Cheers to Malibu for winning our Second Annual WrestleMania Sweepstakes! As a reward for your prescient selections, Mr. Sands, the rest of us here at Arabian Facebuster now owe you a full case of value-priced domestic swill. Cheers as well to the WWE, for putting on a high quality show that for once surpassed our expectations. Seriously, that Ric Flair/HBK match had us squealing like a bunch of schoolgirls. Bravo!
So anyhoo... about that One Night in Chyna bet... I could have made more correct picks flipping a coin. Good times, good times... Boy, could you imagine if I really had to watch that travesty? What's that? You're actually going to hold me to this!?! C'mon, have pity on my soul! Are you really willing to stand by as I risk irreversible sexual dysfunction? You are!?! Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit!!!!! Shot with my own gun...
Well meanies, barring any last minute intervention by Amnesty International, you can look forward to my video review in the months to come. And if I ever propose one of these stupid bets again, please punch me in the face.
Listen, "Brother"... I got something to say to you
that maybe you should hear.
No, no, it's not about
the fanny pack you are wearing...
(B.T.W.- this picture
was taken of you as recently on your last night out on the town with that chick that all the pappis were calling ???mistakenly??? by your daughter Brooke's name. But that's a whole 'nother Can-Full... not of "Whup-Ass" Can-type, but the
wiggly-wriggly worm-type...as in that steroid shrunken
worm-type that you just can't seem to keep in your itty bitty old-school golden junk-trunks)
Ahem.
Excuse the rev., 'Brother Hulkster, its just that T-shirt you got on. After I stopped thinking to myself "Hummm.. maybees that woman doesn't look EXACTLY the fuck like your daughter, (but just maybe a negative-30- year-pre-op- version-of- your- soon- to- be- X-wife-Linda-like-) I goes and I sees the so to speak so called fine print on your T-Shirt.
Dude...Brother....I mean I understand the need to express yourself by T-shirt logoing as the next guy, but COME ON!!! (all-caps for emphasis)
Perhaps "Leather Dude", or "Never Let Them Make You Put The Other Guy Over", or even "Pinch Patrol" would better express the nature of the One True Hulkster we all know and love....
But "Christian Soldier"???
While on a date...
After already having banged repeatedly your Daughter's much-older "Best Friend"...
Holy Shit! All bets are off! The superstars of the WWE have all had their NIPPLES SURGICALLY REMOVED! I can no longer adequately handicap this card. This is more bizarre than when Sting had one-fifth of his body mass sucked out through his left areola.
Cheers to tmz.com for unearthing the actual story behind this.
Tomorrow afternoon, at 4pm Pacific Standard Time, we embark on the most dangerous undertaking (har?) in the history of th' Facebuster. We watch Wrestlemania 24 with a truly horrific wager on the line. Th' cable company sez the festivities actually kick off at 3:30, but I expect this to be the usual plotline-recap/merchandise-shuck/Michael Cole-blather waste of time it is every year.
The house will provide Chile Rellenos (Chiles Relleno? Who the fuck knows?) and hot wings, as well as the first round of beers. Should you crave other refreshment, bring it yr damn self. I'm not running a barbeque truck over here (but somebody in the parking lot across the street is, and I couldn't be more excited. They probably won't have any po' boys ready in time for th' Mania, though.).
On to the card: A "Bunnymania" Lumberjack match between Ashley/Maria and Beth Phoenix/Melina Finlay vs. JBL in a "Belfast Brawl" A 24-man schmozz Royale for th' ECW #1 Contender Spot Batista vs. Racist Throwback Umaga Money-In-The-Bank: John Morrison, CM Punk, MVP, Chris Jericho, Mr. Kennedy, Shelton Benjamin, and Carlito Ric Flair vs. HBK Floyd Mayweather vs. Th' Big Shew Edge vs. Undertaker Cena vs. Orton vs. Triple H
Looks like the usual mixed bag of excitement, tedium, and crossover hokum, but this damn betting could make things really hot as the evening's festivities progress. In closing, I'd like to ask my sainted mother to pray for her wayward son. I really don't want to lose this bet.
Apparently since using his daughter's best friend as a cum dumpster wasn't classy enough, Hulk Hogan is now dating Brooke. The two were spotted leaving Tony Roma's late last night after sharing a plate of babyback ribs, a side of ranch dressing for meat dipping and dunking purposes, a pitcher of Miller Chill, and some yearning glances in their oversized yet secluded booth.
Being courted by your father should be sufficiently scandalous to earn Brooke gossip rag coverage and paparazzi attention for at least a couple of weeks.
Update: As it turns out this spandex clad, sturdy-chinned looker is not Brooke Hogan. Nor is it Linda after completion of an aggressive plastic surgery regimen and ingestion a five year supply of HGH in one sitting. Or for that matter, Nick Hogan in drag. Regardless of who he/she turns out to be, to Hogan's credit, compared to ex-wife Linda and skanky former Brooke BFF Christiane Plante (terrible name, btw), he's dating up...so, uh, at least he's got that going for himself.
Later Update: I have been informed that the sociological classification of this phenomenon is "upward dating mobility."
Time for one more helping of Bruiser Brody goodness before moving ahead in our tribute to the prodigies of professional wrestling. For your viewing pleasure, check out this well choreographed music video montage featuring snippets of Bruiser Brody doing battle with the likes of Abudllah the Butcher and Dory Funk in Puerto Rico, Ric Flair in St. Louis (from their legendary 2 out of 3 falls, 60 minute time limit draw encounter in the Checkerdome), AWA mainstay Nick Bockwinkel, Stan Hansen, Terry Gordy, and Terry Funk in All Japan Pro Wrestling, and a pork chop from Kroger's.
Chairs, chains, stretchers, kendo sticks, brick walls, the side of a delivery truck, plastic encasing, and other assorted plunder are the order of the day here, but so too are a forcefully delivered, impeccably executed, and diversified offensive arsenal. While Brody is best known and remembered as an unruly brawler, make no mistake about it, he could wrestle toe-to-toe with the best of them, as this clip demonstrates.
Late Update: The protein in question appears to be a cut of top sirloin, not a pork chop. Sorry for the confusion.
It is finally starting to sink in with me that arguably the most legendary, decorated, celebrated, and influential career in wrestling history is at its end. Ric Flair will most likely be competing in his last match come this Sunday at WrestleMania. Later this week, I am going to try and post my thoughts about the performer and how he, more than any other individual, has made me a fan of THE professional wrestling since I was a shy, curly haired 9 year old (and now the graying, male pattern balding, acne scarred, physically unfit, stinky, STD ridden, large headed, stumpy armed, vulgar, insensitive, graceless, insecure, self-absorbed, misogynistic, xenophobic, dogmatic, intellectually uncurious, belligerent, unemployable, and all around repulsive 32 year old with a tiny penis blogging before you today). Rest assured they won't be anywhere near as insightful or well articulated as this.
In the meantime, what better way to pay homage than by throwing a few vintage Flair (pre-1990, IMO) clips up on th' ol' Facebuster!? Besides bleaching my hair, riding around in hijacking a limousine leer jet wearing a peacock robe, sipping vintage champagne, and conceitedly displaying four fingers to anyone that dares not pay me my proper respects, of course.
The title of this clip is fitting, it truly is a Georgia Classic. Originally broadcast in 1981, it features Flair during his inaugural NWA Title reign with a vintage verbal dress down of Tommy "Wildfire" Rich, who at the time was not just the most popular hillbilly babyface in Georgia Championship Wrestling, but in all of North America. The legendary Gordon Solie -- who was announced as the final member of the 2008 WWE Hall of Fame class on last night's parade of inferiority that even the venerable Solie himself couldn't arouse viewer interest in with his play-by-play abilities, the ECW on Sci-Fi -- attempts to bring some decorum the proceedings from the podium. Solie fails miserably as a push by "The Nature Boy" escalates into utter pandemonium as Flair, Rich, legendary enhancement guy "Iron" Mike Sharpe, a slew of lesser known jobbers, Wrestling II, and the imposing Masked Superstar engage in a spectacular brawl. In an observation that should surprise no one who has watched more than a total of 11 seconds of old skool clips posted on Arabian Facebuster, the fans are absolutely raucous during this entire segment.
Please enjoy!
Alright, back to more contemporary matters...cramming before those WrestleMania prognostications. Apollo, can I take a gander at your Cliffs Notes?
Attorneys for John Graziano have filed suit against Hulk, Linda, and Nick Hogan, as well as underage cheap beer drinker, worthy drag racing opponent, and Idiot Son toady Daniel Jacobs.
What took them so long?
The claim describes various salacious acts of negligence and malfeasance by the named parties, acts that have been carefully recorded, muckraked, and vetted by your very own Arabian Facebuster staff...although surprisingly there was no mention of bedside pinching.
Most distraught about this whole situation? Why that would be Brooke Hogan, who was NOT named in the complaint and therefore needs to find another vehicle for getting her new boobies and played out grill coverage in the supermarket tabloids and interweb celebrity gossip sites this week. Looks like its time to go to Plan B...having sex with former best friend's Christine Plante's father.
Ah, revenge fucking. Is there any problem that it can't solve?
Thanks to the zombies in charge of after hours programming at espn cLASSIC, the same folks responsible for bringing you thrice a day reruns of Arli$$ and that epic clash between the Baltimore Stars and the Oakland Invaders for 1985 USFL supremacy, I've spent an inordinate amount of valuable time and precious Arabian Facebuster blog space the last couple of weeks waxing nostalgic about the American Wrestling Association. During this time, I have developed what molecular biologists refer to as a bit of a "man crush"on ring announcer/interviewer Larry Nelson.
To those cynical scientists I retort, "with good reason." Everything this man aims his quivering microphone in the vicinity of seemingly turns to gold...pure, malleable, snortable gold!
Unfortunately, clips of Larry practicing his craft are few and far between on the infotainment superhighway. Drawing upon an arsenal of Boolean operators and advanced search parameters, I was able to unearth the following gem. Short and sweet -- just like the lines Nelson probably snooted up his nose before the filming of this segment commenced -- this clip (circa 1988) features a shaggier than usual Nelson interviewing Baron Von Raschke. But before the 78 year old Baron can finish failing miserably at trying to look infuriated and imposing, Soldat Ustinov -- whose wrestling *cough* talents *cough* place him squarely in the bottom 10% of bald Soviet commie antagonists in professional wrestling's xenophobic and caricature rich history -- knocks the Clawmaster out cold from behind and drapes a Russian flag over his torso.
At left is the official Chyna Pool Cue. And I wish someone would break the damn thing in half and shove the jagged shards straight into my fucking eyes, because I have just seen a preview clip of the Chyna Sex Video.
My girlfriend decided I need to know "what I was in for" if I lost this stupid Wrestlemania bet, and now I'm scraping desperately at my eyes with Brillo Pads and the badness will NOT COME OFF.
The cursed link atop the page is not for the faint of heart... nor, honestly, is it suitable for viewing by any members of the human race. I am about to be violently ill. Sean Waltman is worse than Hitler.
The Checkerdome (St. Louis, MO), which hosted monthly events promoted by the legendary Sam Muchnick and featured stars like Race, Brody, Murdoch, Flair, DiBiase, Dick The Bruiser, The Funks, The Briscos, The Von Erichs, etc.
There has been a renaissance here at Arabian Facebuster with regard to the quality of content, enthusiastic contributions by all members of our collaborative, and overall recommitment to conducting an exhaustive inquiry into professional wrestling's essence. Think Harlem in the 1920s minus the bustle and gritty urban veneer...oh, and the black people.
From Apollo's intriguing high stakes wager that makes Disco Inferno's weekly poker game seem like a laid-back afternoon at the nickel slots by comparison, to Pencil Neck Geek's magnum opus that appears poised to sweep this year's Facebustery's, to Rev. von Fury returning to the flock like a house of fire (as opposed to a trailer on fire), our dedication to our craft has never been more apparent, nor has the profoundity of our output been as unrelenting.
Even yours truly Malibu Sands is feeling a sense of rejuvenation. Or that could just be the 3 bald eagle egg omelette I had for breakfast this morning. Case in point: Seeing as how I took today off of work from my high pressured job as a security guard at the local pet food warehouse, I decided to stay up late last night and enjoy another installment of AWA Championship Wrestling on espn cLASSIC. Unfortunately, this episode -- originally broadcast in August, 1986 -- did not arouse the same feelings of fondness and nostalgia for the American Wrestling Association as last week's program. Instead, it illuminated why the AWA was having problems attracting/retaining talent and drawing/not pissing off fans at this point in their existence.
Onto the recap... The Good
With the exception of Larry Zbyszko's clinic on stalling, pacing around ringside, mouthing off to incompetent referee Gary DeRusha, and looking perturbed (seriously, five minutes had elapsed in the match before the first lock-up), Larry and his partner, the masked ninja from the Orient Mr. Go, had a fun, fast paced, crisply wrestled match with The Midnight Rockers. This contest further cemented Larry Z as one of the better sellers back in the day, in particular his violent rendition of being on the receiving end of a turnbuckle smash.
Larry Nelson's intake of cocaine and Dewar's high balls prior to announcing the matches appears to have increased appreciably over the spring and summer of 1986. In this edition, he was glossy eyed, stumbling over his words, flaccid in exiting the ring, and incapable of holding his microphone steady, let alone anywhere near his mouth or that of his interviewees. He is an absolute joy to watch.
The Bad
1/2 of the AWA Tag Team Champs Doug "Pretty Boy" Somers (pictured above with his partner in crime, the incomparable "Playboy" Buddy Rose) earned a convincing victory over jobber Klaus Von Hindenberg (or something in approximation) -- who looks likes some schlep Verne plucked from a Showboat baccarat table to take a quick beating in exchange for two buffet coupons, $10 in chips, and a couple of bumps from Larry Nelson's stash as opposed to an actual German national with a wrestling background -- via a nearly botched garden variety vertical suplex.
I swear that over half of this show was comprised over commercials. The most egregious moment was at about 15 minutes into the broadcast when after coming back from a 3+ minute commercial break, a brief interview was aired with fossil AWA Champion Nick Bockwinkel -- we're talking no more than 60 seconds -- followed by another 3+ minute block of commercials. Upon returning, another 60 second interview was shown, this time with Dana Gagne (Verne's daughter who played a gossip/rumor "reporter" for the federation) who says absolutely nothing of import. This was followed by, you guessed it, another prolonged commercial break. Maddening.
The Ugly
The commentary of Rod Trongard and Lord James Blears was absolutely atrocious. Trongard has seemingly never observed a wrestling hold that he didn't deem worthy of placing the term "smash" at the end of (elbow smash, turnbuckle smash, knee drop smash, arm bar smash, et al.) while Blears color work is like the hypothetical byproduct of combining the apathetic delivery and monotone cadence of Bruno Sammartino with the shrewd insights and razor sharp wit of Steve Mongo McMichael.
Jimmy "Super Fly" Snuka scored a pin fall victory over Don Fargo -- whose bleach blond hair, brown beard, heavily tattooed torso, beer gut, black spandex tights, brown moccasin boots, and all around surly "biker gang member" attitude make him a front runner to be featured as the AWA representative in next month's "Old Skool Jobber of the Week" photo expose -- via top-rope flying body press smash. Despite demonstrating the energy and agility of a cadaver, laying motionless on the mat and letting Fargo do all of the work until it was time to unload a couple of chops, body slam smash your opponent, nearly botch your finisher, and pick up the "W," Snuka was gasping for breath and perspiring something fierce during the post-match interview. In Jimmy's defense, however, this bout did take place smack dab in the middle of a sixteen year drug binge, so I'm going to cut him some slack for this pitiful effort and for dripping a puddle of vile secretion at Larry Nelson's feet.
Cameron N.C.- Moore County Sheriff's Dept. officials have identified Jeff Hardy's loyal back pocket towel as the prime suspect in the arson of the wrestler's double-wide abode last week. In an exclusive interview with Arabian Facebuster, the rouge terrycloth shares shocking secrets of drug addled depravity and details of the blazing inferno that may well spell the end of his illustrious career.
Speaking to this reporter in exchange for a crumpled Ziploc baggie of "dank bud" and a 32 ounce bottle of Downy fabric softener, Hardy's towel hazily recalled their heady early days. "I first met Jeff back in '98, while hanging out in a pile of rags behind Mean Gene's Burgers in Cheyenne, Wyoming. Jeff was blowing a doob and I asked if he could hook a brother up. " An illustrious (and co-dependent) alliance was soon to blossom- born of sacrifice, determination, and bong load after bong load of "the most fucking amazing chronic" .
As he Flippity-Flopped his way to the top of the WWE's mid-card, the excesses of Hardy's marijuana consumption were topped only by his insatiable appetite. "At one point, we owed Popeye's Chicken over $30,000" recalls the towel. "Man, Jeff wouldn't even get out of bed until he'd polished off a 12-piece box of thighs and 2 orders of popcorn shrimp." Hardy, sensing his career slip away through his greasy hands, had no choice but to abandon his steadfast fuzzy companion and head to rehab. Left alone in a storage space packed with bricks of Black Russian hash and endless boxes of Little Debbie Swiss Rolls, the towel plunged even further into the depths of addiction.
Returning to the ring revitalized and ready for action, Hardy was dismayed to find his friend bloated to beach-towel sized proportions. While the svelte and spunky rag he knew was a distant memory, the ever-loyal grappler hoped to carry his mildew laden pal along on the path to recovery. "It was bad. I was causing Jeff to blow spots left and right. Umaga tripped over me three times in one match". Hardy "accidentally" left his associate backstage with increasing frequency. "Snitsky did horrible things to me back there" said the towel, choking back tears. "I don't even want to talk about it".
Dejected, the towel returned to Hardy's North Carolina estate "for a little R n' R. Y'know, Reefer n' Ribs". The pleasures of the towel's retreat were fleeting. Soaked in Goldschlager after a particularly Bacchanalian night of festivities, the rag sparked a roach left between Hardy's couch cushions. He was ablaze within moments, with Hardy's home soon to follow. Engulfed in flames and burnt within an inch of his life, the resourceful towel found salvation in a jumbo-sized bottle of Good Old J.R.'s Chipotle Bar-B-Que Sauce. Doused in piquant, smokey deliciousness, the towel emerged from the pyre alive. Unfortunately, Cameron N.C. firefighters (also fighting the fire with barbecue sauce) were unable to save Hardy's residence.
When asked when he will be turning himself over to authorities, the rag responded "In just minute. I'm just going to get a little bit high first". As for the future of troubled Jeff Hardy? "Don't worry. I have the feeling he'll be just fine".
So. Less than a week until Wrestlemania. Time to commence the betting. Time to risk it all (I mean it. Just wait for th' pay-off) in order to win twelve cans of cheap beer. As usual, twelve frosty-licious tins of IRON CITY to the lucky stiff with the most picks. To the loser? To the sad wretch whose wrestling prognostication abilities lie shamed in front of his compadres?
I can't believe I'm about to get involved in this.
See, th' Pencil-Neck Geek and I were talking about this on our way back from band practice (Tyrants' first show at th' palatial EXIT ONLY on March 26th. If "Bad Brains meets Suicide" doesn't get yr ass in a seat, then you might be retarded.) and he sagely pointed out that we gambled for pretty high stakes last year.
"I know," I said, "I had to read the Chyna book. It fucking sucked."
And then th' PNG said the thing. The bad thing. The thing after which, to quote the Nation Of Ulysses, "I know nothing's gonna be alright again."
He said. That the loser. Should watch. The. Chyna. Sex. Tape.
I think I might throw up.
Huhhhgh. Ummmmugh. Gruh. No, don't, I'm okay. It's just, ah... I said... I said that it might be a pretty good idea. HEAR ME OUT! Look, it's good copy. And we've been slacking off lately, admit it. When we first started, we were recapping fucking ECW matches, for God's Sake! That took dedication! And now? Photos of arenas? Sure, they're gorgeous and even a little avant-garde, but it's hardly cutting-edge wrasslin' content, now is it? Time to get hungry again! Time to stand tall and go where other wrestling scandal sheets fear to tread! Time to see if Chyna Really Has A Dick.
Believe me, I wish there was another way. I lost last year's pool, remember? It could very easily be me trudging over to the Fat Cobra looking shellshocked and defeated. I could be the poor soul who gets turned off of sex for the next half-decade. But in the interest of Real Journalism... well, frankly, it's shameful that we haven't had the balls to do this yet.
So. Loser watches X-Pac bang Chyna (in the pooper, no less!). Winner gets drunk for free. Agreed?
I'm gonna study tomorrow night's Smackdown! like it was the fucking Torah.
Other than reruns of Mama's Family, the occasional episode of World's Wildest Police Videos where the perpetrators in question commit crimes with no regard for human decency, or that "health secrets that the government doesn't want you to know about and if I reveal these medical breakthroughs to you government stormtroopers will come to my house in the middle of the night, brutally rape my wife and two daughters, kidnap me from my home and torture me ceaselessly in a dungeon rank with the foul stench of death until my corpse is mutilated beyond recognition...but I'm going to tell you anyways because, by God, this America and YOU have the right to know, so long as you send $79.95 to the address on the screen" infomercial hosted by what appears to be a freshly embalmed Hugh Downs, I am hard pressed to find reliably imaginative, provocative, cerebral programming through my Comcast basic-deluxe cable package.
That all changed this past Friday night/Saturday morning when, with much anticipation and perfectly chilled Kokanee in hand, I tuned into ESPN Classic to watch the grapplers of the American Wrestling Association clobber the holy hell out of each other! No upgrade to Comcast's super-basic-deluxe package for this guy. You see, it turns out that ESPN Classic is airing reruns of AWA Championship Wrestling on midnight, five days a week. Originally broadcast on ESPN in mid-March, 1986, this episode emanated from The Showboat Sports Pavilion in Las Vegas (the AWA taped TV at this facility from 1986 until I believe sometime in 1988/1989) with white boy rap guru "Killer" Ken Resnik and Greg Gagne calling the action and ring announcing duties performed by a no doubt tuned up Larry Nelson, whose beard was in dire need of a generous application of Just for Men treatment.
Despite the AWA being decidedly on the wane at this point in their history and losing the battle for national supremacy with the World Wrestling Federation and National Wrestling Alliance for a variety of reasons too detailed unpack in this post (the AWA would hit rock bottom in terms of talent, booking, reputation, and fan interest/enthusiasm in the product in 1989 after the failure/collapse of its working arrangement with World Class (Dallas) and the CWA (Memphis) territories and stay there until finally shutting 'er down in early 1991), I can say that, without hesitation, this was a far more entertaining program than anything offered up by TNA! or the WWE in recent months.
Some quick-n-dirty highlights and observations:
In the opening bout, a 20 year old, pudgy baby-faced rookie by the name of Sean Michaels (spelled Sean Micheals by the inept AWA graphics department) defeated "Pretty Boy" Doug Summers with a top-rope flying body press/splash. This was before the formation of the Midnight Rockers, although that team would materialize within weeks of this match. If Buddy Landell was a poor man's Ric Flair in terms of look, mannerisms, and talent, then Doug Summers was more along the lines of a homeless man's Nature Boy. I'm not sure if "The Pretty Boy" had formed a tag team combination with "The Playboy" Buddy Rose at this point, but these two teams would square off at WrestleRock and have some memorable encounters. Afterwards, Michaels gives an in-ring babyface interview with Nelson putting over the competition in the AWA as the roughest and toughest in professional wrestling. Who would've thunk that he'd end up being one of Top 5 performers in the history of the business?
Nord The Barbarian (later and better known as The Berzerker in the WWF) and Boris Zukhov versus 1/2 of the AWA World Tag Team Champs Curt Henning and Marty Jannetty ended either in a disqualification or countout. I have no idea why Henning didn't team up with his tag team partner Scott Hall, especially since Hall shows up at the end of the contest to stand around at ringside and do absolutely nothing but look dumbfounded. Nord is a lumbering stiff of the highest order. Lucky for him he has a couple of capable babyface opponents and a solid if unspectacular partner in Zukhov to do the heavy lifting. Henning is just phenomenal in this match and really over with the fans. His in-ring talents that I'm sure all of you remember from the early Mr. Perfect years in the WWF were pretty fully developed at this point. In hindsight, Verne should have booked him to defeat Stan Hansen for the title later that year (as opposed to what actually happened, Hansen walking out of the promotion and surrendering the title, with Verne awarding it to a deteriorating, aged Nick Bockwinkel instead of holding some kind of tournament or match between Bockwinkel and another top contender) and not waited until 1987 to give him a run with the strap.
Larry Zbyszko defeated Leon "Baby Bull" White (aka Big Van Vader) by count out. White was pretty green here, but clearly showed much more potential, enthusiasm, and in-ring fluidity than Nord would ever demonstrate in his entire career...although you'd never predict that he would go on to be a mega-star in Japan and one of the bigger U.S. stars of the 1990s. To his credit, Zbyszko (a) makes White look credible by bumping like a madman during the contest...I've never seen any better selling of a turnbuckle smash than in this contest; and (b) gets the ringside crowd (comprised primarily of local hicks interspliced with a contingent of degenerate gamblers and coke fiends) in a lather during his post-match interview with Larry Nelson. Good little match before the cop-out finish.
And in the main event, Stan "The Lariat" Hansen successfully defended his AWA Heavyweight Title against David Sammartino. This match didn't do much for me, lots of mat-based stalling rather than actual mat-based exchanges, jockeying, reversals, and psychology. Sammartino has got good muscle definition, but also quite a bit of baby fat. His physique is at once lumbering and absurd as he's packed 240+ pounds onto a frame that should probably support no more than 200.
Alright, that's enough AWA related ramblings for now. Time to clear my calendar for Friday night.
While an abundance of money certainly allows you to purchase the most extravagant and rarefied commodities -- a solid gold blimp, bald eagle egg omelettes, a fleet of space shuttles parked in your very own hangar constructed from the lumber of petrified redwoods, hand stitched Bengal Tiger skinned condoms -- it most certainly does not guarantee you happiness, inner peace, or fulfillment. Nor does it act as a proverbial epoxy to bond your family together in perpetuity.
Take orange hued dirigible Hulk Hogan, as but one example. He's earned millions upon millions of dollars through wrestling, merchandise, motion pictures (Suburban Commando, anyone?), a bevy of television shows, a lucrative music career, commercials, a culinary ambitious trattoria, a foul tasting energy drink, and whoring out his offspring...all of it executed in the most middling, uninspiring, nonthreatening manner possible in order to resonate with the lowest common denominators in our society. However, all of that wealth could not keep his wife from filing for divorce. Nor did it prevent his idiot son from recklessly operating a motor vehicle and needlessly putting his (now former, I'm sure) best friend's life in jeopardy.
Nor can money purchase the unconditional and genuine love of your only daughter. But it can buy her a jumbo sized rack! Brooke Hogan was spotted at the beach a couple of weeks back catching some rays and frolicking in the surf as part of the launch party for her new chest. Thankfully, the paparazzi were on hand to capture the proceedings.
Adjectives like "perky," "bouncy," "spunky," and "frisky" fail to do justice in describing the euphoric and energetic temperament of these pups. Brooke's newly affixed breasts appear to be inflated with the same volume of helium required to blow up the aforementioned solid gold blimp. Most importantly, they are sure to really bring out the luminescence and iridescence in her cubic zirconium encrusted grill.
"Playboy" Gary Hart, one of my favorite managers and one of the all-time greatest bookers and evaluators of professional wrestling talent, passed away this weekend at the age of 66.
Throughout his career, Gary managed some of the biggest names -- Dusty Rhodes, Abdullah the Butcher, Bruiser Brody, The Great Kabuki, Terry Funk, and The Great Muta, just to name a few -- and booked some of the classic feuds, angles, and territories, most notably ushering in and guiding the boom periods in Florida during the mid 1970s (when he turned Dusty Rhodes babyface) and World Class Championship Wrestling (when he turned the Fabulous Freebirds heel thereby igniting their feud with The Von Erichs) during the early/mid 1980s.
Mid South Coliseum, (Memphis TN) which hosted CWA/USWA wrestling and the likes of Lawler, Dundee, Idol, Jarrett, Rich, and Gilbert on Monday nights during the 1970s, 80s, and early 90s.
Jeff Hardy's North Carolina double-wide trailer home apparently burned down last night, destroying all his worldly possesions, including his dog. He should have listened to me .
Not to undermine the wrestling knowledge of honeybun138, but the inchoate motherfuckers in the comments for this video gem contend that their clip is actually Bruiser Brody's last match. I don't really have a dog in this fight, and since the squash match below contains explicit mention of Abdullah the Butcher (who Brody was scheduled to fight the night of his murder) it seems that honeybun could probably win out if this case ever comes to trial. REGARDLESS, we here find the late, great Brody beating the living mulefuck out of Invader I... who, perhaps understandably, was the man accused of shanking Brody in the showers right after one of these two matches.
The video quality on this is pretty appalling, but that doesn't mean you're allowed to skip it. Watch the relentless onslaught of Brody! Thrill to the old-skool hardcore brawling! Shudder at how durable Puerto Rican Tables seem to be! Gasp as Invader I's blood soaks through his mask! And weep bitter tears, my angels, for the passing of a true legend.
Over the past few months, Arabian Facebuster has recognized and honored some of the all-time great wrestlers and promotions in the annals of professional wrestling. And the not so great. However, what validity would an inventory of this sort have without the inclusion of Bruiser Brody? Although I intended that to be a rhetorical question, allow me to answer it anyways -- None...None whatsoever.
Therefore, in order to rectify this oversight, please direct your attention to this squash match from Puerto Rico's World Wrestling Council, featuring Bruiser Brody taking on a jobber by the name of El Exotico who may very well be a long lost DeBarge brother. According to honeybun138 (the individual with the silly handle but impeccable wrestling taste who posted this clip), this was Brody's last match before being ruthlessly stabbed to death in the locker room showers by Jose Gonalez (aka Invader I), which would put this clip in July of 1988. While I can neither confirm nor deny this contention, I have no doubt -- based on visual evidence like Brody's graying beard and the Bell Biv DeVoe hair style of his hapless opponent -- that this match took place in Brody's final days.
If you are in a particularly morose mood, a downright eerie clip of Brody wrestling his murderer in an oddly configured outdoor stadium (i.e. no fans around ringside) can be viewed here.
Enjoy watching this consummate, unrivaled performer in action!
Mixed martial arts fan boy Dave Meltzer is reporting that Jeff Hardy, seen here after a futile attempt at tagging whilst on the junk, has been suspended by World Wrestling Entertainment for 60 days in lieu of a second Wellness Policy violation. Steroids have already been ruled out as the illicit substance in question.
As a result, Jeff (a) dropped the seldom defended Intercontinental Title to Chris Jericho this past Monday night; (b) will be forced to forgo his spot in the "Money in the Bank Ladder Match" at WrestleMania; (c) will spend the subsequent six months worth of Monday night's in sports entertainment purgatory, i.e. laying down for an assortment of talentless youngsters like Santino Morella, Cody Rhodes, and DB Smith, and grizzled lugs like Hacksaw Duggan and Sparky Plugg; and (d) will have ample free time to pursue his other passions -- penning cryptic poetry*, strumming melodic protest songs on his boss acoustic guitar, designing and sewing his own ring attire, laundering his jizz rag, offering hand gesture coaching to underprivileged youngsters, and scrap booking a career retrospective.
To paraphrase Yogi Berra, this whole situation is like deja vu...all over again.
I think Hardy's poem "A Lot in Common" is especially poignant and encapsulates the array of emotions that a nation of Jeffaholics are grappling with in this difficult time...
You're beautiful...but strange...So am I. You're smart...but still slow...So am I. You're impatient...but fast...So am I. You're tired...but still last...So do I. You're hot...but still cold...So am I. You're established...but not old...So am I. You're waiting...but happy...So am I. You're leaving...but staying...So am I. You're amazing...but weird...So am I. You're yourself...but still feared...So am I. We both want to be...A forever seen star. I have to say...a lot in common is what we are.
Riveting.
*The person that hosts this site believes that Jeff's "work is as good as any that I've read." Clearly, he/she is not much of a reader.
The J.S. Dorton Arena (Raleigh NC) which hosted Mid-Atlantic Wrestling cards every Tuesday night during the 1970s and 1980s. More shots of this architecturally unique facility can be viewed here.
Submitted for yr approval: a hardcore classic from the golden age of wrasslin', complete with all manner of barbaric bloodletting, foreign objects, and even some intense mat work for all you old-skoolers.
The Will Rogers Memorial Center (Ft. Worth, Texas), which paid host to World Class Championship Wrestling every Monday night through most of the 1980s. Spacious and paved parking stalls not pictured.
