My sincerest apologies to the Arabian Facebuster Nation for the lack of substantive posts in recent weeks. While a picture of "Playboy" Buddy Rose might be enough to placate this svelte athlete's former tag team partner and avid reader of the Facebuster, Doug "Pretty Boy" Summers (Doug, shoot me a PM about your clandestine yet hopefully lucrative business adventures in the cartel controlled territories of Colombia), most of you crave more...more flippant and increasingly unhinged commentary and old-skool content from Malibu Sands...more provocative insight and analysis of all things WSX and TNA from Apollo Spas...more cautionary tales on immoderation coupled with spiritual guidance and revelations from Rev. Von Fury...and more riveting and hilarious Friday Night Smackdown! fodder from Pencil Neck Geek.
Again, I am sorry for the scarcity of March content. However, it was an incredibly busy month. As many of you kno
w, we held our inaugural Arabian Facebuster Staff Conference. A big shout out to the
Portland Doubletree Hotel & Executive Meeting Center for the posh accommodations and well appointed meeting room (the Cascade Ballroom, pictured at left, served as the Facebuster's spacious war room). Even at the apex of his despotic rule, Saddam Hussein never had it this good. And oh the service! Why they must have replenished our buffet items and beverage station every ninety minutes. In my mind, their attention to detail, team oriented approach to guest relations, and commitment to excellence are both unprecedented and unparalleled in the increasingly homogeneous and indifferent corporate hospitality industry. I think I speak for all of the Arabian Facebuster staff in declaring that we will be returning to the Doubletree next year to enjoy their not unreasonable meeting room rates, high-speed WI-FI, flaky breakfast pastries, buxom catering staff, palatial urinals, and complimentary valet parking.
The good times had at the Arabian Facebuster Staff Conference will not soon be forgotten. We laughed. We cried. We prayed. We styled and profiled. We drank lots of Iron City (except for the snooty microbrew quaffing Rev. Von Fury). We appreciatively watched a shitload of professional wrestling, including TNA's March PPV "Destination X." We split a 24oz can of Camo Black Ice.
Most significantly, I learned more about my Arabian Facebuster brethren and pro wrestling, not to mention myself, than I ever thought possible over an alcohol filled weekend retreat. I learned that delivering a plastic candle opera shot to someone's head will cause them to gush buckets upon buckets of beautiful blood. I became aware that prolonged steroid use precludes you from drawing nary a drop of crimson, even after gashing your forehead with a razor blade. I found out the hard way that scaffold matches, no matter what gimmicky name they are given, are tedious at best, self-mutilation provoking at worst. I discovered that in order to look and sound like the spittin' image of Don "Wild Wild" West, all I have to do is incorporate two packs of cigarettes, a box of Hostess chocolate frosted mini-doughnuts, and a pint of value priced scotch into my daily nutritional regimen, along with a sense of apprehension towards any physical exertion whatsoever. I learned that Kathy Lee Crosby is the most astute and erudite analyst of professional wrestling, ever. Sorry, I meant Susan St. James. I realized that the only thing more ashen than Velvet McIntyre's elfin breasts are the
delegates who attend the Republican National Convention. Lastly, I learned that Camo Black Ice is, without question, the most thirst quenching elixir on the market today.
