Bidding RVD Adieu

Unless you have been living under a rock, held against your will in the dank basement of one Pat Patterson, or trapped in the abandoned WCW Power Plant in an urban exploring adventure gone awry, you have undoubtedly heard the news that Rob Van Dam has decided not to re-up/re-sign with World Wrestling Entertainment. His “farewell” match will take place this Sunday at One Night Stand against terror watch list suspect and all around shitty guy -- pun damn well intended -- Randy Orton.

On behalf of the readership of Arabian Facebuster (Hi, Mrs. Spas!), I want to wish Rob Van Dam good health and happiness and during this well deserved sabbatical from profressional wrestling. I'm sure when his no-compete clause expires, we'll be seeing his flippity-floppity acrobatics and tired thumb pointing antics (see Figure 1.A above) in the hexagonal ring of TNA. In the interim, Rob, spend some quality time with your kids, help your wife out around the house, and for chrise sakes man, learn how to throw a realistic looking punch.

Salt In The Wound (Randy Orton Terror Watch Part 4)

Bad enough that Our Beloved Sabu (tm) has had his contract terminated by the double-double E. Worse that poor RVD will be hitting that lonely (pot-addled) highway as well. The crowning insult, however, is that RVD will be facing everyone's least favorite pistol-packing, gym-bag crapping, hotel-room wrecking mental health risk at the upcoming One Night Stand PPV. That's right, fans (?). RVD versus Randy Orton in a "Stretcher Match", live from the ECW arena in Jacksonville, Florida!

Is this how it ends? Is this the match that will end Rob Van Dam's ECW career? An incontinent, heavily-armed manchild will pretend to beat him up while a team of failed Hollywood Script-puncher-uppers beat up his contract in Real Life?

Look, rumor has it that RVD's been wrestling semi-hurt for a while, and with his hetero lifemate Sabu getting shitcanned, it seemed like prime time to seek the proverbial greener pastures (insert RVD weed joke? Meh.). Fine, whatever. It would just be nice if the WWE could give him a better sendoff than a savage (and unwatchable) beating from a terminal jackoff like Randy Orton.

Ah, well. Looks like all you Arabian Facebuster Readers (hi, mom!) will be getting a lot more mean-spirited snark and a lot less genuine enthusiasm for wrestling in the future. That's what you guys like best, anyway, right? Right? Hello?

Fuck. Just go read RVD's blog. It's funnier than this old thing, anyway.

Yr Flamboyant Dusty Rhodes Foto of the Week

Reason #113 to Despise Hulk Hogan

The fact that he starred in the most awesome music video ever made.

Yr Old Skool Tag Team of the Week

Dick Murdoch and Dusty Rhodes, The Texas Outlaws.

Fakin' Da Funk

Check out this recent news out of (surprise!) Tacoma. Seeking to avoid any similar litigation, the WWE legal team is strongly recommending that the company put the kibosh on the Eugene character. After all, a class action lawsuit seeking reimbursement for sympathy purchases of Eugene merchandise could cost the organization hundreds, if not thousands, of dollars.

Those concerned with a change in direction for Randy Orton need not fear. Rigorous IQ and adaptive testing results confirm that Randall will continue to receive his monthly $630 SSI check without interruption. This is more important than you might think. Seems that the Legend Killer's current daily wage of a Fudgesicle and two shiny quarters does not go far towards paying the rent at Reverend Von Fury's Home for Wayward Boys.

While this may not bode well for young Randy's dream of someday owning a firearm, the WWE Taskforce on Mental Health reports that there is a bright side. With continued adherence to his daily training schedule and plenty of of encouragement, Mr. Orton is expected to be lacing his own boots by the end of the year!

Judgment Day...The PPV, not the Rapture

The WWE presents Judgment Day this Sunday on PPV. Since about 99% of the Facebuster nation will not be forking over $39.95 to the slow witted bastards at Comcast and/or spending three hours on the sabbath in the pursuit of temporal and worldly pleasures, I thought it fitting to instead start a thread on the matter. Per custom, venture your match predictions in the comments section.

This month, the winner will be the person who guesses the fewest number of correct results. And to the winner goes the spoils. The prize: an indelible sense of satisfaction from knowing that your wrestling intuition and acumen are more divergent from the WWE’s booking committee and corporate brain trust than your fellow Facebuster prognosticators.

Good luck.

Shawn Michaels: Bald Headed Geek

Besides tobacco, I am hard pressed to identify another industry that so consistently lies to and deceives its customer base more than professional wrestling. The most egregious offender? That would be World Wrestling Entertainment, of course. From listing Andre The Giant at 7’5”, to perpetuating the legend of the One Man Gang’s African lineage, to hoodwinking its credulous audience into believing that The Big Bossman was really a disgruntled former prison guard/inmate assaulter at the Cobb County Jail, to its history of denying the endemic and dangerous steroid and painkiller use/abuse by its superstars, to not informing its viewership that The Miz is the foremost collector of gay midget pornography in the world today, the company's litany of atrocities perpetrated against the truth reads long and detailed.

The latest fabrication and cover up, then, should surprise no one. Or should I say, fabrication and comb over?! As it turns out, WWE has been doctoring photos of evangelical superstar “The Heartbreak Kid” Shawn Michaels on its website, supplanting his balding cranium with a lush and thick head of hair.

I submit the set of photos below for your consideration.

Damning, isn’t it?

Up in Canada, Bret Hart most certainly has an enormous shit eating grin on his face…as he sits in his breakfast nook, alone, blathering belligerently about how Shawn and Vince screwed him over.

Bobby Lashley: Guy

Nature, dear readers, abhors a vacuum. So it is that, with our beloved Sabu's recent release from the clammy embrace of Extreme Championship Wrestling, we find ourselves casting wildly about for some flicker of personality among the show's remaining headliners. Attracted almost by the grim absence of animus, our gaze falls on the placid features of one Robert Lashley.

We have crafted an unflattering comparison. It glowers from the top of this post.

How tragic, then, that this gentleman is Vince McMahon's Chosen One. The wrestler upon whose broad shoulders rests the entire ECW brand. Consider the awesome burden placed on this tranquil Atlas. The glorious history and dubious future of ECW are in his massive ham-hands. He is YOUR main event, ECW faithful.

And he would fit right in here.

Clearly, something must be done. The man needs a massive gimmick overhaul if he is to restore our onetime favorite Wrestling Federation to its former glory. It goes almost without saying that Arabian Facebuster has just such a gimmick.

Bobby Lashley: Guy. It's magic. It's simple. It poses no challenge to Mr. Lashley's meager thespian skills. All the guy has to do is make constant references to his "regular guy" status. He shows no emotion, he doesn't rage around the ring. He just cuts the most simple and declarative promos ever.

An example:

Vince McMahon: Bwahaha! I have stolen your ECW belt, Bobby Lashley! And if you ever want a rematch, you cannot lay a finger on me or Shane-O-Mac or even Umaga! Bwahaha!

Bobby Lashley: Vince, I'm just a guy. And this guy really wants that belt back. I'm frustrated that I can't attack you, but willing to abide by the rules so I can get a shot at my belt. Because this guy sure does want that belt, guy.

Vince: You'll never get this belt! And there's nothing you can do about it! That must be eating you up inside!

Bobby: (sighs) Yes. I am one upset guy. You and all your guys are really being mean, guy. I'm just a guy. A guy who is upset. And a guy who wants his belt back. Oh, and also revenge. (sighs) Guy.

See? It's ratings gold. The crowd will eat it up, just like they did with that ridiculous "what" thing that Steve Austin used to do. Imagine 20,000 fans all chanting "guy" at random intervals. It will be glorious, and soothing like the sound of the tide.

So please, WWE. Implement our program. Let Bobby Lashley be the guy he was born to be, and watch as ECW's buy rate goes through the roof.

Oh, and also turn him gay.

...And Vito Too

More trimming of the proverbial fat over at the towers titan...the WWE has also terminated the contract of one Vito LoGrasso, shown here power shopping in San Francisco's Castro District for a pearl necklace to accentuate his Marilyn Monroe replica gown.

Somewhere along Arthur Avenue, a cross-dressing wise-guy weeps openly, but with his masculinity firmly in tact.

However, there is no need to keep Vito in your thoughts and/or prayers (i.e. "Dear Lord Jebus, please watch over Vito in his future endeavors"), oh benevolent and/or pious Facebusterites, for he has landed on his feet, procuring lucrative and licit employment at one of the world's premier fashion houses. Starting Monday, say hello to the Senior Buyer within the Moo Moo and Wearable Tablecloth Division at Dress Barn Incorporated.

BREAKING NEWS: Sabu Fired

Sabu has been officially terminated by World Wrestling Entertainment, effective just hours before last night's hour-long Bobby Lashley infomercial, otherwise known as "ECW on Sci Fi."

No word as to whether the WWE thanked Sabu for making innumerable sacrifices to his physical well being against the blimp-like Big Shew -- thereby carrying this talentless Hulk Hogan underling (is that redudant?) to his most entertaining feud in the past five years -- or at least wished him well in his future endeavors.

More tomorrow...on the ensuing riots in the streets of Portland!

Yr Old Skool Foto of the Week

Mr. Wrestling (Tim Woods) unloads on Baron Von Raschke. Mid-Atlantic Wrestling, circa 1978.

Randy Orton Terror Watch Part 3

I take no credit for unearthing the glittering gem featured above. All kudos go to the ever-vigilant (and journalistically responsible) Online Onslaught for getting the scoop. In fact, I'm hesitant to post their link, lest you all find out exactly how many stories I steal from them. Anyhoo, bear with this incredibly dry Gun Paranoia News report. Things start to heat up around the 1:10 mark.

Shocking Evidence Revealed

Facebusterists, I wanted to update you on the whole Randy Orton trashing a hotel room in Europe fiasco. As part of our ongoing investigation of the matter, Arabian Facebuster has obtained irrefutable photographic evidence illustrating the extent of the carnage wrought.

WARNING: The image below is graphic, profoundly disturbing, and damning. Proceed with prudence. As a precaution, I would advise you to ask the wife and kids, or anybody with an especially weak constitution, to leave the room immediately.

I don't doubt that the Randy Orton apologists and lickspittles out there are already calling into question the authenticity of this image and the means by which it was obtained while concurrently trying to discredit Arabian Facebuster as nothing more than a shadowy operation run by Orton's fanatical and vengeful enemies.

My friends, these allegations couldn't be further from the truth. Arabian Facebuster is an empirical, pragmatic, reality-based enterprise. Under no circumstances do we falsify information, predetermine our conclusions, engage in wanton speculation, or set out to ruin lives and reputations. The fact of the matter is that Randy Orton is both a habitual gym bag crapper AND a moderately priced, tastefully decorated hotel room trasher. Reputable independent sources have substantiated the validity of our contentions. For chrise sakes people, we're not talking the Niger yellowcake uranium forgeries. It's a slam dunk!

I'll stake my journalistic reputation on it.

Reason #9 to Despise Hulk Hogan

The motion picture mind numbing claptrap No Holds Barred.

And to the narrator's quip if we are "ready for a whole new Hulk Hogan?" Yes, yes we are.

Rated-R Cheers and Jeers

Cheers! To the Rated-R Superster, Edge, for winning Mr. Kennedy's Money-In-The-Bank privileges on Monday night RAW.
Jeers! To the aforementioned Kennedy for (supposedly) tearing his triceps off the bone in said match, derailing a promising run as Smackdown!'s number one heel.
Jeers! To Edge for defecting to Smackdown, leaving the hotel-smashing manchild Randy Orton without adult guidance.
Cheers! To Edge for cashing in his MITB privileges by beating an exhausted Undertaker for the Smackdown! Title.
Jeers! To Mark Henry, for appearing on my TV.
Jeers! Again to Mark Henry, for existing.
Cheers! To The WWE for wisely giving the number one heel push to Edge instead of Mark Henry.
However, my number one JEER of the week also goes to the Double-Double E, for ANNOUNCING THE OUTCOME OF A FUCKING CAGE MATCH ON THEIR WEBSITE A FULL THREE DAYS BEFORE ANYONE HAS A CHANCE TO WATCH IT!!!!!

Yes, we all know the Undertaker's hurt, can't keep defending the title, Money-In-The-Bank swerve blahblahblah. Whatever. At least let us pretend that these match outcomes aren't completely predetermined. If you've got a title change coming up and you're not confident that you can keep the match outcome a secret, just DO IT ON A LIVE TAPING. The internets may be fast, but we can't exceed the speed of light (yet).

Anyway, congrats to Edge for getting to live his banner year all over again.

"What The Cock" Update Photo

Photographic proof: Little Boogeyman needs to work on tightening up his entrance routine. Big Boogey, for all his other failings, is right on time with the headbanging-pyro-clock routine. Little Boogey? Not so much.

Yr Rasslin' Mugshot of the Week

The Big Shew, Memphis, TN December 1998. The accusation: Exposing himself to a female hotel employee. The case was eventually dropped due to a lack evidence, adding credence to my theory that the Big Shew has a microscopic penis.

What The Cock Is This Shit?

I admit that, like most thinking humans, I have missed the last several months of WWE Smackdown! (The enforced exclamation point is giving me the vapors, BTW). Thus, when a sense of journalistic duty finally moved me to stop the infernal blinking of my VCR clock last night, I was understandably surprised to see the grotesque image that confronts you atop this post.

A little Boogeyman? The big one wasn't enough? Let me see if I follow the logic here: you've got a third-rate Kane ripoff (which, if you're keeping score, makes him at least a fourth or fifth-rate Undertaker ripoff) whose sloppy ringwork and tepid crowd response have already led to you firing him TWICE, and not only do you keep depleting the (publicly traded) WWE coffers to keep him in leather pants and alarm clocks, but you go and hire a "little person" to follow him around and emulate his shtick? W, verily, TF?

Look, I get the Finlay/Little Bastard (sigh... FINE.) HORNSWOGGLE gimmick. Hornswoggle's a LEPRECHAUN, right? And Finlay's, like... Irish? Okay, that makes a degree of sense. So this evil Leprechaun hides under the ring, and hits the Miz in the nuts with a shillelagh (yay!) and actually DOES STUFF. Little Boogey (shudder) doesn't do anything. He just follows the Boogeyman around and mimics Boogey's moves out of synch with the pyro (if last night's performance was any indication). He also jumps around at ringside and cheers, but that's a moot point 'cos you can't fucking see him over the ring!

Perhaps Vince McMahon is trying to start a Midget Wrestling Division (I'm sorry, guys. If Howard Stern has taught me anything, it's that y'all prefer to be "Little People", but it's been Midget Wrestling since before I was born, and it'll be Midget Wrestling long after I'm dead) to compensate for his terminally unwatchable Women's Division. I can't find fault with that. But, please... don't do it like this. Don't stick us with Little Boogeyman. Let Hornswoggle feud with... I don't know, Tiny Benoit or something. Shorty Too Hotty? Mini Wang Yang? Whatever. Just take the Little Boogeyman away.

Pencil Neck Geek, you're a stockholder. Can nothing be done?

Worst Wrestling Around

Shockingly crude.
Perversely watchable.
Unintentionally uproarious.
Breathtakingly atrocious.
Hideously unforgettable.
Beyond awful.
Dreadful +1.
Evolution and inherent goodness of man reconsidering.
Total fucking schwaz.

Ok, I give up...I am at a loss as to how most bluntly besmirch the Western Wrestling Association's sophomoric and ham-fisted approximation of professional wrestling last month at the New Brighton Tri-City American Legion's banquet room (heretofore referred to as the "Dub Dub A Arena"). Oh, I got it...how about Worst Wrestling Around!? It's a play on their acronym, and an ingenious one to boot.

Regardless of the specific phraseology, suffice it to say, these aspirant superstars may need to hone their mat wrestling skills, brawling abilities, aerial maneuvers, rope running, selling, pacing, in-ring psychology, microphone work, physiques, and all around athleticism before giving the grapplers in Ring of Honor a run for their money.

Some lowlights:

1. There looked to be 100 or so people in attendance. About 70% of the audience was comprised of the developmentally disabled and the persons responsible for transporting them to and fro. 28% appeared to be an assortment of dejected families from the nearby trailer park, dirty dirty ring rats, and confused slack jawed drunks who stumbled out of the Legion bar looking for the parking lot ("Dat gum, it's around here somewhere, I reckon!") and wound up in the Dub Dub A Arena. The remaining 2% were urban professionals (i.e. my friend Martha and me).
2. Peculiarly, the announcers -- Warren Christie and "Terrible" Terri did commentary over the PA during the bouts (possibly in reaction to the audience composition detailed above or simply as a matter of post-production expediency). Terri ought to consider enrolling in a remedial vocabulary course over at the local elementary school based on her propensity to refer to the heels as "dummies" while butchering words like "soprano." As in, "He'll be singing sopranto after that shot."
   
3. After doing the job via a freaking standing powerslam, masked inbred spastic redneck Handsome Pete delivered a botched Double J guitar shot, knocking the dapperly dressed Super Lee Cool legit silly.
   
4. I was sternly reprimanded by The Master (whose web site bio was ghost written by Saul Bellow) for snapping some digital pictures because it was interfering with their public access filming, despite the fact that there was no written or verbal announcement that digital/flash photogoraphy was strictly prohibited. Not wanting to get stretched out or have my stomach punctured with a jagged meth pipe, I promptly powered off the camera, returned to my seat, and continued enjoying shaking my head in disdain at the in-ring action tedium.

Tonight, Worst Wrestling Around returns to the Dub Dub A Arena. Mercifully, this dashing correspondent will not.