Jeff Hardy: Not Sick but Not Well

Here at Arabian Facebuster, we are dedicated to investigating the follies and documenting the tomfoolery of professional wrestling. Why in the past month alone we have provided you with the miraculous and whimsical details of Hornswaggle's cruiserweight title triumph, contemplated The Great Khali's standing in the pantheon of Smackdown! champions, penned a missive on the majesty of Big Daddy V, authenticated that Lillian Garcia did not in fact take an extended sabbatical from her national anthem crooning and sports entertainment announcing duties in order to birth the love child of Hacksaw Jim Duggan, and paid tribute to the encrusted veneer of Jeff Hardy's mislaid jizz-rag.

You're welcome.

Sadly, however, I must break the news to the Arabian Facebuster community that Jeff Hardy (pictured above arousing the gentiles of an incredibly relaxed looking Randy Orton in a most unconventional manner), like his jumbo sized rag o' jizz, has seemingly vanished from the sports entertainment landscape. A little over a week ago, Dave Meltzer reported that Hardy had been sent home from the marathon of lackadaisicalness otherwise known as last Monday night's live broadcast of RAW on USA for an unspecified reason. And this past Monday, there was no sign of Jeff Hardy or any of his most coveted possessions, namely his extra absorbent spooge towel, Ab Roller, purple Manic Panic hair dye, and poetry journal, leading to much speculation that Jeff may have relapsed in his well documented battle with painkiller and drug addiction, thereby necessitating pulling him off the road and writing him out of the Intercontinental title picture for an indeterminate duration.

Thankfully, these conjectures couldn't be further from the truth. In fact, Arabian Facebuster has (once again) out-scooped the mainstream wrestling media and has obtained the real story. Arabian Facebuster is proud to report that Hardy, in a selfless act of solidarity, has gone on strike in protest of the sudden and wrongful termination of his goo hanky by World Wrestling Entertainment. We have obtained this image of Hardy in his one-man picket line, performing a riveting cover of Pete Seeger's "We Shall Overcome" in front of WWE's corporate headquarters, his jizz-rag neatly folded and carefully positioned in his right rear pants pocket.

Give 'em hell, Jeff!

Postscript: A big shout out those musical wunderkinds in Harvey Danger for inspiring the title of this post. I could not face, let alone make it through, the day's adversities without at least one listen to their 1998 landmark post-grunge opus, "Flagpole Sitta."

Yr Rock-n-Rasslin' Clip of the Week

I'd be remised if I didn't alert you all to this vintage music video featuring Ricky Morton and Robert Gibson (i.e. The Rock and/or Roll Express) from Mid South Wrestling, circa 1985, for your viewing pleasure. If you have a penchant for matching tights, feathered mullets, double dropkicks, accessorizing bandannas and tassels, dune buggies making razor sharp turns, cheesy and third rate 1980s post-production effects, even more double dropkicks, the Casio KX-101 boom box, or awaking your shirtless tag-team partner from his hungover slumber via a serenade replete with sexual magnetism, then this is the video for you!

Yr Old Skool Hoss of the Week

Steve "Dr. Death" Williams and Jim Ross...Sooners4Life.

What Kind Of Wellness Policy Is This?

Look at this poor man's teeth, for god's sake! They look like they were made out of wood, dipped in olive brine, and left to bake in the sun! Sure, the WWE Wellness Policy mandates quarterly drug testing (and we can all see how well that's turning out) to prevent steroid abuse (except perhaps in the case of Christopher F. Masters, the inflatable man), but where is this much vaunted Policy on simple matters of dental hygiene? We don't want Gene Snitsky to end up like this guy, now do we?

Vincent Kennedy McMahon, if you cannot prevent your wrestlers from treating themselves as portable, grappling chemistry sets, can you at least fix Snitsky's teeth? The Facebuster Nation demands answers, sir!

Lillian Garcia's knee surgery had better be covered by your PPO, BTW.

WSX: Where Are They Now? (Part Three)

Joey "Magnum" Ryan, formerly of WSX comedy-wrasslin' jackasses That 70's Team (he was the one who didn't get called "ass tassel" by The Clipse) is jobbing to John "Nitro" Morrison in ECW. In an even more revolting career development, Ryan was squashed by Mark Henry on last Friday's Smackdown!

Can you truly be called a "jobber to the stars" if this is the quality of talent you're putting over?

As a postscript, why didn't anyone tell me I misspelled "tassel" in that Clipse episode post? And why have the corporate overlords at MTV yanked all the WSX footage off of youtube? What am I supposed to do with my meth buzz now? Ah, well. I guess I'll just have to watch cartoons while stripping all the pipes out of my apartment building. Again.

Yr Old Skool Montage of the Week

"The American Dream" Dusty Rhodes.

Taken from the 1987 Great American Bash program.

This Is Grotesque

In More Ways Than One...

Dedicated, as ever, to bringing our audience the latest news in Sports Entertainment, I attempted to watch the most recent episode of Smackdown! Amid the clumsy grapplings of the Great and Near-Great, I found a hidden gem (and by "gem" I mean reeking turd): Jamie Noble versus The New Cruiserweight Champion Hornswoggle (pictured above, fondling his "shillelagh". Har).

For those who missed the Great American Bash (that would be everyone, right?) Finlay's ex-leprechaun pulled off a fluke victory in some sort of multi-grappler schmozz for the Cruiserweight Belt. Jamie Noble's all worked up 'cos he earned the number-one contender spot and this is turning him into a joke and he has his pride and blah blah bling bling blah. Cue eight minutes or so of time-filling comedy wrestling ending with Hornswoggle still champ by a count-out. Meaning, I suppose, that I'm meant to sit through this crap next week as well... and the week after that, and the week after that, probably until the Jackass boys show up so Hornswoggle can drop the belt to Wee Man. Horrors.

While this is clearly New Whimsy at its lamest, the match did provide the best wrestling action of the night. No, not the in-ring shenanigans. I'm talking about John Layfield wrestling with his thesaurus, struggling manfully to avoid saying "midget."

Ba-dum-bum! Thank you! I'll be here all week. Tip your waitstaff.

Twenty Years Ago Today...

...a prepubescent Malibu Sands (accompanied by his father) attended the Great American Bash on tour at the Philadelphia Civic Center. The main event that evening was a steel cage match for the NWA U.S. Heavyweight Title between babyface Communist challenger (nice booking, Dusty) Nikita Koloff and recently crowned champion and member of the Four Horsemen, "The Total Package" Lex Luger. Also on the card were a double-bullrope match pitting Dusty Rhodes and Ron Garvin against Tully Blanchard and "Nature Boy" Ric Flair (IIRC, Dusty pinned Tully); The Rock and/or Roll Express successfully defending their NWA Tag Titles against The Midnight Express in a lumberjacks with tennis rackets match; Jimmy Garvin defeating J.J. Dillion in a match-up whose outcome exactly 100% of the crowd predicted correctly; Barry Windham defeating Arn Anderson; The Fabulous Freebirds (Hayes, Gordy, Roberts) going over Paul Jones' Army; Dr. Death Steve Williams retaining the UWF Title against Dick Murdoch; and during intermission, the highlight of the evening, a "Dating Game" facsimile as three eligible bachelorettes undoubtedly plucked from the audition line a local gentlemen's club competed for the attention and affection of the hottest commodity in professional wrestling at that time...The Total Package?...god damn right...The Total Package!

For your viewing pleasure, here is a copy of the card...

Reason #4 to Despise Hulk Hogan

This Honey-Nut Cheerios commercial.

Yr Old Skool Crimson Mask of the Week

Abdullah the Butcher vs. Stan Hansen: All Japan Pro Wrestling

Rest In Peace: John Kronus

John Kronus (pictured here with Perry Saturn in ECW Tag Champs The Eliminators) was found dead in his girlfriend's home on July 18. Police do not suspect foul play, but are proceeding with an autopsy due to Kronus' youth (according to Wikipedia, he was 38).

What a year this turned out to be.

Khali...

Great heavyweight champion, or the greatest heavyweight champion?

After painstaking deliberation, I'm going to go with "Great." For now.

Now with 200% More Offense!

There was much to despise about Tuesday night's cavalcade of mundaneness more commonly referred to by its surname, the ECW on Sci-Fi . This would include Edge Version 1.5 (or if you prefer, Shawn Michaels Version 0.8) aka Johnny Nitro paying off the WWE's patented main event interview segment with a freaking name change, CM Punk going over Elijah Burke for the umpteenth time in a heatless match, the directionless Tommy Dreamer doing the job to the equally directionless and ten times less talented or credible Kevin Thorn, the macarena and jazz hands stylings of Kelly Kelly and the rest of the new Nitro Girls on display, and the Miz actually appearing on my television screen instead of honoring a prior commitment to brutally torture some dastardly Al Qaeda operatives (or innocent foreign nationals) at Guantanamo Bay by forcing them to watch a tape of every single one of his matches (the Miz might be a son-of-a-bitch, but god damnit, he's our son-of-a-bitch).

Mercifully, in this vast ocean of tedium, I spotted a life preserver...an out of shape, morbidly obese, heavily tattooed, dark as night skinned life preserver. I would of course be referring to Big Daddy V, the latest sports entertainment incarnation created for Nelson Frazier, Jr, the man formerly known at Mabel and Viscera and soon to be known as Big Gay Viscera. The naysayers and playa' haters out there undoubtedly remain convinced that this name and costume change are nothing more than a facile and myopic repackaging of performer who should have been put out to pasture a long time ago. But let me assure them and all of you that this ain't your deadbeat daddy's Viscera. Big Daddy V is chic yet timeless, electrifying yet grounded, feared yet respected, prophetic yet meticulous, outrageous yet earnest. The ladies want him and the fellas want to be him. He's the ideal to which man should aspire. Hell, he's even incorporated a devastating looking elbow smash into his wrestling repertoire!

Who is this Big Daddy V? What motivates him? And what compelled him to come to the sports entertainment wasteland that is ECW? Based on the name alone, you would think that Big Daddy V would be content working as the Assistant Manager at a soul food restaurant or financing the production of pornographic videos filmed in his basement instead of physically dissecting meth addicted, dirty 'stached, trailer trash jobbers like the one pictured above. And based solely on his physique, you would assume that Big Daddy V would be preoccupied with getting breast reduction and/or gastric bypass surgery or competing in a Randy Jackson look-a-like contest rather than moving around a ring at a glacial yet somehow still arduous pace. However, you'd be wrong on both counts. For Big Daddy V is in the E-C-Dub for one reason and one reason only, to aid Matt Stryker in his quest to rid the brand of the enigmatic Boogeyman while providing some much needed time/content filler for Tuesday evening's marathon 60 minute broadcast, 38 of which are without any commercial interruption whatsoever.

Alright fine, two reasons.

Savage...Savage

Pompous British explorers like Sussex Monroe and his longtime companion the Earl of Salisbury (along with their less revered forebearers Sir Walter Raleigh and Dr. David Livingstone) devoted their lives to tracking the elusive, primitive savages filmed above in the deepest recesses of the African bush and Indonesian tropical rain forest, respectively. Silly Sussex and Salisbury, all that time Kamala and Sika were frolicking in the poorly ventilated television studios of the WWF, accompanied by a diabolical manager whose voice shares an eerily similar inflection with a man who tried (but regrettably failed) to destroy Hulkamania in seemingly the most convoluted yet amusing way possible.

If only Sussex and Salisbury were capable of communicating on the highest form that is the 39th level instead of the more rudimentary 37th level. They could have avoided this confusion and instead focused their anthropological inquires towards Aboriginal culture.

You Give Me That Title, You Warthog From Hell!

So I read Malibu's insightful post this morning and thought I'd pop over to double-double-e dot com and see who on the Smackdown! roster I favored for the upcoming battle royal. Y'know... the battle royal that doesn't air until this Friday. The one that decides who will be the Smackdown! champeen in place of the tragically injured Edge. The one that I'm actually pretty excited about watching (in much the same way as I get excited about accident footage on the nightly news, but whatevs). The one that HOLY CRAP THEY GAVE IT TO THE GREAT KHALI?!?!?!?!?!?

Goddamn you, wwe.com. You burned me again.

As an aside, if your problem is that your main event performers keep getting sidelined with injuries, is fast-tracking the Great Khali really the solution? Brian Ong would probably disagree. If he could. But he can't. On account of, well... you know.

Someone stop this ponderous load before he kills again, and please ask the WWE to quit posting match results three days before their air dates.

BREAKING NEWS: Edge Out Indefinitely

In what qualifies as a rare case of BlackJack Brown getting out-scooped and altogether bitch-slapped by the competition, Dave Meltzer of The Wrestling Observer is reporting that Smackdown! champion Edge is out of commission for an indeterminate amount of time as the result of last week's trademark WWE "main event interview turned sixty second donnybrook" with box office cash cow "The Big Red Machine" Kane. According to Meltzer, as of now the plan is to hold a battle royal at tonight's conclave of mediocrity, otherwise known as the Smackdown/ECW television tapings, to crown a new champion.

We here at Arabian Facebuster wish (a) Edge a speedy and full recovery; (b) that the Smackdown! title NOT be awarded to the following superstars: Kane, Batista, The Great Khali, Mark Henry, MVP, Deuce, Domino, either of the brothers Major, Chris Masters, Chavo Guerrero, Chuck Palumbo, Kenny Dykstra, Eugene, Dave Taylor, Jimmy Wang Yang, Gregory Helms, Jamie Noble, Shannon Moore, Funaki, and any and all of the divas. For those keeping track, that leaves Finlay, Matt Hardy, Hornswoggle, Commissioner Teddy Long, and Michael Cole as the only uninjured superstars available to carry the torch.

I got $10 on Hornswoggle.

WSX: Where Are They Now? (Part Two)

Yeeeeessssss! He's fucking BACK, people! The spinniest of the spinny-flippy, the king of the no-sell, the past/present/future of projectile vomiting: TEDDY HART!

In a move that defies all conventional logic, Our Ted has been signed to a developmental deal by the one and only World Wrestling Entertainment. Is he there to truly put their wellness policy to the test? Is he filling some obscure affirmative action clause for mentally unbalanced Canadians? Or is he being introduced as the hip-hop Yang to CM Punk's hardcore Yin (or vice versa)?

Whatever the case may be, this kid is a wrestling blogger's best friend. Please join us here at Arabian Facebuster in welcoming wrestling's Loosest Living Cannon to the corporate fold.

Please, Teddy... try not to screw this up until after you've given us a few months of good copy.

A Prediction RE: This Evening's RAW

Tonight on RAW, I predict that the inanimate wunderkind that is Bobby Lashley (seen here impersonating a paperweight) will be crammed so far down our proverbial throats that it will require an otolaryngologist to dislodge him.

[Or if you prefer...]

Tonight on RAW, I predict that the over the counter supplement enhanced phenom that they call Bobby Lashley will be shoved so far up our proverbial butt-holes that it will require a proctologist to extract him.

So all you masochists and idiom aficionados out there be sure to tune in to RAW this evening. You won't regret it.

Thank God It's Back Up!

God bless you, MondayNitro1, for allowing all of the world (or at least those in the world with a high speed internet connection) to again witness the fifteenth most compelling reason to despise Hulk Hogan.

Yr Old Skool Foto of the Week

Bruiser Brody vs. "Nature Boy" Ric Flair

Wrestling Rap Part Two

The suppliers of this clip have refused to let me embed it... a fickle move, but given the quality of product they're slangin', I'll let 'em do what they want. Just hop aboard this link and then start thanking me. The fine folks at NWA shockwave have done it again.

If you need more convincing, let me sum up the goodness contained herein:

Jimmy Snuka's one-two punch of incoherent rambling and fashion-forward accessorizing.
The classic track "Step To The Rear" by Brand Nubian.
Two cute punk rock chicks.
One cute dog.
One look of sheer animal terror (the girl on the left, it seems, does NOT want to dance with Jimmy).

The jungle comes to your house, indeed.

Rare, Pre-Whimsy Era Footage

On Sunday April 20, 1986 yours truly Malibu Sands, along with about 25,000 of my fellow Caucasian trash upper Midwesterner's descended upon the Hubert H. Humphrey Metrodome for an afternoon of professional wrestling excitement at WrestleRock, put on by the Twin Cities based American Wrestling Association.

The card featured about 15 matches. Top bouts included The Road Warriors seeking retribution against Michael Hayes and Jimmy Garvin inside the confines of a steel cage. Also inside the cage, Jimmy "Superfly" Snkua and insomnia curing Greg Gagne facing the legendary Bruiser Brody and Nord the Barbarian (better known as The Berzerker later in his less than illustrious career). And for the AWA Title, Nick Bockwinkel squaring off against the champion, Stan Hansen. Also on the card were the likes of Harley Race, Rick Martel, Larry Zbysko, Barry Windham, The Fabulous Ones, The Midnight Rockers, Scott Hall & Curt Henning, The Long Riders Scott & Bill Irwin (more famously known as The Super Destroyers), Sgt. Slaughter, Kamala, and Rip City's own "Playboy" Buddy Rose.

Of course, the AWA brain trust could think of no better way to promote arguably its biggest card of all time than by having its in-ring talent record/plagiarize a third rate rendition of the Chicago Bears "Super Bowl Shuffle." And in hindsight, neither can I. From a prepubescent and clean cut Shawn Michaels, to the contrasting flowing schlong cut being sported by Larry Zbysko, to the tuned up hip and/or hop stylings of backstage interviewer "Killer" Ken Resnick, to a most overenthusiastic and irritating vocal arrangement by one Greg Gagne, to seemingly sober, family appropriate appearances by perpetual fuck-ups Marty Jannetty, Scott Hall, and Curt Henning, this clip has got an array of future top stars in the business making songs like Hillbilly Jim's "Don't Go Messin' With A Country Boy" or "The Hulkster's in the House" by Hulk Hogan and the Wrestling Boot Band seem utterly pedestrian and banal by comparison.

Enjoy this extremely rare, extremely campy footage.

Whither The Jizzrag?

A month or so ago, the Pencil Neck Geek and I were watching a bit of RAW en espanol and we noticed that Jeff Hardy's patented back-pocket jizzrags were really getting out of hand. What once had seemed merely a large hankerchief had, in recent weeks, expanded in size until it resembled a bed sheet stolen from a mental institution. As one might expect, adding such a huge piece of fabric to Mr. Hardy's already substantial ballast interfered mightily with Hardy's brand of spinny-flippy hullabaloo. Midway through the match, an astute ring official snatched the offending fabric from Hardy's pocket and sent it billowing gracefully into the crowd (the first four rows of fans were later given a substantial refund for their loss of vision). Hardy waddled his way to the match's conclusion.

Skip ahead to last night's RAW. Rev. VonFury and I were partaking of the more-than-generous Happy Hour prices at the Farmer's Barn, and who should fill our TV screen (and I mean that sucker was FULL! TO BURSTING!) but the WWE's Poet Laureate, Jefferey Nero Hardy... sans jizzrag!

Fans, I understand that the WWE has the best interests of its employees constantly in mind. As such, they must curb rampant steroid abuse, mental illness, and gym bag crapping at ALL LEVELS OF THE COMPANY. This is why we've seen the company take several steps away from the spot-happy days of the late 90's (damn you, ECW, and your devil-may-care attitude!), settling on a more mid-tempo wrestling style that prolongs the careers of high-flying daredevils like Snitsky. I believe that it is this mindset that has banished Jeff Hardy's jizzrag (shown here in happier times).

The jizzrag's potential for mayhem is nigh-incalculable. The sharp, starchy corner could poke out an eye. It could become tangled in the turnbuckles. It could deliver a savage rope burn. One could slip on it. It contains many infectious stains (if you know what I'm talking about). It is, in short a veritable thesaurus of peril.

While I understand that personal expression is very important to Mr. Hardy (his poem Nachos Nachos Nachos rivals the works of Joyce), no one has a right to endanger his coworkers and fans. I applaud Vincent Kennedy McMahon for ridding the ring of this menace.

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

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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.