Have A Happy New Year's Eve!

Have fun ringing in 2009 this evening, Facebusteraholics. But be safe out there. And for heaven's sakes, heed Barry Windham's impassioned and fact filled plea and don't drink and drive.

You'll be happy and, in the process, make Barry Windham happy too.

But if you do end up tossing a few (twenty) back and getting behind a wheel (although in your drunken stupor you might mistake your car for rocket or time machine), you should really pay attention to this.

Things I Would Rather Do Than Watch TNA, NYE Edition

Ring in the New Year sober (or stuck drinking some teetotaler swill like O'Douls or Rinunite NA), alone, and dressed in Mike Tenay's soiled tuxedo whilst watching Don West hawk baseball cards on QVC.

Tuesday's with Larry

Ladies, gentlemen, and Larry Nelson fanatics that initially discovered our Arabian Facebuster project via Hairy Larry's myspace page (or unwittingly pulled up a stool next to Larry at the local titty bar and endured his liquor fueled, semi-coherent, ad nauseam ramblings about his book, cabin fatty seduction best practices, achieving cult hero status on the interwebs, and the burdens of celebrity [including but not limited to the lofty and unrealistic expectation of Larry not forgetting to put on pants before going out in public]) and now spend time lurking on our site with increasing regularity, it is time to feature a clip of our favorite degenerate that captures the unpredictable, cliff-hanging, suspenseful, meandering, long-winded, and ultimately anti-climatic nature of his storytelling. Witness Exhibit A: Larry Nelson's slow developing tale as to the genesis of Silo Sam's participation in an over the top rope (as opposed to, um, under the bottom rope?) battle royal coming soon to a junior college student union building or farm expo center near you.

This fable should really be transcribed into a written format and included on the SAT's to test the reading comprehension skills of our college aspirant young people. Although I must confess, after repeated viewings, this Tulsa Welding School graduate still can't pick out the thesis statement or identify with any great degree of certainty or clarity the literary devices employed by the shaggy, pale cheeked narrator. But if pressed, I would posit that the account of Silo Sam is a powerful allegory about the limitations on the American ethos of self-reliance, individualism, and isolation, illustrated through the mutually beneficial outcomes attained by story's protagonists, but only after they learn together about cooperation, overcoming distrust, and showing vulnerability and tenderness...or a straightforward tale about the unintended consequences that may result from taking an American built and manufactured car out for a spin in the boondocks.

Regardless, please enjoy and, oh, try not to fall asleep.

Update: I have been assured that no farm animals were harmed (read: made sweet love to) during the making of the video...although the hoisted calf in question was soon thereafter transported to a slaughterhouse, killed in an inhumane and borderline vengeful manner, butchered into a delicious veal chop (with the lesser cuts, organs and waste donated to the local homeless shelter and sanatorium), sold to an osteria, prepared osso buco style, and served with a haunting and ethereal 1964 Barolo.

Yr Old Skool God Awful Rassler of the Week

In order to commemorate my rejoining of Team Facebuster, its time to rejuvenate the "Yr Old Skool Foto of the Week" bit. Starting today and continuing through the month of January, Arabian Facebuster brings to you a visual expose of some of wrestling's worst workers.

Without further ado, this week we give you Outback Jack, who stunk up World Wrestling Federation's arenas something fierce in late 1986/early 1987.

Deterred but not defeated by the sheer wretchedness that was Outback Jack trying to execute a hold or take/sell a maneuver against some of the federation's finest of heel enhancement workers (see Jose Estrada, Iron Mike Sharpe, Moondog Spot, and of course Steve Lombardi) yet still committed to find a way to cash in on the short lived but magma hot Australian craze here in the good old U S and A (see Paul Hogan's cinematic output, Roos sneakers, Australian synth-pop hit makers Icehouse, and that dumb ass Energizer battery pitch man as but four [or five if you fail to watch Crocodile Dundees 1 and 2 either concurrently or consecutively]), Vince lured The New Zealand Sheepherders away from the NWA/Crockett Promotions and turned this once violent, unpredictable/dangerous, sadistic hardcore tag team into the goofy head licking, affectionate noogie giving, arm flapping, routine dental hygiene avoiding, knuckle-headed Bushwhackers.

And without the Bushwhackers, there is no Mosh & Thrasher ,The Headbangers, no Oddities, and most certainly no (yo yo yo) Crime Tyme.

Outback Jack, this is all your fault!

A Holiday Gift that Just Keeps on Giving

Things I Would Rather Do Than Watch TNA, X-Mas Edition

For the first time in what seems like four and one-half months an eternity, I attempted to tune in and make amends with (sans Riunite, fastened couch seat belt, and repeated ball pein hammer shots to my cranium and genitals) sports entertainment's equivalent of snorting a couple of lines of speed crudely cut in a I-80 truck stop restroom before screening the complete Ritz Brothers filmography, TNA's The Impact Zone! Although tuning in about 20 minutes late, to my immediate delight, Chris Sabin and Alex Shelley came out of the tunnel with the former set for some six-sided, flippity-floppity, manically paced action against a paint-faced Asian cruiserweight I am unfamiliar with. My friends, this is indeed TNA!

To my chagrin, however, the whimsy and manic booking kicked in quickly as Sheik Abdul Bashir, who observed the previous match-up from the top of the ramp-way as Tenay and Von Hayes rookie card owner Don "Wild Wild" West pontificated on the exact nature of his sadistic intentions -- meandered towards the ringside area . After Sabin picked up the pinfall victory, Bashir entered the hexagoned circle and induced an overacted confrontation with jacked to the gills referee and Danny Bonaduce impersonator Shane Sewell. Based on the bloviatings of Tenay and West, I gathered that these two had been having contrived quibbles and inauthentic confrontations (that of course haven't progressed in storyline terms, captivated the imagination of any of the mutants in the Impact Zone, or drawn/likely to draw any money on PPV) over the past several weeks. Then something called Suicide, a scrawny, masked, full-body-suit attire-adorned wrestler time filler who from what I gathered from Tenay's hyperventilating and screeching commentary had humble beginnings as a fictional character in TNA's latest video game (wrap yr friggin minds around that logic, Towers Titan), descended from the rafters of the Impact Zone via pulley a la Owen Hart minus the tragic demise.

At this point -- frustrated, confused, emotionally betrayed, and physically exhausted -- I flipped over to the Trinity Broadcasting Network and marveled at the kid perpetrated crime fighting acumen of and anecdotal blighted urban redevelopment best practices proffered by Meadowlark Lemon, Mr. T, and Hulk Hogan.

This whole reintroduction to TNA fiasco has inspired what I hope will become a new weekly feature/bit here at Arabian Facebuster, the "Things I Would Rather Do Than Watch TNA..." inventory. Consider this the inaugural addition.

Things I would rather do than watch TNA...

(a) Tea bag Don West.

(b) Get tea bagged by Don West.

That's all for now. Tune in next week, fans!

26 Years Ago This Evening...

"Nature Boy" Ric Flair styled and profiled into Dallas and the spectacular, vivacious, sold out Reunion Arena (Bill Mercer's adjectives, not mine) to defend the NWA World Heavyweight Wrestling Championship against "Modern Day Warrior" Kerry Von Erich inside of a steel cage cyclone fence.

David Manning was the referee assigned this contest while scourge to race-based affirmative action advocates everywhere and Fabulous Freebird mouthpiece Michael Hayes acted as the special guest enforcer.

After watching his "brother" (related not by blood but presumably by their Aryan ancestry if their penchant for draping themselves Confederate flag robes, trunks, non-wrestling attire, and even face paint is admissible as evidence) get (inadvertently) taken out by the tuned up, horse faced Adonis of Denton County, TX, Terry "Bam Bam" Gordy violently slammed the steel cage door into Kerry's skull, leading to (1) Flair's retention of the NWA Title as a result of David Manning's eventual stoppage of the match out of concern for Kerry's severe head trauma; (2) a swift yet well executed (if the riotous fans around ringside are any indication) Freebird heel turn; (3) the start of the bitter, protracted, and white hot Von Erich-Freebird feud and meteoric growth and expansion of World Class Championship Wrestling (written with Bill Mercer's cadence and inflection running through my head); (4) accusations of "honky tonkin'" leveled on Terry Gordy by one General Skandor Akbar; and (5) the WWE recycling the "steel cage door head slam" angle seemingly every third time they feature a cage match on TV or PPV during the post-Attitude era.

Meanwhile, in a quiet, well heeled Philadelphia suburb, an apple cheeked, precocious lil' Malibu Sands played intently with the transforming autobots and decepticons that he had received from jolly St. Nick. Or they have might have been Go-Bots.

That's the way it was, December 25, 1982.

Please also file this post under "Oh Dallas, You Shine with an Evil Light."

-Malibu

BREAKING NEWS: Malibu Sands...

...is returning as an ongoing contributor to the Arabian Facebuster project, effective immediately. Yours truly will also be once again tuning into and following all of the tedium, mindlessness, and puerile antics on the flagship of creatively bankrupt sports entertainment serials, Monday Night RAW, along with recommitting to keep my futuristic bomb shelter built for two (the contraption pictured above occupied by my dapperly dressed late Uncle Elmer Sands -- prior to the weight gain, physical deterioration, and hillbillyization -- as he thumbs through the latest issue of Jugs &Ammo Quarterly) stocked to the brim with cases upon cases of Riunite to numb the pain of having to endure such an ordeal each and every Monday night.

Our fledgling readership might be wondering why I am returning now. An early Christmas present? A well timed Hanukkah gift? Belated World's AIDS Day wishes? Preemptive 2009 "The National Wave" sentiments? Not even close.

Pardon my pithiness, but here's your answer.

Now join me in pulling some corks twisting some caps of Riunite in celebration.

"A Happy Holidays from All of Us @ Arabian FaceBuster.blogspot.com"

Can you tell whose been Naughty or Nice? Stay tuned Right here for a "Face-Busting" Holiday Surprise!!!

Yr Old Skool Friday Flashback Interview 'O the Wk.

More Pearls from Fuji (pt. 2)

Yr Old Skool Friday Flashback 'O the Wk.

Vader Wilma. 

Yr Old Skool Friday Flashback 'O the Wk.

The Pencil Neck Geek Enjoys Some Hobby- Time with the Hulkster circa 2005.

Yr Old Skool Friday Flashback 'O the Wk.

The pound-pound little yellow bat beat down. Malibu Sands. 1.25.1997

"A few choice words from Mr. Fuji." (pt. 1)

Yr Old Skool Friday Flashback 'O the Wk.

von Fury appearing as "The Hulkster" circa 1996

"Good 'ol J.R. Marks-Out"

Yr Old Skool Pets of the Week

Hillbilly Jim, the Godwins, a beagle, and-um- dinner...

Yr Old Skool Pet of the Week

Jake "The Snake" Roberts and (of course) his python Damien

Yr Old Skool Pet of the Week

Koko B. Ware and his macaw, Frankie

Yr Old Skool Pet of the Week

The British Bulldogs- Dynamite Kid, Davey Boy Smith,

and lovable pooch Matilda

Malibu Sands: Flip Flopper

Facebuster Nation, yours truly Malibu Sands has been a proponent of suicide as the preferred solution for circumventing the inevitable frustrations, disappointments, uncertainties, unfulfilled expectations, and wasted potential that is life for approximately 99.95% of the earth's population...until I saw the clip above, the most white fucking hot (specifically, the part where Black Jack Mulligan is mounting Joe Savoldi from behind) PSA since Riptide's Perry King cautioned this country's impulsive and easily enraged young people that a misunderstanding over an accordion recital is not a sufficient reason to plot the rape, murder, and mutilation of one's parents.

To our readership, all 12 of you, if you are ever contemplating doing the deed, for gosh sakes, call a friend, call a priest, call a samaritan. But please do not call the good samaritans of Arabian Facebuster unless its during regular business hours. We don't go around soliciting you at home. It's called common courtesy.

To sum up: Suicide - I was for it before I learned that Black Jack Mulligan and Jumpin' Joe Savoldi were against it.

Birthday Wishes

Happy 74th birthday, General Skandor Akbar. To commemorate this momentous occassion, this evening I'm gonna go out honky-tonkin'.

Yr Old Skool WCCW Superstar of the Week

David Von Erich

Yr Old Skool WCCW Superstar of the Week

Terry "Bam Bam" Gordy

"The Original Diva on Drugs"

Waxing nostalgic on in her WCW days, Sunny recalls the night that Kimberly Page supposedly found some drug paraphernalia in the women’s bathroom and narc'd Sunny out to Eric Bischoff:

"I volunteered [to take the drug test]. I said, “It’s not mine. I’ll go pee in a cup right now.” They said, “We’ll send you tomorrow when we get to the next town.” I said, “OK, fine. Send me.” So a week after I took the test, I went to [Eric] Bischoff and I said, “Do you have my results yet?” “Uh, no, we can’t seem to locate results.” (sold, perhaps on e-bay((Sunny does after all, have a history of e-auctioning off  biological detritus.)?)

But that night when it all happened, Scott Steiner chased Kimberly Page out of the building and she never came back (laughs). I’ve always been friends with Scott since I was 18 years old. When he heard about what happened – you know, he snaps. You know Scott. He chased her out of the building and she never came back, so at least I got a little bit of my payback that way (laughs)."

All I really want to know is who, or what, or why was Big Poppa Pump leaving his junk out all around a Public Women's Bathroom?

Yr Old Skool WCCW Superstar of the Week

"Gentleman" Chris Adams

Yr Old Skool WCCW Superstar of the Week

Gino "The Handsome Half-Breed" Hernandez

That's Not A Burlap Bag...

It's a gunny sack. You know it, I know it, the whole world knows it. Kane needs to stop pretending and bail out of what is quickly becoming one of the lamest angles in recent history. Far better the WWE had brought back Paul Bearer than this ponderous bit of Rey Mysterio-centric nonsense.

Wait, what was that? I'm sorry, I didn't hear you... you, in the back? Did you have a question? Oh, great... can we get him a microphone?

Where have we been? Well, that's obvious, we've been right here in the palatial Portland Shilo Inn, banquet/conference room number 63. Fucking DUH. Oh, sorry, you meant where have we been in a where's-my-blog-content sort of way. Listen, junior, maybe you don't understand how things work here in the high-stakes world of Sports Entertainment Blogging, but we work hard... and we fucking PLAY hard. So you want to know why we haven't posted anything during Conference Week? Alright, Sally.

Malibu Sands and the Pencil Neck Geek have been in the pool. Oh, you're all, "The Portland Shilo Inn Doesn't HAVE a pool, what are you talking about?" Well, I'm all, "Shut up. I actually don't know whether or not the Portland Shilo Inn has a pool, but if you have four adjoining suites (I don't know if it has those either) and you let Randy Orton use the toilets in all of those suites, you will quickly have some pretty serious flooding and that counts as a pool in my book, geek!" So two of our writers threw on their swim togs and their flotation noodles and hit the (man-made) surf.

Rev. Von Fury is in our communications center (two cell phones and a gunny sack with a mouse in it), fielding questions from the dozens of you who are joining our conference via the internets. Thank you all for entering the twenty-first century. He'll respond to yr queries shortly, or never. Is he drunk? Probably. Is he on The Drugs? No comment.

Where am I? I'm right here, you fucking imbeciles. I'm in a cavernous conference room, ripped to the gills on champagne... er, Riunite and soda, and I'm pontificating about... what was I talking about again? Oh, yeah, the Kane/Mysterio angle. Fucking terrible. They ought to shoot that angle in the face. They also ought to shoot Brian Kendrick for making our beloved Super Crazy job out on national television, and they ought to shoot John Cena just like they would some nag that went lame at the Kentucky Derby. So there. Yr goddamn right, I'm mean when I'm drunk, what did you little bastards expect?

Ahem. That concludes today's press conference. I'm off to play in the "pool". Oh, and if we actually cared about this kind of thing, the CM Punk/Chris Jericho match from last week would be a strong contender for Match Of The Year. But, y'know... we don't.

Where the hell is my Camo Black Ice?

"A Call From the DarkSide. Again."

Yr Old Skool Manager of the Week

Gary Hart presents, The Spoiler (Don Jardine)

Why We Watch, Exhibit O

Kids, it's time for Arabian Facebuster to take a brief respite from our award winning coverage of Larry Nelson's litany of indulgences, Rocky Mountain Thunder's clothesline delivering prowess, and the forthcoming 36 hour Teddy Hart documentary (produced by Ken Burns and coming this fall to a public broadcasting station near you) and bring you another installment of our tribute to professional wrestling's very best.

In this edition, we pay homage to the well executed face/heel turn (as opposed the abrupt/hastily conceived and seemingly baseless face/heel turn which continues to be a staple of today's whimsical sports entertainment programming, an unfortunate and lingering byproduct of the Attitude/Monday Night Wars era). The clip above also features a pantheon of "Why We Watch..." honorees -- Ric Flair, Tulsa Welding School's most famous dropout "Cap'n Redneck" Dick Murdoch, Mid South Sports, and the eventually to be inducted Ted DiBiase.

The premise here is rather straightforward (hence its beauty and lasting impact): Ric(k) Flair's in town to defend the NWA World Heavyweight Wrestling Championship against Ted DiBiase, one of the territory's top heels (and possibly the Mid South/North American Heavyweight Champion at this point in time). Dick Murdoch, DiBiase's trainer and mentor, feels slighted that he hasn't gotten a shot to wrestle for the world title. Instead of doing the admirable thing as far as kayfabe/storyline reasoning are concerned and challenging Flair for a match the next time he's in the territory or petitioning NWA President Bob Geigel for a shot at the belt, Murdoch decides to take out his grievances on DiBiase with a swift and violent beat down which causes him to gush buckets and buckets of that beautiful blood. Hoss Alert: In no condition to wrestle, DiBiase is helped to the back by top-territory babyface Dr. Death Steve Williams. Cementing his face turn, DiBiase emerges from the dressing room still disoriented and heavily taped up, with the blood seeping through his bandages, but refusing to forfeit his shot at the World Title.

The Flair-DiBiase match is an absolute classic and just a notch below Flair's 1989 trilogy with Steamboat and on par with his most talked about confrontations with Barry Windham during 1986/1987 as far as what I would consider Flair's best in-ring performances. They really "clicked" together in the ring. While the viewer is only given fragments of the contest, to the clip uploader's credit he keeps the hardest hitting, most pivotal sequences in tact and preserves the ebb and flow, back-n-forth nature of the action. Flair absolutely punishes his already wounded opponent with his arsenal of chops, stiff fists, kicks, suplexes, and tosses out onto the concrete floor of the Shreveport, Louisiana Irish McNeil Boys Club, all of it executed with a sense urgency, aggressiveness, and ruthlessness that you would expect from a ring technician the caliber of the DPITG (especially after what transpired earlier in the program) but that still makes you feel sheer elation as you watch him deliver it. Despite his raging head trauma, DiBiase is resilient, taking all that Flair can give and dishing out his own diversified, workman-like move set.

Seemingly on the brink of a world title, DiBiase attempts to again lock Flair in the figure-four. Flair makes a desperate counter by kicking DiBiase out of the ring, his head bouncing off the steel guard rail, knocking him unconscious. And then, in an act of heeldom so chickenshit that it makes fan agitating craftsmen like Tully Blachard and Gino Hernandez seem as diabolical as Krazy Kane or sneaky as Soldat Ustinov by comparison, Murdoch delivers a brainbuster to DiBiase's skull on the concrete floor. If I could travel back in time to 1985 right now and (a) wait in the parking lot after the matches and attack Dick Murdoch with metal pipe as he tries to unlock his vehicle; (b) buy a ticket to see DiBiase gain his revenge; or (c) prevent Larry Nelson from taking that first snort of cocaine, rest assured Arabian Facebuster nation, I would in a heartbeat.

My only minor quibble: the video editor went with some blowzy, quasi-inspirational schlock rock instead of the angular, nervy, cathartic sounds of Fugazi's "Cassavetes" or Wire's "Lowdown" as the accompanying soundtrack.

Enjoy one of the finest angles and matches in professional wrestling history.

Update 8/12/10: The original (music) video was taken down...so I have uploaded a high video quality version of the actual high quality match for you to marvel at.

Conclave Update: No Longer Dunk Tank Free

What is shaping up to be the biggest party of the summer is most certainly not Summer Slam...fuck Summer Slam...its Arabian Facebuster's 2nd Annual Staff Conference and Fan Conclave. As detailed on this blog's hallowed pages, Apollo Spas, Pencil Neck Geek, Rev. von. Fury and yours truly Malibu Sands have assembled a who's who of professional wrestling n'er has been's, do well's, or will be's for the purposes of mocking and belittling as we get hammered to the point of belligerence, loss of motor functions, and forced removal from the premises by hotel security in The Shilo Inn-Portland Airport's late 1980's motif adorned piano bar lounge.

And joining us in celebrating, carousing, evacuating bodily waste into commemorative gunny sacks, digging up unmarked graves in hopes of solving the mystery of whether Rocky Mountain Thunder is alive or dead, hawking whimsical can koozies, and coming up with even more ingenious slogans for said whimsical koozies (new candidates include Arabian Facebuster: The Thumb Into The Eye of Sports Entertainment; Rev. von Fury TV: Not To Be Confused With Black Entertainment Television; This Koozie Cost Me Minty Minty American Dollars; and Arabian Facebuster: The XFL of Pro Wrestling Bloggery) will be the likes of Kamala, Brother Love, some guy whose sister knows the nephew of Headbanger Mosh, Glen Goza, a pair of replica brass balls that a certain favorite son of Portland dangled from the license plate of his car, some chick whose brother knows the niece of Handbanger Thrasher, Nelson Frazier Jr finally assuming the role of Big Gay Vis (now that he's out of work, why the heck not!), Batista's estranged lesbian mother, Larry Nelson, and tentatively The Undertaker.

Yes. That's right.

THE Larry Nelson.

In a dunk tank.

Or as "Jammin'" Mitch Snow prefers to call him, Hairy Larry.

Not unlike the scenario that plays out in the clip pasted below...minus the presence of Shawn Michaels, Eric Bischoff, or "The Jammin' Man," of course. Although my well placed sources inform me that Marty Jannetty works at The Shilo Inn as a kiddie pool life guard by day and as an on-call gigolo catering to the lonely, horny female business traveler slightly tipsy after a couple of glasses of White Zinfandel and thus liberated from her inhibitions or standards in men by night and might end up making a cameo at some point during the weekend.



Please also consider this the final post in Arabian Facebuster's trilogy on Larry Nelson's uneventful evening at Jukebox Saturday Night.

Yr Old Skool Manager of the Week

"Classy" Freddie Blassie

Rocky Mountain Thunder: Likes Scufflin'

From time to time, yours truly Malibu Sands likes to throw up a video that offers up a proverbial clinic on professional wrestling form, technique, and artistry. This, ladies and gentlemen, is very much that clip, taken from Rocky Mountain Thunder's magical roughshod run through the ranks of the American Wrestling Association's jobber pool during the summer of 1988.

Marvel at Admiral Thunder's uncanny ability to turn plodding around in the center of the ring into a poweful shoulder block, take a botched clothesline and fashion it into side head lock, and transform a garden variety vertical suplex into one of the most devastating finishing maneuvers ever delivered. Resume conjecturing as to the contents of that fabled gunny sack. Phone your local tuxedo rental company and inquire if they have any stripper secretion and booze stained red cumber buns in stock, just like the one worn by cabin fatty Lothario "Hairy" Larry Nelson; and if they do, then reserve them all for the weekend of August 21. And take a healthy swig of whatever fine alcoholic beverage that currently rests in your left hand (I suspect its a tall boy can of Camo Black Ice, a 40 ouncer of Steel Reserve Lager, or a salmanazar of Riunite that has spent the afternoon chilling on ice) every time Rod Trongard repeats the height, weight, or hometown of either one of the combatants. For Rocky Mountain Thunder's no ordinary man...he's a phenom.

And as per our custom, other suggested but ultimately unselected titles for this post include Rocky Mountain Thunder: Ask Him What He's Got In That Gunny Sack; Lee Marshall: Not The Guy That Wants To Go Find Out; Rocky Mountain Thunder: Does It Again; and Rocky Mountain Thunder: He's Just Awesome.

That he is, Lee Marshall. That he is.

Available for Purchase...

...at the 2nd Annual Staff Conference and Fan Conclave, Arabian Facebuster will be unveiling its very own line of alcoholic beverage accessories (i.e. beer koozies), featuring many of your favorite zany Facebuster catchphrases, witticisms, and insider references. And in order for you to imbibe your intoxicating beveage of choice without having to fret about whether your koozie matches your neon, pastel, or aloha dress shirt, we will be offering them in assortment of 13 colors (as pictured above) ranging from lily white, to orange, to tangerine, to camouflage.

Choose your favorite...or collect them all:

• Arabian Facebuster: Always Shoot So The Crowd Never Doubts It;
• Arabian Facebuster: We Watch Wrestling So You Don't Have To;
• Arabian Facebuster: Never Imitated, Often Duplicated;
• Arabian Facebuster...Despises Hulk Hogan More Than You;
  
• Arabian Facebuster: Keeper Of The Gunny Sack;
  
• I'd Rather Be Waving An Official Uniting Towel;
  
• Arabian Facebuster: Putting the "Profess" Into Professional Rasslin';
• Arabian Facebuster...There's No Hulkamaniacs Here;
• Arabian Facebuster: As Seen On Larry Nelson's MySpace Page;
  
• Arabian Facebuster: Defecating In Sports Entertainment's Gym Bag Since 2006;
  

For those unfortunates who are unable to attend the conference, these hilarious koozies will also be available for purchase at arabianfacebuster.shopzone.com...while supplies last.

What In The World Have We Here...

Larry Nelson:

(a) Seems far less impaired than he should after spending the last ten hours chugging Schmidt's beers and snorting rails at Jukebox Saturday Night;
(b) Perceives "Jammin'" Mitch Snow's confident predictions of TV Title tournament glory and $7 haircut as the lowest, most underhanded form of cock blocking;
(c) Privately takes umbrage to the nickname "Hairy Larry";
(d) Wishes that the AWA wardrobe department would allow him to swap out that blazer for a two-toned jean jacket...just like the one worn by "The Jammin' Man"; or
(e) Is about 90 minutes (or five beers and two tooters in Larry time) away from bedding that powdery skinned, rosy cheeked cabin fatty, thereby begining an enduring, 20+ year relationship with the herpes simplex virus.

Vote and discuss.

Reason #1 To Snuggle Hulk Hogan

I never thought we'd be praising Mr. Hogan's appearance, but the lovely Valerie made an excellent point during last night's "American Gladiators" finale. From his drooping jowls to his cream-and tan markings, our favorite dirgible looks like an adorable, cuddly basset hound! Heck, even his oft-maligned skullet looks like a set of floppy basset hound ears! He's even got that soulful, weight-of-the-world my-wife-is-leaving-me-because-I-nailed-my-daughter's-doppelganger expression! Don't you just wanna give him a belly rub?

On second thought, no, you don't. Puke.

As an added bonus, here is a crudely photoshopped image of the above basset wearing th' Huckster's patented schmatte.

Larry Nelson: Man of the People

What happens when you combine an all you can drink special on Schmidt's beer, an inebriated Minnesodan professing his admiration for Curt Henning ("yr doin' good bud, I love you Curt, I love you man!") and The Midnight Rockers ("rock and roll!") flanked by an unkempt posse of perpetual chortlers and excessive hand gesturers, and a gaggle of off-camera cabin fatties just waiting to have their vag's pounded into euphoric submission by the likes of "Jammin'" Mitch Snow and Marty Jannetty, with an incredibly parched Larry Nelson?

Click play on the clip above and see for yourself.

Yr Old Skool Manager of the Week

The Grand Wizard (Ernie Roth)

Yr Rube & Rasslin' Foto of the Week

Clawmaster Baron Von Raschke poses with an assortment of jackasses in front of his wigwam/shoddily crafted souvenir trinkets emporium in Lake George, MN.

Look at the simpleton in the orange t-shirt (with what looks to be a Guttermouth logo on the front). He's not even doing the claw gesture correctly. What a poseur!

Just Added...

...to the already stacked lineup at the 2nd Annual Arabian Facebuster Staff Conference and Fan Conclave, the incomparable Glen Goza, performing his smash hit "R-A-S-S-L-I-N."

To all of those who are able to sit through this clip in its entirety: Now you know what having to endure AND recap six weeks worth of Mike Adamle's idiocy feels like.

WSX: Where Are They HOLY SHIT A TEDDY HART MOVIE!!!!

Oh. My. God. This is going to be the best thing, ever. EVER. Please, Baby Jesus, let this movie be one hundred years long. If this preview clip is anything to go on, this will be the greatest cinematic event in human history. I could cheerfully spend the rest of my life listening to the soothing (possibly codeine-addled) cadence of the interviewer, followed by Ted Hart's thick Canadian Accent and borderline-psychotic ramblings. In fact, if any of th' Facebuster Faithful can find out who this narrator fellow is, I would gladly pay him TEN AMERICAN DOLLARS (per day!) to follow me around and narrate my life. It would be glorious:

Narrator: Waking up, wit' a hangover.

Apollo: Last night! Will never be forgotten, by me! Or by anybody, I think, that was in the Farmer's Barn!

Narrator: Brushin'. 'Is teeth.

Apollo: Swooshaswooshaswoosha. Spit.

Narrator: Embracin'. Da wrestling blog.

Apollo: Malibu Sands trained me the most. And then, I think, myself.

Narrator: Losing. 'Is cell phone and keys.

Apollo: From what I understand, going from knowing where things are to, completely losing them is fucking, extremely odd to me, and it baffles my mind, and if I think about it too much I get a headaches.

Also, there would be slow-motion shots of me moonsaulting off things.

All fun aside, this movie needs to be in my DVD player, like, yesterday. And if, as the preview clip implies, they're still editing this leviathan, I would like to offer a bit of advice. The scene where Teddy Hart is sorting through his iced-out Jesus necklaces? That scene needs to be forty-five minutes long. Ditto for the shots of him drinking beer on the couch while shirtless.

Brooke Hogan: Funbags on Parade!?

Item: The New York Daily News is speculating reporting that Brooke Hogan has been approached to appear in the pages of Playboy -- presumably nude with her physical blemishes, vapid yet vivacious personality, and soul airbrushed out, but with her reputation, self-respect, and ridiculous fake breasts fully intact -- and that she's seriously mulling the offer (read: her reality show's production staff are figuring out how to interweave this situation into next season's story line). According to said rag of record:

The "Brooke Hogan Knows Best" star, 20, could use a boost for her stagnant singing career. Hogan's 2006 album "Undiscovered" reportedly sold just 127,000 copies.

Call me jaded (or perhaps naive), but I fail to see how posing for Playboy translates into increased album sales. Is there actual precedent/data which substantiates posing in Playboy bolsters record purchases and radio airplay (or for that matter box office revenue, Nielsen ratings, book sales, etc) or resurrects/rejuvinates careers? Wouldn't someone picking up a copy of an issue with her on the cover either be a diehard fan and thus already own her record, watch her TV show, etc. or, more likely, be buying the magazine stirctly to ogle her jumbo sized genitalia and not ever give a thought to supporting her various clothed projects?

The aformentioned quote also begs the question, what then is the purpose of her reality show?

Maybe instead of trying to regenerate interest in an album released two years ago, Brooke should *gasp* head in the studio and record some new pedestrian, uncatchy, indistinguishable tween hip-pop anthems about cute boys, cheerleading practice, her favorite of pair of jeans, hanging out in the mall, ensconcing one's teeth in diamond grillz, and supporting her brother as he struggles with the lingering psychological trauma of having been raped by nearly 50% of the inmates incarcerated at Pinellas County Jail (and approximately 80% of the jail staff), all of which she will have exactly zero hand in writing? Hmm, I wonder what Scott Storch is up to these days.

This whole situation is the reason I subscribe to Hustler, Club, Gallery, Jugs, Screw, Swank, Barely Legal, Shaved, Midget Hookers Quarterly, AND Family Circle. I appreciate their singular focus on the female form and knack at letting the individual character and inherent dignity of their models shine through.

And for the gratutious birth canal shots.