And Me, My Tit Is Killing Me

Lest you think I'm the sort of character who welches on his bets, here (at long last) is my review/book report on Joanie "Chyna/Chyna Doll/'Holiday'/Rex/Anna Nicole's BFF" Laurer's auto(ha!)biography If They Only Knew.

I should begin by disclosing my lack of credentials. I am about to make several snide and critical remarks about a book that the poor woman pictured at left (supposedly) wrote. She is a human being with feelings, and aside from several years spent writing music and film criticism, another several years spent writing short fiction, a year spent editing this beauty of a website right here, and maintaining close friendships with several English Majors (one of whom happens to be my MOM), I have NOTHING in my background that qualifies me to judge another person's writing. I'm just being mean.

If They Only Knew is a spastic, incoherent mess, and I don't believe for a second that Joanine Laurer wrote it. It's packed to the gills with the sort of strained imagery and tortured metaphors one associates with the worst kind of ghostwriter: the sort employed by the WWE.

What's more, the arc of the story (such as it is) is prone to five-page digressions, as though Chyna (I'm tired of typing her government name) were rambling into a tape recorder (or, more likely, chatting with her ghostwriter) and wandering down the long-forgotten goat paths of memory (that one's not in the book. It's too good) before being herded back on point by a clucking shepherd. Take, for instance, the part in Chapter 9 where Chyna starts out talking about the Fitness America competitions, takes time out to talk about her bad experience with a BODYBUILDING competition (there is, apparently, a difference), veers WILDLY off to talk about trying to join the secret service, and then retraces her steps for seven pages before getting back to the original point, such as it was.

Oh, and her book has cameos in it. Cameo WRITERS in it. Chyna ropes both Triple H and Mick Foley in to write a few pages of her book. This is presented as though the guests were just walking by as Chyna reached their parts in the story, and she "just lets them tell it." It's hilariously awkward, moreso because this ludicrous device isn't trotted out until page 216 of a 318 page book.

All of this makes it sound like ITOK is good for a laugh. It is. Hell, it's good for several laughs. Deep, massive, soul-satisfying belly laughs. If you cherry pick lines from this book, it'll have you wiping tears from your eyes. If, however, you actually wade through every page, you'll feel like you've spent an hour or two in someone else's bathwater. Chyna's life is an unending litany of failure, misery, and self-loathing. What's worse, the book's tone is relentlessly upbeat. Knowing what we do of her life after the final chapter of the book (abusive boyfriend, sex tape, pill habit, "singing career", stint on The Surreal Life) makes the pathos almost unbearable. It becomes clear to even the most callous, unsympathetic cad (that would be me) that Chyna is DEEPLY traumatized by her life and is using a manic and false self-confidence to shield herself from the actual emotions stirred by (here's the list people): her abusive parents, her cancer, her rape, the sexism of the wrestling business, her con-man father, oh and (according to the porn reviewer at VICE magazine) the FACT THAT SHE'S A HERMAPHRODITE.

Jesus. Anyway, the only way to get through this epic chronicle of self-denial and human suffering is to turn it into a drinking game. Here's when you drink:

Chyna complains about a parent.
Chyna uses a strained or mixed metaphor.
The ghostwriter leaves in a gramatical error.
Chyna veers off on a tangent. Drink twice if it lasts more than two pages.
Chyna talks about the smell of "sports cream" (no shit, this rule alone will get you loaded).
Chyna insults Killer Kowalski.
Chyna talks about how tough you have to be to make it in wrestling, but then is either crying or screaming at someone within two pages. Drink twice if it's Melissa Rivers.
Chyna glosses over her body being "different".

I could add more rules, but the Arabian Facebuster Wellness Policy forbids it. I'll simply leave you to it, adding only that you lightweights aren't gonna make it through the second chapter. Enjoy. I didn't.

Reason #163 to Despise Hulk Hogan...

His willingness to the recruit the mentally deranged in his quest to sell bowls of pasta to the uninformed, unsophisticated masses. Bowls of hot, flavorful, delicious pasta.

Ring of Honor...It's On!

Yours truly will be heading to the St. Paul Armory this evening to plunk down a hard earned $15.00 in order to take in the action, competition, and spectacle that is Ring of Honor. While admittedly no more than a casual follower of the promotion, there are quite a few guys (notwithstanding notables like Christopher Daniels, Homicide, Aries, and Strong) that I am excited to see in action, specifically Takeshi Morishima, The Briscoe Brothers, Jack Evans (Apollo, wasn't he in WSX?), and Mike Quackenbush. Plus, it is Colt Cabana's final weekend working for ROH before relocating to Stamford, CT and paying about three months worth of dues jobbing to the likes of Val Venis and Kenny Dykstra on Heat before paying antoher three months of dues jobbing to the likes of The Great Khali and Johnny Nitro on RAW.

Anyways, here's the card...

ROH World Title Match

Takeshi Morishima vs. Austin Aries

FIP World Heavyweight Title Match

Roderick Strong vs. Christopher Daniels

World Tag Team Title Ultimate Endurance

(elimination match with each fall having a different stipulation. First fall can only be won by tap out. Second fall is a Tag Team Scramble meaning no tags are needed. Final fall is for the ROH World Tag Team Titles)

ROH World Tag Team Champions Jay & Mark Briscoe

vs.

Pelle Primeau & Mitch Franklin

vs.

Mike Quackenbush & Jigsaw

vs.

Hallowicked & Gran Akuma

Four Corner Survival Match
Jack Evans vs. Delirious vs. Rocky Romero vs. Erick Stevens

Anything Goes Fight

Colt Cabana & Homicide vs. Brent Albright & Adam Pearce with Shane Hagadorn

Special Challenge Match
BJ Whitmer vs. Shingo

SHIMMER Tag Team Action

St. Paul's own Rain & Lacey vs. Sara Del Rey & Allison Danger

An update on the Ring of Honor experience will be forthcoming next week, along with a belated summary of the Western Wrestling Association preposterousness from a few weeks back...I promise!

But He Did Stay at a Holiday Inn Express

In case anyone was concerned as to the whereabouts of Randy Orton (pictured at left doing an impression of a Korean with a migraine) on last night’s RAW, fear not, he wasn’t murdered, abducted, jailed or anything comparatively nightmarish. As it turns out, last weekend this overpushed youngster was sent home early from the WWE’s tour of Europe for trashing one of the continent's finer motor lodges. No word as to whether Mr. Orton rode business class or suffered the indignity of flying coach on his trip back to the states.

According to a well placed source within the company, who requested anonymity in discussing the matter, “As a result of Randy’s sudden departure and harsh admonishment, locker room morale has plummeted to an all-time low. But perplexingly, the number of unattended gym bags NOT being mysteriously defecated in is at a five year high.”

If you ask me, this whole situation sounds like a classic case of mistaken identity. Rest assured, Arabian Facebuster will pass along any additional information as it is made available.

Yr (Still Livin' in the) 80s Tag Team of the Week

The Rock & Roll Express: Robert Gibson, (some portly rube jackass) and Ricky Morton, circa 2005. Yes, 2005.

Prime Figure In Flat Grey Landscape

Holy. Shit. All real wrestling fans need to haul ass with the greatest possible dispatch over to the Bruiser Brody website. Apparently some total geniuses have put together a biography of the greatest promo man of all time. It's a limited edition of 1,000 copies, features interviews with basically the entire world, and is being previewed in the golden basket of angel tears now showing at the top of the post. I must now stop typing, as my hands are sweating and I'm shaking uncontrollably.

They really ought to consider making a movie out of this shit.

Prepare to be Blown Away...

...By a supplement even more effective at trimming the fat than expired Four Horsemen Vitamins!

Reason #104 to Despise Hulk Hogan

His penchant for leaking petty, lackluster, and most certainly non-newsworthy tidbits to drum up publicity for Hogan Knows Best while perpetuating his self-delusion of cultural relevance. Somebody please introduce me to the reporter that would actually spend an iota of their time and journalistic capital muckraking this nonsense. No, Jimmy Hart and Brian Knobbs are not reporters. They are sycophants.

From the New York Post's Page Six:

April 17, 2007 -- HAS the longest, strongest marriage in professional wrestling history suffered a fatal, bone-crunching blow?

Sources close to Hulk and Linda Hogan, who've been wedded for more than 20 years, say they're "going through a very hard time and their marriage is under a lot of strain."

The problems started several years ago when the Hogan family - including the couple's kids, aspiring pop singer Brooke and amateur race-car driver Nick - started filming the VH1 show "Hogan Knows Best." One friend said, "They have different beliefs on how to raise kids. Brooke started her music career, and they started getting into fights."

Some of the well-documented battles on the show have been over how scantily clad Brooke - just 18 when she did her first major magazine - should be, or how late she could stay out with boyfriends.

During the show, the Hogans moved from their longtime residence in Tampa to a Miami mansion, and also bought houses in Los Angeles and Las Vegas. While either Linda or Hulk traveled with Brooke or Nick to their various events, they rarely traveled together. Another source of tension was Hulk, 53, desperately wanting to get back into wrestling, while Linda wanted to body-block the idea, fearing he could get hurt.

At one point, the friend said, "Linda got so fed up she quit the VH1 show. She just walked off. No one knows what started that fight but it was serious." Linda is now back on set to film the fourth season.

Another insider said, "At one point they were talking divorce. It's still precarious."

A rep for the Hogans declined comment. But Hulk's wrestling manager, Jimmy Hart, told us, "There's ups and downs in every marriage. I was with them last weekend in Miami shooting the show and everything seemed fine.

"Dionne Warwick was there to do a song with Brooke, and Linda seemed fine. Ever since they went to marriage counseling on that VH1 show, people have said there were problems, but it's fine."

Sorry Hulkster (and minions), but a married couple navigating a rough patch in their relationship does not remotely qualify as "news" or even "juicy gossip." Now say Linda files for divorce from your resplendently leathery skinned carcass, that's news. Or that your marriage is legitimately the "longest and strongest in professional wrestling history," now that's news. Or that your vocally pitchy daughter Brooke engaged in a late-night lesbian tryst with the geriatric Dionne Warwick after their hit making recording session, now that's juicy gossip!

Yr 4 Horsemen Foto of the Week

Jim Ross interviews a ponytailed "Nature Boy" Ric Flair and members of the Horsemen.

The Trick Is To Stop Thinking Of It As "Your" Money...

A reminder from your friends here at Arabian Facebuster: Your taxes are due!

And don't even think about blowing off those goons over at the Internal Revenue Service. You wouldn't want this to happen, would you?

Reason #248 to Despise Hulk Hogan

In Arabian Facebuster's perpetual quest to marshal evidence showing Hulk Hogan to be...how do I put this tactfully...the shimmering orange demon spawn of Lucifer and Hitler, I submit for your consideration you this clip of haughty wrestling buffoonery.

And for all of you library science nerdlingers out there, please also archive this clip under "Reason #194 to validate that Randy Savage is completely fucking mad."

Kanyon Gayness Update

Openly gay wrestler Chris Kanyon was on the Howard Stern show today, mere moments (in geologic time) after announcing his retirement from pro wrestling. He discussed his recent suicide attempt (jumping in front of a train? How does that end up as an "attempt"?), his continuing struggles with depression (leading pillar of mental and physical health Artie Lange to offer him some free psychiatric counseling) and his persecution complex (during his manic phases, Kanyon tends to believe that "powerful forces," Vince McMahon among them, are conspiring to destroy his life... Heather Mills should take notes).

Of most interst to this writer were Kanyon's claims that Dennis Rodman was "stinking drunk" when he showed up for training sessions with Kanyon back in the bad old days of the Russo-fied WCW. Kanyon also says orange-hued Islamofascist Hulk Hogan threatened to kick Rodman's ass if he didn't get in line.

See? Hogan hates our freedoms. Specifically, our freedom to be drunk, arrogant, pansexual herpes factories.

Regardless, Arabian Facebuster once again salutes the (possibly nutty) Chris Kanyon, and we wish him all the best in his future endeavors.

BREAKING NEWS: Disco Inferno Arrested!

Law abiding and Christianist citizens of Georgia...disarm your home security systems, leave your doors ajar, let your children roam wild and/or free in the streets, and don't forget to PRAISE JESUS! For a sinful and illegal weekly high stakes poker game in your community has been shut down.

And get this...there's a wrestling connection! Glen Gilberti aka Disco Inferno (pictured here just moments before infiltrating a John Travolta impersonator convention) was arrested as part of the gambling sting. If you want more details on this wholly uninteresting situation, then click here.

Much like the iconic (albeit secular) weekly literary periodical TV Guide, Arabian Facebuster would like to give an enthusiastic CHEERS to Georgia state law enforcement for putting this degenerate, always on-tilt gambler and recreational drug user wanton, dangerous, and Godless criminal where he belongs -- BEHIND BARS.

Arabian Facebuster would also like to present Disco Inferno with a vociferous JEERS for the cigarette smuggling and sodomy that he will inevitably partake in while in the clink. Mr. Inferno, while in lockdown, we also hope that you find the time to repent for your sins and develop a personal sanctimonious relationship with Jesus Christ. Because resurrection will be your reward.

Yr Facebuster All-Stars Foto of the Week

Big Gay King Mabel tranquilly crushes the chest of the late Scott "Bam Bam" Bigelow as as an exasperated Lex Luger watches helplessly.

Nightmarish Secrets At Last Revealed

I realise it may be hard for some of you to view the following images. What you are about to see strikes directly at the core of our most cherished assumptions about Democracy, Safety, and National Pride. But better to stand shivering in the harsh light of cruel reality than toil blindly under the oppressive yoke of The Neo-Conservative World Capitalist New World Order (or Drug Goon Psycho Communist Mind-Control Mafia, if that's more your speed).

Fear for my own safety prevents me from naming names, but I think it's fairly obvious from the photographic evidence who the REAL threat to our Republic is. Clearly, a certain leering "orange-hued dirigible (thanks to Malibu Sands for the apt description) has made the ultimate "heel turn" and is now in league with those who hate us for our freedoms.

I call on our nation's leaders to turn our military might against the TRUE threat to American Liberty. Our current policy of adventurism is clearly a smokescreen, meant to distract us from the real culprits. Yes, our foe is powerful, but Lady America must prevail! What are YOU gonna do, terrorist scum, when the Department of Homeland Security runs wild on YOU?!

In closing, I must sound one final discordant note of trouble: Where does Randy Savage stand in all of this? Is he in league with our enemies, plotting America's downfall from the comfort of his palatial estate? Or is he fearlessly leading a resistance effort, meting out vigilante justice from the safety of th' Underground? Or is he in a padded room somewhere, sobbing and babbling incoherently to a Diamond Dallas Page stuffed toy?

U Say AmeriCAN'T, I Say AmeriCAN

After repeated viewings of this slickly produced piece of crap propaganda, I am still unsure as to whether its meta narrative is that Hulk Hogan's contributions to the republic and influence on the polity are commensurate with Washington, Jefferson, Lincoln, Kennedy, and MLK, or that whenever the ol' US and A is confronted with hostility, be it from loathsome flag burners, treasonous anti-war agitators, or diabolical foreign madmen (like Nikolai Volkoff or that no good Lybian son-of-a-bitch Kadafi), America always hulks up and drops a great big melanoma ridden leg on its enemies.

Or am I missing the premise entirely? Take a gander and decide for yourself.

I'm Off the Wagon, Part 2

It has been a long time since your faithful scribe has attended a live professional wrestling event. Too damn long. In fact, the last wrestling event that I graced with my presence was an ICW-Tacoma show back in the late spring of 2000.

I vividly remember the main event of that card like it was yesterday...with hands bound, legs shackled, eyes blindfolded, and nose pinched shut via clothespin, "Streetfighter" Tim Flowers (aka the Triple H of Tacoma) single-handedly decimated ICW Tag Team Champions Richie Magnett AND Buddy Wayne in a handicapped-barbed wire-flaming tables-lumberjack-street fight and then, as a result of his victory, was granted five minutes alone in the ring with the tag champs' manager -- a rabid and almost certainly inbred grizzly bear cub. After powerbombing the feral beast off the top rope through a flaming table covered with thumb tacks, thereby rendering it unconscious in a puddle of its own filth, Flowers proceeded to have unprotected sex with the hottest women from the throng of lovelies congregated at ringside, wearing nothing but the just acquired tag team title gold belts around his perfectly proportioned waist. Now that's wrestling!

Regrettably, I had probably guzzled down about 10 PBR tall boys or so by the time the main event went on, so I am likely leaving out a few of the ancillary details from that otherwise unforgettable night at the (Michael the Neckel) Temple Theatre.

However, my seven year pro wrestling itch is going to get scratched big time come Friday evening!
The place: The Tri-City American Legion (the Frank Lloyd Wright designed edifice pictured above) in New Brighton, MN.
The bell time: 7:00pm.
The promotion: The Western Wrestling Association (you may want to spend a couple of minutes perusing through their site as it's quite a hoot).
The reason I am attending this indy-garbage monstrosity: My friend Martha was invited by one of the wrestler's to attend the show but she is petrified of going alone, wanting instead to be escorted to the matches by someone who projects vitality, confidence, and credibility. Since her friends that actually possess these traits already have plans, I am accompanying her instead.

Facebusteristas, next week I promise to post a recap of all of the ludicrousness that is the Western Wrestling Association live and in person. Until then, enjoy some frosty cans of Iron City and TNA Impact at The Tiny Bubble Room.

Yr Old Skool Canadian Foto of the Week

A young Owen Hart and stern Bad News Allen.

Thanks, God... for NOTHING!

Now, we see the reward for my faith. I trusted that Our Heavenly Father would rain blessings down on his humble servant (The Heartbreak Kid Shawn Michaels) in the form of sweet, sweet title gold. Alas, it was not to be. The tie-breaking final match of the night (A tie for first place between Rev. VonFury and Th' Pencil Neck Geek, and a tie for last place between Yrs Truly and Malibu Sands) went to White Rapper John Cena. And lo, the seventh seal did open, and the seas did boil, and I had to do a report on the steaming turd pictured at left.


The book! The book is the turd, you meanies. God, no wonder she's always crying.

BREAKING NEWS: Anna Nicole Still Dead, Chyna Still Insane

Train wreck. Car collision. Bowling shoe ugly. A total fucking mess. What, and/or possibly who, the heck am I talking about?

“The Marine,” starring John Cena? Nope, try again.

My temperament, judgment, and equilibrium after guzzling down two cans of Camo Black Ice? No, but you're getting warmer.

Last night’s Great Khali vs. Kane encounter? Technically accurate, but wide of the mark in capturing my intent.

"Good Ol’ JR’s" euphemisms for making sweet sweet love to his old lady? Profoundly disturbing, albeit not an unreasonable supposition.

The definitive answer my Arabian Facebuster amigos is Joanie Laurer aka Chyna Doll (pictured above just seconds after dicing a particularly large onion), specifically her (1) hysterical reaction to the totally foreseeable demise of her "dear friend" Anna Nicole Smith; and (2) enduring and unwavering exploitation of Anna's agonizing death (or if you're a glass half full type, then replace "agonizing death" with "shallow and utterly worthless life") for the purposes of straight to video motion picture promotion and career advancement. Although Chyna comes across surprisingly lucid and sympathetic in this clip, rest assured, she’ll be engaing in self-ostracizing behavior (like getting back together with X-Pac) and hitting rock bottom (like getting back together with X-Pac!) again real soon. In 5, 4, 3, 2...

Stakes Is High

Hey gang, Wrestlemania 23 is tomorrow! Meh, you say? No whining, Facebuster staff- wrestling fans worldwide will be awaiting a dismissive recap with baited breath. To ease the burden of our journalistic obligations, Pencil Neck Geek hereby pledges a half rack of Rainier* to whoever posts the most correct predictions in our comments section.

Be warned that you will want to make your selections with utmost care. The participant with the fewest correct picks will be required to read (or at least flip through on the crapper) Joanie "Chyna" Laurer's "If They Only Knew" and write a review here on Arabian Facebuster. I know this seems harsh, but that Kane vs. Khali match ain't getting any more interesting on its own...

* In an effort to curb the alcohol poisoning epidemic currently sweeping the Facebuster community, Camo Black Ice has been replaced as the Official Prize Beer of Wrestlemania.

Yr Belated Old Skool Foto of the Week

Wrestlemania III, The Silverdome Pontiac, MI, March 1987.

What I Learned in Portland

My sincerest apologies to the Arabian Facebuster Nation for the lack of substantive posts in recent weeks. While a picture of "Playboy" Buddy Rose might be enough to placate this svelte athlete's former tag team partner and avid reader of the Facebuster, Doug "Pretty Boy" Summers (Doug, shoot me a PM about your clandestine yet hopefully lucrative business adventures in the cartel controlled territories of Colombia), most of you crave more...more flippant and increasingly unhinged commentary and old-skool content from Malibu Sands...more provocative insight and analysis of all things WSX and TNA from Apollo Spas...more cautionary tales on immoderation coupled with spiritual guidance and revelations from Rev. Von Fury...and more riveting and hilarious Friday Night Smackdown! fodder from Pencil Neck Geek.

Again, I am sorry for the scarcity of March content. However, it was an incredibly busy month. As many of you know, we held our inaugural Arabian Facebuster Staff Conference. A big shout out to the Portland Doubletree Hotel & Executive Meeting Center for the posh accommodations and well appointed meeting room (the Cascade Ballroom, pictured at left, served as the Facebuster's spacious war room). Even at the apex of his despotic rule, Saddam Hussein never had it this good. And oh the service! Why they must have replenished our buffet items and beverage station every ninety minutes. In my mind, their attention to detail, team oriented approach to guest relations, and commitment to excellence are both unprecedented and unparalleled in the increasingly homogeneous and indifferent corporate hospitality industry. I think I speak for all of the Arabian Facebuster staff in declaring that we will be returning to the Doubletree next year to enjoy their not unreasonable meeting room rates, high-speed WI-FI, flaky breakfast pastries, buxom catering staff, palatial urinals, and complimentary valet parking.

The good times had at the Arabian Facebuster Staff Conference will not soon be forgotten. We laughed. We cried. We prayed. We styled and profiled. We drank lots of Iron City (except for the snooty microbrew quaffing Rev. Von Fury). We appreciatively watched a shitload of professional wrestling, including TNA's March PPV "Destination X." We split a 24oz can of Camo Black Ice.

Most significantly, I learned more about my Arabian Facebuster brethren and pro wrestling, not to mention myself, than I ever thought possible over an alcohol filled weekend retreat. I learned that delivering a plastic candle opera shot to someone's head will cause them to gush buckets upon buckets of beautiful blood. I became aware that prolonged steroid use precludes you from drawing nary a drop of crimson, even after gashing your forehead with a razor blade. I found out the hard way that scaffold matches, no matter what gimmicky name they are given, are tedious at best, self-mutilation provoking at worst. I discovered that in order to look and sound like the spittin' image of Don "Wild Wild" West, all I have to do is incorporate two packs of cigarettes, a box of Hostess chocolate frosted mini-doughnuts, and a pint of value priced scotch into my daily nutritional regimen, along with a sense of apprehension towards any physical exertion whatsoever. I learned that Kathy Lee Crosby is the most astute and erudite analyst of professional wrestling, ever. Sorry, I meant Susan St. James. I realized that the only thing more ashen than Velvet McIntyre's elfin breasts are the delegates who attend the Republican National Convention. Lastly, I learned that Camo Black Ice is, without question, the most thirst quenching elixir on the market today.

Not With A Bang, But With A Simper...

First of all, countless apologies for my gross dereliction of blogging duty. Yes, it's been weeks since my last post, but I've only just emerged from the alcoholic coma I fell into during the First Annual Arabian Facebuster Staff Conference. Goddamn that Camo Black Ice.

Having wiped the crust from my eyes, I find that the high-strung youngsters over at Wrestling Society X are in grave danger of cancellation. The final five episodes (!) of their schmozz-tastic product were aired in one two-and-a-half-hour(!!) death spasm, no doubt inducing epileptic fits in all seven WSX viewers. As it stands now, the WSX massive are waiting, hats in hands, for a last minute reprieve from the overseers at MTV. Check the blog at their Myspace Account for your daily fix of schadenfreude. I love that they're being cancelled in order to"strategize the best way to bring the show back to the fans". Get it? They're being fired so they can do their jobs better. For free. In Fabian Kaelin's mom's basement.

Ah, well. Maybe now I can live my dream of hiring Teddy Hart to do shooting star presses off the shed in my back yard. That should keep those damn transients from breaking into my basement.

Yr Rock-n-Rasslin' Foto of the Week

Sting(s).

Wrestlers On Dope Follow-Up Post

Oh, and Sports Illustrated's cover story this month is about a "Wellness Clinic" that was apparently supplying hundreds (thousands?) of athletes with steroids. Your Olympic Hero Kurt Angle turned up in the clinic's database. It seems that during 2004 and 2005, Angle received a smattering of "enhancements" from these cats.

In other shocking news, water was recently found to be wet.

Stay Off The Yay

Let this shit be a lesson to you punk kids.

The toxicology reports on Bam Bam Bigelow finally came out, and the cause of death is being listed as "toxic levels of cocaine" as well as antianxiety drugs (read: Xanax) and narrow arteries.

I hope this can be of some benefit to the gentlemen at the table next to me at the Twilight Room the other night. I have no idea what heart conditions those fellows may or may not have had, but they sure seemed anxious and they wouldn't shut up about all the blow they were going to do.

Yr Portland Related Foto of the Week

"Playboy" Buddy Rose. All 217lbs of him.

WARNING: DON'T WATCH THIS CLIP

Above is Youtube footage of the second half of WSX Episode 4. Gentle readers, I must caution you: do NOT watch the entire clip. It contains spinny-flippy comedy garbage wrestling jackassery of the lowest order. I post this only to highlight three key moments.

At approximately three minutes fifteen seconds, Guest Announcers The Clipse display the virulent streak of homophobia that plagues modern hip-hop. Also, they may be "high".

At the five minute mark, there is a genuinely impressive ladder spot, followed by the "Quizno's Slamwich" replay of said spot.

Finally, at nine minutes thirty, some demonic South-of-the-Border Boogeyman knock-off uses his amazing video toaster powers to destroy WSX Champ Vampiro.

If you truly are a glutton for punishment, you can slave through the whole clip. You'll witness announcer Fabian Kaelin reaching a new low in despicable bellowing, The Clipse calling Michael "Disco Machine" Mondragon "Ass Tassle", and 6-Pac wearing a shirt that says "Protect Your Elf From Hollywood." Other than that, the three segments above really tell you all you need to know about this incoherent disaster.

Mike Awesome: Rest In Peace

Hardcore wrestling legend Mike Awesome is dead at age 42. He was found in his home, hung from the neck. No suicide note has been found,but...

I don't know if I can do this right now. It's been barely a month since Bam Bam died, and now this. I'd like to say something cruel about 6-Pac or Justin Credible, but I just don't have the strength. Wrestling is a rotten fucking business.

Awesome leaves behind two daughters.

Yr Black History Month Foto of the Week

"The Doctor of Style," Slick.

Will The Circle Be Unbroken...

I can't believe they're still dragging their feet on Bam Bam's toxicology report. The public has a right to know. That said, here's footage of Bam Bam's CWA debut in all its dated, ridiculous glory. Please ignore any similarities to the Abu Gharib torture tapes; this was filmed in simpler times. My favorite moment is when Larry Sharp sez, "Look at those flames," and Bam Bam's grimace slips for a moment. He appears almost beatific, and gamely tilts his head toward the camera while stifling a chuckle.

Goddamn I miss that guy.

Yr Black History Month Foto of the Week

Jim "Sugar Bear" Harris aka The Ugandan Giant Kamala

RAW is Facebuster!?

Since this week's RAW emanated from the genesis of the Arabian Facebuster Nation, I was curious if anybody in said nation had the gumption to shell out a hard earned $30 (plus an extra $70 for parking, beer concessions, and D-Generation X glow sticks) for a ticket.

Who amongst us made the pilgrimage to the pantheon of Rip City, the cultural hub known as the Rose Garden, to take in the spectacle that is World Wrestling Entertainment? (Who amongst us will be descending on the Rose Garden again tonight to catch the overpriced, formulaic, and self-indulgent stylings of Rock Star Supernova?) Who amongst us cheered wildly at the return of "Hot Rod" Rowdy Roddy Piper to a WWE ring and announcement that "The American Dream" Dusty Rhodes would be inducted into the WWE Hall of Fame? Who amongst us took pleasure in seeing the incomparable Ric Flair teach that arrogant punk whippersnapper Carlito a wrestling lesson he'll never soon forget? Who amongst us sat on their hands and/or stood in the beer line during every other match and backstage vignette? Who amongst us spent 16 hours constructing a homemade "Jeff Hardy is da (Swanson) Bomb" sign with nothing more than a piece of moldy cardboard, a tube of Elmer's, some glitter, and a box of Safeway Select elbow macaroni? And after the matches, who amongst us proceeded over to Tom's Pizza & Sports Bar to sip quenching frosty mugs of Iron City poured by this industrious young hottie while watching a Don West-muted, special Monday evening telecast of TNA, the ingeniously entitled "This is TNA?"

Speak up, oh devoted and intrepid Facebuster appratchiks!

Oh My God He's Going... to... PUKE!!!!

It's a damn tragedy that this cat (Teddy Hart of the legendary Hart Family, for those who slept) is apparently quite insane, 'cos he's one hell of a wrestler. I just watched him do his technical high-flying thing over at WSX, and he really deserves better than their twitch-editing malarkey.

Sure, he reportedly has to stop matches so he can run outside and vomit every now and then. Sure, he's the kind of nut who starts his own wrestling federation just so he can build platforms next to the ring so he can jump off of them. Sure, he randomly moonsaults of off cages AFTER HIS MATCHES ARE OVER. And yes, he did pick a fight with CM Punk in a restaurant that ended with Sabu (!) pulling Punk off of him.

The naysayers among you may argue that if Sabu is the voice of reason in your life, you're pretty much a raving lunatic. I would tend to agree, adding that there need to be cameras on this guy twenty-four-hours-a-day, because him puking is WAY more interesting than the guys from emo-core also-rans Sparta doing WSX commentary (no shit). Maybe Gary Busey can help him get religion or something. At the very least, Busey can keep that crap out of Hart's hair.

Next Week: The Clipse join the WSX broadcast crew. "Watch Heckler and Koch turn cops to martyrs," indeed.

I Am Resourceful And Clever (Comcast Can Lick My Balls)

My experiments in the field have confirmed, gentle readers, that Raw en Espanol is indeed a regular fixture of Telemundo's Sunday Afternoon lineup. This means that, with the judicious application of video cassete technology, I can now watch almost every televised wrestling program aired during any given week, while paying exactly NOTHING for cable.

Here's how it works:

Wednesday morning, I watch WSX on the internets. Their brand of incoherent, heavily-edited garbage wrestling becomes even more intense when viewed on the small screen.
Thursday night, th' Facebuster staff congregates at Tom's Pizza And Sports Bar (TV sports schedule permitting) to stuff our faces and watch TNA iMPACT! with the sound off. No Don West!
On Friday, I tape Smackdown! and watch it after I get home from work. The Animal Batista is my lullabye.
Come Sunday, it's time for the RAW rebroadcast on Telemundo.

And there you have it. Hell, sometimes I can even catch "Squared Circle" on Public Access, in which some phantom wrestling geek shares his enormous library of late-70's wrestling tapes. The only thing I "miss" is ECW.

There you have it. If you're a wrestling fan who pays for cable, you're basically dropping fifty bucks a month just to watch ECW. I know there's some Snitsky fans out there, but still...

BREAKING NEWS: This (This), This is a Test

Arabian Facebuster's muckraking correspondent Black Jack Brown is reporting that the extremist known as Test (pictured at left, just minutes before making sweet love to your mother) has been indefinitely pulled off ECW's foray into this country's shoddily constructed and poorly lit municipal auditoriums as punishment for violating the company's "wellness policy."

According to Black Jack, willful ignorance mixed with sheer indifference most accurately characterizes the reaction to this completely foreseeable news from Test's fan base, the aptly named Testicles. Seriously, you're a fucking nut sack if you actually derive pleasure from Test's shtick.

A word of advice to Test -- steroids are harmful and dangerous. Side effects from frequent and prolonged intake include elevated blood pressure, increased risk for cardiovascular disease, and shrinking of the testicles (no, the irony isn't lost on me either). If you want to boost your muscle mass, tone your physique, and heighten your energy, endurance, and power, might I recommend acquiring the safest, most effective supplement on the market today?

Say Yr Heretical Prayers and Eat Yr Vitamins

Arabian Facebuster Nation, not that long ago I was like many of you...a skinny and feeble beanpole sorely lacking in self-esteem. How then, did I transform into the confident, chiseled, strapping Adonis standing (errr, I mean blogging) before you today? The answer, my friends, is threefold: a strict exercise regimen, a healthy and balanced diet, and copious amounts of expired Four Horsemen Top Performance System chewable tablets.

Ric Flair and members of the Horsemen, a thousand thank yous for making me the man I am today...the FDA be damned.

Yr Black History Month Photo of the Week

"Iceman" King Parsons

OMG! It's the Shoe Sniffing Extremist!

While I had neither the time* nor inclination to waste precious brain cells staring into the creative abyss otherwise known as this week's episode of ECW on Sci Fi**, I have heard from a credible source (as well as from one not so much) that Gene Snitsky (pictured above performing some sort of modified Heimlich maneuver on the enzyme elevated liver of ECW Champion Bobby Lashley) made his eagerly anticipated return to a sports entertainment ring. Check that, an EXTREME SPORTS ENTERTAINMENT RING!

Gone seemingly are the halcyon days of oddly endearing foot fetishes, back acne, a braided goatee that looks like stylized pubic hair, edicts of blamelessness, jobbing on Monday nights, sloppy ring-work, and eyebrows. In their place, a Kane meets the kid from Mask manifestation, downright creepy shoe sniffing, jobbing on Tuesday nights, even sloppier ring-work, and no eyebrows.

I know that many of you little lambs in the Arabian Facebuster flock are equally skeptical about Snitsky's role in ECW and capabilities as a performer. The amount of emails and text messages I have received from all of you on this matter has been voluminous. Here are a smattering of comments, carefully excerpted in the interest of brevity:

"Dear Mailbu Sands, why didn't Snitsky reunite with Goldust and resurrect the second*** greatest tag team since the WWE was forced to 'get the F out' thanks to some lefty tree huggers and activist judges?"

"Dearest Mailbu, is adding yet another maladroit retread to the roster the best prescription for reinvigorating ECW?"

"Yo, Mailbu: I don't like the cut of Snitksy's jib."

"Hey Mailbu, Just wanted to let you know that I really enjoy the Facebuster. I read it every chance I get. While I am fond all the other bloggers on this site, you are without question my absolute favorite because of your provocative posts and razor sharp wit. My heart skips a beat everytime I read your posts. Forgive me if this is too forward, but I would let you have me if you wanted. I would gladly carry your child in my womb, if only it wasn't ravaged by disease. Anyways, just wanted to let you know that I think that Snitsky's a total fucking douche. Oh SNAP!, another inmate is brandishing a crudely widdled shiv in the library again. Gotta go. Wait for me!? Prisoner #090843, Shakopee MN Women's Correctional Facility."

"Mr. Sands: I am the Attorney for Larry Phofl, better known to you, me, and the entire world as 'The Total Package, Lex Luger.' My client demands that you immediately cease the use and distribution of all infringing web log (heretofore referred to as "blog") entries, destroy such blog entries immediately, and desist from this or any other infringement of his rights in the future. Failure to comply with this request will result in swift and ruthless legal action. Have a nice day."

Mr. McMahon, esteemed members of the Board, and WWE shareholders (ahem, Pencil Neck Geek), the people have spoken. Snitsky is not the cure for what ails ECW. He's not even the placebo. The definitive, full-proof remedy for resurrecting fan interest and passion in your bastardized vision however, is a mere imaginative Google search away.

****

*I actually had nothing but time on my hands.
** This sentiment also applies to "American Idol."
***Astutely, the writer identifies Chocolate and Cheese (Booker T and Goldust) as the greatest.
****I ripped off this notation device from Ben Steele's most excellent blog.

Wrestling Society X: You Guys Are Doomed

So, what did the second thrill-packed episode of WSX teach us? It taught us that announcers (question mark) Bret Ernst and Kris Kloss plan to spend the entire season being eclipsed by their own musical guests. Already, Zakk Wylde has shown great potential as a play-by-play man, and the gentleman pictured above (Juicy J, from Oscar Recipients Three 6 Mafia) demonstrated Tuesday Night that he is our sport's greatest color commentator. Check the science: "That little skinny dude can move like a noodle, man." "Tap dance shoes whup my ass." "Mumble gwah humaha bummah, nahmean?" Let's see Jerry Lawler try THAT.

We also learned that, yes, Fabian Kaelin can get MORE annoying. His shouting and skanking have reached near-terminal levels. Someone needs to stab that creep in the gizzard. Not that I advocate violence against public figures or anything. I'm just saying.

We also learned that it's possible for all this hyper-kinetic snap-edited METAL!!! extremism to be really boring. Episode two featured (arguably) WSX's first two lame matches. Number one was the comedy-wrestling jackassery of That 70's Team vs. the personality-free internationalism of Team Dragon Gate. No thrills, no chuckles, just snores.

Lame Match number two, sadly, was also WSX's first title match. Vampiro vs. 6-Pac was about as bad as it gets. Two has-beens gulping for air at the five-minute mark of a seven-minute match? Check. Meaningless table spots crowbarred into the match for added "extremity"? Check. Bullshit exploding box (okay, okay, it was a coffin) finish? CHECKEROO. Factor in a total lack of ring psychology, intensity, or gravitas, and you've got a big fat NOTHING. (Insert Vampiro tummy joke? Better not.)

Oh, and we learned that falls count anywhere in WSX. Who knew?

Corte Estupido Gringo En Su Estupido Gringo CARA!

I apologize, first of all, for my pathetic Caveman Spanish. In order to satisfy the central conceit of today's post, I was forced to resort to an online Spanish Dictionary, and those fuckers don't translate phrases... leaving your correspondent to assemble his title word by tortuous word.

I was watching the Superior Bowl, like any good American, and I found Prince's half-time histrionics somewhat unsatisfying (If he'd done "Kiss" as a duet with Tom Jones, perhaps things would have been different). I flipped desultorily through the channels, seeking a distraction from the pummeling my beloved Bears were being handed. In fairly short order, my heathen prayers were answered.

Telemundo was showing the Spanish Language Broadcast of RAW.

I perked up, as Vince berated Jonathan Coachman en Espanol. A bunch of money fell on the crowd, while the Spanish Language Doppelgangers of JR and the King (clad, in my mind's eye, in matching bumblebee costumes) shrieked and bellowed. And then, a tag match started. A tag match that, in light of the international flavor I was currently savoring, seemed fraught with significance. Super Crazy and Carlito were battling Kenny Dykstra and the hated Chris Masters.

Man, I thought, I HATE those fucking crackers. As Masters and Dykstra isolated Super Crazy, I began making deals with a distant, uncaring God. Lord, I don't ask for much... but if you help Crazy and Carlito beat these stupid crackers... I don't care if the Bears lose. I felt a shudder run through me. What had I done? I had betrayed my team, but it mattered little. THIS struggle was more important. This fake fight between living cartoon characters, with its staged violence and predetermined outcome, mattered FAR MORE to me than some bullshit Super Bowl.

A ray of heavenly light pierced the window of my front room. A cool breeze swept my fevered brow. Super Crazy and Carlito began to lucha the living balls out of their stupid cracker opponents. When Carlito nailed the backcracker (in Spanish? The announcers called it los backcracker) on Chris Masters, I stood up and cheered. My poor girlfriend landed on the floor with a thud (she'd been asleep with her head on my lap). Dazed, she looked up and asked me what happened.

"I think I just got religion," I said.

Yr Black History Month Photo of the Week

"Mr. Irresistable" Sweet Daddy Siki.

OMG WTF ROTFL IT'S WSX!!!!!!!!

Thanks to the magic of the internets, your humble correspondent was able to view the thrilling debut of Wrestling Society X on MTV, despite my utter lack of cable television. Rumor and speculation have been rampant, a constant muttering hum among the wrasslin' intelligencia: would WSX's measly half-hour time slot be buried in reality-show booshwa? Would this be some backyard spot-happy garbage-wrestling mess? And would the WSX be able to mount a credible challenge to WWE or even our beloved TNA? Having viewed the product, I can safely conclude: No, sorta kinda, and god fuck no.

The show opens with a runty bald hardcore type skanking around the ring and bellowing inanely. This is apparently one Fabian Kaelin. He's annoying, and he's your ring announcer.

First match: Matt Sydal (a heel of some sort) versus Jack Evans (a breakdancing face of some sort). Evans claims to "represent" Parkland "P-Town" Washington. I don't know where that is. Zakk Wylde from Black Label Society, rather than playing his patented brand of sub-Sabbath Biker Rock, sits in on commentary. I hope this doesn't happen when The Clipse show up in a few weeks. The match scurries along nicely in a spinny-kicky spot-happy sort of way. These two fellows are pretty decent high-fliers, and the "crowd" is the loudest dozen people I've ever heard. Perhaps the post-production wizards at MTV had something to do with that...

Zakk Wylde claims that this is "the same fight" he saw back in the schoolyard at the St. Aloysius Catholic School. St. Aloysius must be the patron saint of Gay Playground Brawls.

Jack Evans eventually wins with a particularly spinny bit of spinniness, and hits on Matt Sydal's girlfriend. She's got that Tori Spelling horseface thing going on, and thus should go pretty far in the world of Wrestling.

Next up is a montage of pretty horrific promos. These guys all seem really talented in the ring, but there's less personality going on than in TNA's X Division. Even Justin Credible, who really should have learned how to rock the mic by now, can only grit his teeth and toss out half-hearted crotch chops. In their defense, the brutal time restrictions and the montage approach to interviewing make it damn near impossible to show off one's acting skills.

The promos dispensed with, we move on to the main event. It's an epic monument of schmozz-ery: A ten-man Royal Rumble ladder match (!) in which the ring is surrounded by tables (!!), weapons (!!! even though they mainly seem to be those powder-filled acoustic guitars favored by Jeff Jarrett and the Honky Tonk Man), an exploding cage (!!!!), and a glass box full of electricity(!!!!!???).

Here's how it went down: Bald guy shouting and skanking, Justin Credible! ECW! ECW! Teddy Hart! Throwing bottles! METAL! Punch! Kick! Kick! Punch! Moonsault! OMG! It's Kaos (who?)! METAL! Shouting! Double Clothesline! Partying! OMG! Shooting star press! Here comes Vampiro! METAL!!! (Vampiro, BTW, is "one of the biggest stars in Mexico," and judging by his Jeff Hardy-esque paunch, this is not far from the truth) Punchpunchpunchkick! Chokeslam! Commercials! Puma shows up! Eliminated! Some other dudes show up! METAL! METAL AGAIN! It's 6-PAC! BOOOOOOO!!!!! "No one in this ring has held more titles than 6-Pac!" (Except perhaps for Justin Credible, who has eleven titles to 6-Pac's, er... six) 6-Pac cleans house! Inexplicably! Bronco Buster! Some redneck enters the ring! Country? OMG IT'S NEW JACK!!!!! METAAAAALLLLLL!!!!! (hip-hop?) Half the crowd (six people) marks out for New Jack. Goodbye redneck! New Jack gives chase, eliminates himself! Guitar shot to Referee! Lame! OMG?! Power Slam! Moonsault! "Where is New Jack going?" Good question! Suplex into box of electricity!!! OMG!!! "What is going on?" Another good question! New Jack elbow drop through a table! OMG!!! What are those crates doing there? Another table! "How the hell do we keep up with all this action?" ANOTHER good question! GodDAMN these announcers are insightful! It's Youth Suicide! PUNK RAWK! He's the tenth man! Already? Bucket of tacks! Four men left! What?! Here come the ladders! Powerbomb on the tacks! OMG! 6-Pac has a contract! Youth Suicide off the ladder onto the exploding cage OMGx2!!!!! Vampiro has the other contract! 6-Pac vs. Vampiro for the title next week! Whatevs!

And we're done... Christ, what just happened? I need to lie down.

So... better than I expected. All of these kids seem like REALLY TALENTED WRESTLERS... in the RING. Outside of it, they pretty much suck. It's a ton of action, and I don't see why I'm actually supposed to care what happens. Maybe if they could get those tightwads at MTV to give 'em an hour they could relax a bit and actually tell a story or two.

Ah, well. It's WAY better than ECW.

Arn Anderson: Underappreciated Ass Kicker

This clip is from an episode of NWA World Wide Wrestling that aired in the fall of 1985. It was a magical time...the seeds for the original Four Horseman stable were being planted, with the group's formal inception mere months away. Jimmy "The Boogie Woogie Man" Valiant was in his second year of his protracted, futile, and above all pointless feud with Paul Jones and his "Army." Black Bart and The Italian Stallion electrified arenas throughout the territory with a series of 10 minute time limit draws. Massive cysts had yet to form in the breasts of "The American Dream" Dusty Rhodes.

Outside of the squared circle, Punky Brewster and her uncannily lucid dog Brandon illustrated to an audience of impressionable young people the hazards of playing hide-and-go-seek within fifty yards of an abandoned household appliance. And Tears for Fears were basking in the mainstream success of "Songs from the Big Chair," an album which helped a generation of innocuous sweater wearing, excessively teased and primped hair sporting, twenty-something clandestine homosexuals summon the strength and courage to divulge their true sexual identity to their supervisors and co-workers. Tragically, nearly all were ridiculed, ostracized, and eventually terminated by their employers for admitting they actually listened to Tears for Fears.

Sorry to digress. Now back to the clip at hand...there's so much old-skool goodness in this 3:30 segment that even the most astute and savvy Arabian Facebuster reader could not be expected to digest it all in the first two or three viewings! From Arn Anderson's fucking boss Cuban derby, to Double A steadfastly working on the left arm of his hapless opponent, to David Crockett's polished and eloquent commentary (i.e. "Look at him now...." "Aaaaaarrrrnnnn Anderson..." "Watch him!"...astoundingly, Crockett would get even worse as a play-by-play man over the years), to kneepad-less jobber Mac Jeffers taking his job as a "talent enhancer" earnestly, to the fans going nuts for Jeffers fleeting offensive flurry, this clip embodies all that was right about the National Wrestling Alliance (sans a post match run-in by the likes of a Magnum TA or "American Dream" Dusty Rhodes or 3 of 1 parking lot mugging and beat-down of Wahoo McDaniel by Arn, Tully, and Ole Anderson).

Enjoy.