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!
...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.
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.
Item: The New York Daily News is speculatingreporting 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.
A few days back, yours truly threw up on th' Facebuster a thus far well received (2 affirmative comments and counting!) post on Bill Watts' Mid-South/UWF territory and video clip featuring proud, patriotic, and barrel chested hoss's Watts and Dr. Death Steve Williams ambushing Eddie Gilbert and the mercenaries under his tutelage. And as you might recall, one of the mercenaries in question was Korchenko, the furry-booted Soviet apparachik who had the audacity to proudly display the ol' hammer-n-sickle on American soil.
I had no reason not to believe my favorite perpetrator of vehicular assault on Jerry Lawler that his protege hailed from the motherland...until I unearthed this clip from Korchenko's stint in the Memphis/CWA territory (circa 1984/early 1985), which makes me question his hard-line communist credentials and affinity for pirozhiki chomping and vodka swilling, not to mention doubt whether if at any point he and his extended family ever lived in a cramped two room apartment in a utilitarian, dull, dreary, massive, block housing complex. My Arabian Facebuster comrades, since when does an authentic Russian style/shave his eyebrows into a furrowed expression, germinate chest hair that resembles a Chia Pet, feel something other than utter contempt for the audience of materialistic, money-grubbing goons he competes in front of, publicly proclaim his fondness for accumulating "minty minty" American dollars, speak with an inflection similar to that of The Undertaker after an afternoon perusing driftwood art, or nearly bust into a fit of laughter multiple times over the course of a two minute promo?
Since never. That man's a impostor!
Now Soldat Ustinov, there's a communist agitator you can set your watch to.
In a bizarre incident that foreshadows how my weekend at the 2nd Annual Arabian Facebuster Staff Conference and Fan Conclave is sure to turn out, garbage wrestling sensation, cheap beer guzzling icon, arch nemesis of The Zombie, and all around worthless D-bag The Sandman was arrested Sunday night on multiple counts stemming from a drunken kerfuffle at a Yonkers, NY (birthplace of the dearly departed Gran'ma Sands, BTW) area feedbag. It seems that The Sandman quaffed a few Miller Sharps too many at Captain Lou Albano's birthday party, became agitated, belligerent, and combative, and hurled some tumblers and schooners at the restaurant wait staff and then at the police officers who were called in to restrain him. According to authorities, an investigation is ongoing to determine whether a Singapore cane was also brandished.
The litany of charges leveled against this one time non-change the channel inducing superstar include second degree felony assault (E-C-Dubb, E-C-Dubb!), third degree felony level criminal mischief (E-C-Dubb, E-C-Dubb!), second degree reckless endangerment (E-C-Dubb, E-C-Dubb!), and resisting arrest (E-C-Dubb, E-C-Dubb!).
Two knee jerk reactions to this story: (1) Why was was no citation issued for public intoxication? C'mon officers, show the man a little bit of compassion and deference...he's got a gimmick and reputation to uphold for chrise sakes. (2) Captain Lou Albano's still alive?
...or if you prefer, 720 hours, until the 2nd Annual Arabian Facebuster Staff Conference and Fan Conclave commences. Hopefully all of you Facebusteraholics have procured your round-trip ticket to Portland through one of this country's finer motor coach operators (consider yourself fortunate if you happen to drop entire blotter of acid prior to boarding; conversely, consider yourself most unfortunate if you do not) and booked your hotel room (be sure to mention your reserving from the Malibu Sands block ). If not, you best get on it, you don't want to miss out on Kamala's crooning, Rocky Mountain Thunder's textile weaving demo, Pencil Neck Geek ordering room service, Mike Adamle's inability to swipe his room key card correctly, or Larry Nelson finagling his way out of what promises to be a five-figure bar tab.
If that friendly needling is not motivation enough, this next announcement will surely be the incentive you need to pick up that replica Paul E. Dangerously cordless telephone and book your travel arrangements pronto: A Saturday night worship and revival service featuring our very own Rev. Von Fury prostylizing from the pulpit and the healing powers and devil exorcising stylings of none other than Brother Love!!!
Find salvation in the affordable luxury of the Shilo Inn--Portland Aiport. Specifically, in the parking lot...under a tent...that's actually not a tent, but a giant toy parachute I stole from the local day care center.
Doink The Clown and The Patriot in a high school hallway, along with some frumpy haired ring-rat in training who decided to bite on the whole "get your photo taken with the wrestlers during intermission" racket.
Much like season 3 of Strangers With Candy, season 2 of The Sarah Silverman Program, last night's premiere episode of Reality Bites Back (which might be the most unintentionally unfunny show ever green lighted onto television) and Hulk Hogan's contrived attempt to feign cogitation and emotion that daddy's little girl is all grown-up and has blossomed into a spoiled, ditsy, big breasted amazon suburban pop crooner on her way to a third tier college and ten years worth of routine morning after pill ingestions, STD tests, and crossed fingers during his cameo appearance on Brooke Knows Best, I feel that my past few weeks worth of blog entries have been lacking panache and sagaciousness. My recent content makes the episode of Diff'rent Strokes where the pedophile bicycle shop owner plays a game of "fondle the scrotum" with Arnold's best friend Dudley, the observational yet ironic stand-up comedy stylings of Blair Warner's intrusive and handicapable cousin Gerry on The Facts of Life, or Zack and the gang's drunk driving escapade on Saved By The Bell seem NOT overly contrived, alarmist/preachy, or unamusing by comparison.
Therefore, in order to rectify this self-perceived deficiency, yours truly Malibu Sands has decided to resurrect a thematic that is sure to inspire some shrewd, provoking, office water cooler worthy blog fodder -- The "Why We Watch Professional Wrestling" series, paying homage to the grapplers, promotions, feuds, angles, and rasslin' conventions which have made us fans of this noblest of distractions from the minutiae, tedium, and constant regret, self-doubt, disappointment, and unmitigated and spectacular failure after unmitigated and spectacular failure that is everyday life...well, mine anyways.
Today, I want to shine the spotlight on Bill Watts' Mid South Sports/Universal Wrestling Federation, which incorporated purposeful and realistic (or if you prefer, non gimmicky or cartoonish) characters, well conceived, comprehensible, and linear/straightforwardly laid out feuds and storylines, an athletic, physical, rugged, often bloody/violent in-ring product (similar to World Class, but in my opinion executed at a higher level/more disbelief suspending fashion with more talented roster top-to-bottom), and a fondness for the pier-six brawl. Covering towns in Louisiana, Oklahoma, and parts of Arkansas and Mississippi (and maybe the northern portion of Texas, IIRC), the promotion was on fire with top workers, packed houses, and national syndication of its television programs. But by the mid-1980s, it was hemorrhaging money due to an unsuccessful attempt at national expansion and and oil bust which devastated the local economy, compelling Watts to sell the promotion to Jim Crockett Promotions in 1987, leading to its absorption into the NWA (which by that point had ceased to be a collective of regional territories/promoters and was solely under the control and direction of Crockett).
I implore you to cick play on the clip above and enjoy some wild action from their flagship television program circa 1985 that features all of the elements of the Mid South style that I outlined in the preceding paragraph. Here's a bit of background on this clip and and an overview of the action:
(1) Like any critical unthinking red blooded American, owner/promoter/TV color commentator Bill Watts detests Russians. (2) Furry boots sporting Korchenko is a Russian. Not only that, he likes to remind people of his inferior national heritage by not growing hair, wearing singlet wrestling trunks, waving the Soviet flag in a furious manner and, whenever possible, draping said flag over the corpse of his conquered opponent, most often in the form of local jobbers like Mike Boyette or Jeff Raitz. (3) Chicken shit heel and sharp dressed man "Hotstuff" Eddie Gilbert has assembled a stable of talent -- Korchenko and The Blade Runners (a very green Sting and perpetual lumbering stiff The Ultimate Warrior) -- to run roughshod through the territory. (4) Bill Watts ain't intimidated by no hoss or, in this case, hosses. He loves this county because of our respect for individual rights, liberty, and freedom of speech, expression, and assembly. And under no circumstances will he allow these freedoms and rights be endangered, besmirched, or exercised by a diabolical Russian and his cronies. (5) #1 babyface Dr. Death Steve Williams, who also happens to be a hoss, don't take kindly to a Russian wanting to publicly proclaim his love of party, motherland, collectivism, and nationalized means of production. Ditto Ted DiBiase. (6) For Watts, the means do justify the ends as he sucker punches Korchenko. (7) A young Jim Ross is positively catatonic in cadence yet lucid in narrating the ensuing mayhem (or slobber knocker, if you prefer the contemporary parlance of Good Ol' JR). Quote of the clip (referring to the fist throwing Watts): "He's a proud American. He can't stand it any longer!!"
Thanks to MidnightRiderEddros1 for uploading this and a plethora of other assorted awesomeness from the territorial days.
Mid South Sports/UWF Wrestling...Exhibit N as to why we watch professional wrestling. Now if only I could persuade my local CW affiliate to add the UWF's 20+ year old syndicated program to the juggernaut that is their early, early morning lineup. I guarantee it will get them a higher audience share than the snow currently occupying the coveted Monday-4AM programming slot.
Clawmaster Baron Von Raschke poses with an assortment of jackasses in front of his wigwam/shoddily crafted souvenir trinkets emporium in Lake George, MN.
Item: The New York Daily News is 
In a bizarre incident that foreshadows how my weekend at the 2nd Annual Arabian Facebuster Staff Conference and Fan Conclave is sure to turn out, garbage wrestling sensation, cheap beer guzzling icon, arch nemesis of The Zombie, and all around worthless D-bag The Sandman was arrested Sunday night on multiple counts stemming from a drunken kerfuffle at a Yonkers, NY (birthplace of the dearly departed Gran'ma Sands, BTW) area feedbag. It seems that The Sandman quaffed a few Miller Sharps too many at Captain Lou Albano's birthday party, became agitated, belligerent, and combative, and hurled some tumblers and schooners at the restaurant wait staff and then at the police officers who were called in to restrain him. According to authorities, an investigation is ongoing to determine whether a Singapore cane was also brandished.
...or if you prefer, 720 hours, until the 2nd Annual Arabian Facebuster Staff Conference and Fan Conclave commences. Hopefully all of you Facebusteraholics have procured your round-trip ticket to Portland through one of this country's finer motor coach operators (consider yourself fortunate if you happen to drop entire blotter of acid prior to boarding; conversely, consider yourself most unfortunate if you do not) and booked your hotel room (be sure to mention your reserving from the Malibu Sands block ). If not, you best get on it, you don't want to miss out on Kamala's crooning, Rocky Mountain Thunder's textile weaving demo, Pencil Neck Geek ordering room service, Mike Adamle's inability to swipe his room key card correctly, or Larry Nelson finagling his way out of what promises to be a five-figure bar tab.
Doink The Clown and The Patriot in a high school hallway, along with some frumpy haired ring-rat in training who decided to bite on the whole "get your photo taken with the wrestlers during intermission" racket.
