Who The Hell Is This?

No, seriously. I have no goddamn idea who this guy is. Apparently he debuted on ECW last night... except it wasn't his real debut? He's filled in for Tazz on commentary? He had some sort of tag team? And now he's getting hyped as Vince McMahon's pick for "the future of ECW"?

Honestly, I've never heard of this guy before. CM Punk? Well before his debut, I heard about him. Shannon Moore? Yeah, we saw him backing up Matt Hardy in Seattle. Elijah Burke? Nope, I got nothing.

Please, Facebuster readers, tell me who the hell this guy is. I think I'm getting the fear.

Champagne Wishes and Caviar Dreams

We here at Arabian Facebuster are painfully aware that Randy Savage has been completely fucking mad for quite some time. Or if your one of those sissified politically correct types, feel free to replace "completely fucking mad" with "afflicted with undiagnosed mental health issues too lengthy and complex to recapitulate at present." But did you know that about fifteen years ago, the "Macho King" was both incredibly deranged AND incredibly wealthy!? Need proof? I submit for your approval this clip from Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous, offering us paycheck-to-paycheck livin', Totino's pepperoni and sausage microwavin,' Iron City drinkin' types a candid glimpse of how the robber baron class spends its carefree days.

That's Right, A City Of IRON

And, in honor of having Royal Rumble match predictions SLIGHTLY less inaccurate than those logged by his fellow staffers, the Pencil Neck Geek is awarded a delicious twelve-pack of IRON CITY BEER.

Test over Lashley? Christ, what was I thinking?

From the Land of Sky Blue Waters...

... comes this frosty, cold, and dee-licious trophy. Congratulations to Apollo Spas for winning the First Annual Arabian Facebuster Royal Rumble Sweepstakes. A long (and occasionally puzzling) decade of Undertaker boosterism has been handsomely rewarded!

Disstratusfaction

April 18, 1906: An earthquake causes a catastrophic fire that decimates San Francisco. Over 3,000 lost their lives. Countless more lost their homes and livelihoods.

May 6, 1937: The Hindenburg goes down in a fiery blaze. 36 passengers perished.

January 21, 2006: An explosion rocks the Sago Mine in rural West Virginia, trapping 13 miners. Only 1 survived.

Sadly, we must add yet another harrowing tragedy to this list...

January 27, 2007: Armed and Famous, CBS' answer to the question "What happens when you combine the grittiness of COPS and moral complexity of Hill Street Blues with the writing team from Pacific Blue?" is cancelled after only four episodes. Four of the most brilliant, revered, and scrumptulescent episodes in the history of television. Five celebrities (and I don't throw around that term loosely), including former WWE Women's Champion Trish Stratus, are now out of work.

Stay strong, dear reader...those feelings of bewilderment, animosity, anguish, and emptiness will subside with time. In the interim, clips from Thunder in Paradise are only a click here and here away.

Starting to feel better? You're welcome.

Yr "Before They Were Stars" Photo of the Week

AWA World Tag Team Champions Curt Henning and "Big" Scott Hall. Circa 1986.

Train Wreck!

Any predictions for the Unky Vince's Schmoz-Fest Supreme tomorrow? Pencil Neck Geek hereby pledges a half-rack of Iron City to the person with the most correct picks (including free shipping, Malibu) and a 40 oz. of Hamms to anyone who correctly selects the Rumble winner. Hell, if we're gonna subject ourselves to this steaming turd, we might as well make it interesting.

And if this guy wins, we riot in the streets.

God and Jesus Help Us, God and Baby Jesus Help Us...

This Tuesday sees the world premiere of MTV's new thing, Wrestling Society X. It stars (among others) New Jack, Justin Credible, and Vampiro. Oh, and the insufferable douche in the clip above. MTV's preview clips make the thing look pretty rad, but bear in mind: if the show's only half-an-hour long, and MTV plans to clutter it up with a lot of reality show malarkey, AND the Clipse are going to perform (a much better idea than an X-Pac match, to be sure), how much time do you think that leaves for all the spot-happy gymnastics pictured on their website?

Whatevs. The first episode is supposed to have two matches. One of them is going to be a ten-man royal rumble with electrified ring ropes, and this is shaping up to be the worst garbage wrestling abortion to sully wrestling's good name(?) since... oh, since the last time MTV dabbled in pro wrestling.

A Moment Of Silence

Arabian Facebuster salutes a man who truly embodied the Spirit Of Wrestling. We mourn the passing of Bam Bam Bigelow. Details of his demise to follow, but for now: rest in peace, Scott Bigelow.

A Cautionary Tale, Indeed!

Oh most wayward and wicked flock! Boys, Men, Men, Boys!! Hear my words and feel the terrible fury of your society's moral castration!!

Bear Witness and heed these words....



...Next time the Vile Villanous Vociferousness of the Solitary Vice!!

-The Rev.

Yr Space Mountain Related Photo of the Week

Ric Flair, a white stallion, and Ms. Elizabeth. Promo (possibly doctored) photo from the legendary "she was mine before she was yours" storyline of 1992.

Holdin' It Down For The BGV

I realize I'm probably revealing a bit too much about my personal hobbies in this post, but I'd like to ask you all to do me a favor. Take a quick hop over to your friendly neighborhood Google search engine and type in "Big Gay Viscera" (quotes included).

Awwww, yeeeaaahh. Take a look at THAT shit. That, in the parlance of the youth, is what the fuck I'm talkin' 'bout. I swear to god, I've never been prouder of anything in my life.

This is only the first step, fans. The Arabian Facebuster staff will not rest until King Mabel is finally enshrined, resplendent in his Righteous Queer Glory, in the main event at Wrestlemania.

POOOOUUUNNNCCE...?!

Well, I guess we can all quit wondering where Monty Brown was gonna turn up. He's on ECW, that lucky boy!
This is a tremendous career upgrade for the Alpha Male. He's traded a 1.1 Nielsen Rating for a 1.4 Nielsen Rating. He's traded wrestling Rhyno and Samoa Joe for... Test. Or perhaps Bob Holly (if he's lucky).

He's also traded his OWN NAME for the ridiculous moniker "Marquis Cor Von" (pronounced, inexplicably, as "Marcus"). While this seems silly, it's actually not a bad move, considering Vince McMahon's draconian attitude toward copyright law. Vince is, after all, the reason poor Kurt Angle can't say the phrase "It's true" without being tossed straight in the pokey.

My only real beef with Monty's New Name (that's going to be the title of the first book from Arabian Facebuster's new children's imprint, and we'll sue your balls off if you steal it) is that I'm confused by its etymology. Is it French? Portugese? South African? That would sort of make sense, since Monty's s'posed to be all "straight-out-the-veldt" and shit, but Monty's diction is so CLEARLY of American Jock Douchebag derivation that the whole thing leaves me UTTERLY confused.

Ah, well. The end result is that we've got one more halfway decent wrestler toiling away in the ECW wasteland. I hope he has fun jobbing to Kevin Thorn.

Yr Uplifting Old Skool Photo of the Week

Dick Murdoch gets ready to punch "Portuguese Man o' War" Aldo Montoya (aka Justin Credible) square in his smug little mouth. Royal Rumble, 1995.

This Freak Haunts My Every Step

The greasy pimp on the left (seen here in full Artie Lange mode) is the reason I will not be tossing another (metaphorical) log onto the raging inferno of pro-TNA hype we maintain here at Arabian Facebuster. His name, for those of you who haven't been brutally disappointed by pro wrestling over the last decade, is Vince Russo. He is the inventor of "WWF ATTITUDE," "Degeneration X," and "David Arquette, your World Heavyweight Champion." He's a total fucking shitheel, and I don't care if he's found Jesus or not.

To give the devil (har) his due, Russo DID reinvigorate the stale environs of mid-90's wrasslin' with his crude sexual innuendo, constant title changes, and sudden heel turns. Unfortunately, it's exactly this sort of Hard Sell writing that led to today's much-despised "New Era of Whimsy" and the mistreatment of Fudgie The Whale. Also, ECW did the same bit only about a gazillion times better.

Now he's back (for approximately the fourteenth time) in the desperate arms of TNA management. His writing "talents" have given us the Voodoo Kin Mafia, as well as the comedy stylings of Alex Shelley and Sonjay Dutt. He's also the reason that Thursday's hour-long iMPACT! episode only featured about twenty minutes of actual wrestling. What's worse, one of those matches was a brutal Kurt Angle squash of some damn cracker, and another featured the ponderous Tyson Tomko in a waddle-and-grimace-off with The Monster Abyss.

This left your action-starved correspondent with ONE MEASLY MATCH to watch, and it was some chaotic six-man tag schmozz that, while quite fun in a ludicrous spot-chasing kind of way, could not even hope to come close to this defiantly old-school number from last week's Smackdown!

In closing: to hell with Vince Russo. If wrestling fans hope to ever watch any actual wrestling, he will have to be removed. Maybe we can raise enough money to buy him and Sting some kind of frontier church where they can deliver the good word to apple-cheeked youngsters and pious housewives. Otherwise, expect TNA's admittedly scattershot booking to add entire new levels of meaning to the word "jittery." Also, Tyson Tomko will reveal that The Monster Abyss is pregnant with James Mitchell's demon baby.

A SmackDown! for the Ages...

...and I am sure you all missed it.

And the Rev forgives you, my lambs, because what else could one expect other than a full steaming stew of crapulance to spray out across the airwaves and into your innocent faces as it is wont to do every Friday night at 8pmPST on the local C'dub affiliate? But the past Friday Night SmackDown! was better, and for the first time in this lifetime, actually a superior product to Mssr. Monday Night Raw. As hard to believe as it is, the titanic New Year's Day Clash of the hardest core white rappers in the biz today, John Cena and Mr. Brittany "Tip-Toe through the Two Lips" Spears hardly left the impact of say even one-half a "OMG ITS KANE " Tombstone Piledriver delightfully delivered to the gambling and chewing gum addled skull of one Pete Rose.
But SmackDown!? SmackDown! delivered its most cohesive night of story telling since Jeff Hardy started saying "No" to drugs and "Yes" to seconds. And thirds.

And this humble clergy certainly could ask "Please Sir, 'an I 'ave some 'more?" and suffered the swift and certain Dickensonian retribution layed into my Tiny Tim ass, if only for another dose of the sweet ambrosia that is our country's longest standing proto-cultural feud.

No, I am not speaking of a scintillating inter-continental feud between the New Wigs and 'ol School Torries, or even Rosie and the Trump, but rather the original enemy of our dear civilisation, the sinister mystery that embodies an open wilderness and wild frontier, the dark recesses of our new world, the bloody savages drenched in pagan heathenism, the unbridled sub-human nature that is the Native American Turncoat TATANKA and his bitter arch rival, the most gallant of all American heroes, (well, perhaps a GI from WWII or from the popular Gulf War Ver. 1.0 might possibly be a more gallant hero) an all-American Cowboy Jimmy Wang Yang. Cowboys and Indians! Yes!

Please indulge your dear Rev. at this point by placing your open palm against your mouth and rapidly removing it, then again re-applying it whilst making a blood-thirsty "WOOOOOOO" noise as you do so. Now, you must understand the savagery that burns within TATANKA!

Now dear congregation, if you will indulge me just a bit more, turn your index fingers skyward and curl back the rest of your didgets to form a rudimentary pistol 'o flesh and say the words with me as you pump said pistol-fists skyward, "WOOO-HOOO!! YiP, YiP, YiP!!!! YEEEEE-HAAAA!!!" Exuberating, no?

Now I ask you, which of these two pantomimes do you believe to be the real, true, civilised war-hoot? If you replied the former, than believe me, you are destined to a pathetic existence of Tax-Free cigarettes, endless Whiskey drinking, and an insatiable urge to build Casinos and "Cultural" centers from sea-to-shining-sea.
But if like me, dear lambs, you found the cool imaginary steel a comfort to your cultural psyche, than I believe that you are on the right track, the long journey to that vaunted City on the Hill, the endless press to the West and its Manifest Destiny, just as is our daring and culturally correct young Jimmy Wang-Yang.
Join with me now in prayer, so that we might give young Mssr. Wang-Yang the strength that he most certainly will need to face the godless vessel of Satan that is the black heart of the savage TATANKA, and let him overcome all obstacles, be they poor booking, possible injury to the sternum (see last week's FridayNight SmackDown! for that one) or the loss of his lovely golden haired valet, whats-her-name. And let us pray for the delivery and salvation of the soul of the savage TATANKA, and pray that we never have to witness another 6min.+ demonstration of his pathetic winded pagan stumblings in our sacred squared circle, (in the words of fellow believer), AGAIIIIIIINNNNNN!!!!!!

Amen.

-The Rev.

Yr Vintage Rock-n-Rasslin' Poster of the Week

How TNA Has Impacted my Life, Part II

As a result of the overwhelming response throughout the Arabian Facebuster Nation to my reflections in this post, I would like to offer an updated account of how TNA Wrestling continues to touch my life:

1. Per the advice of Don West (the troglodyte pictured at left in the highly flammable shirt), I sold my Honus Wagner baseball card for $5.00 to a precocious 10 year old neighborhood boy. What a sucker...thanks DW!

2. I now refer to the Indian guy at my work as the "Original Playa from the Himalaya." It's far easier to pronounce (let alone remember) than Jawaharlal.

3. I no longer refer to my girlfriend's vagina as her "honey pot." It is henceforth nicknamed her "Impact Zone."

4. At my white trash cousin Brandy's wedding, I persuaded the band to supplant "Here Comes the Bride" with "Adrenaline Rush." Later that evening, I persuaded the disc jockey to spin some unreleased tracks from Ron "The Truth" Killings instead of "Celebration."

5. Like "The Professor" Mike Tenay, whenever I am confounded or disgusted by another person's thoughts, behaviors, or motivations, I accuse them of engaging in "sadistic mind games."

6. In order to help my married friend secure permission from the wife to go out for a night on the town (read: excessive drinking, followed by the defacing of historical landmarks, followed my more excessive drinking), I clamp the ankle lock submission on his unsuspecting significant other, threatening to "break her damn ankle" unless she capitulates to our plans. Not surprisingly, she taps out instantaneously.

7. In response to the on-screen taunts of the Latin American Exchange, I decided to enlist in the Minutemen Militia in order to combat the threat posed to our American values and way of life by illegal immigrants from the South. Instead of employing the more conventional method for keeping our borders secure -- shooting a suspected illegal in the face and asking questions later -- I give him/her a temporarily dehabilitating yet forever humiliating "Border Toss," then drape the stars and stripes over his/her limp body. Its called poetic justice, bitches.

A New New Era Of Whimsy

First of all, I want to make it abundantly clear that I did NOT watch RAW this week. After driving across town to find a RAW-friendly watering hole (cheers to the staff of "Tom's Pizza and Sports Bar" from all of us at Arabian Facebuster) and dropping twenty bones on High Life and Cheese Dip (a twenty I DID NOT HAVE if the chiselers at my credit union are to be believed) only to have last week's K-Fed appearance send the show spiralling into sub-debacle territory, I swore off RAW for all time (again).

As such, I did not witness the atrocity pictured here. I did, however, receive two critiques of the event from highly reputable sources. Our own Malibu Sands described it as "time-filling jibber jabber" and my darling Valerie (who watched it on some celebrity gossip site or other) found it "NOT FUNNY."

This comes as no suprise to me. When I consider the truly great comic minds of our modern era, I realize that not a man fucking jack of them works for a major wrestling promotion. Quite the opposite, in fact. While the cast of Stella take their place in the unemployment line, the Wrasslin' Masterminds churn out Michael Richards imitations and sub-par Jackassery. This faux Trump-Rosie feud is just the icing on a very unfunny cake.

Not to be confused with this guy over here, who actually IS a very funny cake, and deserves better than to be involved in this ridiculous angle.

The Origin of Macho's Madness Revealed!

Poor Randy Savage. First, Ms. Elizabeth left him for "The Total Package" Lex Luger. Then, he was booked into a lackluster feud with frivolous lawsuit initiator and chronic self-high-fiver Diamond Dallas Page. Soon thereafter, he was replaced as the spokesman for Slim Jim and their inimitable brand of artificially flavored meat-like products by a talking -- albeit eco-friendly -- computer generated wrapper. Finally, he cut the most (unintentionally) dreadful rap album of all time. Its sheer atrociousness makes K-Fed look like the second coming of Ghostface Muthafukin' Killah. Or if rap is not your forte, then replace "K-Fed" with "Hulk Hogan and the Wrestling Boot Band" and "Ghostface Killah" with "The Beatles" in the previous sentence.

What started this downward spiral for this once beloved and sane superstar? The only plausible explanation: a nasty bump on head thanks to the clumsiness of the sports entertainer currently known as The Big Shew.

Warning: repeated viewing of this clip may cause an uncontrollable fit of laughter and a temporary loss of empathy.

Yr Old Skool Masked Man of the Week

USWA Texas Heavyweight Champion The Punisher (i.e. The Undertaker) with Gen. Skandor Akbar. Dallas, TX circa 1989.

RAW is Indecipherable

From the incoherent lunatic backstage ramblings of the Great Khali (insert random keyboard strokes here to approximate transcription), to the equally incoherent lunatic in-ring ramblings of the Great Khali (awkwardly bellowing "Aaaarrrrgggg" to the rafters after every less than convincing knockdown of John Cena), to the incomprehensible, time-filling jibber jabber between fake Donald Trump and Rosie O'Donnell, to the affable Commie oaf Vladimir Kozlov (the guy pictured above who looks like the hypothetical love child of Batista and Shane McMahon) twice mispronouncing the name of the very company that signs his undeservedly gigantic paychecks ("I love double double E, I love double double E,"), I imagine that last night's episode of RAW frustrated and perplexed linguists and etymologists alike.

Update: Preliminary chatter from the academic community seems to support my contention. According to notorious ivory tower lefty George Lakoff, The George "The Animal" Steele Endowed Professor of Linguistics at the University of California at Berkeley, "USA brands itself as the network to find compelling, complex, and relatable characters. However, after viewing last night's egregious episode of RAW, seemingly the only 'characters welcome' on its network are inscrutable Neanderthals and mush-mouthed celebrity imposters. For shame."

Ladies and Gentlemen, The President Of The United States...

I hope you're ready to stand up and cheer. Take a quick hop through this link and check out exactly how worthy the gentleman on the left is. Worthy of internets acclaim. Worthy of the WWE Championship. Worthy of the PRESIDENCY.

He's more independent than McCain, he's smarter than Bush (in the same way that the sun is brighter than a mine shaft), and he's as white as the driven snow. If it weren't for that darn Nazi thing, he'd be the Red State-er most likely to capture the crucial anarchist-pinko vote.

The less this guy wrestles, the more I like him.

Yr Old Skool Mustaches of the Week

Robert Gibson and Ricky Morton: The Rock and/or Roll Express

Yr Belated Old Skool Photo of the Week

"Lord"(!?) Michael Hayes (Doc Hendrix), Perceival Pringle III (Paul Bearer), and Terry Gordy. Somewhere in the Southeastern US, circa 1978.

Let The End Times Roll

Paul Heyman has been replaced as the creative head of ECW. Hulk Hogan is rumored to be engaged in "serious" negotiations with TNA Wrestling. And Mr. Hogan's chaste, demure daughter (seen trapped in a rapidly shrinking room at left) has sold more copies of her holocaust of an album than GHOSTFACE FUCKING KILLER has sold of his new joint?!?!?!?!

This wicked world must be cleansed with flame.

Yr Old Skool Photo of the Week

Vince McMahon interviews Baron Von Raschke, circa 1976.

Gone But Not Forgotten

Last night, I led a candlelight procession of Italian immigrants, foodies, and the Minnesota chapter of the Arabian Facebuster Hulkamaniacs to the Mall of America to commemorate the 11 year anniversary of one of the most unexpected and unexplainable tragedies in the state of Minnesota's history -- the closing of PastaMania! Its run as top dog in the 4th floor food court was all too brief, but spectacular while it lasted, not unlike the world heavyweight title reign of one David Arquette. For those that were too young to remember or too drunk to care, PastaMania! was Hulk Hogan's labor of love and his most perfect creation, a critically lauded culinary masterpiece that not only revolutionized Italian cuisine, but redefined the significance of food in our culture.

I'll never forget my first time eating at PastaMania!...I ordered a plate of the spaghetti and Hulk-balls. The hand-rolled pasta was cooked to perfection, the aromatic sauce both rich and sweet, and the horsemeat tender and bursting with flavor. And the service was fantastic...professional, passionate, knowledgeable, and attentive. Why, Brian Knobbs must have refilled my bread basket three times! I would return again and again, each time trying a new creation: the Hulkioli, the Hulkadelle, the Hulkolini, and of course the Hulkuccine.

What was the Hulkster's secret? How could he achieve that elusive synthesis of bold and assertive flavors with a sense of delicacy, intricacy, and nuance in every dish? According to Hogan in an incredibly candid interview with Food & Wine: "At PastaMania!, our formula for success is twofold, dude. First, we select only the freshest ingredients from organic and artisanal producers. Then, we slow cook those ingredients in a microwave oven, brother." Cooking methods and techniques aside, you could really taste Hulk Hogan's heart, soul, and passion in each innovative, flawlessly executed dish. Or that could have been the horsemeat.

Why Pastamania! had to abruptly shut its doors (I mean pull down and latch its metal security gate) is a subject to contemplate at another time. I am still teeming with grief. It is too soon...the pain, still very raw. All I know is that a little part of me died that cold and dreary December morn. Thankfully, I have found a new favorite dining destination.

Eddie Gilbert: Reckless Driver

Mel Gibson. Keith Richards. Creed's pompous front man and all around worthless piece of crap Scott Stapp. Chris Tucker. "Hot Stuff" Eddie Gilbert. You may be asking, what do these men have in common? Do they all have the reputation for being difficult to work with? Perhaps. Did they get infected with a particularly resilient strain of gonorrhea after engaging in lewd and lascivious acts with Missy Hyatt? That certainly seems plausible. However, the answer will both astonish and appall: They have all been accused of recklessly operating a motor vehicle!!!

Thank you, anonymous YouTube user, for providing The Arabian Facebuster Driving School with this cautionary footage.

After getting fired from the USWA for committing numerous heinous atrocities, all of which likely involved some sort of mysterious white powder or a fireball, Eddie Gilbert, along with brother Doug (the Roger Clinton of the Gilbert brothers) prepare to depart the Memphis television studio for the final time. As Doug retrieves his crimson 1986 Mercury Sable from across the street, disgruntled brother Eddie gives one last beat-down to promoter Eddie Marlin in the parking lot. Jerry Lawler comes out to save Marlin and confront Gilbert. Not wanting a taste of the King's aristocratic vengeance, Gilbert retreats to the idling automobile. Brother Doug slides across the front seat into the shotgun position, alas fulfilling Eddie's dream to drive a car that cherry. Seconds later, in perhaps the most fantastically dickish, chicken-shit heel move that professional wrestling has ever witnessed, Eddie Gilbert runs over Jerry Lawler, and then drives away at prudent speed into the night, I mean late-morning. Meanwhile, Bill Dundee, a very young Double J, and a couple of unidentified neon trunk wearing, mullet sporting babyfaces rush to the King's side.

Legend has it, fans at the television taping called the Memphis police to report the vehicular assault (kayfabe rules!) and that a short time later, the police showed up at the studio looking to arrest Hot Stuff. Read more about it here and here. Enjoy this classic professional wrestling angle!

He's Not So Sorry He's So Fat

"Say Hello to the Bloated Guy"

Some choose a straight and narrow. Others a more circuitous path. Dear children of the mat, the Reverend vonFury has returned from the wilderness and the lands of non to deliver warning this: choose thy path carefully lest the sweet smokey lady-like fingers of Professional Wrestling's Pepe' le Peew seductions woo you with their promises of intoxicated commercial air-line public nudity and Championship saving heart-attacks on your birthday.
The Ravages it Wreaks! Gods! The Twists of Fate highs, the Swanton Bomb lows... How any man could ever dare to live his Boyhood Dream when so many of the Superstars, the Kings of the Ring, the Sky-Walkers, have fallen so far and so hard!?!?
Believe in oh me my children, for I, though never truly daring the dangers of the squared circle, have inhaled the sweaty canvas must of its fateful dread living as I have lived literally snipping up scraps at its broken-table littered ringside.
Its Word-Life inflatable thumb and pinky finger extend like Charon's bony hand at the river, seeking to extract payment. Your very own beloved Rev., just as a too-oftened maligned Kevin Federline, as only pure and innocent bystanders, both lost their wives to this Pro-Wrestling Bitch Goddess and her malevolent appetitites!
Dear little ones, Forgive me..I fear I tire. But yes, oh yes, I will return sooner than the last time, my brethren and belfry flock with more cautionary photos and spiritual content...

The Rev.

Yr Old Skool Heel Stable Photo of the Week

Hot Stuff & Hyatt International: Sting, Jack Victory, Missy Hyatt, "Hollywood" John Tatum, "Hot Stuff" Eddie Gilbert, and Rick Steiner. Universal Wrestling Federation, 1986.

Diamond Dallas Page: Hater.

In recent and fairly bizarre news, overrated has-been Diamond Dallas Page has filed a lawsuit against overrated still-is (apparently) Jay-Z, in which DDP claims that th' Jigga-man is stealing his patented "Diamond Cutter" symbol to promote the Roc-a-wear clothing line. We here at Arabian Facebuster would like to help you, the discerning wrestling fan, cut through all the legalese and get to the heart of the matter:

This lawsuit is preposterous.

If DDP (who has been hanging out in South Africa with Wesley Snipes, helping Blade with his tax dodge/motion picture Gallowwalker) thinks he's the first person in the history of history to realize that putting your thumbs and index fingers together makes a diamond, he's retarded. Furthermore, I cannot for the life of me fathom how either one of these gentlemen (?) can claim to have made one thin dime off of this ridiculous bit of hand-puppetry. This is just another one of those much-maligned frivolous lawsuits that are cluttering our nation's courts. Lock 'em both up, that's what I say. DDP was worse than useless even when he was stinking up WCW rings on a regular basis, and Jay-Z is possibly the most overrated MC of all time (and, according to some, a "lying cocksmoker" to boot).

Further, DDP should watch out for lawsuits himself. A character in his new movie is named (oddly enough) "Fabulos," which this fellow might find rather actionable. This assumes, of course, that none of the parties involved can spell (and let's be real here: they can't).

Your Favorite Rapper's Favorite Wrestler?

Submitted for your approval: the music video for "Bad Man" by WWE's own John Cena. This particular little number features some auxillary cracker calling himself "Tha Trademarc" and legitimate underground legend Bumby Knuckles aka Freddie Foxx. Some marketing genius decided the way to keep Cena's rap career from being perceived as a joke was to stick him in an A-Team parody. Cena plays Hannibal, Tha Trademarc does Murdock, and Bumpy Knucks looks embarassed and uncomfortable as B.A. Baracus.

Apologies for how loud the Gary Coleman bits are. God only knows why these chiefs mixed his voice so high. I'm also puzzled as to why Bumpy Knuckles didn't murder Cena for that "After my verse, fast forward through the rest of the song" shit. In closing, let me state that Bumpy's line, "Your face is a cold, tight wad of blood and snot" is one of the best lyrics in any genre of music, EVER.

So Much Pain In His Life...

Having dropped the ECW belt to Lashley after last Sunday's exercise in inertia, Paul "Big Show" Wight has announced his retirement from Professional Wrestling. Sort of. His stepping-down speech is filled with the usual McMahon-approved platitudes and code words: "Hiatus", "Time Off", "Break". That said, the general tone of Shew's speech is one of regret, pain, and loss. He talks about being in constant pain, the memories from his 11 years in th' business, and (shudder) his interest in an acting career. Comedies, specifically. I'm sure our older readers remember Shew's hilarious Fat Bastard impression from back in the day.

Anyhoo, just look in the man's eyes. This picture right here says it all. The man's life is torture. Let him rest. The Facebuster staff feel that Paul Wight deserves a respite from the agonies of professional grappling. He deserves hope. He deserves a life of his own. Farewell, Big Show. We wish you all the best.

Now don't come back, you fat fucking bloodbag.

iMPACT! is Decadent and Depraved Part Two

The esatablishment in question was the delightfully named "Jung Lung's Tiny Bubble Room." It was, in theory, a cocktail palace grafted onto a Chinese restaurant. It was actually a pitch-black, murder-filled hallway measuring approximately twenty feet long and four feet across. Two tables and a jukebox provided perfect hiding places for marauding Tong Hatchet Men. Two fifty-year-old women sat in the back, dressed up as pre-teen drag queens. A scowling figure sat at the bar, chain smoking. Every ten minutes, a disinterested waitress carried a steaming plate of pressed MSG from one end of the room to the other.

We sat at the bar and started setting up beer bottles (there were NO BEERS ON TAP). The bartender paid us little heed, wrapped as she was in a tale of violence and debauchery. "Shannon and Paul had a fight earlier," she explained to no one in particular. "She was throwing stools at him. I had to kick them out." Jesus Christ, I thought. Jesus fucking Christ. A flung stool in a space this small would be like a live grenade in a dumptruck. Someone must have been seriously hurt.

The atmosphere of simmering bloodshed jolted our pickled brains back to the matter at hand. It was still ten till the hour... the CAGE MATCH WAS STILL ON! We nervously began pestering the bartender to let us watch wrestling on the tiny TV that hung above the bar. She turned slowly toward it, as though noticing it for the first time. "Becker" was on.

"Sure, whatever," she said, and passed the remote... to the Smoking Man at the bar.
"What channel you want?" he croaked.
"Spike TV! Spike TV! Ah... we think it's... 57?"
A nicotine-stained fingernail stabbed at the buttons. No dice. It was... I dunno. "Alias" or something. The man grunted and tossed the remote to the bar. We looked timidly at it. We looked at the clock. Five minutes of TV time remaining. Remote. TV. Clock. Remote.
"Can we just sort of surf around with that?" Von Fury's voice did a great job of not cracking with fear. The man grunted consentingly (we hoped).

Click. Click. Click. And there, on a screen the size of a piece of notebook paper, was the bloody BLOODY head of Christian Cage. There were some straightjacket antics. Some chair antics. the steady, reasurring drip of Christian's blood hitting the canvas. Five glorious minutes passed, and it was over.

We ordered a celebratory round of Michelob. It was a small victory, but a victory nonetheless.

And then the SECOND HOUR OF iMPACT! started. We gaped at each other. Had time come unstuck? Were they rerunning the whole damn show? AJ Styles, Christopher Daniels, and Chris Sabin started walloping on each other. It dawned on us that TNA had sprung for an additional hour to ring in their prime time debut. We began to rejoice.

The smoking man glared at the screen. "What the fuck is this?" he snarled, "Fuckin' Gay Boy Wrestling?"

As AJ Styles wrapped his bicycle-short-covered thighs around Chris Sabin's handsome face, we were forced to concede that it was, indeed Gay Boy Wrestling. And all was right with the world.

Yr Old Skool Photo of the Week

Ric Flair vs. Andre The Giant. Mid-Atlantic Championship Wrestling, 1976.

Oh My God . . . What a Dreadful PPV!

Greetings, loyal Arabian Facebuster readers. Last night's ECW PPV was debacle of epic proportions. It was Heroes of Wrestling bad. Its utter wretchedness motivated me to dig out my 1991 Great American Bash tape and watch it in its entirety...twice through. And then watch a replay of Election Night 2004 on CNN, despite voting for John Kerry like five or six times, to restore my faith in man. Per the advice of the Arabian Facebuster's Financial Planning Consultant, I would imagine that WWE shareholders (paging Pencil Neck Geek) were selling their stock en masse first thing this morn.

Granted, I didn't actually purchase D2D, let alone go to the local Hooter's and watch it with rubes of similar cognitive ability to these guys. Rather, I saw the results on the Internet last night. What were Vince and his merry band of dim witted sycophants thinking when they put this show together? CM Punk eliminated first in the elimination chamber? RVD pinned moments later? The baiting and switching of Sabu? Tommy Dreamer doing the job to Davari? Heel vs. heel mixed tag team action? Sandman relegated to a token beer swilling, Singapore cane swinging cameo? Matt Stryker in action? A new ECW Champion who wasn't even in the brand three weeks ago? Ending the PPV 40 minutes before the hour?

Since it is clear that Vincent Kennedy McMahon is hell bent on crushing the fond memories fans had for the old ECW and expunging the optimism they once held/patiently continue to hold for the relaunched version, I wanted to reach out to this leviathan of sports entertainment and provide him with a few suggestions on how to accelerate the fan apathy and antipathy, financial insolvency, and spectacular collapse of the most extreme brand in WWE Incorporated's sports entertainment portfolio; in short, to help him further sabotage and ultimately destroy his product and investment. Here are a few ideas off the top of my head...feel free to add more (hopefully they will be witty and funny, unlike the ones below) in the comments section.

1. Hotshot title change tomorrow night...Oh My God, the Mummy is new your new ECW Heavyweight Champion!
2. Similar to the NWO on Monday Nitro, have Mike Knox and Renee Dupree take over all future episodes of ECW on Sci-Fi.
3. Tonight on ECW...The Dungeon of Doom reunites!
4. Have CM Punk wrestle in black-face.
5. Pay off the Miz-BoogyMan feud in ECW with a series of 60 minute time limit draws.
6. Hold a tournament to crown ECW Tag Team Champions. Have Rob Van Dam and Sabu put over cleanly and decisively the new titleholders...Brooke and Nick Hogan.
7. Sign Raven. If he is unavailable, then bring in his talentless equivalent...Naked Mideon.
8. Bring back Kelly's Expose and have her suggestively dance with Mae Young, the DX fat male stripper, and, of course, the entire McMahon family!
9. Replace Taz(z) on color commentary with Ron Simmons.
10. At the start of each show, replay the entire clip from RAW where Joey Styles "shoots" on the WWE's puerile storylines and all around contempt of professional wrestling to remind those viewers who have yet to abandon the product as to why ECW was (supposedly) relaunched in the first place.

Facebuster Exclusive!

Highlights from ECW's December to Dismember...

Georgia on my Mind

From Georgia Championship Wrestling, circa 1983.

Other than Tommy "Wildfire" Rich and "Mad Dog" Buzz Sawyer, who engaged in a series of incredibly sadistic and bloody battles across the state of Georgia (climaxing with the legendary Last Battle of Atlanta in October 1983), I am not sure as to who is feuding with who, let alone the nature of the grievances, in this brief yet chaotic brawl.

Quick summary: As Gordon Solie and Rich call the action in the ring, Sawyer ambushes Wildfire at the announce position. The fight spreads quickly out to the ringside area, interrupting the no doubt riveting scientific clinic being put on between two of the territory's finer enhancement talents (see "BAR, STANDING ARM" at the six second mark of this clip for more information). Then, all HELL breaks lose as Kevin Sullivan (as a face!?), Ole Anderson, Roddy Piper (in full Scottish regalia), "The American Dream" Dusty Rhodes (sans a Baby Doll or Sweet Sapphire at his chubby side), and George "The Animal" Steele charge the ring and escalate the conflict. Steele all of a sudden goes into full on berzerker mode -- smashing Piper's head into the post one minute, reigning blows down upon Ole Anderson the next.

Like any good pro wrestling angle should, this clip provokes more questions than it provides answers. Why did Kevin Sullivan rush to ringside to go after Sawyer? And why exactly did Ole attack Sullivan? And what provoked the Animal to assault Piper so ferociously? Was Solie's remark that the Animal Steele was the most awesome individual he had ever seen in his life an example of his celebrated dry wit or proclivity for getting hammered on the job? Is the American Dream really that slothful in person, or does the camera add 20 (or in this case 50) pounds? Most lingering to this author, after Jobber #2 made it to the ropes, would Jobber #1 have released the arm bar, BEFORE the count of five? Frustratingly, this last question will forever remain shrouded in uncertainty... the focus of intensive inquiry, analysis, speculation, and debate apt to confound scholars and pundits alike for generations to come.

Roddy Piper: Dalmatian

The Arabian Facebuster staff send our deepest sympathy and support to Mr. Piper in his battle against Hodgkin's Lymphoma. Please get well soon and get back to cutting promos like the one featured above from his feud with Canadian Citizen (and sometime colleague of Streetfighter Tim Flowers) Bad News Brown.

Separated at Birth?

While watching the new breed unleashed on Sci-Fi last night, I couldn't help but notice the uncanny resemblance between ECW referee Scott Armstrong and former-GBV frontman Robert Pollard. Are the prolific singer-songwriter and the man assigned the unenviable task of maintaining some semblance of law and order in the Extreme Elimination Chamber on PPV this Sunday night both descended from the now steroid ravaged loins of "Bullet" Bob Armstrong? After placing a phone call to the authoritative Black Jack Brown, gathering an abundance of circumstantial and often contradictory evidence in the back issues of Man Splat, posting numerous inciting and rumor mongering messages on the ECW bulletin board under multiple user names and IP addresses, and submitting a paternity test of questionable contents to the Maury Povich show, the Arabian Facebuster Institute for Genealogic Studies concludes, irrefutably, "YES!"

However, this inexorable outcome begs the question: How come Bullet Bob's flawless genes were not passed down to this man?

iMPACT! is Decadent and Depraved Part One

It is a strange and disorienting thing to take one's enthusiasm for professional grappling out into the public eye. Safe in the confines of the living room, bellowing drunkenly at the screen, the constraints of modern society fall away. It is not unheard of for our team of correspondents to descend to the level of common beasts, howling and shrieking, leaping about the room like those apes at the beginning of 2001. Sure, we're just doing our Randy Orton impressions, but things can still get pretty nutty. It's easy to forget that there is a civilization outside the squared circle.

Thus, our first week without cable was rather difficult. RAW and SmackDown, we could live without. ECW? Pah. I'm beginning to get hoarse from scoffing at those jackasses. TNA, however, was an altogether different matter. Despite a certain jitteriness (to put things delicately) in their booking, they still put out the best TV wrestling show on the market, and their move to Prime Time was not to be missed. We were especially excited by the promise of the Christian/Rhino barbed wire (!) cage (!) match. Tired and jaded we may be, but massive lacerations and bloodshed still count for something in these modern times.

So it was that the Arabian Facebuster Editorial Staff found ourselves slouching into "The Barn," a rustic-looking drinkery in the posh environs of North Portland. As the saloon door slammed, we were greeted by a thick haze of smoke and a trio of soused Irishmen bulling their way through "Danny Boy." As they ramped up for the coda, one of the lads tottered over to the cluster of old-timers watching CSI at the bar.

"Can you please fuckin' turn off that fuckin' CSI so's we can hear this great fuckin' song?" he queried. "Just fuckin' turn it off for ten fuckin' seconds so we can fuckin' drunk talk jobble jobble mutter sluuurrrrr...."

Things looked grim for anyone wanting to watch a cage match in this joint. We grabbed our drinks and scuttered furtively into the back room, where a second TV towered. It gleamed majestically, gloriously unwatched. We waved the bartender over and began lobbying for our program. She seemed quite amenable, even going so far as to hit the "on" button, but then the St. Patrick's Parade in the next room boiled over. One of the inebriates took it upon himself to purge the Devil CSI and began attacking the television. The bartender raced into the front room to chastise him.

We sulked. The TV was on, showing some unwatchable police procedural. Perhaps it was a "Law and Order" or perhaps a "Homicide." It was certainly not a cage match. We tried flipping the channels ourselves, but who could make heads or tails of this damn satellite business? Why couldn't this bar get magic pixies trucked in along a length of cable like normal people?

The bartender returned, her knuckles bruised and a knot of red hair in her fist. The lads in the next room fumed along to a Pogues/Thin Lizzy medley. A quick stab of a button, and there was Spike TV. And no wrestling.

"Oh," the bartender said, "The satellite's on Eastern Time. Your show started at six." With that, she clomped off to the bar, leaving us to blink awkwardly at the Japanese game show confronting us. We lapped miserably at our beers. There was nothing left to do but get drunk. We ordered another round and began to discuss which road would best lead us to oblivion.

It was decided that, in the interest of adventure, we should investigate the establishment across the street.

Yr Old Skool Tag Team Photo of the Week

Jim Cornette, "Beautiful" Bobby, and "Loverboy" Dennis . . .
The Midnight Express celebrate after defeating the Rock & Roll
Express to capture their first NWA World Tag Team
Championship, Atlanta GA, February 1986.

Unstoppable...The One Man Gang Is!

I'm unsure to whether the title of this post is supposed to be an allusion to Yoda's syntax or those Citizen Echo Drive commercials. Regardless, here some more sweet sweet old skool goodness, brought to you by the Arabian Facebuster Historical Preservation Society. This clip has got it all: a classic bodyslam challenge angle, a 450 pound behemoth yet to discover his rich African heritage, a manager who gave back to the community by mentoring underprivileged ginger kids in his spare time, a very green (despite already being in the business for 7+ years) Zodiac, and an incredibly geeked up Boy from New York City, with an aide to right wing ideologue and former North Carolina Senator Jesse Helms narrating the action.

This clip comes from Mid-Atlantic Wrestling, circa 1983/84. For some unspecified and likely pointless reason, Sir Oliver Humperdrink offered anyone in professional wrestling $5,000 if they could slam his meal-ticket, and the most corpulent white man to ever roam the mean streets of Chicago's South Side, the One Man Gang. The Gang wears a black t-shirt with his name ironed on the front, likely the product of either unbridled narcissism or a seemingly innocent rib involving his gym bag and Bob Orton Jr's feces that spiraled out of control.

Anyways, after failing the week before, Dizzy "The Booty Man" Hogan makes another gallant but ultimately futile attempt to slam the Gang and collect the money. Suddenly, out comes Jimmy "The Boogie Woogie Man" Valiant. Between Valiant, the Gang, and Humperdink, the collection of mangy hairdos and unkept beards in the ring are truly a spectacle to behold. After a pathetic first try, Valiant demands the sound guy in the back to cue his music, presumably to his get his adrenaline flowing and enhance the rail after glorious rail of coke he snorted seconds before charging the ring. The sound guy obliges. As the AM soft rock stylings of Tony Orlando blare over the PA, Valiant lifts the Gang high into the air; but before he can drop the Gang onto his ample posterior, Humperdink intervenes, the Gang comes crashing down onto the hapless Valiant, and the beat down is muthafuckin' ON!

Dizzy "The Barber" Hogan finally gets his wits about him and makes the save, but it is too late. Valiant is convulsing on the canvas, his body in shock from the devastating 747 splash exacerbated by the toxic quantity of yayo in his system.

Enjoy.

Yr Old Skool Survivor Series Photo of the Week

Mean Gene Okerlund interviews The Gobbledy Gooker at the 1990 Survivor Series.

Off the Wagon!

To my fellow Arabian Facebuster illuminati: My sincerest apologies for my lack of postings over the past three months. I went on the wagon. No, I didn't quit drinking . . . give up alcohol? C'mon now, you know me better than that; I gots a lifestyle to maintain.

Rather, I needed to free myself from the mediocrity, unfulfilled expectations, and consistent disappointment that is the current state of modern day sports entertainment programming. From Joey Styles predictably grunting "OH!" after every Mike Knox back body drop and Test boot to the face; to the trailers for The Marine week after agonizing week regardless of what brand I was watching; to redundant Extreme Rules matches; to finding valuable television time and a meaningful program for K-Fed but not for Shelton Benjamin; to the Great Khali in ECW, let alone having a job in professional wrestling; to the RAW Diva Search; to the narcissistic comedy stylings and change the channel inducing escapades of D-Generation X; to Matt Hardy defeating Gregory Helms in a non-title match for the 114th consecutive time; to the hyperactive, manic, nonsensical booking in TNA (even more so than usual it seems); to Matt Stryker's 'curtain jerker at the high-school gymnasium' gimmick, ring attire, mike-work, moveset and in-ring psychology; to the Miz NOT being repeatedly stabbed by a nameless assailant and left for dead in the parking lot prior to a house show; I couldn't take it anymore. I was disaffected. I needed a sabbatical. So I avoided the television on Monday, Tuesday, Thursday, and Friday nights and quit blogging on the ONLY professional wrestling site that matters.

So why am I once again embracing my addiction to THE modern day professional wrestling, despite its sheer crappulance!? Well, I learned some hard lessons over the past few months: (1) Watching the same old botched Lex Luger interview over and over again on YouTube was not a sufficient, long-term replacement for fresh, unabashedly scripted and awkwardly delivered promos by RVD and Sabu; (2) Despite booking that makes them often look weak or foolish, I genuinely enjoy watching the likes of Chris Benoit, Samoa Joe, Christpher Daniels, Finlay, and even The Monster Abyss for their innovative matches and willingness to give as much (if not more) as they take; (3) It is imperative to look towards/at the present in order to more fully appreciate the past goodness and simplistic brilliance of Crockett Promotions/NWA, World Class, the UWF, the original ECW, etc; and (closely related) (4) I would rather watch DREADFUL episodic professional wrestling/sports entertainment and voice my frustration and disdain (in blog form!) with its content and direction than abstain altogether.

So I hope you'll welcome me back, my giddy Arabian Facebuster multitude. If you do, I promise to keep bringing the old skool photos of the week, 80s video clips, Apter magazine excerpts, and sporadic yet measured commentary on the current state of pro werestling affairs. In short, I vow to stay off the wagon, for good.

A Moment Of Clarity.

So. I sat. Bottle in one hand, cable bill in the other. Monday Night RAW blaring inanely (is there any other way to blare?) in the background. I tallied up the costs. Basic cable. On Demand. Pay-Per-View purchases. And, god help me, I even contemplated dropping another ten bucks a month for WWE 24/7. I dropped both bill and bottle (the slow glug of sauce hitting hardwood tapped out a gentle rhythm), put my head in my hands, and wept.

My family fortunes were drained. My once-vast real estate empire lay in ruins. The yacht, in flames, slid beneath the icy waters of the Willamette (which, I suppose, quenched the flames. I wouldn't know. I was at home, drinking and crying and watching wrestling, remember?). What had I become? WHAT HAD I BECOME?

More to the point, what had WRESTLING become? RAW was a shiftless morass of (sports) ENTERTAINMENT, a resurgent Eric Bischoff riding roughshod over my cherished Warzone. ECW, once the brightest gem in the wrestling heavens, had become less than a ghost of itself, gleefully hoovering up whatever pitiful crumbs Vince McMahon let fall from his never-ending Shit Buffet. Smackdown, tragically, remained Smackdown.

Even my beloved TNA had forsaken me. "Bound for Glory" mired itself in mediocrity, and with Vince Russo at the helm, the course seemed set. TNA would gradually squander all that made them beautiful, hitching themselves to a surgically-reduced God Botherer and a pilled-up lunatic with a death wish. Even the LAX/Chertoff feud had ended, giving way to an unpromising dust-up with a pair of underperforming gay cowboys.

In this flat gray landscape, so destitue that I could no longer buy brandy, was I seriously considering spending MORE money on wrestling? It seemed that I, or perhaps the world, had gone mad.

I lifted my tear stained face, and looked to Monday Night RAW for what cold comfort it could offer. There, John Cena railed against his new foil, Kevin Federline (Ay! Mi Estomago!). He discussed experiencing a "moment of clarity." Then and there, I had my answer.

No more cable. No more On Demand. No more PPV. No 24/7. Cold turkey. If I must howl my critiques into the void, then Smackdown would be my muse. It was free. It was two hours long. It was not really THAT much worse than RAW or ECW.

I felt a tremendous weight lift, and the sun (metaphorically) appeared through the clouds. My life gained a monastic focus and simplicity. I was filled with a burning creative drive, a sense of righteous purpose. This was a wise thing I was doing. I felt saintlike. I felt Christlike. I felt like (rapture of raptures!) STING.

There you have it, gentle reader. My Road to Damascus moment. From this point on, Arabian Facebuster will be a leaner, hungrier beast. We will give you the finest wrestling coverage that No Money can buy. FREE WRESTLING FOR A FREE WORLD!

Except for TNA Impact!, which the Facebuster staff will be watching at The Barn in North Portland every Thursday. Oh, and we're buying the ECW Pay-Per-View, too, but that's the last one, EVER. I PROMISE.

Sting: Before.

I know, I know, the "blog chronology" of these two posts is all off. Whatever, nerds. It's called a "scrolldown," if my intern is to be believed. I caught him huffing the color ink from my printer cartridge last week, so his opinions are rather suspect.

The saddest part of this whole (alleged) Sting Fat-Sucking coverup is that dude was in pretty decent shape anyway. A bit doughy, to be sure, but fit as hell for a forty-seven-year-old man. Damn you, Extreme Makeover. Damn you to hell.

BTW, what the fuck is up with these ridiculous pouches Sting always has over his crotch? This one looks like a turtle's beak.

Sting: After.

TNA did a pretty nice job photoshopping Sting's scar out of most of the "Bound For Glory" shots, but that shit's looking pretty inverted right here. Maybe they assumed nobody would even look at a picture of Jeff Jarrett applying a headlock, but they underestimated the tenacity of the Arabian Facebuster Research Institute.

Anyhoo, the left nipple appears to be where they removed 20% of the Sting from their federation. You know what I call that?

A damn good start. God, I kill me.

Now With 400% More Kane

Greetings wrestling fans. My humblest apologies for the recent deficiency of WWE SmackDown related postings in these hallowed cyber-pages. My stay in rehab for steroid addiction was lengthy and emotionally demanding. I extend my most sincere gratitude to the Arabian Facebuster Wellness Program for starting me on the road to recovery. Although my once chiseled Adonis physique has returned to Jeff Hardy-like proportions, I am now able to enjoy SmackDown without destroying my living room every time Vickie Guerrero (and her JC Penny Fall Collection wearing ass) arrives on the screen.

My return has been an emotional one, made all the more so when I discovered the headquarters mail room flooded with the neglected letters of our ever-devoted fans: Dear Pencil Neck Geek, Who is this Chris Benoit guy and should the Great Kahli be concerned? Pencil Neck Geek, Are the new Jimmy Wang Yang collectible belt buckles available at WWE Shop Zone yet? Pencil Neck Geek, How can one justify the existence of God when innocent children are starving, cancer remains uncured, and the Miz is allowed to stink up the ring week after week? Well fans, like the return of Mark Henry, these questions will have to wait for another week. Today we must turn our attention to:

The CW! In a last ditch effort to avert the inevitable demise of the UPN and WB, the two floundering networks have recently been consolidated to into a mega-emporium of crap programming. As the corporate assholes behind this unholy merger desperately scramble to keep their sinking ship afloat, ratings are the highest order of the day. This is serious people. Our beloved SmackDown is just one more Bobby Lashley main event away from being replaced by a 7th Heaven marathon. Fortunately, said ratings have arrived- swathed in red spandex.

Intrepid research by the AFOSP (Arabian Facebuster Online Surveillance Program) reveals that Kane holds the cure for the seemingly unstoppable malaise that has plagued SmackDown for years. High level internet sources have assured us that the program, and wrestling in general, can be taken to glorious new heights if Vince will just strap the gold on this pasty monster. So what if I've always found the guy to be a bit one-dimensional in the ring? Desperate times call for, um, pyrotechnics and choke slams. Join me, won't you, as I usher in an exciting new era of Nielsen domination (in my best Jim Ross Shriek):

Omigawd! It's Kane! ... Kane!! ... Kane!!! ... KANE!!!

Mediocrity Holds Sway

The above title is not, of course meant in ANY WAY to refer to the fellow on the left. Hernandez, Homicide, and the other two had the best match of the night at "Bound For Glory." They had, in fact, the ONLY MATCH as far as we're concerned. The rest of the show was the sort of sub-average schmoz-fest we're used to seeing out of th' WWE. TNA, you have let us down. Hernandez, on the other hand, has earned our undying respect. Please don't hurt us.

The sooner I can ring the mental curtain down on "Glory," the better. I must, however tarry for one moment more. 700 Club Member Steve Borden aka Sting aka your NWA World Champeen has apparently had some cheap back-alley fat-sucking surgery. Photos from the PPV are being sequestered by the TNA honchos, but we'll post 'em as we finds 'em. When we DO find 'em, or if any of you happen to be watching iMPACT! this week, check out Sting's left nipple (I know, I'm sorry, bear with me). What the ass is that bizarre scar tissue doing? And where have Sting's love handles gone? And why isn't he wrestling in his singlet (for the first time in like ten years) anymore? And why didn't TNA use some of that Kurt Angle money to spring for a legitimate surgeon? Hell, even I know the scar for something like this is s'posed to go UNDER one's man-boob/pectoral muscle/what-have-you.

So, "Bound For Glory": Underwhelming.
LAX Versus Styles/Chertoff: Awesome.
Sting: Scarred, Shrunken, God-Fearing.

Thank you and goodnight.

Even A Broken Clock...

Look at that belt! Look at the "W"! It's RIGHT SIDE UP!!!!

Clearly, the apocalypse is imminent.

Who Gayer Than Kanyon?

Chris Kanyon did an excellent interview on the Howard Stern show today, focusing mainly on his sexual orientation and his "release" from the WWE. In a nutshell, Kanyon says he discussed coming out as gay with some of the "higher ups" at the fed. Shortly thereafter, Vince told him to dress up like Boy George and sing "like a faggot." In the ring, no less. Shortly THEREafter, he was released during a round of "cutbacks." Heat machines like Maven and Tyson Tomko remained on the payroll.

We at Arabian Facebuster applaud Kanyon for his bravery, decry Vince McMahon for his (completely obvious but still alleged) homophobia, and hope Mr. Kanyon can get off the indie circuit and into TNA sometime soon. Sure, he says he's making good money and all, but come on, man. Let's get your gay ass back on the TV. On second thought, perhaps not.

Oh, and Mr. McMahon, if you want to remove the dark stain of homophobia from your company, I got three words for ya: Big Gay Viscera.

How I Learned To Stop Worrying And Love Homeland Security

Recent developments in TNA wrestling have left your correspondent in something of a moral quandry. As a long time lefty anarchist malcontent, I of course yearn for a utopian future where all the races of earth join together in their hearts and minds to seize the means of production, smash the state, execute their leaders, and walk the shining path of righteousness etcetera.

On the other hand, true racial understanding among the working classes would mean an end to the feud between the LAX and AJ Styles/Christopher Daniels (Pictured above at left). This, obviously, will not stand. Last month's Ultimate X match finally ushered in the much-heralded New Era of Violence, to near-universal acclaim. THIS month, we are blessed to receive a 6 Sides of Steel match (a cage match, for those of you wrestling in non-goofy rings) just in time for the first ever Arabian Facebuster Roundtable Summit (we welcome our visitors from the Land of 10,000 Lakes). It should be glorious, to say the least.

That said, it causes me no end of intellectual discomfort to know that this tremendous bounty lies at my feet ONLY through the tragic state of US-Mexico border relations. As long as the LAX represent the monstrous Bogey Man lurking at our Southern Border, eager to steal our jobs/make off with our women/enhance our cuisine, we are assured that the high-flying bloodbaths will continue. Should we (horrors!) relax into multiculturalism, the feud will lose heat faster than this guy.

So I am torn. I of couse want all humans everywhere to love and understand each other. I realize that Global Capitalism exploits the working stiffs of ALL cultures, and only by banding together to resist the cold hand of the multinational conglomerate can we ever hope to elevate ourselves. I also realize that LAX/Styles/Daniels plus steel cage equals TOTAL KICKASS. And if Arabian Facebuster cares about anything, it is ass kickin', no matter what its culture of origin.