Hola, amigos. How’s it hanging with you? I know it's been a long time since I rapped at ya, but things have been kinda hectic around El Casa de Geek lately. Jazz dance lessons, my civil war re-enactment club, and an unsuccessful run for city council have kept this hombre’s day planner more than a little crammed. Also, I’m too drunk to write pretty much all of the time.
Anyhoo, enough about me. You’re undoubtedly here to read a very special review- and a very special review you shall receive. Let’s get right to it:
World Championship Wrestling for the Nintendo Entertainment System is a non-stop thrill ride that any true professional wrestling fan shouldn't miss.
Gritty in-ring action is the name of the game and needless to say, it can hardly be contained within the confines of this dusty, gray cartridge. Fulfill your dreams of stepping into Captain Mike Rotundo’s boots, punching and kicking your way to a shot at the WCW world title (held by an Andre the Giant looking dude with a Mexican wrestling mask). With graphics, sound, and game play that are generally adequate (by 1988 standards), I can say without a doubt that it is the second best purchase I've ever made for under a dollar at the North Portland Eagle’s swap meet (right after that talking Undertaker piggy bank).
Hmm, I wonder if set a blog record for the most parenthetical statements used in one paragraph…
Huh? What’s that now? Enough of the funny business, you say? WrestleMania XXV is less than two weeks away? I still haven’t made good on the bet that I lost at last year’s WrestleMania? Gee fellers, time sure does fly by fast. Someone should have just reminded me. Fine, time to take a deep breath and make good on the deal. Binding agreements are strictly enforced here at Arabian Facebuster and live blogging TNA’s Impact Zone for the next year is not a penalty I’m willing to endure.
First, a word or two about schadenfreude. It’s a bitch... When this whole disaster was cooked up, I couldn't have been more supportive. From my perspective, the previous year’s wager went swimmingly. I didn't win, but more importantly, I didn't lose. As Apollo Spas dutifully slogged through the literary abortion that is Joanie Laurer’s “If They Only Knew”, my thoughts turned to what sorts of other Chyna related media I’d like to see my pals suffer through. The realization that there was documented footage of Chyna and X-Pac copulating was almost too good to be true. I could hardly wait to stand on the sidewalk and guffaw as a fellow Facebuster staffer grudgingly stepped into Valentine Video’s dank Air Stream trailer to pluck a sticky VHS copy from the shelf. Well, as it turns out, I suck at predicting wrestling outcomes, the videos at Valentine Video are sticky, and the movie is every bit as repulsive as you would expect it to be. Heed these words- when the stakes involve potentially irreversible physical and emotional damage, never put all your eggs in Umaga’s basket.
Anyhoo, enough about me. You’re undoubtedly here to read a very special review- and a very special review you shall receive. Let’s get right to it:
World Championship Wrestling for the Nintendo Entertainment System is a non-stop thrill ride that any true professional wrestling fan shouldn't miss.
Gritty in-ring action is the name of the game and needless to say, it can hardly be contained within the confines of this dusty, gray cartridge. Fulfill your dreams of stepping into Captain Mike Rotundo’s boots, punching and kicking your way to a shot at the WCW world title (held by an Andre the Giant looking dude with a Mexican wrestling mask). With graphics, sound, and game play that are generally adequate (by 1988 standards), I can say without a doubt that it is the second best purchase I've ever made for under a dollar at the North Portland Eagle’s swap meet (right after that talking Undertaker piggy bank).
Hmm, I wonder if set a blog record for the most parenthetical statements used in one paragraph…
Huh? What’s that now? Enough of the funny business, you say? WrestleMania XXV is less than two weeks away? I still haven’t made good on the bet that I lost at last year’s WrestleMania? Gee fellers, time sure does fly by fast. Someone should have just reminded me. Fine, time to take a deep breath and make good on the deal. Binding agreements are strictly enforced here at Arabian Facebuster and live blogging TNA’s Impact Zone for the next year is not a penalty I’m willing to endure.
First, a word or two about schadenfreude. It’s a bitch... When this whole disaster was cooked up, I couldn't have been more supportive. From my perspective, the previous year’s wager went swimmingly. I didn't win, but more importantly, I didn't lose. As Apollo Spas dutifully slogged through the literary abortion that is Joanie Laurer’s “If They Only Knew”, my thoughts turned to what sorts of other Chyna related media I’d like to see my pals suffer through. The realization that there was documented footage of Chyna and X-Pac copulating was almost too good to be true. I could hardly wait to stand on the sidewalk and guffaw as a fellow Facebuster staffer grudgingly stepped into Valentine Video’s dank Air Stream trailer to pluck a sticky VHS copy from the shelf. Well, as it turns out, I suck at predicting wrestling outcomes, the videos at Valentine Video are sticky, and the movie is every bit as repulsive as you would expect it to be. Heed these words- when the stakes involve potentially irreversible physical and emotional damage, never put all your eggs in Umaga’s basket.
“One Night in Chyna” the story of two dirt bags who like to have sex all the time. Our protagonist, X-Pac, is remarkably greasy and has a crooked wang. Our heroine, Chyna, is notable for her masculine physique and a clitoris reminiscent of a Vienna sausage. Chyna kicks off the proceedings with some sort of S&M leather whip dance. She looks hesitant and embarrassed. Not very desirable traits in a dominatrix, I suppose. X-Pac suggests that next time, perhaps a disco ball would help. The courtship continues and X-Pac struggles to remove his jeans. Steve Vai-esque guitar shredding (Barry White for the whiskey tango set) drones in the background. Chyna (apologies to the Fritzer) performs the slobber boogie on X-Pac’s bonerphone. X-Pac delivers oral pleasure to Chyna with all the conviction of George “The Animal” Steele devouring a particularly well constructed turnbuckle. This continues for what seems to be an eternity. Finally, the grainy night vision footage cuts out and we re-join the couple for more cunnilingus already in progress. The lighting is better this time- bummer. Eventually, the session progresses to full fledged bonin’ with X-Pac providing the inevitable finale.
In the name of good taste and compassion towards my fellow man, I've avoiding linking to any footage of the porn itself. I found out the hard way (pun reluctantly intended) that erectile dysfunction is no laughing matter. Those interested in understanding the degree of stomach clenching nausea I experienced can do so by watching this New Jack clip. Fucking disgusting, right? Multiply that by a thousand.
Phew. Now that we have that out of the way, we can get down to brass tacks regarding this year’s WrestleMania wagering. Supposedly, there is more of this garbage out there on the Internets. Malibu Sands even suggested that the only logical extension of the bet would be for one of us to have sex with Chyna herself. Sadly, this is a completely feasible proposition that could easily become a reality via donations to Ms. Laurer from our collective medicine cabinets. But let’s take the high road for once, shall we? I, for one, am taking an oath to preserve whatever may remain of Chyna’s self respect and dignity by by not forcing one of my friends to have sex with her for the collective yuks of our gang and associated online pervs. That’s just the kind of classy guy I am.
Instead, this year’s booby prize comes courtesy of the US Government. Seems that forcing detainees at Guantanamo Bay to listen to an endless loop of rambling by a certain leathery dirigible is a violation of the Geneva Convention. Consequently, Uncle Sam was forced to sell 3,271 cassette copies of Hulk Hogan’s autobiography (read by the man himself) at the bargain basement price of $0.01 a piece. A copy arrived in my mailbox today and shall be bestowed upon the person making the fewest correct WrestleMania predictions. A review, of course, is expected to follow. Here’s just a taste of what one of us has to look forward to: “Yeah, I’m the towering red-and-yellow warrior who revolutionized the wrestling business, the larger-than-life superhero who transformed an entire country into a horde of Hulkamaniacs ™. I’m the guy who spit blood and breathed fire to help create an empire called World Wrestling Entertainment™.” As the cover assures, “It’s the real deal, brother”. Best of luck, gents.
Oh, and one more thing… SUCK IT!
In the name of good taste and compassion towards my fellow man, I've avoiding linking to any footage of the porn itself. I found out the hard way (pun reluctantly intended) that erectile dysfunction is no laughing matter. Those interested in understanding the degree of stomach clenching nausea I experienced can do so by watching this New Jack clip. Fucking disgusting, right? Multiply that by a thousand.
Phew. Now that we have that out of the way, we can get down to brass tacks regarding this year’s WrestleMania wagering. Supposedly, there is more of this garbage out there on the Internets. Malibu Sands even suggested that the only logical extension of the bet would be for one of us to have sex with Chyna herself. Sadly, this is a completely feasible proposition that could easily become a reality via donations to Ms. Laurer from our collective medicine cabinets. But let’s take the high road for once, shall we? I, for one, am taking an oath to preserve whatever may remain of Chyna’s self respect and dignity by by not forcing one of my friends to have sex with her for the collective yuks of our gang and associated online pervs. That’s just the kind of classy guy I am.
Instead, this year’s booby prize comes courtesy of the US Government. Seems that forcing detainees at Guantanamo Bay to listen to an endless loop of rambling by a certain leathery dirigible is a violation of the Geneva Convention. Consequently, Uncle Sam was forced to sell 3,271 cassette copies of Hulk Hogan’s autobiography (read by the man himself) at the bargain basement price of $0.01 a piece. A copy arrived in my mailbox today and shall be bestowed upon the person making the fewest correct WrestleMania predictions. A review, of course, is expected to follow. Here’s just a taste of what one of us has to look forward to: “Yeah, I’m the towering red-and-yellow warrior who revolutionized the wrestling business, the larger-than-life superhero who transformed an entire country into a horde of Hulkamaniacs ™. I’m the guy who spit blood and breathed fire to help create an empire called World Wrestling Entertainment™.” As the cover assures, “It’s the real deal, brother”. Best of luck, gents.
Oh, and one more thing… SUCK IT!
7 comments:
Geek: That was simply a majestic post. What you lack in quantity, you make up for in quality. Sadly, it sounds like statement cannot be applied to X-Pac's crooked member or Chyna's Arby's roast beef sandwich like...well, you get my point here.
Also, while I applaud your efforts to get Arabian Facebuster to step back from the brink of insanity by introducing Hulk Hogan's autobiography into the betting equation and as a noble substitute for having to bed Chyna, I fear that we might be heading down the same path of one-upsmanship documented in your post with a far more dangerous and dastardly subject ripe for exploitation....Hulk Hogan and his delightfully dysfunctional family.
Two WrestleMania's from now, based on your wrestling predicting acumen (or lack thereof), don't be surprised if you are reenacting the pottery scene from Ghost with Nick Hogan.
-Malibu
Thanks Malibu- When you think about it, it's actually pretty remarkable that there isn't already a Nick or Brooke Hogan porn available to the public.
How long is that Hulk Hogan tape? I ask because I think I can drink/laugh my way through the first hour, no problem... but if that fucker goes past about one hour five minutes I might end up hurting myself and/or others.
Brother.
Dude.
Hulk Hogan's autobiography released (exclusively!?) as a book on tape. The litany of reasons to despise Hulk Hogan continues to grow at a torrid pace.
You think the Hulkster can tell his life story to the throngs of adoring Hulkamaniacs in an hour Apollo, dude? Brother please, this fucker is clocking in at a tidy 120 minutes. Dude... brother.
Stakes are high then for this year's WM prognostications. Funny, Rev Von Fury is mysteriously absent from this post.
*from his mountain-top meditation zone the Rev. von Fury replies that he "knows all and sees all" and is deep in meditative slumber:
"meditating" deeply over vintage 1996 RAW Magazine pics of a bikini clad Sunny splashing spectacularly in a frothy foamy surf whilst pondering the ramifications of her immenent return to the ring in the 25 Diva Battle Royale @ WM25....
Shhhhh!!!
Meditating....Meditating....
the rev.
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