Whatever Happened To...Oh, Nevermind

I planned to post something last week about awkward sexpot Lillian Garcia (seen here hurling her own excrement into the crowd at a WWE live event...adding yet another layer of meaning to the WWE approved tag-line "Catch the Excitement!"), specifically her evasion of ring announcing duties for what seems like the last six months.

Then all of a sudden last night she was back, introducing Rory and Robby, better known to you, me, and the whole damn planet as The Highlanders with her trademark forced vivacity and guttural over-enunciation. What gives? Can anybody explain the reason for Lillian's extended sabbatical? Was she on an extended maternity leave? A serious bender followed by a stint in rehab? Following in the trail blazing footsteps of Trish Stratus as a celebrity law enforcement guinea pig on Armed and Famous 2? Suspended for violating the company's foolproof Wellness Policy?

I am too busy at work and too lazy at home to locate an answer. Therefore, allow me to provide some incentive to the legion of Arabian Facebusterites to do some investigation on my inquisitive behalf. A 240z can of Camo Black Ice will be awarded to the individual who is able to unravel this mystery, or at least provide a plausible explanation with some supporting citation. For those outside of the Twin Cities metropolitan area, I am prepared to use Fed Ex overnight shipping and the finest in Styrofoam based insulating packaging to ensure that this marvelous nectar arrives cool to the touch at your doorstep.

Game on.

Yr Rasslin' Mugshot of the Week

"Dirty" Dick Slater, arrested for aggravated battery and booked into a Florida jail in December, 2003 for stabbing his girlfriend with a butcher knife.

If you're curious, a bit more detail on this savage case is available here.

WSX: Where Are They Now? (Part One)

Hey, gang, remember the Salsa-flavored Boogeyman Clone who threw a fireball at Vampiro back in th' WSX? Yeah, well, I sort of do, and rumour has it that the Mexi-Boogey (not to be confused with the Mini-Boogey) has signed up with our pals at TNA. James Mitchell is apparently quite interested in this dude, who will be calling himself "Banderas" (real name: Gilbert Cosme... evidently no relation to my weed-smoking, Russian Mail Order Bride-having Tacoma-era landlord Bob Cosme).

Great. James Mitchell can supplement his high-work rate Kane/Mankind rip-off (howdy, Abyss) with the last WSX champion. Maybe he can feud with the half-dozen or so Raven Clones TNA is shilling these days.

Ah, well. At least it's not Whimsy.

Happy Anniversary!

Last Friday, Arabian Facebuster turned one year old with little-to-no fanfare. However, the story of the formation of this blog is quite remarkable and warrants retelling.

Apollo Spas began with but a dream -- to build a perpetual motion machine that was also capable of reciting lines from obscure movies. Fearing a swift and ruthless retaliation from the scientific-industrial complex and their Hollywood foot soldiers for violating the laws of thermodynamics, copyright infringement, and intellectual property, he decided to launch Arabian Facebuster instead. As the old adage goes, the rest is history...inaccurate, misguided, revisionist, often blatantly fabricated history.

Folks, we need to commemorate this pioneer spirit...and what better way to do so than by devising a self-congratulatory and trite awards show: The 1st Annual Facebustery's!

A modest 76 awards, recognizing excellence and distinction in the field of professional wrestling blogging on this site, will be doled out this coming Sunday evening. This black tie event will emanate from The Tiny Bubble Room in Portland, OR. Earlier in the day, a ceremony commemorating merit in the field of technical achievement will be held in the driveway of one Pencil Neck Geek. Without further ado, let's take a look at but a few of the categories:

Nominees for the coveted Edward R. Murrow Award for Excellence in Investigative Reporting are Apollo Spas for his expose on home grown terrorists, Pencil Neck Geek for his investigation into reordering of the D-Generation X power structure, Rev. Von Fury for his exhaustive examination of the socio-cultural significance of John Cena's ornamental championship belt, and yours truly Malibu Sands for my inquest into the spectacular rise and fall of PastaMania!

Nominees for the Most Shocking and Triumphant Return to The Facebuster After a Temporary Sabbatical include Pencil Neck Geek's prognosticative return to WWE SmackDown coverage, yours truly Malibu Sands' excuse laden diatribe on why I was able to temporarily break fee from the clutches of the sports entertainment leviathan, and Rev. Von Fury's no doubt imminent return to blogging on this site.

The nominees for the Fodor's Wrestling Related Travelogue Award include yours truly Malibu Sands for my courageous expedition into the Dub Dub A arena, Apollo Spas for his two part report on the tribulations and triumphs that come with trying to watch professional wrestling in the public realm, and once again yours truly Malibu Sands for my reporting from the Facebuster Staff Conference.

Nominees for the prestigious Ralph Nader Medal for Futility in Progressive Advocacy are Rev. von Fury's fruitless plea for virtue and chastity in the face pro wrestling's worldly temptations, Pencil Neck Geek for nobly but vainly attempting to offer the Facebuster's more unmotivated readers a weekly recap of the television phenomenon known as Friday Night SmackDown!, and Apollo Spas for his (s0 far) stymied campaign to recast the sexuality of one Viscera.

Finally, the nominees in the category of Seething and Perfectly Rational Contempt for Hulk Hogan, Chyna Doll, or Randy Orton are yours truly Malibu Sands for marshaling photographic proof of Orton's hotel room trashing escapades, Apollo Spas for thoroughly reviewing the agonizing read otherwise known as Chyna's book, and yours truly Malibu Sands for unearthing stomach churning footage of the Hulkster's musical exploits.

To the winning nominees go the spoils. Instead of a poorly manufactured statuette, awardees will receive a year's supply (i.e. 365 cases) Hamm's Beer, the official party starter and panty remover of Arabian Facebuster, along with a vat of Manwich Sloppy Joe sauce. Hamburger meat and buns not included.

Again, congratulations to Arabian Facebuster on a most glorious year of blogging! Now cut me off a slice of that whimsical cake...I'd prefer a piece from that sweet whale tail.

For Hulkamaniacs' Eyes Only

In lieu of the clip featuring Hulk Hogan flexing his 24" acting pythons being mysteriously removed from YouTube, I thought it prudent to post some more Chrome Domed Terrorist vs. Kevin Sullivan/Dungeon of Doom related content before the psychological phenomenon known as "Hulkamania Withdrawal Syndrome" kicks in.

While clearly not as outrageous or uproarious as Hogan's bewildering ("IT'S NOT HOT") foray into the Dungeon of Doom ("I'VE NEVER BEEN HERE BEFORE") and confrontation with the sinister duo of Kevin Sullivan and his father The Master ("I KNOW YOU...AND YOU TOO"), this latest video offering still brings the funny. In fact, if Good Ol' JR were to view this footage, something tells me that would describe it as "scintillating."

Marvel at Hogan's facial contortions as his rugged Harley Davidson motorcycle is emasculated by a callous and surprisingly assiduous Big Shew! Witness the demeaning yet strangely cathartic shaving of the last spot on Hulk Hogan's body that can sustain human hair based on his decades of rampant steroid usage...his upper lip! Behold the swaddling fashion stylings and surprisingly fluid gesticulations of the mummified Yetti! Observe the genesis of the lamentable monster truck-pro wrestling connection! Oh, and there's also an all-too-brief snippet of "Mean" Gene Okerlund conducting an interview in a pair of blue blockers.

Based on the transgressions noted above, please also consider this post as Reason #37 to Despise Hulk Hogan.

Yr Old Skool Tag Team of the Week

The Minnesota Wrecking Crew, Ole and Gene Anderson

Missing In Action

I'm not sure which of the following is more elusive: (a) attaining spiritual enlightenment, (b) catching a glimpse of Sasquatch (Big Foot, if you will) in its native habitat (as opposed to ones we keep as indentured servants here in Minnesota), or (c) actually spotting a near 500 pound black man that answers to the name of Viscera Tuesday nights on my GOD DAMN television screen!!!

Alright, after some careful reflection I'm pretty sure that "C" is the correct response.

In a move that provoked a constellation of emotions ranging from apathy to indifference amongst the WWE fanbase, "The World's Largest Love Machine," seen here debunking the conventional wisdom that wearing black makes a person look slimmer, moved from RAW to ECW as part of the federation's supplemental draft. Since that time, he seemingly vanished into thick thin air.

If I've learned anything in my tedious and unfulfilling life, it's that persistence eventually pays off. Therefore, on behalf of the staff and readership here at Arabian Facebuster, I would like to once again cajole the WWE writers to turn this gargantuan, pajama wearing superstar flamingly, flamboyantly, gaudily gay at your earliest possible convenience. It isn't like you are currently utilizing the character for some cutesy lower mid-card angle or to strongly put over some up-and-coming babyface, or anything even remotely productive.

Ponder it over the weekend. Seriously. I'm sure someone here from Arabian Facebuster will be following up with you again real soon.

Ric Flair: Custom Made

Some more uplifting (or at least reality averting) YouTube goodness of vintage "Nature Boy" Ric Flair, circa 1988, courtesy of your friends at the Arabian Facebuster Center for Bereavement and Reconciliation.

"You detest the fact that I've got more cars than most of ya have friends."

Some braggadocio rapper needs to steal that line for his next diss track. Chumps like Ja Rule and LL Cool J have gotten off too easy lately.

Best Wishes, Bob Caudle

Bob Caudle (pictured at left with his wife Jackie), the long-time voice of Mid-Atlantic Championship Wrestling and later host of NWA Pro Wrestling during Jim Crockett Promotions national expansion years, recently suffered two heart attacks, one at his home, the other on his way to the hospital. Thankfully, he has since been released, returning to the comfort to his home in North Carolina where he recovering slowly but surely.

Keep Bob, one of the true gentlemen in the history of the wrestling business, in your thoughts and/or prayers. And if you feel so inclined, send him your best via email at midatlanticgateway@yahoo.com

A succinct YouTube tribute to the throaty voiced legend, featuring lots of interspliced vintage Ric Flair interview footage, is available for viewing here. I know that certain folks in the Arabian Facebuster community (aka the Fritzer), will genuinely get a kick out of this.

Sheiky Baby, I Owe You One

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

The Official Energy Drink of The Whimsy Era

Life is filled with uncertainties. Alas, the only iron clad guarantees in this wicked world are death, taxes, and the fact that whenever Vince McMahon attempts to diversify his sports entertainment portfolio, it inevitably ends in failure. Unmitigated, spectacular, colossal failure. Vince's ill-conceived and poorly executed non-rassslin' related endeavors -- football (the XFL), competitive bodybuilding (the WBF), restaurants (WWF New York), music (need I remind you of KoKo B. Ware's vocal stylings on Piledriver), voter mobilization (Choose or Lose anybody?), reality television (Tough Enough and the critically lauded sequel, Tough Enough 2), movies (See No Evil, The Marine, The Condemned immediately come to mind), and drug abuse prevention -- are roughly commensurate with George W.'s failures in leadership and policy (off the top of my head, those would be the faulty rationale for, rush to, and gross mismanagement of the war in Iraq, suspension of haebas corpus, authorizing the torture of enemy combatants, turning bureaucratic offices and functions of government into networks for political patronage and cronyism, instituting a unitary executive model of governance, the federal response to Hurricane Katrina, stifling funding for stem cell research, the attempt to privatize Social Security, immigration reform, and that whole Terry Schivao fiasco).

To his credit though, Vince appears to finally have learned an important lesson. No, he hasn't stopped trying to expand his corporate empire and sphere of influence. Rather, he's embraced strategic partnerships and collaboration in the conceptualization, production, quality control, distribution, and marketing facets of product development. Say hello then to Vince's latest get rich quick scheme...a Socko powered WWE branded energy drink that offers consumers yet another superfluous non-thirst quenching option in the already oversaturated artificially enhanced, excessively caffeinated beverage market. And here's the kicker, it's only available for purchase at your local Wal-Mart mega emporium. Clearly, this ain't your twin brother's energy drink (aka YJ Stinger):

STAMFORD, Conn.--(BUSINESS WIRE)--World Wrestling Entertainment® and Bliss Beverages have joined forces for a major rollout of WWE licensed beverages into nearly all Wal-Mart stores nationwide. The WWE branded drinks will hit Wal-Mart shelves on May 15.

The WWE branded beverages are part of Bliss' "Socko Energy" line - their flagship product. The drinks include "WWE® Slammin' Citrus(TM) Powered by Socko" and "WWE® Raw® Attitude(TM) Powered by Socko."

"WWE is very proud of this new venture with Bliss Beverages, and of the superior product we've put into Wal-Mart stores," said Donna Goldsmith, Executive Vice President of Consumer Products. "Bliss Beverages' youthful and energetic brand is a great match for WWE, and Socko Beverages will fit in perfectly among WWE's expanding consumer products line."

But wait, there's more inanity! As a public service to the Arabian Facebuster readership (so we meet again Mrs. Spas!) I have compiled a precis of Socko's more preposterous platitudes and pithy dictums from their futuristic web site to give you all a fuller sense of how this corporate alliance is transforming the relationship between our bodies and what we put in them while empowering our impressionable and acne ridden youngsters to take charge of their lives.

• "Socko is a lifestyle. Your lifestyle."
• "Socko's unique taste captures life in its purest form."
• "Socko was created to conquer the status quo!"
• "Socko is about getting results -- it's about getting what you want."
• "Go Socko or go home."
  

I couldn't make this superficial garbage up if I tried...well actually I could, if only the fine folks at Bliss Beverages would give me a chance to interview for a position. I am confident that I'd make a fantastic corporate zombie spinster hack.

But as the old adage goes, the devil is in the details. A leathery skinned, melanoma ridden, Bill Shatner school of acting trained devil. As for all of those ivory tower eggheads and blowhard pundits who prognosticated that Hulk Hogan and Vince McMahon would never again find themselves working on the same team (Team Socko!), to each of them I say...you owe me $5. Now pay up, bitches.

Thoughts on Benoit

Hands down, Ric Flair is my all-time favorite wrestling performer. Stated with equal conviction and certitude, Chris Benoit is my all-time favorite in-ring wrestler. His body of work over the last 20 years -- from his stiff yet high-flying junior-heavyweight matches in Japan as Wild Pegasus/The Pegasus Kid against Jushin Thunder Lyger, Shinjiro Ohtani, and the Great Saskue, to his underappreciated yet test-of-time enduring mid-card encounters with Kevin Sullivan, Eddie Gurrero, Dean Malenko, and Chris Jericho in WCW, to those memorable, physical heavyweight style battles with the likes of Kurt Angle, Steve Austin, Chris Jericho, and Fit Finlay in the WWF/E, to his to his ability to carry lesser workers in whatever company he competed (see his bouts with the likes of DDP, Raven, The Rock, Randy Orton, and even MVP) to matches that ranged from very good to outstanding, to his career capping title victory over Shawn Michaels and HHH at WrestleMania XX (and subsequent victory at the Backlash rematch), to his apparent stylistic influence on future top stars of the business like Samoa Joe and CM Punk -- eclipses all but a handful of men to ever don a pair of revealing spandex tights and meticulously polished boots.

Chris Benoit never had bad matches, only inferior opponents.

In spite of all these accomplishments and accolades, the fact remains that Chris Benoit took his own life yesterday, but not before murdering his wife Nancy and son Daniel in the family's suburban Atlanta home in what appears to be a case of "roid rage." This tragedy not only deservedly tarnishes Benoit's professional legacy and personal reputation, it also offers a scathing indictment of professional wrestling's "don't ask don't tell" approach towards steroid and painkiller use and abuse and rebuke of its infatuation with cartoonish muscles and inflated physiques.

Inside the ring, professional wrestling is all about grit, drama, physicality, endurance, confrontation, gaining revenge/payback, innovation, and execution. Outside of the ring, professional wrestling is a rotten industry filled with dubious practices (like rampant steroid and painkiller usage) and some real sketchy, seedy, sleazy, immoral characters: drunks, drug addicts, hustlers, hotheads, sadists, racists, womanizers, home wreckers, deadbeats, wife beaters, and ex-cons (of course, it is populated by plenty of honest, decent, kind, considerate men as well). And as much as it truly pains me to state it -- solely and therefore irrationally based upon my admiration of Chris Benoit's tenaciousness and versatility and astonishment at the consistency and quality of his wrestling output -- my favorite in-ring technician of all time might very well be the most vile, loathsome, and revolting human being outside of the ring in the history of the business.

How's that for an obituary?

Maybe This Will Lift Your Spirits

It certainly lifted mine. No apologies whatsoever for the sound quality. I wish the new Throbbing Gristle album was this good.


It almost is, actually.

Please Stop Dying

Rest In Peace.

Yr Old Skool Foto of the Week

Jerry "The King" Lawler, Magnum TA, and "The American Dream" Dusty Rhodes, circa 1985

Reason #238 To Despise Vince McMahon

Here at Arabian Facebuster, we try to focus on What Really Matters in the world of wrestling. As such, you will find coverage of economics, our society's racial divide, and (of course) the War on Terror.

As you can see, we have little time for gaytarded and insignificant shenanigans like the yawn-inducing work pictured above. Unfortunately, some people seem to think this Dallas '07 crap is important. So I thought perhaps we should issue a statement of some kind.

Here it is: This angle is stupid. And boring. And offensive. And I fucking hate it.

You may now return to your day.

Yr Old Skool Valet of the Week

"Sensational" Sherri Martel (RIP) accompanies Shawn Michaels to the ring, circa 1992.

Whimsy Gallops With Arthritic Abandon

My current work schedule precludes me from keeping up with the orgiastic frenzy of whimsy that TNA has become. One of the gents at work told me about this gimmick, but I hardly dared believe it was real.

Oddly enough, I'm going to have to support this. Whimsical or not, I find it oddly compelling.

And at least he's not wearing sandals.

Yr Question of the Week

Q: Who likes to celebrate a hard fought victory by repeatedly punching himself in the crotch?

A: This Guy.

Gentlemen, the Era of Whimsy is truly upon us.

Yr Old Skool Tag Team of the Week

The Mongols. (Probably) Pittsburgh, PA circa 1974.

Hey, Guys! It's Bobby Lashley!

Hey, guys. I hate to bring you guys down, but this guy's feeling pretty rough right now, guys. I mean, a guy works really hard to recapture the ECW title from a bunch of really mean guys, and then that guy gets "drafted" to RAW, and what happens? The guys in charge strip the guy of his title! Guy, that just doesn't seem fair, guys.

Well, this guy never says die (hey, maybe that can be my new catchphrase)! I'm just gonna have to challenge some of the guys on RAW to title matches. They seem like a good bunch of guys, so I'm sure they'll let a guy like me wrestle them so guys like you can watch and cheer for your favorite guy.

Take Santino Marella, for instance. That guy might not speak-a de English so well, but I bet he speaks the international language of guy! Or should I say the interCONTINENTAL language? Get it, guys? 'Cos he's the Intercontinental Champ and everything? Hello? Guys?

Okay, guys, I know that jokes aren't this guy's strong suit, but let me tell you what is: BEING STRONG. Not to brag, but I'm a pretty strong guy. I bet I'm even stronger than that guy John Cena, and that guy's pretty strong, guys. He even lifted the Guy Khali! Well, I've lifted Umaguy, a guy who's only 80 pounds lighter than that other guy! Looks like this guy better hit the gym, guys! Just kidding. This guy's always in the gym, guys. Cena's a strong guy, but he's not always in the gym. Sometimes he's out buying shoes, or making "rap" videos. I don't know about all that, guys. Seems to me like a guy should focus on what he's good at. That's why I focus on being a really, really strong guy.

Well, that's all for now, guys. I hear some of the guys are heading over to the gym. This guy better hurry. Hey, guys! Wait up!
Talk to you later, guys!
-Bobby Lashley

What The Cock Redux

In a fit of journalistic deidication, I finally soldiered through my tape of Saturday Night's Main Event. It was one of the most vile sports entertainment turds the WWE brain(?)trust has ever squatted out. In an evening filled with arm-wrestling, mixed-size tag matches (Hornswoggle/Finlay vs. Boogeyman/Little Boogey was actually the match of the night, just as it was on last week's Smackdown!), and Divas chicken fighting to the hiphop crossover sounds of Timbaland, the night's final match took the turd cake. As it were.

Umaga, Viscera(hooray!), and Kevin Thorn wrestled a tag match against Kane, Eugene, and... shudder...sigh... fine. DOINK THE FUCKING CLOWN.

Look, I understand if Vince was pissed at NBC for shoving SNME into its ridiculous 11:30 PM timeslot. I understand if all the WWE's creative efforts were poured into the One Night Stand Pay-Per-View (they weren't). I even understand if the bookers were exhausted and sore after a night of doing Poppers with Pat Patterson (they were). But there is NO EXCUSE for unleashing Doink the Clown on an unsuspecting public. At least have the decency to warn us that Doink will be appearing on the program! Thank god I'm out of coffee, so my involuntary spit-take was cool, refreshing beer instead of scalding French Roast.

Clearly, this New Era of Whimsy poses a threat to us all. Some sort of anti-whimsy agent must be found, and I think I know just the man for the job.

RAW is Jackass

In a move that appears to be part cutthroat one-upmanship, part shameless and desperate promotional tactic in order to capture the deviant, empathy lacking, voyeuristic violence indulging viewership of Scarred and Bum Fights, Steve-O (seen here looking even more worthless than ususal) and other underemployed members of the Jackass ensemble will be appearing on this Monday's edition of RAW. They are expected to start an angle that will eventually culminate with Steve-O competing near the top of the card against a prominent albeit yet to be identified WWE superstar (my money is on Bobby Lashley if they make Steve-O a heel, Khali if they curiously decide to position this easily detestable youngster as a face) at SummerSlam. No word on whether a triple threat match between Hornswaggle, Mini Boogyman, and WeeMan is also in the works.

At long last, a new era for RAW and the WWE will be ushered in this Monday night. An era of whimsy.

Reason #242 to Despise Hulk Hogan

The fact that an energy drink was created in his (rubbery bronze skinned) likeness.

So Long Sandy...

Longtime backbone of Portland Wrestling, Sandy Barr, died Saturday at the age of 69. Barr suffered a heart attack in the office of his North Portland flea market, where he continued to hold matches up until his death. Sandy certainly left his mark on the world of professional wrestling as a promoter, wrestler, referee, trainer, father of Art Barr, and mentor to many in the business (including this lovely lady). Here's a nice retrospective by our Canadian pals at Slam!

For those in the area, a public memorial service will be held Saturday June 9th at 1 PM at Cathedral Park under the St. Johns Bridge. If not, take a few minutes to enjoy this slice of Portland Wrestling circa '77.

Yr Ironic PSA of the Week

Jake "The Snake" Roberts...possibly high.

Reason #956 To Despise Hulk Hogan

I was trying to find some background information on Malibu's brain-melting post from yesterday, and instead stumbled upon this little treasure. I sincerely apologise for adding to the already-toxic levels of Hulkamania our humble site is currently displaying, but this is too juicy to pass up. Hulk as Zeus? Th' ever lovin' Big Shew as his immortal nemesis? And young Richard Sandrak, whose freakishly 'roided-out visage used to adorn a body-building ad posted incongruously in the Men's Room of the Half-Price Books in Tacoma, WA?

All this and a dance number by the Wu-Tang's least favorite white girl, Brooke Hogan? I think we've found the booby prize for next year's Wrestlemania.

Reason #15 to Depise Hulk Hogan

I hate to post two YouTube clips in one day, let alone log two entries that feature el diablo calvo, lest I be accused of uninspired blogging, but the campy thespianism on display in this clip warrants your immediate, undivided attention.

My favorite moment, hands down, has gotta be Hogan's declaration that "There's No Hulkamaniacs Here!" Somebody get me the number of the nearest Kinko's. I need 40,000 bumper stickers produced motherfucking stat.

Honorable mention goes to Hogan's vexation that the mysterious running liquid is less than scalding in temperature. Gentlemen, we may have just discovered the aphoristic ying to Paris Hilton's yang.

And the Japanese sub-titles and concluding promo by a nappy headed Big Shew are just icing on the cake. Dare I say it...I dare...best YouTube clip EVER!

Enjoy. Again and again.

PastaMania!...It's Real, It's Damn Real

I have heard through the grapevine that some of Arabian Facebuster's more critical and skeptical readership (Hi again, Mrs. Spas!) suspect that PastaMania!, Hulk Hogan's culinarily daring but ill-fated sustence stand/family feedbag at the Mall of America, is nothing more than a figment of this debonair correspondent's active imagination. After months of exhaustive research and inquiry putzing around on Youtube for ninety seconds, I have uncovered definitive video proof corrobrating its existence. Click "Play" on the clip above, crank up your speakers to 11, and witness Hogan lickspittle Eric Bischoff conduct an interview with our least favorite orange hued dirigible and enemy of America in front of the structure (no longer) in question. Regardless of your opinion of the man -- I happen to despise him with every bone in my perfectly sculpted body -- you have to be impressed by his ability to seamlessly hype his title defense against Big Bubba while shilling Hulkaroos as a key part of any balanced diet.

There you have it, PastaMania was real. Case closed. Now if only proving the existence of God could be so easy...and rewarding.

Bidding RVD Adieu

Unless you have been living under a rock, held against your will in the dank basement of one Pat Patterson, or trapped in the abandoned WCW Power Plant in an urban exploring adventure gone awry, you have undoubtedly heard the news that Rob Van Dam has decided not to re-up/re-sign with World Wrestling Entertainment. His “farewell” match will take place this Sunday at One Night Stand against terror watch list suspect and all around shitty guy -- pun damn well intended -- Randy Orton.

On behalf of the readership of Arabian Facebuster (Hi, Mrs. Spas!), I want to wish Rob Van Dam good health and happiness and during this well deserved sabbatical from profressional wrestling. I'm sure when his no-compete clause expires, we'll be seeing his flippity-floppity acrobatics and tired thumb pointing antics (see Figure 1.A above) in the hexagonal ring of TNA. In the interim, Rob, spend some quality time with your kids, help your wife out around the house, and for chrise sakes man, learn how to throw a realistic looking punch.

Salt In The Wound (Randy Orton Terror Watch Part 4)

Bad enough that Our Beloved Sabu (tm) has had his contract terminated by the double-double E. Worse that poor RVD will be hitting that lonely (pot-addled) highway as well. The crowning insult, however, is that RVD will be facing everyone's least favorite pistol-packing, gym-bag crapping, hotel-room wrecking mental health risk at the upcoming One Night Stand PPV. That's right, fans (?). RVD versus Randy Orton in a "Stretcher Match", live from the ECW arena in Jacksonville, Florida!

Is this how it ends? Is this the match that will end Rob Van Dam's ECW career? An incontinent, heavily-armed manchild will pretend to beat him up while a team of failed Hollywood Script-puncher-uppers beat up his contract in Real Life?

Look, rumor has it that RVD's been wrestling semi-hurt for a while, and with his hetero lifemate Sabu getting shitcanned, it seemed like prime time to seek the proverbial greener pastures (insert RVD weed joke? Meh.). Fine, whatever. It would just be nice if the WWE could give him a better sendoff than a savage (and unwatchable) beating from a terminal jackoff like Randy Orton.

Ah, well. Looks like all you Arabian Facebuster Readers (hi, mom!) will be getting a lot more mean-spirited snark and a lot less genuine enthusiasm for wrestling in the future. That's what you guys like best, anyway, right? Right? Hello?

Fuck. Just go read RVD's blog. It's funnier than this old thing, anyway.

Yr Flamboyant Dusty Rhodes Foto of the Week

Reason #113 to Despise Hulk Hogan

The fact that he starred in the most awesome music video ever made.

Yr Old Skool Tag Team of the Week

Dick Murdoch and Dusty Rhodes, The Texas Outlaws.

Fakin' Da Funk

Check out this recent news out of (surprise!) Tacoma. Seeking to avoid any similar litigation, the WWE legal team is strongly recommending that the company put the kibosh on the Eugene character. After all, a class action lawsuit seeking reimbursement for sympathy purchases of Eugene merchandise could cost the organization hundreds, if not thousands, of dollars.

Those concerned with a change in direction for Randy Orton need not fear. Rigorous IQ and adaptive testing results confirm that Randall will continue to receive his monthly $630 SSI check without interruption. This is more important than you might think. Seems that the Legend Killer's current daily wage of a Fudgesicle and two shiny quarters does not go far towards paying the rent at Reverend Von Fury's Home for Wayward Boys.

While this may not bode well for young Randy's dream of someday owning a firearm, the WWE Taskforce on Mental Health reports that there is a bright side. With continued adherence to his daily training schedule and plenty of of encouragement, Mr. Orton is expected to be lacing his own boots by the end of the year!

Judgment Day...The PPV, not the Rapture

The WWE presents Judgment Day this Sunday on PPV. Since about 99% of the Facebuster nation will not be forking over $39.95 to the slow witted bastards at Comcast and/or spending three hours on the sabbath in the pursuit of temporal and worldly pleasures, I thought it fitting to instead start a thread on the matter. Per custom, venture your match predictions in the comments section.

This month, the winner will be the person who guesses the fewest number of correct results. And to the winner goes the spoils. The prize: an indelible sense of satisfaction from knowing that your wrestling intuition and acumen are more divergent from the WWE’s booking committee and corporate brain trust than your fellow Facebuster prognosticators.

Good luck.

Shawn Michaels: Bald Headed Geek

Besides tobacco, I am hard pressed to identify another industry that so consistently lies to and deceives its customer base more than professional wrestling. The most egregious offender? That would be World Wrestling Entertainment, of course. From listing Andre The Giant at 7’5”, to perpetuating the legend of the One Man Gang’s African lineage, to hoodwinking its credulous audience into believing that The Big Bossman was really a disgruntled former prison guard/inmate assaulter at the Cobb County Jail, to its history of denying the endemic and dangerous steroid and painkiller use/abuse by its superstars, to not informing its viewership that The Miz is the foremost collector of gay midget pornography in the world today, the company's litany of atrocities perpetrated against the truth reads long and detailed.

The latest fabrication and cover up, then, should surprise no one. Or should I say, fabrication and comb over?! As it turns out, WWE has been doctoring photos of evangelical superstar “The Heartbreak Kid” Shawn Michaels on its website, supplanting his balding cranium with a lush and thick head of hair.

I submit the set of photos below for your consideration.

Damning, isn’t it?

Up in Canada, Bret Hart most certainly has an enormous shit eating grin on his face…as he sits in his breakfast nook, alone, blathering belligerently about how Shawn and Vince screwed him over.

Bobby Lashley: Guy

Nature, dear readers, abhors a vacuum. So it is that, with our beloved Sabu's recent release from the clammy embrace of Extreme Championship Wrestling, we find ourselves casting wildly about for some flicker of personality among the show's remaining headliners. Attracted almost by the grim absence of animus, our gaze falls on the placid features of one Robert Lashley.

We have crafted an unflattering comparison. It glowers from the top of this post.

How tragic, then, that this gentleman is Vince McMahon's Chosen One. The wrestler upon whose broad shoulders rests the entire ECW brand. Consider the awesome burden placed on this tranquil Atlas. The glorious history and dubious future of ECW are in his massive ham-hands. He is YOUR main event, ECW faithful.

And he would fit right in here.

Clearly, something must be done. The man needs a massive gimmick overhaul if he is to restore our onetime favorite Wrestling Federation to its former glory. It goes almost without saying that Arabian Facebuster has just such a gimmick.

Bobby Lashley: Guy. It's magic. It's simple. It poses no challenge to Mr. Lashley's meager thespian skills. All the guy has to do is make constant references to his "regular guy" status. He shows no emotion, he doesn't rage around the ring. He just cuts the most simple and declarative promos ever.

An example:

Vince McMahon: Bwahaha! I have stolen your ECW belt, Bobby Lashley! And if you ever want a rematch, you cannot lay a finger on me or Shane-O-Mac or even Umaga! Bwahaha!

Bobby Lashley: Vince, I'm just a guy. And this guy really wants that belt back. I'm frustrated that I can't attack you, but willing to abide by the rules so I can get a shot at my belt. Because this guy sure does want that belt, guy.

Vince: You'll never get this belt! And there's nothing you can do about it! That must be eating you up inside!

Bobby: (sighs) Yes. I am one upset guy. You and all your guys are really being mean, guy. I'm just a guy. A guy who is upset. And a guy who wants his belt back. Oh, and also revenge. (sighs) Guy.

See? It's ratings gold. The crowd will eat it up, just like they did with that ridiculous "what" thing that Steve Austin used to do. Imagine 20,000 fans all chanting "guy" at random intervals. It will be glorious, and soothing like the sound of the tide.

So please, WWE. Implement our program. Let Bobby Lashley be the guy he was born to be, and watch as ECW's buy rate goes through the roof.

Oh, and also turn him gay.

...And Vito Too

More trimming of the proverbial fat over at the towers titan...the WWE has also terminated the contract of one Vito LoGrasso, shown here power shopping in San Francisco's Castro District for a pearl necklace to accentuate his Marilyn Monroe replica gown.

Somewhere along Arthur Avenue, a cross-dressing wise-guy weeps openly, but with his masculinity firmly in tact.

However, there is no need to keep Vito in your thoughts and/or prayers (i.e. "Dear Lord Jebus, please watch over Vito in his future endeavors"), oh benevolent and/or pious Facebusterites, for he has landed on his feet, procuring lucrative and licit employment at one of the world's premier fashion houses. Starting Monday, say hello to the Senior Buyer within the Moo Moo and Wearable Tablecloth Division at Dress Barn Incorporated.

BREAKING NEWS: Sabu Fired

Sabu has been officially terminated by World Wrestling Entertainment, effective just hours before last night's hour-long Bobby Lashley infomercial, otherwise known as "ECW on Sci Fi."

No word as to whether the WWE thanked Sabu for making innumerable sacrifices to his physical well being against the blimp-like Big Shew -- thereby carrying this talentless Hulk Hogan underling (is that redudant?) to his most entertaining feud in the past five years -- or at least wished him well in his future endeavors.

More tomorrow...on the ensuing riots in the streets of Portland!

Yr Old Skool Foto of the Week

Mr. Wrestling (Tim Woods) unloads on Baron Von Raschke. Mid-Atlantic Wrestling, circa 1978.

Randy Orton Terror Watch Part 3

I take no credit for unearthing the glittering gem featured above. All kudos go to the ever-vigilant (and journalistically responsible) Online Onslaught for getting the scoop. In fact, I'm hesitant to post their link, lest you all find out exactly how many stories I steal from them. Anyhoo, bear with this incredibly dry Gun Paranoia News report. Things start to heat up around the 1:10 mark.

Shocking Evidence Revealed

Facebusterists, I wanted to update you on the whole Randy Orton trashing a hotel room in Europe fiasco. As part of our ongoing investigation of the matter, Arabian Facebuster has obtained irrefutable photographic evidence illustrating the extent of the carnage wrought.

WARNING: The image below is graphic, profoundly disturbing, and damning. Proceed with prudence. As a precaution, I would advise you to ask the wife and kids, or anybody with an especially weak constitution, to leave the room immediately.

I don't doubt that the Randy Orton apologists and lickspittles out there are already calling into question the authenticity of this image and the means by which it was obtained while concurrently trying to discredit Arabian Facebuster as nothing more than a shadowy operation run by Orton's fanatical and vengeful enemies.

My friends, these allegations couldn't be further from the truth. Arabian Facebuster is an empirical, pragmatic, reality-based enterprise. Under no circumstances do we falsify information, predetermine our conclusions, engage in wanton speculation, or set out to ruin lives and reputations. The fact of the matter is that Randy Orton is both a habitual gym bag crapper AND a moderately priced, tastefully decorated hotel room trasher. Reputable independent sources have substantiated the validity of our contentions. For chrise sakes people, we're not talking the Niger yellowcake uranium forgeries. It's a slam dunk!

I'll stake my journalistic reputation on it.

Reason #9 to Despise Hulk Hogan

The motion picture mind numbing claptrap No Holds Barred.

And to the narrator's quip if we are "ready for a whole new Hulk Hogan?" Yes, yes we are.

Rated-R Cheers and Jeers

Cheers! To the Rated-R Superster, Edge, for winning Mr. Kennedy's Money-In-The-Bank privileges on Monday night RAW.
Jeers! To the aforementioned Kennedy for (supposedly) tearing his triceps off the bone in said match, derailing a promising run as Smackdown!'s number one heel.
Jeers! To Edge for defecting to Smackdown, leaving the hotel-smashing manchild Randy Orton without adult guidance.
Cheers! To Edge for cashing in his MITB privileges by beating an exhausted Undertaker for the Smackdown! Title.
Jeers! To Mark Henry, for appearing on my TV.
Jeers! Again to Mark Henry, for existing.
Cheers! To The WWE for wisely giving the number one heel push to Edge instead of Mark Henry.
However, my number one JEER of the week also goes to the Double-Double E, for ANNOUNCING THE OUTCOME OF A FUCKING CAGE MATCH ON THEIR WEBSITE A FULL THREE DAYS BEFORE ANYONE HAS A CHANCE TO WATCH IT!!!!!

Yes, we all know the Undertaker's hurt, can't keep defending the title, Money-In-The-Bank swerve blahblahblah. Whatever. At least let us pretend that these match outcomes aren't completely predetermined. If you've got a title change coming up and you're not confident that you can keep the match outcome a secret, just DO IT ON A LIVE TAPING. The internets may be fast, but we can't exceed the speed of light (yet).

Anyway, congrats to Edge for getting to live his banner year all over again.

"What The Cock" Update Photo

Photographic proof: Little Boogeyman needs to work on tightening up his entrance routine. Big Boogey, for all his other failings, is right on time with the headbanging-pyro-clock routine. Little Boogey? Not so much.

Yr Rasslin' Mugshot of the Week

The Big Shew, Memphis, TN December 1998. The accusation: Exposing himself to a female hotel employee. The case was eventually dropped due to a lack evidence, adding credence to my theory that the Big Shew has a microscopic penis.

What The Cock Is This Shit?

I admit that, like most thinking humans, I have missed the last several months of WWE Smackdown! (The enforced exclamation point is giving me the vapors, BTW). Thus, when a sense of journalistic duty finally moved me to stop the infernal blinking of my VCR clock last night, I was understandably surprised to see the grotesque image that confronts you atop this post.

A little Boogeyman? The big one wasn't enough? Let me see if I follow the logic here: you've got a third-rate Kane ripoff (which, if you're keeping score, makes him at least a fourth or fifth-rate Undertaker ripoff) whose sloppy ringwork and tepid crowd response have already led to you firing him TWICE, and not only do you keep depleting the (publicly traded) WWE coffers to keep him in leather pants and alarm clocks, but you go and hire a "little person" to follow him around and emulate his shtick? W, verily, TF?

Look, I get the Finlay/Little Bastard (sigh... FINE.) HORNSWOGGLE gimmick. Hornswoggle's a LEPRECHAUN, right? And Finlay's, like... Irish? Okay, that makes a degree of sense. So this evil Leprechaun hides under the ring, and hits the Miz in the nuts with a shillelagh (yay!) and actually DOES STUFF. Little Boogey (shudder) doesn't do anything. He just follows the Boogeyman around and mimics Boogey's moves out of synch with the pyro (if last night's performance was any indication). He also jumps around at ringside and cheers, but that's a moot point 'cos you can't fucking see him over the ring!

Perhaps Vince McMahon is trying to start a Midget Wrestling Division (I'm sorry, guys. If Howard Stern has taught me anything, it's that y'all prefer to be "Little People", but it's been Midget Wrestling since before I was born, and it'll be Midget Wrestling long after I'm dead) to compensate for his terminally unwatchable Women's Division. I can't find fault with that. But, please... don't do it like this. Don't stick us with Little Boogeyman. Let Hornswoggle feud with... I don't know, Tiny Benoit or something. Shorty Too Hotty? Mini Wang Yang? Whatever. Just take the Little Boogeyman away.

Pencil Neck Geek, you're a stockholder. Can nothing be done?

Worst Wrestling Around

Shockingly crude.
Perversely watchable.
Unintentionally uproarious.
Breathtakingly atrocious.
Hideously unforgettable.
Beyond awful.
Dreadful +1.
Evolution and inherent goodness of man reconsidering.
Total fucking schwaz.

Ok, I give up...I am at a loss as to how most bluntly besmirch the Western Wrestling Association's sophomoric and ham-fisted approximation of professional wrestling last month at the New Brighton Tri-City American Legion's banquet room (heretofore referred to as the "Dub Dub A Arena"). Oh, I got it...how about Worst Wrestling Around!? It's a play on their acronym, and an ingenious one to boot.

Regardless of the specific phraseology, suffice it to say, these aspirant superstars may need to hone their mat wrestling skills, brawling abilities, aerial maneuvers, rope running, selling, pacing, in-ring psychology, microphone work, physiques, and all around athleticism before giving the grapplers in Ring of Honor a run for their money.

Some lowlights:

1. There looked to be 100 or so people in attendance. About 70% of the audience was comprised of the developmentally disabled and the persons responsible for transporting them to and fro. 28% appeared to be an assortment of dejected families from the nearby trailer park, dirty dirty ring rats, and confused slack jawed drunks who stumbled out of the Legion bar looking for the parking lot ("Dat gum, it's around here somewhere, I reckon!") and wound up in the Dub Dub A Arena. The remaining 2% were urban professionals (i.e. my friend Martha and me).
2. Peculiarly, the announcers -- Warren Christie and "Terrible" Terri did commentary over the PA during the bouts (possibly in reaction to the audience composition detailed above or simply as a matter of post-production expediency). Terri ought to consider enrolling in a remedial vocabulary course over at the local elementary school based on her propensity to refer to the heels as "dummies" while butchering words like "soprano." As in, "He'll be singing sopranto after that shot."
   
3. After doing the job via a freaking standing powerslam, masked inbred spastic redneck Handsome Pete delivered a botched Double J guitar shot, knocking the dapperly dressed Super Lee Cool legit silly.
   
4. I was sternly reprimanded by The Master (whose web site bio was ghost written by Saul Bellow) for snapping some digital pictures because it was interfering with their public access filming, despite the fact that there was no written or verbal announcement that digital/flash photogoraphy was strictly prohibited. Not wanting to get stretched out or have my stomach punctured with a jagged meth pipe, I promptly powered off the camera, returned to my seat, and continued enjoying shaking my head in disdain at the in-ring action tedium.

Tonight, Worst Wrestling Around returns to the Dub Dub A Arena. Mercifully, this dashing correspondent will not.

Back from the Front with Observation

Ring of Honor made its long awaited return to St. Paul MN on Friday night. Yours truly Malibu Sands (pictured ringside in the brown shirt and with an astounded look on my face) along with Frogtown (the guy in the Minnesota Twins cap) and Doughnuts (the guy in the striped blue polo shirt who has been mistakened in public for both the affable Clay Aiken of American Idol fame and the irrepressible Tad Martin on All My Children) endured the sauna like conditions of the Saint Paul Armory to enjoy an evening of hard-hitting wrestling action and superlative people watching.

As the result of leisurely sipping a couple of drinks at our favorite St. Paul bar, we entered the building about thirty minutes after bell time. Much to our chagrin, no alcohol was being served; the only items for sale were energy drinks, water, pizza, DVDs, and shoddily stitched (read: "Made in the USA") t-shirts, all of which the deformed, disfigured, and cognitively feeble zombie mutant rubes were buying at a steady pace. Needing a mixer to tame the flavor of our smuggled in hard liquor, as well as a base to absorb some of its inebriating properties, food and drinks were purchased. In a development that surprised no one, the $3 tall boys of RockStar were warm while the $2 slices of cheese pizza were cold.

Luckily the wrestling action more than compensated for the lack of concession options. Allow me to offer a quick-n-dirty summation of what we witnessed:

• The Briscoe Brothers executed numerous innovative double team maneuvers in their successful defense of the Tag Titles in a four team endurance match, outlasting Jigsaw/Mike Quackenbush.

• Homicide/Cabana and Albright/Pearce engaged in a wild, plunderific (chairs, tables, and such) brawl that spilled into the crowd with the latter team defeating the former. Post-match saw the delivery of the Cop Killa and Colt 45 on the hapless heel manager.
  

• During intermission, we laid claim to some prime ringside property, forgoing our assigned tickets in the back row.

• Despite doing the job to Rocky Romero and his hackneyed heel stylings, Jack Evans busted out some impressive flippity-floppity offense and took a number of sick bumps in the ROH equivalent of a "fatal four way." Yes, he also puked.

• Roderick Strong and Christopher Daniels put on a fundamentally sound, methodically paced, and hard fought match with an unsatisfying conclusion (Daniels was counted out).

• And in my favorite match of the night, Takeshi Morishima (who had a ring presence reminiscent of the late Terry Gordy) retained the ROH Title over the "hometown" (raised in Milwaukee but trained in the Twin Cities) challenger Austin Aries that featured some spectacular offense during the finishing -- a brainbuster and 450 splash (pictured above) leading to a believable near-fall by Aries, a cartwheel splash in the corner, top-rope driving suplex, and brutually stiff lariat by Morishima.

Yr Ring of Honor Foto of the Week

Malibu Sands marking out at ringside, Ring of Honor, St. Paul MN 4.27.07. Also pictured, Roderick Strong giving Christopher Daniels a fall-away slam off the middle turnbuckle.