Monday, September 28, 2009
Friday, September 25, 2009
Matches advertised include:
* Tag Team Warfare! *Looking at this lineup, I am anticipating that this WILL NOT be the best $10 I've ever spent. Thank God for Red Stripe bombers!
The Osirian Portal -vs- Midwest Ground & Air
* Grudge Match! *
"Playboy" Pete Huge w/ Allison -vs- Horace The Psychopath
Arya Daivari -vs- Big Brody Hoofer
* Special Fan Appreciation Match! *
Arik Cannon -vs- Frightmare -vs- Ryan Cruz -vs- Lince Dorado
* 6% Body Fat Challenge! *
6% Body Fat Rob James -vs- Corporal Julio Julio
"The Law" Mark Barker -vs- "King Of Throwdown" Venom
Full report sometime next week...
Eluded to but maybe not explicitly and forcefully stated in this post and clip of Stan Hansen assailing Don Herbert, we watch professional wrestling to see jobbers get clobbered, battered, man handled, systematically dissected, and even crippled by a stronger, tougher, more determined, athletic, and talented adversary (at least in theory if not always in practice).
And I'm not talking about schlubs in the mold of Charlie Haas or Rico or Crash Holly or Tom Brandi or post-Y2K Val Venis, guys that for all intensive purposes never pick up a win despite being given their own theme music, titan tron entrance, customized ring attire, and occasional backstage interview/vignette. I'm talking pasty, often mulleted, seemingly interchangeable, not exactly in the best of shape, driving to the arena in a '77 Ford Granada, working class average joe six pack like Mario Mancini, Tommy Angel, Rusty Brooks, Cruel Connection, pre-Brooklyn Brawler Steve Lombardi, Terry Gibbs, Jake "The Milk Man" Milliman, George South, Randy Orton's uncle Barry O, and of course the aforementioned Herbert.
But what about jobber tag teams? Sure there was the ill conceived Ted Turner/NWA era Ding Dongs (who weren't even supposed to be jobbers until the fans shit all over the concept of two scrawny masked guys constantly ringing cowbells, go figure) and the WWF's Moondogs (Rex & Spot). But those teams couldn't hold a candle to Jim Crockett Promotion's Thunderfoots (I & II) and Mulkey Brothers (Randy and Bill) in terms of sheer tag team haplessness and ineptitude.
Much like chocolate and peanut butter, Hamm's tall boys and Bu$ted, and TNA! wrestling and a fresh set of batteries in the remote control (or if you prefer, a loaded pistol) the clip above from NWA World Wide Wrestling circa spring 1986 gives you Facebusterites the best of both worlds, a Mulkey (Bill) and a Thunderfoot (I'm not sure which, although IIRC the second Thunderfoot didn't burst onto the jobber scene until late 1986/early 1987) teaming up to take on who Jim Cornette and The Midnight Express presume to be The James Boys aka Dusty Rhodes and Magnum T.A. wrestling under masks for reasons I can't (1) exactly remember and (2) be bothered to research. Mulkey and Thunderfoot have their proverbial working boots on. In this writer's opinion, the bumps they take, selling they perform, and punishment they sustain in this contest should be compulsory viewing for any aspirant or budding talent enhancer.
The best part...the forcibly unmasked James Boys are actually jobbers too...Tony Zane and Sam Houston (who I suppose you could plausibly argue was more of a lower card babyface and master of the 10 minute time limit draw against lower card heels like Black Bart, Teijo Khan, and Shaska Whatley than a garden variety underneath worker), leading to a wild scrum at the end involving The Dream and Magnum.
Oh, the irony!
As an aside, this whole Dusty and T.A. vs. Midnight's kerfuffle eventually led to Cornette bashing Baby Doll in the stomach with the handle of his tennis racket, causing internal injuries so severe that she would never be able to have children. Seeing as how Baby Doll was knockin' bootz with The American Dream at the time, Arabian Facebuster wishes extend its thanks to eugenicist Jim Cornette for administering this grassroots method of birth control en gratis.
We are forever in your debt, kind sir.
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
As part of this process, the recruiters encouraged me to compile a list of my skills, accomplishments, career goals, and attributes of the position I'd like to attain and organizational culture I'd like to work in. The answers are then plugged into an application that analyzes my responses and recommends those companies that would be the best fit for my capacities and personality.
I thought I'd share with you all the results of this challenging yet wholly worthwhile exercise.
Monday, September 21, 2009
Friday, September 18, 2009
It has been a truly harrowing and disillusioning week for yrs truly Malibu Sands. First, the local booze mart jacked up the price of my beloved Heineken tall boy cans from $5.59 to $7.99 per four pack of self-confidence and temporal loss of inhibition lubrication. Simply outrageous. It doesn't take a mathematician to calculate that's over a 40% cost increase (Full disclosure: I contacted a mathematician to perform the above computation). Then my estranged, sham fiancee informs that she wants out of our "Operation procure a plethora of monogrammed bed sheets and bath towels and second-rate kitchen utensils, dishes, and assorted gadgetry from friends and family" arrangement. And here's the kicker: I chipped my tooth on the chewing gum included in my package of WWF WrestleMania III trading cards that I ordered and received from the Wonderleague shoppe zone. Serves me right for chomping down on a10,000 year old stick of corn syrup and synthetic rubber amalgamated deliciousness...if the carbon dating tests I performed in my recently constructed upstairs laboratory slash crime lab for exonerating and restoring the unjustly sullied reputation of convicted perp Rocky Peoples are to be believed.
Unfortunately, this week's happenings and doings on the rasslin' and sportz entrainment fronts were equally dispiriting. Jim Cornette fired from TNA! as part of their purge any and all of those with ties to Jeff Jarrett meme. The temporary release or out and out sacking (depending which online dirt sheet you read) of TNA! Knockouts champion and ringleader of The Beautiful People -- in this writer's wholly disinterested in and infrequent tuner in to TNA!'s manically paced, asininely booked brand of whimsical and confusing-sportz entertainment opinion, the most compelling and consistently watchable faction in the promotion -- Angelina Love due to an expired work visa. Linda McMahon relinquishing her CEO duties, namely overseeing the continued creative bankruptcy of the promotion her father-n-law built from the ground up, in order to make a run at Christopher Dodd's U.S. Senate seat, potentially putting her contemptible husband within an arm's reach of actual political and lawmaking power. And Ric Flair electing to *gasp* come out of retirement and join Hulk Hogan's upstart rassle venture on a tour of Australia, along with the usual gaggle of Hogan parasites, lickspittles, stains, and yes men.
Taken in whole, it makes me want to lay my head on a tiny Hulk Hogan pillow and cry.
Time for me to quell these feelings of vexation and despondence at once...and not with a hilarious photo of a well past his prime Buck "Rock and/or Roll" Zumhofe wearing a fucking white Elvis suit in the ring. But if not that, then how!?. Simple, with a vintage mid 1990s WCW clip featuring the antics of the Dungeon of Doom, a stable so miserable in its rasslin' competence, non-threatening in its smoke machine and black light witchcraftery, unserious in its approach towards occultishness, and ineffectual in its perpetration of maliciousness that it makes the aforementioned gaggle of Hogan bloodsuckers compare favorably with the Dangerous Alliance.
In this installment, original vanilla midget Kevin Sullivan's "father" The Wizard introduces by way of lyrical and seemingly breathless shouting the Dungeon's latest and undoubtedly most diabolical cartoonish mercenary yet in its quest to destroy Hulkamania, The Shark (played by the late, not so great John Tenta aka Earthquake aka Avalanche aka Golga). Kevin Sullivan provides some well-timed ominous chortling that adds a superfluity of levity to the proceedings.
Ahhh, I feel much so much better.
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
Ric Flair has signed a three-year deal with Hulk Hogan and Eric Bischoff's new Hulkamania program, and will be Hogan's main opponent for the first Australian tour at the end of November. Yes, as a wrestler.No word on whether (a) Flair will do the job via the leg drop or -- considering that the Hulkster at this point is more broken down than that Ford Taurus SHO languishing in Pencil Neck Geek neighbor's driveway -- Hogan's patently inept back rake/scratch; or (b) local icons Outback Jack or Nathan Jones will be joining these two washed up, droopy breasted, dawdling, geriatric glory hogs on their tour of the Commonwealth's finest equine and livestock event centres and cricket grounds.
Monday, September 14, 2009
Friday, September 11, 2009
Who could have seen this coming?
Former PWF (ICW to our hoser neighbors to the North) curtain jerker Chico Alvarez provides a summary of the multiple felony and misdemeanor charges and some sensational details surrounding the raid and seizure. I have decided to green the cited/quoted text in honor of Jeff Hardy's neon colored, sleeve length spandex gloves...
The Moore County Sheriff’s Office confirmed with us moments ago that Jeff Nero Hardy was arrested today on charges of trafficking in controlled prescription pills and possession of anabolic steroids.
During a search officers located and seized approximately 262 Vicodin prescription pills, 180 Soma prescription pills, 555 milliliters of anabolic steroids, a residual amount of powder cocaine, and items of drug paraphernalia.
Hardy has been charged with felony trafficking in opium, two counts of felony possession with intent to sell or deliver a Schedule III controlled substance, felony maintaining a dwelling to keep controlled substance, felony possession of cocaine, and misdemeanor possession of drug paraphernalia.
At the time of the press release he was being held on $125,000 bond in the Moore County Detention Center.
Hardy, a multi-time WWE/World champion, left WWE at the end of August to heal up injuries and pursue a reality TV project and work with his band.
Let Arabian Facebuster be first to go out on a limb and state without qualification and in no uncertain terms that Jeff Hardy aka Jest Harvey is completely fucked...um, allegedly.
While our Sexy Action News Team continues to diligently work its land line phone and 28.8k dial up connection trying to get confirmation as to who paid Jeff's bond, we certainly have our suspicions.
During the past two years, Arabian Facebuster has brought to you some of the most memorable and venerated matches, angles, personalities, territories/federations, and elements in the annals of professional rasslin' history through its "Why We Watch" feature/series. Over this period, we have featured but only a few of the dastardly exploits of the personification of 1980s cowardly heelishness and the CEO and Executive Vice President of Tully Blanchard Enterprises, Incorporated...Tully Blanchard, specifically his (a) dapperly attired retaliation against Magnum T.A. for The Boss's audacity to suck Baby Doll's horse face and stick his slippery tongue down her gaping throat (AKA the "she likes it, she likes it, look at her" moment, as so giddily vocalized by David Crockett) (b) meticulous folding chair placement and sharply delivered jabs during a gangland style attack on the Road Dogg's exponentially more talented brother; and (c) provision of aid, comfort, and stompin' assistance to Gino Hernandez in his steel chained beatdown of "The Ragin' Bull" Manny Fernandez.
If Tully's been reading th' Facebuster -- and we have not one compelling reason or shroud of empirical evidence to prove he doesn't -- he must feel a bit slighted and underappreciated for not being the focal point of our reminiscence and admiration.
The clip above is just packed with Tully Blanchard related goodness. Specifically, it features the formal dissolution of the Tully Blanchard-Baby Doll relationship over unapproved PTO and implied suspicions of honky tonkin', the official formation of the Tully-JJ Dillon union that would eventually be incorporated into the Four Horsemen and such a vital cog in the group's overall success, some good natured man-on-woman violence, the hug smothering of David Crockett by JJ, the beginning of the implausible "Dusty's gettin' it on with a woman not shaped like a hippopotamus" direction/storyline that to the surprise of no one would eventually leave the Dream betrayed, broken hearted and even huskier than ever, the transference of ownership of the -- to quote a certain Sexy Action News team member's short lived, imbecilic girlfriend -- hot commodity in question in a most expedient and in this observer's opinion sensible manner, what I believe is the lone appearance of Dusty's "No Retreat" tee-shirt, smartly accentuated by jeans and jean jacket (AKA Double Trouble) purchased from the local plus-sized denim liquidation outfitters, and a concluding promo that is at once urgent, assertive, pointed, prognostic, controlled, indignant, credible, and oh so compelling.
The T in this example of why we watch pro rasslin' finery stands for Tully Blanchard...Lesson Teacher!
Tuesday, September 08, 2009
Friday, September 04, 2009
This holiday weekend, be sure to take heed to the contentions and recommendations of Ox Baker, Facebuster Nation. If you see a youngster with a can of beer in his or her hand, do not be alarmed. Do not panic. And most certainly do not involve the police. The last thing we need to do is criminalize young people for behaviors that should be handled by parents and caring and concerned Samaritans such as ourselves.
Do, however, be outraged...and then proceed with these simple directives to diffuse and remedy the situation:
1. Confront the young persons in an assertive and authoritative yet respectful and engaging manner, something to the effect of, "Hey, you might think yr shit don't stink just because you have a can of beer in your hand, but on behalf of Ox Baker I'm here to tell ya that yr shit, oh it stinks alright; it stinks something fierce." Remember, this is a teachable moment.
2. At this point, if you don't feel your brain being kicked into a coma, explain to them who Ox Baker is.
3. Provide them with directions to the nearest public library (or libary).
4. Explain again who Ox Baker is.
5. Confiscate the cans of beer from the sure to be flummoxed adolescents.
6. Retire the comforts of your abode, fire back each and every one of those beers (the fact that it's free should make it all the more delicious), and enjoy this clip featuring a far more sinister, cantankerous, and ruthless Ox Baker as he lays waste to a geriatric grease ball promoter with his patented and dreaded heart punch.
(1) Recommended: Smoking moderately priced cigars while watching Ric Flair vs. Steamboat from Chi-Town Rumble 89 on the TV & VCR provided by The Shilo Inn-Portland Airport Cigar Lounge. Not Recommended: Being joined by a couple of cigar savvy and knowledgeable enough about rasslin' to name drop a few rasslers and reminisce about sitting around getting drunk on a Saturday morning watching the matches taped at the local grapplarium businessmen as you puff on (aka re-light every 4 minutes or so) said stogies and observe said Flair-Steamboat contest intently but minus the normal rampant marking out that would make you seem like an immature and wholly unserious jack ass around men with jibs of this cut.
(2) The supernatural, James Earl Jones sounding "narrating voice" of TNA (think: Kurt Angle (two second pause)...Jeff Jarrett (two second pause)...The Icon Sting! (again, two second pause)..TNA presents [insert PPV name]) is far easier to imitate than Don West. Except after one has had about 1/2 dozen tall boys with one eye on the televised sportz entertainment and the other on the perps in Bu$ted (Rocky Peoples, in particular), in which case the exasperated bordering on exhausted tone, gruff cadence, and illogical and haphazard face/heel reactions of Don West flow oh so naturally and prolifically.
(3) Watching X-Pac take a barrage of punishment: Great entertainment! Watching X-Pac take a barrage of punishment from a gaggle of rudo lucha-clowns (who presumably carpooled to the arena together in a Volkswagen Beetle): The greatest entertainment!!!
(4) Takes On Matters is poised to supplant Arabian Facebuster in terms of mainstream acceptance and goodwill by the year 2015.
(5) Mark Swaggle appears to be the WWE's earnest and this observer's opinion inspired attempt at contrition and reconciliation for dropping the ball on Big Gay Viscera.
(6) No matter how charming of a first impression he might make, DO NOT befriend Kurt Angle under any circumstances.
(7) Squeezing a talking Randy Orton doll simultaneously engenders feelings of exhilaration and shame within me.
(8) Yrs truly Malibu $and$ needs to put his liver through an even more rigorous training regimen in anticipation of next year's AFSC&FC. SurlyFest 2009, here I come!
Thursday, September 03, 2009
This is a pretty significant get by the City Pages, for if you Google Savannah Jack (with wrestling, UWF, or some relevant variant of these terms) you will find very little by way of photos, articles, videos, blog posts, or message board ramblings detailing this man's in-ring career.
Sigh, the Arabian Facebuster Sexy Action News Team, specifically our Twin Cities satellite office, really dropped the ball on breaking this story.
As is the style of our time, I have copied and pasted this entirety of this City Pages article without their expressed, written permission:
At 61, Savannah Russell is still a hulk of a man. With a slight slouch, he stands 6' 2". His hands are enormous and fiercely veined. And though he's decades past his physical prime, he retains the carriage of his younger self—even with a limp, he moves with an athletic ease.
On a summer afternoon in his apartment in south Minneapolis, Russell is leafing through a portfolio of his clippings. In photo after photo, a great beast of a man gazes back at him, a creature of immaculate musculature in black briefs and jackboots, hoisting a shining Universal Wrestling Federation title belt over his enormous shoulders, staring down the camera with all the bravado of an immortal.
The man in the pictures was called Savannah Jack, former champion of the UWF. He studied under Vern Gagne and Eddie Sharkey and crisscrossed the country wrestling in hundreds of matches a year.
"I liked fighting," Russell says with a grin and a shrug. "And I was good at it."
Russell was born to fight. At the tough intersection of Dale and Iglehart in St. Paul where he was raised, it was a means of survival. By the age of six, he'd already seen a man shot to death outside a bodega. By 16, he owned a lengthy juvenile rap sheet for assault and drug possession.
"The way I was going," he says, "I was gonna end up in jail. Or dead. Or I was gonna kill somebody." His voice trembles and he looks away. It's a minute before he composes himself. "I didn't know what to do."
Jumpin' Jim Brunzell would change his life.
Russell had played against Brunzell as a defensive back for the Golden Gophers. A decade later, Russell was driving a city bus, making a stop at Minneapolis's Convention Center, when Brunzell boarded. By now, Brunzell was known as Jumpin' Jim, famed member of the Killer Bees, wrestling in the WWF and running camps for up-and-comers.
After Brunzell got off the bus at his stop, Russell drove away full of inspiration.
"I thought, 'I can do that,'" Russell recalls. "He wasn't much of a wide receiver. If Brunzell is 'rassling, I can, too."
By 1985, Savannah Russell had become Savannah Jack, and he had survived a grueling daily regimen of five-mile runs in wrestling camps that left him so exhausted he could wring a quart of water from his sweatpants. He was hired into the UWF by Cowboy Bill Watts at a rate of $5,000 a week, traveling 300 miles a day to wrestle in Tulsa, Baton Rogue—all the way to Fairbanks, Alaska. He was also sustaining himself with the 10-week cycle of steroids provided by Minneapolis dealers.
It was the prehistory for major-market wrestling, a time when the sport still pretended to be real, when a strict division was upheld between the faces and heels —a wrestler could be fined $1,000 for being seen with a known enemy, in public or in private. And in 1986, backstage before a match in Tulsa, Cowboy Bill Watts, the owner of the UWF, approached Russell to inform him that, in just a few moments, he'd be taking the television title from Buddy Jack Roberts.
"When you travel around all the time, you have diehard fans that follow you," says Russell. "And long before, I had this woman fan. Months before I won, she said, 'You're gonna have the title.' But when I found out...." Russell chokes again, capsized by the gravity of the memory. "I was dumbfounded."
It was a title he held for almost a year—the second-longest reign in the federation's history.
But something was amiss. Russell's strength was failing him, and his timing was off. He began to sputter mid-match. Going for his usual morning swim in a hotel pool in Baton Rouge, he could barely breathe, and had to struggle to pull himself out of the pool by the ladder. He had to sleep sitting up—blood was pooling in his lungs. A Minneapolis doctor advised him not to wrestle, and recommended a heart biopsy. But like everyone in his profession, he was uninsured, and contractual pressures forced Russell back on the road.
In 1987, he was in Fort Worth, preparing to wrestle. The night before, he had coughed up a blood clot so large it wouldn't wash down the sink. At show time, he was breathless, and just moments into the match, he was entirely fatigued. Once he got back behind the curtain, he collapsed.
The owner of the federation to which Russell had been lured with promises that he would be the franchise superstar offered no solace. "Either get back in that ring," he said, "or you're not getting paid."
Russell didn't have to think. He didn't change his clothes, didn't shower. He drove back to Minneapolis in his wrestling robe, saw a doctor, and was diagnosed with cardiomyopathy—heart muscle disease. Over-exertion put him at risk of sudden death. His career was over.
Since then, Russell has been a blackjack dealer, and a pit boss at Mystic Lake. He's driven cabs for Blue and White. He had his first stroke in 2001. He awoke in a daze on his living-room floor, unable to move, unable to speak. His face drooped with paralysis. His right side was numb. In the hospital, he had another. Two years later, another. A cardiac arrest followed—in his chair, while paramedics worked to revive him, he was clinically dead for several minutes.
What is left is a man who tends to bird feeders outside his garden-level window, gentled by hardship, who, despite strokes and loss, keeps a champion's bearing.
Russell sorts through his pictures, looking at the fearsome, powerful man he once was. Beaded with sweat at a match at Minneapolis's First Avenue alongside teammate Eddie Fritz. Airborne above the top turnbuckle. Standing before 60,000 fans at the Louisiana Superdome—a crowd so deafening, Russell says, he couldn't hear himself shout.
It would be easy to pity himself, or to resent the man captured in those clippings. But Russell doesn't. He's awash in joy, smiling.
"That's life," he says. "It's what life dealt for me. I could be dead right now." He turns a page. In the picture before him, he is posed against a white sheet, flexing his fists. Russell smiles and points at the picture. "I had the time of my life," he says. "I can say I'm the luckiest man."
Wednesday, September 02, 2009
Are the stars of TNA doomed (even more so than has already been established by Arabian Facebuster over the past three years)? Can a heroin bust be looming for The Icon Sting, racketeering and money laundering charges for Don West, or perhaps a sodomy (albeit of the consensual variety) pinch on Team 3D?
I'm all in on the latter scenario.
Hmm, perhaps Arabian Facebuster needs to join forces with the Bu$ted Paper to put out a quarterly sportz entertainment mugshot expose...public saftety behooves it.