear" Harris aka The Ugandan Giant Kamala

Friday, February 16, 2007

RAW is Facebuster!?

Since this week's RAW emanated from the genesis of the Arabian Facebuster Nation, I was curious if anybody in said nation had the gumption to shell out a hard earned $30 (plus an extra $70 for parking, beer concessions, and D-Generation X glow sticks) for a ticket.

Who amongst us made the pilgrimage to the pantheon of Rip City, the cultural hub known as the Rose Garden, to take in the spectacle that is World Wrestling Entertainment? (Who amongst us will be descending on the Rose Garden again tonight to catch the overpriced, formulaic, and self-indulgent stylings of Rock Star Supernova?) Who amongst us cheered wildly at the return of "Hot Rod" Rowdy Roddy Piper to a WWE ring and announcement that "The American Dream" Dusty Rhodes would be inducted into the WWE Hall of Fame? Who amongst us took pleasure in seeing the incomparable Ric Flair teach that arrogant punk whippersnapper Carlito a wrestling lesson he'll never soon forget? Who amongst us sat on their hands and/or stood in the beer line during every other match and backstage vignette? Who amongst us spent 16 hours constructing a homemade "Jeff Hardy is da (Swanson) Bomb" sign with nothing more than a piece of moldy cardboard, a tube of Elmer's, some glitter, and a box of Safeway Select elbow macaroni? And after the matches, who amongst us proceeded over to Tom's Pizza & Sports Bar to sip quenching frosty mugs of Iron City poured by this industrious young hottie while watching a Don West-muted, special Monday evening telecast of TNA, the ingeniously entitled "This is TNA?"

Speak up, oh devoted and intrepid Facebuster appratchiks!

Thursday, February 15, 2007

Oh My God He's Going... to... PUKE!!!!

It's a damn tragedy that this cat (Teddy Hart of the legendary Hart Family, for those who slept) is apparently quite insane, 'cos he's one hell of a wrestler. I just watched him do his technical high-flying thing over at WSX, and he really deserves better than their twitch-editing malarkey.

Sure, he reportedly has to stop matches so he can run outside and vomit every now and then. Sure, he's the kind of nut who starts his own wrestling federation just so he can build platforms next to the ring so he can jump off of them. Sure, he randomly moonsaults of off cages AFTER HIS MATCHES ARE OVER. And yes, he did pick a fight with CM Punk in a restaurant that ended with Sabu (!) pulling Punk off of him.

The naysayers among you may argue that if Sabu is the voice of reason in your life, you're pretty much a raving lunatic. I would tend to agree, adding that there need to be cameras on this guy twenty-four-hours-a-day, because him puking is WAY more interesting than the guys from emo-core also-rans Sparta doing WSX commentary (no shit). Maybe Gary Busey can help him get religion or something. At the very least, Busey can keep that crap out of Hart's hair.

Next Week: The Clipse join the WSX broadcast crew. "Watch Heckler and Koch turn cops to martyrs," indeed.

Wednesday, February 14, 2007

I Am Resourceful And Clever (Comcast Can Lick My Balls)

My experiments in the field have confirmed, gentle readers, that Raw en Espanol is indeed a regular fixture of Telemundo's Sunday Afternoon lineup. This means that, with the judicious application of video cassete technology, I can now watch almost every televised wrestling program aired during any given week, while paying exactly NOTHING for cable.

Here's how it works:

Wednesday morning, I watch WSX on the internets. Their brand of incoherent, heavily-edited garbage wrestling becomes even more intense when viewed on the small screen.
Thursday night, th' Facebuster staff congregates at Tom's Pizza And Sports Bar (TV sports schedule permitting) to stuff our faces and watch TNA iMPACT! with the sound off. No Don West!
On Friday, I tape Smackdown! and watch it after I get home from work. The
Animal Batista is my lullabye.
Come Sunday, it's time for the RAW rebroadcast on Telemundo.

And there you have it. Hell, sometimes I can even catch "Squared Circle" on Public Access, in which some phantom wrestling geek shares his enormous library of late-70's wrestling tapes. The only thing I "miss" is ECW.

There you have it. If you're a wrestling fan who pays for cable, you're basically dropping fifty bucks a month just to watch ECW. I know there's some Snitsky fans out there, but still...

Tuesday, February 13, 2007

BREAKING NEWS: This (This), This is a Test

Arabian Facebuster's muckraking correspondent Black Jack Brown is reporting that the extremist known as Test (pictured at left, just minutes before making sweet love to your mother) has been indefinitely pulled off ECW's foray into this country's shoddily constructed and poorly lit municipal auditoriums as punishment for violating the company's "wellness policy."

According to Black Jack, willful ignorance mixed with sheer indifference most accurately characterizes the reaction to this completely foreseeable news from Test's fan base, the aptly named Testicles. Seriously, you're a fucking nut sack if you actually derive pleasure from Test's shtick.

A word of advice to Test -- steroids are harmful and dangerous. Side effects from frequent and prolonged intake include elevated blood pressure, increased risk for cardiovascular disease, and shrinking of the testicles (no, the irony isn't lost on me either). If you want to boost your muscle mass, tone your physique, and heighten your energy, endurance, and power, might I recommend acquiring the safest, most effective supplement on the market today?

Monday, February 12, 2007

Say Yr Heretical Prayers and Eat Yr Vitamins

Arabian Facebuster Nation, not that long ago I was like many of you...a skinny and feeble beanpole sorely lacking in self-esteem. How then, did I transform into the confident, chiseled, strapping Adonis standing (errr, I mean blogging) before you today? The answer, my friends, is threefold: a strict exercise regimen, a healthy and balanced diet, and copious amounts of expired Four Horsemen Top Performance System chewable tablets.

Ric Flair and members of the Horsemen, a thousand thank yous for making me the man I am today...the FDA be damned.

Yr Black History Month Photo of the Week

"Iceman" King Parsons

Thursday, February 08, 2007

OMG! It's the Shoe Sniffing Extremist!

While I had neither the time* nor inclination to waste precious brain cells staring into the creative abyss otherwise known as this week's episode of ECW on Sci Fi**, I have heard from a credible source (as well as from one not so much) that Gene Snitsky (pictured above performing some sort of modified Heimlich maneuver on the enzyme elevated liver of ECW Champion Bobby Lashley) made his eagerly anticipated return to a sports entertainment ring. Check that, an EXTREME SPORTS ENTERTAINMENT RING!

Gone seemingly are the halcyon days of oddly endearing foot fetishes, back acne, a braided goatee that looks like stylized pubic hair, edicts of blamelessness, jobbing on Monday nights, sloppy ring-work, and eyebrows. In their place, a Kane meets the kid from Mask manifestation, downright creepy shoe sniffing, jobbing on Tuesday nights, even sloppier ring-work, and no eyebrows.

I know that many of you little lambs in the Arabian Facebuster flock are equally skeptical about Snitsky's role in ECW and capabilities as a performer. The amount of emails and text messages I have received from all of you on this matter has been voluminous. Here are a smattering of comments, carefully excerpted in the interest of brevity:

"Dear Mailbu Sands, why didn't Snitsky reunite with Goldust and resurrect the second*** greatest tag team since the WWE was forced to 'get the F out' thanks to some lefty tree huggers and activist judges?"

"Dearest Mailbu, is adding yet another maladroit retread to the roster the best prescription for reinvigorating ECW?"

"Yo, Mailbu: I don't like the cut of Snitksy's jib."

"Hey Mailbu, Just wanted to let you know that I really enjoy the Facebuster. I read it every chance I get. While I am fond all the other bloggers on this site, you are without question my absolute favorite because of your provocative posts and razor sharp wit.
My heart skips a beat everytime I read your posts. Forgive me if this is too forward, but I would let you have me if you wanted. I would gladly carry your child in my womb, if only it wasn't ravaged by disease. Anyways, just wanted to let you know that I think that Snitsky's a total fucking douche. Oh SNAP!, another inmate is brandishing a crudely widdled shiv in the library again. Gotta go. Wait for me!? Prisoner #090843, Shakopee MN Women's Correctional Facility."

"Mr. Sands:
I am the Attorney for Larry Phofl, better known to you, me, and the entire world as 'The Total Package, Lex Luger.' My client demands that you immediately cease the use and distribution of all infringing web log (heretofore referred to as "blog") entries, destroy such blog entries immediately, and desist from this or any other infringement of his rights in the future. Failure to comply with this request will result in swift and ruthless legal action. Have a nice day."

Mr. McMahon, esteemed members of the Board, and WWE shareholders (ahem, Pencil Neck Geek), the people have spoken. Snitsky is not the cure for what ails ECW. He's not even the placebo. The definitive, full-proof remedy for resurrecting fan interest and passion in your bastardized vision however, is a mere imaginative Google search away.


*I actually had nothing but time on my hands.
** This sentiment also applies to "American Idol."
***Astutely, the writer identifies Chocolate and Cheese (Booker T and Goldust) as the greatest.
****I ripped off this notation device from Ben Steele's most excellent blog.

Wrestling Society X: You Guys Are Doomed

So, what did the second thrill-packed episode of WSX teach us? It taught us that announcers (question mark) Bret Ernst and Kris Kloss plan to spend the entire season being eclipsed by their own musical guests. Already, Zakk Wylde has shown great potential as a play-by-play man, and the gentleman pictured above (Juicy J, from Oscar Recipients Three 6 Mafia) demonstrated Tuesday Night that he is our sport's greatest color commentator. Check the science: "That little skinny dude can move like a noodle, man." "Tap dance shoes whup my ass." "Mumble gwah humaha bummah, nahmean?" Let's see Jerry Lawler try THAT.

We also learned that, yes, Fabian Kaelin can get MORE annoying. His shouting and skanking have reached near-terminal levels. Someone needs to stab that creep in the gizzard. Not that I advocate violence against public figures or anything. I'm just saying.

We also learned that it's possible for all this hyper-kinetic snap-edited METAL!!! extremism to be really boring. Episode two featured (arguably) WSX's first two lame matches. Number one was the comedy-wrestling jackassery of That 70's Team vs. the personality-free internationalism of Team Dragon Gate. No thrills, no chuckles, just snores.

Lame Match number two, sadly, was also WSX's first title match. Vampiro vs. 6-Pac was about as bad as it gets. Two has-beens gulping for air at the five-minute mark of a seven-minute match? Check. Meaningless table spots crowbarred into the match for added "extremity"? Check. Bullshit exploding box (okay, okay, it was a coffin) finish? CHECKEROO. Factor in a total lack of ring psychology, intensity, or gravitas, and you've got a big fat NOTHING. (Insert Vampiro tummy joke? Better not.)

Oh, and we learned that falls count anywhere in WSX. Who knew?

Wednesday, February 07, 2007

Corte Estupido Gringo En Su Estupido Gringo CARA!

I apologize, first of all, for my pathetic Caveman Spanish. In order to satisfy the central conceit of today's post, I was forced to resort to an online Spanish Dictionary, and those fuckers don't translate phrases... leaving your correspondent to assemble his title word by tortuous word.

I was watching the Superior Bowl, like any good American, and I found Prince's half-time histrionics somewhat unsatisfying (If he'd done "Kiss" as a duet with Tom Jones, perhaps things would have been different). I flipped desultorily through the channels, seeking a distraction from the pummeling my beloved Bears were being handed. In fairly short order, my heathen prayers were answered.

Telemundo was showing the Spanish Language Broadcast of RAW.

I perked up, as Vince berated Jonathan Coachman en Espanol. A bunch of money fell on the crowd, while the Spanish Language Doppelgangers of JR and the King (clad, in my mind's eye, in matching bumblebee costumes) shrieked and bellowed. And then, a tag match started. A tag match that, in light of the international flavor I was currently savoring, seemed fraught with significance. Super Crazy and Carlito were battling Kenny Dykstra and the hated Chris Masters.

Man, I thought, I HATE those fucking crackers. As Masters and Dykstra isolated Super Crazy, I began making deals with a distant, uncaring God. Lord, I don't ask for much... but if you help Crazy and Carlito beat these stupid crackers... I don't care if the Bears lose. I felt a shudder run through me. What had I done? I had betrayed my team, but it mattered little. THIS struggle was more important. This fake fight between living cartoon characters, with its staged violence and predetermined outcome, mattered FAR MORE to me than some bullshit Super Bowl.

A ray of heavenly light pierced the window of my front room. A cool breeze swept my fevered brow. Super Crazy and Carlito began to lucha the living balls out of their stupid cracker opponents. When Carlito nailed the backcracker (in Spanish? The announcers called it los backcracker) on Chris Masters, I stood up and cheered. My poor girlfriend landed on the floor with a thud (she'd been asleep with her head on my lap). Dazed, she looked up and asked me what happened.

"I think I just got religion," I said.

Monday, February 05, 2007

Saturday, February 03, 2007


Thanks to the magic of the internets, your humble correspondent was able to view the thrilling debut of Wrestling Society X on MTV, despite my utter lack of cable television. Rumor and speculation have been rampant, a constant muttering hum among the wrasslin' intelligencia: would WSX's measly half-hour time slot be buried in reality-show booshwa? Would this be some backyard spot-happy garbage-wrestling mess? And would the WSX be able to mount a credible challenge to WWE or even our beloved TNA? Having viewed the product, I can safely conclude: No, sorta kinda, and god fuck no.

The show opens with a runty bald hardcore type skanking around the ring and bellowing inanely. This is apparently one Fabian Kaelin. He's annoying, and he's your ring announcer.

First match: Matt Sydal (a heel of some sort) versus Jack Evans (a breakdancing face of some sort). Evans claims to "represent" Parkland "P-Town" Washington. I don't know where that is. Zakk Wylde from Black Label Society, rather than playing his patented brand of sub-Sabbath Biker Rock, sits in on commentary. I hope this doesn't happen when The Clipse show up in a few weeks. The match scurries along nicely in a spinny-kicky spot-happy sort of way. These two fellows are pretty decent high-fliers, and the "crowd" is the loudest dozen people I've ever heard. Perhaps the post-production wizards at MTV had something to do with that...

Zakk Wylde claims that this is "the same fight" he saw back in the schoolyard at the St. Aloysius Catholic School. St. Aloysius must be the patron saint of Gay Playground Brawls.

Jack Evans eventually wins with a particularly spinny bit of spinniness, and hits on Matt Sydal's girlfriend. She's got that Tori Spelling horseface thing going on, and thus should go pretty far in the world of Wrestling.

Next up is a montage of pretty horrific promos. These guys all seem really talented in the ring, but there's less personality going on than in TNA's X Division. Even Justin Credible, who really should have learned how to rock the mic by now, can only grit his teeth and toss out half-hearted crotch chops. In their defense, the brutal time restrictions and the montage approach to interviewing make it damn near impossible to show off one's acting skills.

The promos dispensed with, we move on to the main event. It's an epic monument of schmozz-ery: A ten-man Royal Rumble ladder match (!) in which the ring is surrounded by tables (!!), weapons (!!! even though they mainly seem to be those powder-filled acoustic guitars favored by Jeff Jarrett and the Honky Tonk Man), an exploding cage (!!!!), and a glass box full of electricity(!!!!!???).

Here's how it went down: Bald guy shouting and skanking, Justin Credible! ECW! ECW! Teddy Hart! Throwing bottles! METAL! Punch! Kick! Kick! Punch! Moonsault! OMG! It's Kaos (who?)! METAL! Shouting! Double Clothesline! Partying! OMG! Shooting star press! Here comes Vampiro! METAL!!! (Vampiro, BTW, is "one of the biggest stars in Mexico," and judging by his Jeff Hardy-esque paunch, this is not far from the truth) Punchpunchpunchkick! Chokeslam! Commercials! Puma shows up! Eliminated! Some other dudes show up! METAL! METAL AGAIN! It's 6-PAC! BOOOOOOO!!!!! "No one in this ring has held more titles than 6-Pac!" (Except perhaps for Justin Credible, who has eleven titles to 6-Pac's, er... six) 6-Pac cleans house! Inexplicably! Bronco Buster! Some redneck enters the ring! Country? OMG IT'S NEW JACK!!!!! METAAAAALLLLLL!!!!! (hip-hop?) Half the crowd (six people) marks out for New Jack. Goodbye redneck! New Jack gives chase, eliminates himself! Guitar shot to Referee! Lame! OMG?! Power Slam! Moonsault! "Where is New Jack going?" Good question! Suplex into box of electricity!!! OMG!!! "What is going on?" Another good question! New Jack elbow drop through a table! OMG!!! What are those crates doing there? Another table! "How the hell do we keep up with all this action?" ANOTHER good question! GodDAMN these announcers are insightful! It's Youth Suicide! PUNK RAWK! He's the tenth man! Already? Bucket of tacks! Four men left! What?! Here come the ladders! Powerbomb on the tacks! OMG! 6-Pac has a contract! Youth Suicide off the ladder onto the exploding cage OMGx2!!!!! Vampiro has the other contract! 6-Pac vs. Vampiro for the title next week! Whatevs!

And we're done... Christ, what just happened? I need to lie down.

So... better than I expected. All of these kids seem like REALLY TALENTED WRESTLERS... in the RING. Outside of it, they pretty much suck. It's a ton of action, and I don't see why I'm actually supposed to care what happens. Maybe if they could get those tightwads at MTV to give 'em an hour they could relax a bit and actually tell a story or two.

Ah, well. It's WAY better than ECW.

Friday, February 02, 2007

Arn Anderson: Underappreciated Ass Kicker

This clip is from an episode of NWA World Wide Wrestling that aired in the fall of 1985. It was a magical time...the seeds for the original Four Horseman stable were being planted, with the group's formal inception mere months away. Jimmy "The Boogie Woogie Man" Valiant was in his second year of his protracted, futile, and above all pointless feud with Paul Jones and his "Army." Black Bart and The Italian Stallion electrified arenas throughout the territory with a series of 10 minute time limit draws. Massive cysts had yet to form in the breasts of "The American Dream" Dusty Rhodes.

Outside of the squared circle, Punky Brewster and her uncannily lucid dog Brandon illustrated to an audience of impressionable young people the hazards of playing hide-and-go-seek within fifty yards of an abandoned household appliance. And Tears for Fears were basking in the mainstream success of "Songs from the Big Chair," an album which helped a generation of innocuous sweater wearing, excessively teased and primped hair sporting, twenty-something clandestine homosexuals summon the strength and courage to divulge their true sexual identity to their supervisors and co-workers. Tragically, nearly all were ridiculed, ostracized, and eventually terminated by their employers for admitting they actually listened to Tears for Fears.

Sorry to digress. Now back to the clip at hand...there's so much old-skool goodness in this 3:30 segment that even the most astute and savvy Arabian Facebuster reader could not be expected to digest it all in the first two or three viewings! From Arn Anderson's fucking boss Cuban derby, to Double A steadfastly working on the left arm of his hapless opponent, to David Crockett's polished and eloquent commentary (i.e. "Look at him now...." "Aaaaaarrrrnnnn Anderson..." "Watch him!"...astoundingly, Crockett would get even worse as a play-by-play man over the years), to kneepad-less jobber Mac Jeffers taking his job as a "talent enhancer" earnestly, to the fans going nuts for Jeffers fleeting offensive flurry, this clip embodies all that was right about the National Wrestling Alliance (sans a post match run-in by the likes of a Magnum TA or "American Dream" Dusty Rhodes or 3 of 1 parking lot mugging and beat-down of Wahoo McDaniel by Arn, Tully, and Ole Anderson).