In Memoriam...

Oh, dear God no... it can't be. I knew he was having problems, but I had no idea they were this serious. Oh my god. Jeff Hardy is dead.

Oh, no, wait, it's just a montage. Not dead at all, actually. In fact, he's just been sent over to Smackdown!

Perhaps I should explain.

This week, like many others, found me unable to hoof it over to the Farmer's Barn for a communal viewing of Monday Night RAW. This, coupled with smothering apathy over the creative direction of the WWE, left me with no information on the recent "draft" results when I arrived home from work at nine P.M. on Friday night. Th' VCR was taping Smackdown! and I'd left the television on so the pets could watch Tyra Banks (which may have something to do with the cats pissing on my shoes, but I digress). So it was that SD(!) was in full blare as I decanted the Riunite and slipped into my smoking jacket and licensed Bruiser Brody Commemorative Furry Boots.

I was greeted with the minor chords and plaintive vocals common to the "emo" musical genre, and a montage of Great Jeff Hardy Moments. Good Ol' J.R. intoning that this was "The daredevil... the risk-taker... the extremist... Jeff Hardy." What was going on?

The wheels started spinning. In my mind. Mentally, I mean. I assembled the evidence. Grainy shots of a teenage Jeff Hardy training? Emo ballad? Somber J.R. pronouncements? Jeff on echo-laden voice-over mumbling, "You want to know who I am?" Holy fucking shit, I bet he's dead.

Even as the Lostprophets (who have soundtracked something like five similar WWE montages in the past decade, if memory serves) swelled into the marginally more rocking part, I remained convinced of Hardy's demise. Sure, the music was getting a bit frisky for a memorial piece, but Jeff was doing his "spread my arms like a bird" poses and camera was zooming in on signs saying "Fly, Jeff, Fly" so I thought they were going for a triumphant he's-in-heaven-now thing. It wasn't until the dreadful double-time swell (at a minute and a half on the youtube clip above) that I began to wonder if something were wrong. Or, y'know. Not wrong.

And there it was. One last echo-y "I am Jeff Hardy (I am I am Jeff Jeff Hardy Ardy)" and a banner announcing that dude was coming to Smackdown! I felt foolish, but still, who could blame me? Would it really surprise any of you if Jeff Hardy finally took one monster spot (or bong rip) too many and took his jizz rag off to heaven, where his poor dog is waiting for him at the great double-wide in the sky?

Good night and good luck, Jeff Hardy. The Facebuster Nation urges you to stay safe.

Yr Diabolical Foreign Madmen of the Week

The Iron Sheik and Nikolai Volkoff.

A Confluence of Facebuster Luminaries

Once in a great while Arabian Facebuster is able to cull a clip from the sports entertainment archives featuring a plethora of our favorite disparate subjects of prose and therefore ridicule. Ladies, gentlemen, and Hulk Hogan apologists, this is very much that clip...shot in the summer of 1993 and starring then newcomer to the hip-hop game "Rappin'" Randy (Savage) and Men On The Mission -- the most non-threatening posse of angry black men ever assembled which just so happened to be anchored by the yet to be formally actualized Big Gay Vis -- as they deliver a barrage of dope rhymes and shred observations about Lex Luger, his eight wheeled smokestack, and his Summer Slam opponent Yokozuna's portly caboose.

A pithy critique: I thought Oscar's rhyming of "Jim Cornette" and "forget" was ingenious. Ditto Macho's linkage of "Bill Laimbeer" with "cheer." Although, I am perplexed why Oscar repeatedly rhymed "Lex Express" with "success" instead of "flex" or "glistening pecs."

Please also file this post under the title "Randy Savage: Dissonant Sounds from the Underground."

Dear Dixie...

Inspired by the past three weeks worth of McMahon's Million Dollar Giveaway themed episodes of Monday Night RAW, specifically Vince's: (1) comically futile attempts to operate a touch tone telephone; (2) inability to hold a brief and decidedly non-awkward on-air conversation with the mutants that enjoy his sanitized, homogenized, and increasingly listless and directionless interpretation of professional wrestling on a regular basis; (3) Rickrolling by someone still irate that Ricky Astley lost the 1989 Best New Artist Grammy to Tracy Chapman and hellbent on revenge; and (4) stubborn refusal to award yours truly a life-changing amount of money for doing nothing more than writing down the secret password, flipping the channel over to Dr. Quinn, Medicine Woman on the Hallmark channel, awaiting a phone call, and resuming binge drinking from the comforts of my bean bag, I fired off the following email to Dixie Carter, Total Nonstop Action Wrestling's chief mismanager of talent, waster of potential, purveyor of jackassery repackaged as whimsy, signer of WWE cast-offs to lucrative, guaranteed multi-year contracts, proponent of hexagonal rings, and launderer of Don West's shiny, neon colored dress shirts.

Dear Dixie:

I am writing to share an idea with you and TNA management that is guaranteed to launch The Impact Zone's television ratings from a not disrespectable 1.0 into the stratosphere...we're talking 1.1 and with perseverance even a 1.2 rating!!! Before I spell out this plan in further detail, allow me to digress for a moment. I've been a big fan of yours since you played the proper and dignified southern belle Maggie McKinney (otherwise known as Mrs. Phillip Drummond) on the side-splitting Diff'rent Stokes ("What you talking 'bout, Maggie!?"...freakin' hilarious) and later as the genteel and sophisticated southern belle Julia Sugarbaker on the timeless Designing Women. Your range and versatility are to be commended.

Alright, back to the purpose of my correspondence. While it's been a while since your wrestling promotion has impacted my life -- this idea is sure to get me and cash strapped, handout starved, get rich quick scheme inclined fans just like me tuning in again.

On each edition of Impact, I propose that you give away the sum of one million pennies -- in various increments, of course -- to your viewing audience. The logistics are quite simple really. Have contestants register for the contest the week before on your website, call them up during the broadcast from the top of the ramp way, have a wrestler the caliber of say a Kip James or Shark Boy join you and do/say/add absolutely nothing of merit, engage the randomly selected contestant in some forced banter, ask them to regurgitate the secret password that you perpetually scroll on the crawler throughout the broadcast (passwords should be uncreative, self-promoting, and uncomplicated so as not to frighten or confuse your pronunciation challenged audience, i.e. "Watch TNA and Win" or "Victory Road"), declare them a winner, and sometime over the next 10-12 weeks send them a (gunny) sack of pennies through the mail. And just sit back and watch the TV viewership, PPV buys, merchandise sales, website hits, and opportunities for additional NASCAR cross-pollination skyrocket!

Just ask the WWE what a desperate promotional tactic of this caliber can do to boost ratings. *Fact checks previous statement* Oh...um, never mind.

If you would like more information about this lucrative opportunity, please visit Arabian Facebuster, the most respected, least read site for professional wrestling news, commentary, analysis, Hulk Hogan bashing, and Larry Nelson facial hair admiration in all of the interwebs.

XOXO,

Malibu Sands

I Rickrolled that bitch good.

Reason #8 to Despise Hulk Hogan

He has ruined my 4th of July.

For the past 10 months, yours truly Malibu Sands has been training vigorously and building up endurance in order to wave* an "Official Uniting Towel of America" for exactly 15 consecutive minutes and thus participate in something called The National Wave, designed with the naive and futile hope to -- if only for a fleeting moment -- bring together and unite Americans from all walks of life in spite of our political squabbles and economic, cultural, and geographic differences through the shared experience of hankie oscillation. Think "Hands Across America" meets Petey Pablo.

After viewing the embedded clip and reading the preceding paragraph you are undoubtedly wondering "Why 15 minutes?" (because any interval less is a victory for the terrorists...and any greater duration is just plain excessive) and more importantly "How will waving a towel amidst a throng of little kids and Hulkamanioids for any duration, let alone 15 minutes, actually accomplish anything whatsoever, let alone mollify our polarized electorate and rancorous and hyper-partisan political discourse?" If you have to ask, then (a) you hate America; (b) you are a terrorist or at the very least a terrorist sympathizer and deserve to be on the bottom rung of a naked human pyramid; (c) the terrorists have already won; or (d) all of the above.

Let the healing commence.

Um, not so fast. For according to TMZ.com, the most earnest of the internet celebrity gossip sites, this sure to be sparsely attended event has been indefinitely postponed due to the outrage and/or ridicule that will inevitably result from Hulk Hogan's** participation and official spokesmen status in this arm tiring and repetitive stress disorder inducing endeavor. Phrased differently, it's hard to "bring the county together," "celebrate what makes us great," or actualize other quasi-patriotic platitudes when the public face of your event has the audacity to proclaim that God (with the aid of a certain Idiot Son) allowed his son's former best friend to wind up in a coma in order to make him a better person.

Looks like it's time for me to move onto plan B: imbibing a cooler's worth of Riunite and shooting off fireworks from the comfort of my couch sans protective plastic coating. Alone.

Also deeply disappointed in this indefinite postponement, Jeff Hardy, who was planning on waving his uniting, soiled, and fire starting super sized jizz rag to help mend this country's fissures.

***

*Seeing as how the crate of uniting towels I ordered were confiscated due to our government's ban on all products made in and imported from North Korea, I've instead been using a 1987 Homer Hankie for my thrice a day intensive workout regimen.

**Why is the Hulkster leading a countdown to unveil...a countdown clock?

***More Hulk Hogan towel wave promoting shenanigans, featuring Pat "I'm So Fucking Hot for You" O'Brien can be viewed here.

You All Owe Me A Million Beers

Ho. Lee. Shit.

Here at Arabian Facebuster, we've alluded to the existence of a "Macho Man" Randy Savage rap album before, but I had no real hope of ever actually hearing the damnable thing. That all ended this weekend. While prowling the darker corners of the internets for art-punk records to (ahem) SAMPLE FOR REVIEWING PURPOSES AND THEN LEGALLY PURCHASE AT CORPORATE CHAINSTORES, I stumbled across this.

Shit, meet pants. This is one of the finest wrestling crossover artifacts I have ever had the (dubious) pleasure of witnessing. Contained within: Macho sounding distincly uncomfortable with his ghostwritten "urban" slang, 90's one-hit-wonder DJ Kool scrabbling shamelessly for a check, a tender ballad dedicated to Mr. Perfect, a little bit of hip-hop mixed with a little rock n' roll ("I like this, ooohhhh yeeeeaahhhh!") and some great cheese metal screaming, all without any of that nasty cursing.

Also,the title song is possibly the greatest dis track in history. Check the science:

Huh Hulk Hogan, Hollywood Hulkster
whatever they call you, I'm comin' after you, you coward

Hot diggity damn Hulk I'm glad you set it off (set if off)
Used to be hard Hulk now ya done turned soft
Doin' telephone commercials I seen ya
Dancin' in tights as a ballerina
I knew all along you had those tendencies
Cuz you've been runnin' from Macho like I got a disease
Dude please your pay per view event was a joke
You're avoidin' Randy Savage cuz you know you'll get smoked
Come on that phony fight the Rock spanked you fast
But when I challenged Hogan to a real fight he passed
I called him out but the punk was scared to go
It was a charity event but the Hulk didn't show
Hollywood Hulkster you're at the end of your rope
And I'm a kick ya in the butt and wash your mouth out with soap
Cuz like Rodney Dangerfield you gets no respect
So come on Hulk let's wreck so I can put you in check

Be a man Hulk Come on don't be scared
Your runnin' from Macho that's what I heard

Be a man Hogan Come on don't be a chump
I never thought Hulk would go out like a punk

Be a man Hulk Come on don't be scared
You're runnin' from Macho that's what I heard

Be a man Hogan Boy you's a chump
Cuz Hulk Hogan is a real big punk

They call you Hollywood (huh huh) don't make me laugh
Cuz your movies and your actin' skills are both trash
Your movies straight to video the box office can't stand
While I got myself a feature role in Spider Man
Ya hidin' man but when I find you it's on
And when I slam ya to the dirt you'll wish you's never born
I smell a coward mmmm is that you Hogan
Macho's gonna kick ya butt is the slogan
You try to ignore me thinkin' I'll go away
But I'm a keep on messin' wit ya dude day after day
And once you step to Macho you're through
The joke's on you so Hulk what you gonna do
Probably nothing cuz you're a real big punk
You called my dad up on the phone man you's a chump
Cuz if you really got static take it up with me
And I'll punk ya butt out for the world to see

And that, fans, is how the fuck you get down. I will be accepting my Gratitude Drinks at the upcoming Facebuster Conference.

Facebuster Staff Conference Update

For your enjoyment, live evening entertainment has just been added to the already jam packed 2nd Annual Arabian Facebuster Staff Conference and Fan Conclave!

Scheduled to perform his cherubic, AM radio friendly, and keyboard mired anthems at the Shilo Inn-Portland Airport's odorous and dilapidated Cigar Room, The Ugandan Giant Kamala.

Won't you join Kamala and us August 21-23!?

Yr Diabolical Foreign Madman of the Week

Killer Kahn...master of the dreaded Oriental Spike.

RAW Hits A New Low

Well, I'm back. And where, you may ask (or not, honestly. Some of you may not have even not have even noticed I was gone, embroiled as you were in an epic debate over the intrinsic morality of despising Hulk Hogan), was I? I was HIDING.

From Vince McMahon.

You see, we've been experiencing some rather serious cash flow problems here at the palatial Apollo Spas Estates, and when my arch-nemesis announced that he'd be giving away his millions, I registered my name and several stolen cell phone numbers at the old double-double dot com.

That, of course, was how they found me. WWE stormtroopers (led by notorious racist Michael "P.S." Hayes!) kicked down the gilded door of my estate, and only the fiercely protective nature of my terrier allowed me to escape unscathed. An epic cross-country chase ensued.

So here we are, several weeks later, and I am broadcasting to you from inside a boxcar headed for parts unknown. The trail behind me is stained with the blood of the WWE Curtain-jerkers sent by Mr. McMahon to collect my head. Their screams haunt me still (except for Chris Masters. Killing him was a treat.), but my blogging freedom has no price!

I had despaired of ever returning to the warm embrace of civilization until the Pencil Neck Geek forwarded me the clip above. It was then that I realized I had nothing to fear. How, after all, could I be threatened by a man who is incapable of operating a simple telephone? Not even one of those fancy "blackberry" jobbers, either, this is an old-fashioned land line like my granny uses!

Further, I have been informed that this video demonstrates an activity known as "Rick Rolling," but I'm sure I don't know what that means. I seem to recall plucky intern Chip attempting to explain it to me once, but I struck him violently about the head and neck until he retreated. I will not have Rick Astley mentioned in my presence.

Regardless, it seems that Vince McMahon has finally succumbed to the latter stages of his (alleged) steroid abuse. The sub-excellent wrestling book (expect a report in the future) I'm presently curled up with (in my boxcar, natch) explains that steroid users experience a restriction of blood flow to their extremities, causing the decay and eventual death of their limbs. It would seem that this process has reached Mr. McMahon's brain.

And you know what that means.

Zombie.

BREAKING NEWS: Coming to the Shilo Inn...

...Portland Airport*, it's The 2nd Annual Arabian Facebuster Staff Conference and Fan Conclave. And yours truly Malibu Sands will be flying in for the festivities!

August 21-23, 2008.

Panels, workshops, seminars, breakout sessions, multimedia screenings (i.e. a viewing of the Chyna-X-Pac sex tape debacle in Pencil Neck Geek's hotel suite and the premiere of a few more installments of Rev. Von. Fury TV), exclusive and unfiltered access to your favorite Arabian Faceubuster personalities, hot tubbing, vending machine usage, smoking in non-smoking designated rooms, incessant and excessive drinking, not cleaning up after yourself, and reasonably priced continental breakfasts will be the order of the weekend.

I have also submitted a modest proposal with the Shilo Inn's executive leadership team to rename this property The Malibu Sands Beach Club for the weekend in question; to which I have been assured that this request will be given the trustees' full and undivided consideration at their next meeting.

And our intern Chip is working diligently on securing a keynote speaker...overtures have been sent out to the personal assistant's for Larry Nelson, Don West, Mike Adamle, Nelson Frazier Jr. assuming the role he was born to play -- Big Gay Viscera, Rocky Mountain Thunder, John Graziano's half-brother that threatened Hulk Hogan with bodily harm via voice mail, anybody from the Wrestle Society X not named X-Pac or Vampiro, Bobby "Guy" Lashley, and Jeff Hardy's jizz rag. And rumors are swirling in political circles that none other than "Playboy" Buddy Rose (or at least somebody with either the first name "Buddy" or the last name "Rose") has been approached by the mayor to present the Facebuster's Portland office with a key to the city. Fantastic.

So come spend a late August weekend with all of us...at the Shilo Inn-Portland Airport!!!

*Unfortunately, the palatial Doubletree is already booked solid for that weekend, according to the curt and cantankerous hotel manager that I spoke with. Thinking back to last year's gathering, my decision to pull a Randy Orton and evacuate my bowels in the hotel pool, sauna, elevator, drinking fountain AND lobby might have had something to do with the discourteous customer service.

Yr Diabolical Foreign Madman of the Week

The Great Kabuki, seen here applying a nerve hold to the cranium of Jimmy Valiant.

"An Alternative to R.E.v.T.V.?"

I realize that the many, many vonFuriods out there in the FaceBuster Nation have patiently and long awaited the coming of Rev. von Fury T.V.. 

I deeply and abidingly thank you all for your words of support and understanding as the process has proven a labor of love that I praise the lords above for the strength and faith to be coming soon.

Until that blessed, blessed day, please my bretheren and sisteren, turn your hearts and prayers and join me in giving praise to another soldier in the ongoing fight against the Darkness and Depravity that populates our Heathen plane. 

Amen. Amen.

the rev.

"Hulk Hogan vs. Nancy Grace"

*Please refer to mins. 1:39 when wondering who you should consult for your post-jail reality show to make the most dough.

"You need to do it with me [Hogan, the Elder] Jason [Hervey, I presume] and Eric [Bischoff, of course!]"

I mean for when any of you get out of Jail.

Rocky Mountain Thunder: Delightful Man

It's time for another generous helping of Rocky Mountain Thunder. In this installment, Dr. Thunder, accompanied by tractor trash Brandi Mae, squares off with something called Mike Somani, who evidentially goes to the same barber as Larry Zbyszko. As was the style at the time, Larry Nelson handles the ring introductions and cocaine sniffing duties while Rod Trongard (who sounds like he's been hitting the Riunite pretty hard during the taping) and the husky throated, pea brained Lee Marshall in charge of the broadcasting duties.

Other proposed, but ultimately scrapped, titles for this post derived from the citation rich commentary of Trongard & Marshall included: Rocky Mountain Thunder: Giant of a Man; Rocky Mountain Thunder: Great, Great Guy; Rocky Mountain Thunder...Don't Keep No Dirty Socks in that Gunny Sack; Rocky Mountain Thunder: He Doesn't Wear Any Shoes (For Crying Out Loud)!!!; Rocky Mountain Thunder...Wants to Play by the Rules; Rocky Mountain Thunder: C'Mon Let's Get It On; Rocky Mountain Thunder: Let's Go Big Fella!; Rocky Mountain Thunder: Very Gracious Man; and Rocky Mountain Thunder's Bear Hug: YIKES!

Reasons #288 & 289 to Despise Hulk Hogan

Not only do we here at Arabian Facebuster despise Hulk Hogan for having his very own portable electric (two words that should never be uttered anywhere in the vicinity of the next word in this sentence...) grill line (along with the marketing and product development departments at QVC and Tristar for making it happen), but so too for the fact that his Ultimate Grill has now been recalled by the U.S. Consumer Product Safety Commission for spontaneously igniting/flaring up at the mere application of some non-stick cooking spray or oil.

If you own happen to own this grill, at this point it looks like you have three options: (a) toss it in the trash; (b) keep using it as before and run the risk of being set ablaze in the comfort of your home; or (c) continue to use it sans oil/spray and ruin a perfectly good cut of meat by having to scrape it off the rack.

Two persons have in fact reported being burned as the result of usage. It seems to this impartial observer that Hulk Hogan will stop at nothing to inflict pain, suffering, and anguish on his fellow man. Like an animal that has tasted human flesh, he must be swiftly destroyed.

Thanks to TMZ for the tip. A copy of the actual recall alert can be viewed here.

Or if you prefer, please also consider these reasons #288 and 289 as to why we despise Terry Bollea.

I Can't Quit U, Mike Adamle

Since I'm so liquored up on Riunite (in crystalli, natch) after dissecting Hulk Hogan's appearance on this evening's Larry King Live -- to the point that I have been trying to juggle the empty bottles, wearing nothing more than a pair of fire engine red snow pants, chef's hat, and shit eating grin plastered across my yapper (in homage to the brash go-getter at the conclusion of this clip) -- I'm going to go against my better (read: non-Riunite affected) judgment and recap the Riunite sans ice (or if you prefer, Riunite neat) of sports entertainment programming otherwise known as the ECW on Sci-Fi.

And since I have exhausted my tray of ice cubes, I have switched over to Champale, the official sparkling malt liquor of affluent and upwardly mobile African-Americans. Consider this honky's thirst fully quenched.

And off we go...

9:00PM: Call (Mike Adamle): "Jamaican Me Crazy." Response (The Tazz): "Yeah, baby!"

9:01: Buh-bye Matt Sydal. Hello Evan Bourne. Their opponents, "the belligerent, bellicose, and just plain bad" (you're telling us, Adamle) Mike Knox and Shelton Benjamin.

9:05: "Have Mercy!!!"

9:06: Adamle states the obvious: "He [Kofi] can deliver that kick with either his right or his left leg." For no good reason, I retrieve my wooden tennis racket from the basement.

9:09: Sydal gets the hot tag and unleashes a barrage of crisply executed, visually impressive, high-flier offensive maneuvers. Sez Adamle: "It's not about power; it's about speed AND power." I pour a thimble of Champale out in honor of Randy Randy Pinsky and the other homie's that didn't make it off the stoop at 12th and Alder alive.

9:10: "The Bourne Identity is revealed." Sweet Jesus, pulling a double-shift of semi-live blogging is really taking a toll of my sanity, typing dexterity, and sobriety. Sydal picks up the W for his team by pinning The Gold Standard.

9:16: A personality-devoid-call by personality-devoid-call recap of last night's lackluster, time wasting, and in my case financially ruinous McMahon's Millions debacle.

9:20: I am so bombed on 1970s era alcoholic beverages that I fail to recognize Kelly*2 is Victoria's opponent for the evening.

9:22: Adamle shares with America that he hasn't played with his Barbie Dolls in a long time. I scour the interweb's in hopes that Adamle's parents, siblings, wife, offspring or other family members had the prescience and good sense to take a candid picture when this was occurring and publish it. No such luck.

9:33: Finlay squashes El Jefe. Teddy Long comes out and announces that El Jefe will now have to...you know the drill...same predictable yet directionless storyline advancement, different week.

9:41: Mark Henry is out to kill more television time. So too is The Big Shew. I get to work on tidying up my earlier recap. The extra time this episode spent in post-production (it was taped over the weekend instead of earlier this evening due to an overseas Smackdown/ECW tour) has encroached on both Adamle's quantity and quality of idiocy.

9:51: Main event time...Kane/Punk challenge Morrison/Miz for the tag straps. I take a hard-earned respite to evacuate my bladder.

9:53: Alright I confess, John Morrison has my favorite in-ring entrance in sports entertainment today.

10:04: Punk does the...you know the drill.

10:05: Fade to black. I opened a prestigious, highly sought after bottle of Champale for this?

Larry King Live...Semi-Live

In anticipation of receiving a phone call last night between the hours of 8-1o from one Vincent Kennedy McMahon inquiring if I could indifferently regurgitate the password for an instantaneous and wholly undeserved influx of cash into th' ol' coffers, earlier in the day I went on what even the most compulsive shopper would classify as excessive and altogether uncalled for preemptive spending spree. The interior of my Renault "Le Car" reupholstered with the fur of a dozen panda bear cubs, matching his-and-hers jet packs, and a $25,000 gift certificate to WWE Shopzone.com later -- all of it nonrefundable -- I was feeling contended with my impulse buys. What could possibly go wrong?

To my shock and disenchantment, however, that call from Mr. McMahon never came. As a result, I am now forced to subsist solely on a diet of expired baby food, Banquet frozen dinners (assorted varieties) that have been unfrozen for indeterminate duration, coagulating Slim Jim's, packets of Sweet-n-Low and Equal for dessert (although I must confess that I much prefer the former because Fugazi penned a song about its scrumptious sugar-like attributes), and the cheapest alcohol flavored swill procured from the So Low grocery outlet until I can get these items paid off in full, roughly the year 2028 if my financial institution's debt reduction calculator is to be believed.

On the bright side, I have Hulk Hogan's appearance on this evening's edition of Larry King Live to dissect. Time to drop some ice cubes into the Riunite and check how my Gerber peas & carrots fondue is coming along. *Dips Slim Jim in fondue pot and snaps into it* Mmm, the rotting smokiness of the Slim Jim really helps to bring out the sheer wretchedness that is melted baby food.

Let the semi-live blogging of what is sure to be Reason #150 to Despise Hulk Hogan commence...

7:59PM: I toss a couple of additional cubes into the Riunite to ensure optimum briskness.

8:00: Hogan is rocking a bright orange outfit, thus having the effect of neutralizing/washing out his wrinkly orange-hued skin.

8:01: King goes for the jugular right off the bat..."How are you doing?" Hogan responds by faking remorse and struggle.

8:02: We find out that Nick was initially placed in padded cell in a mental wing before being transferred to an isolated cell in an adult facility and finally a mainstream cell with a couple of fellow juvenile roustabouts. The payoff on my online wager that Nick Hogan was sodomized within his first 24 hours in custody has depreciated considerably.

8:04: "How did Nick's early days of incarceration affect you?" Hey Larry, tell your producers to take a gander through our archives!

8:10: Regarding the leaked jail house confession tapes, Hulk compares Nick's situation to that of OJ Simpson, Charles Manson, Paris Hilton, and Ted Bundy. Unable to wrap my head around the logic of this criminally negligent (or at least complicit) parent and eager to get fucked up, I grab a syringe and inject a wide-mouth of Riunite into my arm.

8:13: Hogan and Nick's helmet-haired attorney once again hammer home the meta-narrative, that Nick wants to take responsibility for his actions; although their constant bitching about how Nick has been treated unjustly, shoddily, and thus preferentially because of who he is (a Hogan, by Gawd!) by the legal system sort of muddles and confuses their argument. Moreover, I would argue that being treated unjustly and shoddily by our bloated and profiteering criminal justice system IS how you take responsibility for your misdeeds.

8:15: Hogan claims that the sentencing precedent is six months probation if you critically injure somebody while recklessly operating a motor vehicle. I pack a change of clothes and a case of Riunite in preparation for a trip to Tampa Bay after tonight's broadcast.

8:16: Hogan denies buying alcohol for Nick and his jack ass friends..."It was for the adults." Larry could ask "which adults were in your company and were you buying Miller Chill's for on the afternoon of the accident?" but neglects to do so.

8:23: Hogan reveals that Debbie Graziano (John's mom) was homeless and sleeping on the hospital floor of John's room early on in this ordeal. The Hulkster goes on to state that he has subsequently bought her town home, put her other son through college (welding school, perhaps?), and paid the expenses associated with burying her recently deceased father. A word of advice to the Hulkster: Cut your emotional ties and financial losses with this family, Hulk up, throw some comically inept punches to the cranium of Debbie Graziano, and drop that patented melanoma ridden leg across her throat. And then flex those 24" pythons in triumph.

8:24: There's no doubt about, Larry is the spriest 108 year old cadaver with his own show on prime-time cable television today.

8:30: Hogan is doing a masterful job of evading having to reconcile the reasonable and obviously well rehearsed comments he is making tonight with the outrageous statements contained on those tapes.

8:34: Hogan continues bitching about the leaked jail house tapes, claiming Nick had his privacy taken away. Ah yes, the right to privacy afforded to you in prison as you shit in front of your cell mates, get ass raped in the shower at another inmate's impulse and leisure, and live under surveillance and confinement 24 hours a day. Hey Larry, ask him if the problem is that the tapes were leaked or the controversial and despicable nature of the comments and conversations contained on them.

8:35: Hogan attempts to weep. Unfortunately, prolonged tanning bed usage has incapacitated his tear ducts.

8:43: More references by Hulk to preying and reading the bible to get through this whole Idiot Son ordeal. He's more shameless than a televangelist on the Trinity Broadcasting Network.

8:48: Meta narrative honorable mention: Hulk and his family are also concerned and focused on John's health and well-being going forward. I pour the remaining peas & carrots fondue on my torso in hopes that will act as affordable yet excruciatingly painful chest hair waxing agent. No such luck.

8:50: This whole situation has been really tough on Brooke, according to the father who likes to fondle her seemingly fully developed lady parts. Perhaps that inner-thigh and butt cheek rub was nothing more than innocent, NFL style motivational butt pat taken out of context?

8:52: Larry King has no arsenal of facts, compelling arguments, logical inferences, or obvious follow-up questions or retorts at this disposal to refute Hogan's denials, contradictory statements, outright lies, and sneaky redirects. But rest assured, Larry's still the sharpest adult diaper wearing geriatric on cable television today.

8:53: Thank Apollo Spas for Arabian Facebuster!!! We're here to handle the research, extemporaneous reporting, probing question posing, disentanglement of logic, reasoning and underlying suppositions, and miscellaneous heavy lifting that unpacking and trudging through Hogan's bullshit entails.

8:58: Hogan matter-of-factly asserts that he and his family are the victims of tabloid terrorism. Puh-leaze. Such a patently expedient and altogether absurd statement coming from a man culpable for both masterminding and perpetrating the most brazen and deadly terrorist attack ever on American soil, notwithstanding his embrace of said coverage in promoting his family's various exposure seeking projects too numerous to recapitulate in this entry and its prominent role in keeping them at the forefront of the public consciousness. For shame. Hulk Hogan, you might have taken away our national innocence and ability to thoughtfully select competent leadership to protect our homeland and uphold our constitutional rights, but you'll never take away our liberty, our freedom of press and expression, our ice cubes, or our Riuniate, poured over said ice cubes.

I swear this on Larry King's tomb.

Reason #150 to Despise Hulk Hogan

Like the backed up jail house toilet in the cell that his infantile, unrepentant, and hell bound son is now sharing with three other lil' hooligans, Hulk Hogan will be clogging the CNN airwaves tonight with a litany of implausible, disingenuous, and smug denials, rationalizations, justifications, and contritions for putting the blame squarely on the pinch-welt covered shoulders of John Graziano for the Idiot Son instigated car crash that left him in a vegetative state and for having the temerity to claim that this was God's way of punishing Graziano because of the "things he was into" (Being deployed and risking his life to fight in a wholly unnecessary and incompetently executed/managed war? Befriending a piece of shit like Nick Hogan?)...all whilst plugging the ratings disaster that is the second season of American Gladiators, his messy and seemingly never-ending divorce proceedings, the rewards of engaging in predatory sexual behavior towards one's daughter, the fact that he's filling up a chick physically akin and of similar age to Brooke with his demon batter, and whatever other sordid and dissolute details are revealed about the Hogan family between now and 8pm CDT.

And Arabian Facebuster has got you covered! We -- well, yours truly Malibu Sands -- will be semi-live blogging the proceedings tonight on Larry King Live...reframing the slow-pitch softball questions lobbed over by King (i.e. "How's your son holding up?"), deconstructing Hogan's evasive and self-righteous responses, and unleashing an acerbic critique against his shameless spin, perpetual self-promotion and self-absorption, and total moral bankruptcy and personal failings.

Plus, I'll be taking a shot of wine every time he utters the word "brother!!!" I believe this is what the kids today refer to as "appointment blog reading."

Update: Gentlemen, I am delighted to confirm that a four-pack of Riunite Lambrusco dell Emilla (which I procured, along with some jars of baby food, out of the clearance bin at the So-Low expired foods emporium in North Minneapolis) is officially on ice for tonight's festivities.

Magnum TA Vows to Make Sweet Love to Tully Blanchard

Indeed, this is professional wrestling.

And in honor of Magnum's perfectly sculpted mullet, the acrimony and fury directed towards arguably the greatest chicken shit heel in the history of Jim Crockett Promotions -- Tully Blanchard -- and the violent ambush and beat down of the grudge-fuck minded T.A. by Ole and Arn Anderson, please consider this Exhibit J.2 as to why we watch.

Yr Diabolical Foreign Madman of the Week

The Ugandan Giant (and melodic songbird) Kamala.

"When Coming Soon isn't Soon Enough..."

The Female Rocky Mountain Thunder

Normally, I balk at posting up You Tube clips on Th' Facebuster that are of a 4 minute or greater duration out of consideration to your interwebs connection speed, valuable time, and fluctuating attention spans with regard to pro wrestling related matters. But seeing as how I've just discovered a female grappler whose ring skills, psychology, and craftsmanship are on-par with disheveled hobo Rocky Mountain Thunder I decided to break with this tenet.

The woman in question: country bumpkin and farm whore Brandi Mae, who we join in progress challenging the reigning AWA ladies champion and right pant-legless Medusa Miceli (pre-DDD implants) for the strap. Accompanying Medusa is Curt Henning. Rod Trongard and Lee Marshall call the action. Worry not, Larry Nelson's flailing limbs and feral facial hair will eventually enter into the picture.

For those that don't want to sit and/or sift through the entire six+ minutes in hopes of seeing what I find so preposterous about clip, allow me to direct your attention to the following sections:

1:05-1:15: Brandi Mae's apprehension in taking a suplex and her inefficient kick-out, which leads to firm slap of her ass by the irritated Medusa. "Well well well" sez Trongard.

1:22-1:31: A slow developing an awkward looking take-down sequence.

2:30-236: An arm twist spot featuring Mae delivering a punch to Medusa's kidneys.

2:50: Feeblest. Looking. Clothesline. Ever.

3:05: That body slam was pretty poor as well.

3:20: Brandi Mae rolls through the finishing roll up, which leads to another admonishing ass slap (!!!) from Medusa and a pinning sequence that leaves no doubt her frustration and annoyance with the hapless Mae.

3:45: Anywhere that there is injustice, so too is Rocky Mountain Thunder!

4:45: After negotiating ten feet worth of microphone cord, the red cumber bun attired Larry Nelson asks the slack jawed yokels some probing questions.

5:25: Rocky Mountain Thunder makes some run-of-the-mill and non-intimidating threats towards Curt Henning and his cheating ways.

Or just go ahead and watch the whole thing. Seeing as how this aired last night on espn CLASSIC, I might need to park buckle myself in front of the comforting glow of the ol' Westinghouse this evening in hopes of some mixed tag team action!

Please Don't Cry, Mike Adamle

Much like the six episode run of Saved By The Bell where the gang all got summer jobs working for the curmudgeonly Leon Carosi and his stuffed shirt daughter Stacy (what was the name of that beach resort again?), so too must this compulsory series of blog posts devoted to scrupulously cataloging Mike Adamle's sheer idiocy finally come to an end.

As you can see, Mike Adamle is so distraught about the inevitability and finality of this situation that he is using Jeff Hardy's sullied jizz rag to wipe away the tears. We all grieve in our own unique way, I guess.

To Mike Adamle and the entire Facebuster nation, I say relish the memories that we've forged and shared over the past six weeks: The Tazz, Jamaican Me Crazy, Recreational Ambien usage whilst blogging, the rechristening of the term "tag" to "tap" and "touch," drinking myself to the point of incapacitation each and every Tuesday night, Have Mercy!, suicidal fantasies, a plethora of misidentified wrestling holds and maneuvers, outfitting my sofa with a seat belt, Unos dos adios, repeated ball pein hammer shots to my head and my gentiles, all the sports cliches you can handle and then some, and of course a newfound appreciation for the numbing properties of wine bottled, preserved, and sold in a plastic bladder encased by a cardboard box.

Have Mercy, indeed!

In celebration of my final obligatory night of semi-live blogging of the Joanie Loves Chachi of sports entertainment programming otherwise known as the ECW on Sci-Fi, I've invited over a couple of jackasses that I met at welding school along with some Wisconsin cabin fatties and a couple of my closest drinking buddies to join in the festivities. We're going high-end on the vino tonight...jugs of Carlo Rossi Paisano.

Alright, let's get this party started!!! *Cranks up EMF's masterpiece Schubert Dip.*

9:00PM: Thank goodness I opted out of going to the Barack Obama in St. Paul this evening in favor of an event equally historic, the 104th installment of the ECW on Sci-Fi and the eighth with Adamle bungling his way through the play-by-play duties.

9:01 "We're glad you've chosen to spend your Tuesday night with us." That makes one of us.

9:02: We're at the Staples Center in L.A. Fatal four way between Punk, Dreamer, Chavo, and Morrison opens the show. Adamle informs us that the winner will go on to face Kane in the main event tonight in a non-title match!? Absolutely pointless booking, unless of course the winner picks up the victory later tonight.

9:03: Adamle comments, "If you don't believe looks can be deceiving, just ask Tommy Dreamer." After several minutes of contemplation, I still have no idea what point Adamle is trying to convey with that observation.

9:06: As Tommy Dreamer works over John Morrison, Adamle matter of factly states that "Dreamer is giving it to Tommy Morrison." This recap is writing itself so far tonight!

9:10: Adamle now calls Dreamer "Tommy Morrison." I attempt to set myself ablaze using the Carlo Rossi as lighter fluid.

9:11: Punk picks up the victory as Adamle continues to trip over his own tongue. Exhibit F: Adamle notes that Punk is "shocking up all of the adulation." I say a prayer of thanks to God for not making me retarded.

9:19: Benjamin vs. Matt Sydal (!!!) is up next with -- yep, you guessed it -- Kofi Kingston out to "commentate and spectate" (his words, not Adamle's).

9:23: Fuck Yeah!!! Benjamin powerbombs Sydal into Kofi, who was standing up at the desk making idle threats to The Gold Standard. A motionless Sydal is subsequently counted out as Adamle talks over the ring announcer.

9:24: Post-match, Kofi goes after Benjamin, reigning blows down upon him. Adamle confesses that, at this moment, Kofi is Jamaican him Crazy. I take a healthy swig of Paisano and smother my face in a cabin fattie's ample bosom.

9:30: Per the decree of new ECW commissioner Theodore R. Long, Estrada is being forced to tangle with Matt Hardy.

9:31: Adamle refers to Estrada as "The sharp dressed man with the island tan." I mute the volume, flip over to the Obama rally on FOX News (I prefer to let them report and me decide) and crank up the EMF.

9:33: "Armando is finito." Commissioner Long is out and informs Estrada that he now has to face Colin Delaney, who picks up the victory after countering out of Estrada's finisher. Hardy attempts to generate something other than total fan apathy towards Delaney by joining him in the post-match victory celebration.

9:44: According to CNN, 17,000 inside the Xcel Energy Center for the Obama rally, 15,000 outside it. Impressive. But how many are camped outside the Staples Center, watching the broadcast via portable television and hanging on Adamle's every mangled word?

9:45: I've just been informed the answer is zero.

9:47: Main event time. For living an allegedly straight edge lifestyle, Punk sure does have some serious bags underneath his eyes.

9:50: Sez Adamle: "The longer this match lastes."

9:56: Ah, one last "No question about it Tazz." I'll never forget you, Mike Adamle.

9:57: Tazz describes Kane's body scissors (read: rest hold) on Punk as a classic example of "ground and pound" offense. That expression reminds me to change the water dish of the girl with no limbs I keep chained in my basement.

10:00: Punk is being booed vociferously by the humanoids at ringside.

10:03: Punk does the job...yet AGAIN. Horrible booking. If he's going to lose clean, why not at least make the match for the title? Miz and Morrison attack Kane after the bell. Adamle wonders "What's the purpose of this?" Funny. For the last six weeks I've been asking myself the very same question.

BREAKING NEWS: Big Shew Undergoes Surgery

And surprisingly it is not of the gastric bypass variety!

According to Dave Meltzer, The Big Shew underwent an emergency MRI last night as the result of damage sustained to his left eye after triumphing in the Singapore canes on a pole fatal five way between former ECW Heavyweight Champions to determine the #1 contender to this prestigious title currently held by Kane with the winner getting a title shot against "The Big Red Machine" at the upcoming Night of Champions pay per view on Sunday night's One Night Stand sports entertainment spectacular.

In the incongruous parlance of Mike Adamle, "There's no question about that." However, there are fundamental questions regarding how long Shew will be out of action, if he will need to undergo any additional surgical procedures, who will be anointed as the newest top challenger for the ECW Title (I foresee a rematch tonight between Morrison, Chavo, Punk, and Dreamer contested under extreme rules with the winner -- my money's on John Morrison going over thanks to the outside interference of The Miz and a mildly discomforting cookie sheet shot to the groin of the "Innovator of Violence" -- claiming the #1 contender mantle), and how many times Adamle exclaims in wonderment, "have mercy?"

Tune into Arabian Facebuster during tonight's episode of the ECW on Sci-Fi for answers to none or quite possibly some of these questions.

Oh, and for those of you not fortunate enough to fork over $39.95 of your hard earned cash or three hours of your precious time to watch Shew once again bleed a giant bag of that beautiful blood, a meticulously detailed iconographic recap of Sunday's pay per view is available for your viewing pleasure here and here.

Misfireball

While we here at Arabian Facebuster are partial to the Oriental mist spewed by the likes of Kabuki, Muta, and Tajiri into an unsuspecting opponent's peepers (which undoubtedly has something to do with our affinity for Asian chicks), we also hold a certain reverence for the fireball as a debilitating foreign object, made infamous and thrown correctly by the likes of Jerry Lawler, Eddie Gilbert, The Sheik (Ed Farhat) and later his nephew Sabu, Jim Cornette (my favorite fireball moment of all time is when he threw one in the face of Ronnie Garvin in the spring of 1987, which led to brother [in real life his nephew] "Gorgeous" Jimmy Garvin unexpectedly rushing to his aid and eventually a babyface run against Flair & The Four Horseman), "The Sinister Minister" James Mitchell, and approximately 92% of the XPW lockeroom.

But what happens when the responsibility for elucidating the scalding and scarring properties of this noble art form falls upon a flame throwing neophyte? Witness Lord Jonathan Boyd from Portland wrestling, circa 1989. Arabian Facebuster would also like to extend a special "'atta boy" to lumbering stiff Brian Adams for stepping in and continuing/concluding the interview with his patented monotone cadence, uninspiring words of admonition towards The Barbarian, and employment of mixed metaphors ("whipping each other like a sharp knife") as Boyd scurries to the back to implore one of the boys for a ride to the Oregon Burn Center.

Somebody forward this footage to the producers at Dateline NBC. I can hear Stone Phillips now: "The pro wrestling fireball...innocuous scorcher of shoulder hair or deadly inferno? With more, here's Chris Hansen."

Yr Diabolical Foreign Madman of the Week

In honor of professional wrestling's xenophobic-rich history, this month Arabian Facebuster is proud to pay tribute to the foreign villain...

"The Russian Bear" Ivan Koloff.