Back from the Front with Observation

Ring of Honor made its long awaited return to St. Paul MN on Friday night. Yours truly Malibu Sands (pictured ringside in the brown shirt and with an astounded look on my face) along with Frogtown (the guy in the Minnesota Twins cap) and Doughnuts (the guy in the striped blue polo shirt who has been mistakened in public for both the affable Clay Aiken of American Idol fame and the irrepressible Tad Martin on All My Children) endured the sauna like conditions of the Saint Paul Armory to enjoy an evening of hard-hitting wrestling action and superlative people watching.

As the result of leisurely sipping a couple of drinks at our favorite St. Paul bar, we entered the building about thirty minutes after bell time. Much to our chagrin, no alcohol was being served; the only items for sale were energy drinks, water, pizza, DVDs, and shoddily stitched (read: "Made in the USA") t-shirts, all of which the deformed, disfigured, and cognitively feeble zombie mutant rubes were buying at a steady pace. Needing a mixer to tame the flavor of our smuggled in hard liquor, as well as a base to absorb some of its inebriating properties, food and drinks were purchased. In a development that surprised no one, the $3 tall boys of RockStar were warm while the $2 slices of cheese pizza were cold.

Luckily the wrestling action more than compensated for the lack of concession options. Allow me to offer a quick-n-dirty summation of what we witnessed:

• The Briscoe Brothers executed numerous innovative double team maneuvers in their successful defense of the Tag Titles in a four team endurance match, outlasting Jigsaw/Mike Quackenbush.

• Homicide/Cabana and Albright/Pearce engaged in a wild, plunderific (chairs, tables, and such) brawl that spilled into the crowd with the latter team defeating the former. Post-match saw the delivery of the Cop Killa and Colt 45 on the hapless heel manager.
  

• During intermission, we laid claim to some prime ringside property, forgoing our assigned tickets in the back row.

• Despite doing the job to Rocky Romero and his hackneyed heel stylings, Jack Evans busted out some impressive flippity-floppity offense and took a number of sick bumps in the ROH equivalent of a "fatal four way." Yes, he also puked.

• Roderick Strong and Christopher Daniels put on a fundamentally sound, methodically paced, and hard fought match with an unsatisfying conclusion (Daniels was counted out).

• And in my favorite match of the night, Takeshi Morishima (who had a ring presence reminiscent of the late Terry Gordy) retained the ROH Title over the "hometown" (raised in Milwaukee but trained in the Twin Cities) challenger Austin Aries that featured some spectacular offense during the finishing -- a brainbuster and 450 splash (pictured above) leading to a believable near-fall by Aries, a cartwheel splash in the corner, top-rope driving suplex, and brutually stiff lariat by Morishima.

Yr Ring of Honor Foto of the Week

Malibu Sands marking out at ringside, Ring of Honor, St. Paul MN 4.27.07. Also pictured, Roderick Strong giving Christopher Daniels a fall-away slam off the middle turnbuckle.

And Me, My Tit Is Killing Me

Lest you think I'm the sort of character who welches on his bets, here (at long last) is my review/book report on Joanie "Chyna/Chyna Doll/'Holiday'/Rex/Anna Nicole's BFF" Laurer's auto(ha!)biography If They Only Knew.

I should begin by disclosing my lack of credentials. I am about to make several snide and critical remarks about a book that the poor woman pictured at left (supposedly) wrote. She is a human being with feelings, and aside from several years spent writing music and film criticism, another several years spent writing short fiction, a year spent editing this beauty of a website right here, and maintaining close friendships with several English Majors (one of whom happens to be my MOM), I have NOTHING in my background that qualifies me to judge another person's writing. I'm just being mean.

If They Only Knew is a spastic, incoherent mess, and I don't believe for a second that Joanine Laurer wrote it. It's packed to the gills with the sort of strained imagery and tortured metaphors one associates with the worst kind of ghostwriter: the sort employed by the WWE.

What's more, the arc of the story (such as it is) is prone to five-page digressions, as though Chyna (I'm tired of typing her government name) were rambling into a tape recorder (or, more likely, chatting with her ghostwriter) and wandering down the long-forgotten goat paths of memory (that one's not in the book. It's too good) before being herded back on point by a clucking shepherd. Take, for instance, the part in Chapter 9 where Chyna starts out talking about the Fitness America competitions, takes time out to talk about her bad experience with a BODYBUILDING competition (there is, apparently, a difference), veers WILDLY off to talk about trying to join the secret service, and then retraces her steps for seven pages before getting back to the original point, such as it was.

Oh, and her book has cameos in it. Cameo WRITERS in it. Chyna ropes both Triple H and Mick Foley in to write a few pages of her book. This is presented as though the guests were just walking by as Chyna reached their parts in the story, and she "just lets them tell it." It's hilariously awkward, moreso because this ludicrous device isn't trotted out until page 216 of a 318 page book.

All of this makes it sound like ITOK is good for a laugh. It is. Hell, it's good for several laughs. Deep, massive, soul-satisfying belly laughs. If you cherry pick lines from this book, it'll have you wiping tears from your eyes. If, however, you actually wade through every page, you'll feel like you've spent an hour or two in someone else's bathwater. Chyna's life is an unending litany of failure, misery, and self-loathing. What's worse, the book's tone is relentlessly upbeat. Knowing what we do of her life after the final chapter of the book (abusive boyfriend, sex tape, pill habit, "singing career", stint on The Surreal Life) makes the pathos almost unbearable. It becomes clear to even the most callous, unsympathetic cad (that would be me) that Chyna is DEEPLY traumatized by her life and is using a manic and false self-confidence to shield herself from the actual emotions stirred by (here's the list people): her abusive parents, her cancer, her rape, the sexism of the wrestling business, her con-man father, oh and (according to the porn reviewer at VICE magazine) the FACT THAT SHE'S A HERMAPHRODITE.

Jesus. Anyway, the only way to get through this epic chronicle of self-denial and human suffering is to turn it into a drinking game. Here's when you drink:

Chyna complains about a parent.
Chyna uses a strained or mixed metaphor.
The ghostwriter leaves in a gramatical error.
Chyna veers off on a tangent. Drink twice if it lasts more than two pages.
Chyna talks about the smell of "sports cream" (no shit, this rule alone will get you loaded).
Chyna insults Killer Kowalski.
Chyna talks about how tough you have to be to make it in wrestling, but then is either crying or screaming at someone within two pages. Drink twice if it's Melissa Rivers.
Chyna glosses over her body being "different".

I could add more rules, but the Arabian Facebuster Wellness Policy forbids it. I'll simply leave you to it, adding only that you lightweights aren't gonna make it through the second chapter. Enjoy. I didn't.

Reason #163 to Despise Hulk Hogan...

His willingness to the recruit the mentally deranged in his quest to sell bowls of pasta to the uninformed, unsophisticated masses. Bowls of hot, flavorful, delicious pasta.

Ring of Honor...It's On!

Yours truly will be heading to the St. Paul Armory this evening to plunk down a hard earned $15.00 in order to take in the action, competition, and spectacle that is Ring of Honor. While admittedly no more than a casual follower of the promotion, there are quite a few guys (notwithstanding notables like Christopher Daniels, Homicide, Aries, and Strong) that I am excited to see in action, specifically Takeshi Morishima, The Briscoe Brothers, Jack Evans (Apollo, wasn't he in WSX?), and Mike Quackenbush. Plus, it is Colt Cabana's final weekend working for ROH before relocating to Stamford, CT and paying about three months worth of dues jobbing to the likes of Val Venis and Kenny Dykstra on Heat before paying antoher three months of dues jobbing to the likes of The Great Khali and Johnny Nitro on RAW.

Anyways, here's the card...

ROH World Title Match

Takeshi Morishima vs. Austin Aries

FIP World Heavyweight Title Match

Roderick Strong vs. Christopher Daniels

World Tag Team Title Ultimate Endurance

(elimination match with each fall having a different stipulation. First fall can only be won by tap out. Second fall is a Tag Team Scramble meaning no tags are needed. Final fall is for the ROH World Tag Team Titles)

ROH World Tag Team Champions Jay & Mark Briscoe

vs.

Pelle Primeau & Mitch Franklin

vs.

Mike Quackenbush & Jigsaw

vs.

Hallowicked & Gran Akuma

Four Corner Survival Match
Jack Evans vs. Delirious vs. Rocky Romero vs. Erick Stevens

Anything Goes Fight

Colt Cabana & Homicide vs. Brent Albright & Adam Pearce with Shane Hagadorn

Special Challenge Match
BJ Whitmer vs. Shingo

SHIMMER Tag Team Action

St. Paul's own Rain & Lacey vs. Sara Del Rey & Allison Danger

An update on the Ring of Honor experience will be forthcoming next week, along with a belated summary of the Western Wrestling Association preposterousness from a few weeks back...I promise!

But He Did Stay at a Holiday Inn Express

In case anyone was concerned as to the whereabouts of Randy Orton (pictured at left doing an impression of a Korean with a migraine) on last night’s RAW, fear not, he wasn’t murdered, abducted, jailed or anything comparatively nightmarish. As it turns out, last weekend this overpushed youngster was sent home early from the WWE’s tour of Europe for trashing one of the continent's finer motor lodges. No word as to whether Mr. Orton rode business class or suffered the indignity of flying coach on his trip back to the states.

According to a well placed source within the company, who requested anonymity in discussing the matter, “As a result of Randy’s sudden departure and harsh admonishment, locker room morale has plummeted to an all-time low. But perplexingly, the number of unattended gym bags NOT being mysteriously defecated in is at a five year high.”

If you ask me, this whole situation sounds like a classic case of mistaken identity. Rest assured, Arabian Facebuster will pass along any additional information as it is made available.

Yr (Still Livin' in the) 80s Tag Team of the Week

The Rock & Roll Express: Robert Gibson, (some portly rube jackass) and Ricky Morton, circa 2005. Yes, 2005.

Prime Figure In Flat Grey Landscape

Holy. Shit. All real wrestling fans need to haul ass with the greatest possible dispatch over to the Bruiser Brody website. Apparently some total geniuses have put together a biography of the greatest promo man of all time. It's a limited edition of 1,000 copies, features interviews with basically the entire world, and is being previewed in the golden basket of angel tears now showing at the top of the post. I must now stop typing, as my hands are sweating and I'm shaking uncontrollably.

They really ought to consider making a movie out of this shit.

Prepare to be Blown Away...

...By a supplement even more effective at trimming the fat than expired Four Horsemen Vitamins!

Reason #104 to Despise Hulk Hogan

His penchant for leaking petty, lackluster, and most certainly non-newsworthy tidbits to drum up publicity for Hogan Knows Best while perpetuating his self-delusion of cultural relevance. Somebody please introduce me to the reporter that would actually spend an iota of their time and journalistic capital muckraking this nonsense. No, Jimmy Hart and Brian Knobbs are not reporters. They are sycophants.

From the New York Post's Page Six:

April 17, 2007 -- HAS the longest, strongest marriage in professional wrestling history suffered a fatal, bone-crunching blow?

Sources close to Hulk and Linda Hogan, who've been wedded for more than 20 years, say they're "going through a very hard time and their marriage is under a lot of strain."

The problems started several years ago when the Hogan family - including the couple's kids, aspiring pop singer Brooke and amateur race-car driver Nick - started filming the VH1 show "Hogan Knows Best." One friend said, "They have different beliefs on how to raise kids. Brooke started her music career, and they started getting into fights."

Some of the well-documented battles on the show have been over how scantily clad Brooke - just 18 when she did her first major magazine - should be, or how late she could stay out with boyfriends.

During the show, the Hogans moved from their longtime residence in Tampa to a Miami mansion, and also bought houses in Los Angeles and Las Vegas. While either Linda or Hulk traveled with Brooke or Nick to their various events, they rarely traveled together. Another source of tension was Hulk, 53, desperately wanting to get back into wrestling, while Linda wanted to body-block the idea, fearing he could get hurt.

At one point, the friend said, "Linda got so fed up she quit the VH1 show. She just walked off. No one knows what started that fight but it was serious." Linda is now back on set to film the fourth season.

Another insider said, "At one point they were talking divorce. It's still precarious."

A rep for the Hogans declined comment. But Hulk's wrestling manager, Jimmy Hart, told us, "There's ups and downs in every marriage. I was with them last weekend in Miami shooting the show and everything seemed fine.

"Dionne Warwick was there to do a song with Brooke, and Linda seemed fine. Ever since they went to marriage counseling on that VH1 show, people have said there were problems, but it's fine."

Sorry Hulkster (and minions), but a married couple navigating a rough patch in their relationship does not remotely qualify as "news" or even "juicy gossip." Now say Linda files for divorce from your resplendently leathery skinned carcass, that's news. Or that your marriage is legitimately the "longest and strongest in professional wrestling history," now that's news. Or that your vocally pitchy daughter Brooke engaged in a late-night lesbian tryst with the geriatric Dionne Warwick after their hit making recording session, now that's juicy gossip!

Yr 4 Horsemen Foto of the Week

Jim Ross interviews a ponytailed "Nature Boy" Ric Flair and members of the Horsemen.

The Trick Is To Stop Thinking Of It As "Your" Money...

A reminder from your friends here at Arabian Facebuster: Your taxes are due!

And don't even think about blowing off those goons over at the Internal Revenue Service. You wouldn't want this to happen, would you?

Reason #248 to Despise Hulk Hogan

In Arabian Facebuster's perpetual quest to marshal evidence showing Hulk Hogan to be...how do I put this tactfully...the shimmering orange demon spawn of Lucifer and Hitler, I submit for your consideration you this clip of haughty wrestling buffoonery.

And for all of you library science nerdlingers out there, please also archive this clip under "Reason #194 to validate that Randy Savage is completely fucking mad."

Kanyon Gayness Update

Openly gay wrestler Chris Kanyon was on the Howard Stern show today, mere moments (in geologic time) after announcing his retirement from pro wrestling. He discussed his recent suicide attempt (jumping in front of a train? How does that end up as an "attempt"?), his continuing struggles with depression (leading pillar of mental and physical health Artie Lange to offer him some free psychiatric counseling) and his persecution complex (during his manic phases, Kanyon tends to believe that "powerful forces," Vince McMahon among them, are conspiring to destroy his life... Heather Mills should take notes).

Of most interst to this writer were Kanyon's claims that Dennis Rodman was "stinking drunk" when he showed up for training sessions with Kanyon back in the bad old days of the Russo-fied WCW. Kanyon also says orange-hued Islamofascist Hulk Hogan threatened to kick Rodman's ass if he didn't get in line.

See? Hogan hates our freedoms. Specifically, our freedom to be drunk, arrogant, pansexual herpes factories.

Regardless, Arabian Facebuster once again salutes the (possibly nutty) Chris Kanyon, and we wish him all the best in his future endeavors.

BREAKING NEWS: Disco Inferno Arrested!

Law abiding and Christianist citizens of Georgia...disarm your home security systems, leave your doors ajar, let your children roam wild and/or free in the streets, and don't forget to PRAISE JESUS! For a sinful and illegal weekly high stakes poker game in your community has been shut down.

And get this...there's a wrestling connection! Glen Gilberti aka Disco Inferno (pictured here just moments before infiltrating a John Travolta impersonator convention) was arrested as part of the gambling sting. If you want more details on this wholly uninteresting situation, then click here.

Much like the iconic (albeit secular) weekly literary periodical TV Guide, Arabian Facebuster would like to give an enthusiastic CHEERS to Georgia state law enforcement for putting this degenerate, always on-tilt gambler and recreational drug user wanton, dangerous, and Godless criminal where he belongs -- BEHIND BARS.

Arabian Facebuster would also like to present Disco Inferno with a vociferous JEERS for the cigarette smuggling and sodomy that he will inevitably partake in while in the clink. Mr. Inferno, while in lockdown, we also hope that you find the time to repent for your sins and develop a personal sanctimonious relationship with Jesus Christ. Because resurrection will be your reward.

Yr Facebuster All-Stars Foto of the Week

Big Gay King Mabel tranquilly crushes the chest of the late Scott "Bam Bam" Bigelow as as an exasperated Lex Luger watches helplessly.

Nightmarish Secrets At Last Revealed

I realise it may be hard for some of you to view the following images. What you are about to see strikes directly at the core of our most cherished assumptions about Democracy, Safety, and National Pride. But better to stand shivering in the harsh light of cruel reality than toil blindly under the oppressive yoke of The Neo-Conservative World Capitalist New World Order (or Drug Goon Psycho Communist Mind-Control Mafia, if that's more your speed).

Fear for my own safety prevents me from naming names, but I think it's fairly obvious from the photographic evidence who the REAL threat to our Republic is. Clearly, a certain leering "orange-hued dirigible (thanks to Malibu Sands for the apt description) has made the ultimate "heel turn" and is now in league with those who hate us for our freedoms.

I call on our nation's leaders to turn our military might against the TRUE threat to American Liberty. Our current policy of adventurism is clearly a smokescreen, meant to distract us from the real culprits. Yes, our foe is powerful, but Lady America must prevail! What are YOU gonna do, terrorist scum, when the Department of Homeland Security runs wild on YOU?!

In closing, I must sound one final discordant note of trouble: Where does Randy Savage stand in all of this? Is he in league with our enemies, plotting America's downfall from the comfort of his palatial estate? Or is he fearlessly leading a resistance effort, meting out vigilante justice from the safety of th' Underground? Or is he in a padded room somewhere, sobbing and babbling incoherently to a Diamond Dallas Page stuffed toy?

U Say AmeriCAN'T, I Say AmeriCAN

After repeated viewings of this slickly produced piece of crap propaganda, I am still unsure as to whether its meta narrative is that Hulk Hogan's contributions to the republic and influence on the polity are commensurate with Washington, Jefferson, Lincoln, Kennedy, and MLK, or that whenever the ol' US and A is confronted with hostility, be it from loathsome flag burners, treasonous anti-war agitators, or diabolical foreign madmen (like Nikolai Volkoff or that no good Lybian son-of-a-bitch Kadafi), America always hulks up and drops a great big melanoma ridden leg on its enemies.

Or am I missing the premise entirely? Take a gander and decide for yourself.

I'm Off the Wagon, Part 2

It has been a long time since your faithful scribe has attended a live professional wrestling event. Too damn long. In fact, the last wrestling event that I graced with my presence was an ICW-Tacoma show back in the late spring of 2000.

I vividly remember the main event of that card like it was yesterday...with hands bound, legs shackled, eyes blindfolded, and nose pinched shut via clothespin, "Streetfighter" Tim Flowers (aka the Triple H of Tacoma) single-handedly decimated ICW Tag Team Champions Richie Magnett AND Buddy Wayne in a handicapped-barbed wire-flaming tables-lumberjack-street fight and then, as a result of his victory, was granted five minutes alone in the ring with the tag champs' manager -- a rabid and almost certainly inbred grizzly bear cub. After powerbombing the feral beast off the top rope through a flaming table covered with thumb tacks, thereby rendering it unconscious in a puddle of its own filth, Flowers proceeded to have unprotected sex with the hottest women from the throng of lovelies congregated at ringside, wearing nothing but the just acquired tag team title gold belts around his perfectly proportioned waist. Now that's wrestling!

Regrettably, I had probably guzzled down about 10 PBR tall boys or so by the time the main event went on, so I am likely leaving out a few of the ancillary details from that otherwise unforgettable night at the (Michael the Neckel) Temple Theatre.

However, my seven year pro wrestling itch is going to get scratched big time come Friday evening!
The place: The Tri-City American Legion (the Frank Lloyd Wright designed edifice pictured above) in New Brighton, MN.
The bell time: 7:00pm.
The promotion: The Western Wrestling Association (you may want to spend a couple of minutes perusing through their site as it's quite a hoot).
The reason I am attending this indy-garbage monstrosity: My friend Martha was invited by one of the wrestler's to attend the show but she is petrified of going alone, wanting instead to be escorted to the matches by someone who projects vitality, confidence, and credibility. Since her friends that actually possess these traits already have plans, I am accompanying her instead.

Facebusteristas, next week I promise to post a recap of all of the ludicrousness that is the Western Wrestling Association live and in person. Until then, enjoy some frosty cans of Iron City and TNA Impact at The Tiny Bubble Room.

Yr Old Skool Canadian Foto of the Week

A young Owen Hart and stern Bad News Allen.

Thanks, God... for NOTHING!

Now, we see the reward for my faith. I trusted that Our Heavenly Father would rain blessings down on his humble servant (The Heartbreak Kid Shawn Michaels) in the form of sweet, sweet title gold. Alas, it was not to be. The tie-breaking final match of the night (A tie for first place between Rev. VonFury and Th' Pencil Neck Geek, and a tie for last place between Yrs Truly and Malibu Sands) went to White Rapper John Cena. And lo, the seventh seal did open, and the seas did boil, and I had to do a report on the steaming turd pictured at left.


The book! The book is the turd, you meanies. God, no wonder she's always crying.

BREAKING NEWS: Anna Nicole Still Dead, Chyna Still Insane

Train wreck. Car collision. Bowling shoe ugly. A total fucking mess. What, and/or possibly who, the heck am I talking about?

“The Marine,” starring John Cena? Nope, try again.

My temperament, judgment, and equilibrium after guzzling down two cans of Camo Black Ice? No, but you're getting warmer.

Last night’s Great Khali vs. Kane encounter? Technically accurate, but wide of the mark in capturing my intent.

"Good Ol’ JR’s" euphemisms for making sweet sweet love to his old lady? Profoundly disturbing, albeit not an unreasonable supposition.

The definitive answer my Arabian Facebuster amigos is Joanie Laurer aka Chyna Doll (pictured above just seconds after dicing a particularly large onion), specifically her (1) hysterical reaction to the totally foreseeable demise of her "dear friend" Anna Nicole Smith; and (2) enduring and unwavering exploitation of Anna's agonizing death (or if you're a glass half full type, then replace "agonizing death" with "shallow and utterly worthless life") for the purposes of straight to video motion picture promotion and career advancement. Although Chyna comes across surprisingly lucid and sympathetic in this clip, rest assured, she’ll be engaing in self-ostracizing behavior (like getting back together with X-Pac) and hitting rock bottom (like getting back together with X-Pac!) again real soon. In 5, 4, 3, 2...