That's Not A Burlap Bag...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Where the hell is my Camo Black Ice?

"A Call From the DarkSide. Again."

Yr Old Skool Manager of the Week

Gary Hart presents, The Spoiler (Don Jardine)

Why We Watch, Exhibit O

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Conclave Update: No Longer Dunk Tank Free

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

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

Yes. That's right.

THE Larry Nelson.

In a dunk tank.

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

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



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

Yr Old Skool Manager of the Week

"Classy" Freddie Blassie

Rocky Mountain Thunder: Likes Scufflin'

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

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

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

That he is, Lee Marshall. That he is.

Available for Purchase...

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

Choose your favorite...or collect them all:

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

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

What In The World Have We Here...

Larry Nelson:

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

Vote and discuss.

Reason #1 To Snuggle Hulk Hogan

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

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

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

Larry Nelson: Man of the People

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

Click play on the clip above and see for yourself.

Yr Old Skool Manager of the Week

The Grand Wizard (Ernie Roth)