Unanswered Questions

There are more unneeded details emerging regarding the whole Nick "Idiot Son" Hogan auto accident kerfuffle, the wreckage of which is pictured above. For those of you just waking up from a coma and getting reacclimated with the professional wrestling/offspring of D-list celebrities landscape, I'll defer to FOX News/The Associated Press for a synopsis:

August 27 -- A Toyota Supra driven by Hogan's 17-year-old son, Nick Bollea, was traveling at a high rate of speed at about 7:30 p.m. Sunday, Clearwater Police spokesman Wayne Shelor said. Bollea lost control and hit a raised median. The car flipped around, and the back end hit a palm tree.

Police identified Bollea's passenger as 22-year-old John J. Graziano of Dunedin [Italics, mine]. He remained in critical condition Monday at Bayfront Medical Center, a hospital spokeswoman said.

What perplexes me is this last detail. Why is a 22 year old guy doing hanging out with a 17 year old boy? I've watched my share of Dateline NBC: To Catch A Predator (hoping that a washed up grappler like crack connoisseur and deadbeat dad Jake "The Snake" Roberts, degenerate slime ball Sean Waltman, Hogan lapdog and exemplar of physical unfitness Brian Knobbs, or even a jobber to the stars in the mold of Don Herbert will saunter through that front door thinking they are about to engage in leisurely iced tea consumption and uncomfortable conversation followed by an illicit tryst with an all-American teen, only to get verbally bitch slapped by America's foremost gonzo journalist Chris Hanson) and let me tell you, this seems like a classic case of sexual perpetration and perversion. Alas, we might never know the truth as there is a very real chance that Mr. Graziano (that's probably his not his real name, but rather an inconspicuous handle for trolling online teen chatrooms across the interwebs) will not survive this accident.

As unsophisticated and unfocused my analysis of the Hogan-Graziano connection may be, it raises an even broader set of questions. Why didn't the geriatric Hogan take away his whippersnapper son's car keys/driving privileges after his earlier speeding citations and reckless driving infractions? Why would the Hulkster not only support but financially bankroll his son's delusions of race car superstardom? Didn't he see what happened to Bobby Brady? Would the Hulkster approve of wannabe ghetto fabulous diva Brooke Hogan hanging out with a 22 year old guy? Of course, not. Why the double standard? Why the hypocrisy from America's most levelheaded and sagacious father and husband? [Because if anybody going to take advantage of his daughter's sexuality, its going to be him for the purpose of boosting her earning potential and thereby lining his pockets] And why o' why is that wherever a camera, video crew, and someone who happens to share the last name "Hogan" are present, so too is a certain follicle deficient, terror plot masterminding, endangered insect abusing, twice a day tanning salon patronizing, gristly skinned devil incarnate?

Probably for the same reason we blog so prolifically yet eloquently about professional wrestling...the notoriety.

Reason #243 To Despise Hulk Hogan

He uses his massive pythons to bumrush the emergency response teams that are assessing the condition of his idiot son.

Said idiot had just wrapped his Toyota Supra around a palm tree, BTW. Young Nick limped back to Paw Hulk with only minor injuries. His friend and passenger, John Graziano, remains hospitalized in critical condition.

Bad enough that the fruit of Hulk's leathery loins is still being allowed to menace our nation's highways, but to see th' Dirigible making life tough for the brave men and women of America's Emergency Response Industry? Again?!

Hulk Hogan must be stopped, America. Otherwise, the terrorists win.

Yr Old Skool Masked Man of the Week

Georgia Championship Wrestling Heavyweight Champion The Masked Superstar, Bill Eadie (aka Demolition Ax, aka 1/2 of the Mongols), circa 1979.

Ed Asner Supplementary Post

Aw, thanks, Youtube! Footage of the classic (?!) bar-fight scene from The Wrestler! It's just what I've always wanted!

In this, we see Dusty Rhodes and Dick Murdoch mixing it up with Oddjob from Goldfinger. My favorite moment is when Dusty gets karate-chopped in the head, but his cowboy hat doesn't even get dented. Also, Dusty's look of demented glee when he hoists his twin beers in the final moments of the clips will haunt me till my dying day.

Seriously, this movie rules pretty hard.

Ed Asner > WWE

Last night found yr humble correspondent severely over-caffeinated and trolling through the late night TV offerings for something to cudgel him into unconsciousness. On the verge of giving up and slumping over to the 7-11 for a can of Camo Black Ice (Camo is an anagram of COMA, and don't you forget it), I stumbled across The Wrestler, starring TV's Ed Asner and Vern freakin' Gagne (who, I'm fairly sure, is NOT the blond gentleman pictured at left).

Ah, ambrosia. While this cinematic epic is propelled by one of the creakier plots in human history (something about some underworld types wanting Ed Asner to fix a Gagne title match before the "Superbowl of Wrestling"), the real reward for Wrestler viewers is the plethora of high-end cameo talent on display: Dick Murdoch, Dusty Rhodes, Ric Flair, and even Vince McMahon Sr. display their considerable thespian chops.

Even the in-ring segments are fairly watchable, delivering a rich old-skool flavor while still zipping along at a brisk enough pace to avoid slowing down the already ponderous action. If only they'd replaced the gruesome love scene between Ed Asner and his cosmetic-happy co-star Elaine Giftos with the Dusty Rhodes tag match they keep hyping throughout the flick, they'd have a much stronger product and I'd have kept down that bowl of posole I scarfed during the commercials.

Still, these are minor (if nauseating) quibbles. The Wrestler is a top-notch artifact of wrasslin' history, and I urge the readers of Arabian Facebuster to check it out. Except for my mom. She probably won't be that into this.

We Watch Wrestling, Exhibit B

We watch wrestling to behold the pageantry and excellence of the incomparable "Nature Boy" Ric Flair.

We also watch wrestling to witness the methodical and ruthless dismantling of a schluby, soulless jobber, i.e. the (uncompetitive) squash match. The almost senseless beating that Stan Hansen's inflicts on the hapless Don Herbert in the embedded clip above is the epitome of this type of professional wrestling contest. Herbert gets in absolutely no offense whatsoever, not even a token side headlock or feeble punch to Hansen's thick torso. And that's the way it should be. For all of the time and effort it took to find a babysitter for the kids, grease up his mullet, and make the 90 minute drive in his 76 AMC Pacer from the trailer park to the arena, Herbert gets absolutely annihilated in short-order by some of the most rancorously and cantankerously delivered offense that you will ever witness: clubbing overhead blows, nasty elbow smashes to the head, a punishing rear chin lock (when was the last time you actually smiled at the sight of a rear chin lock being applied), and even a thundering drop kick(!!!), eventually succumbing to "the lariat" clothesline. On the bright side, Herbert was no doubt able to swing by the Western Union before it closed and cash his modest yet hard earned paycheck, allowing him to pick up a half-rack of Busch Light to fire back on the long drive home and the opportunity to reimburse the babysitter for her evening's work with a currency far more tangible than sexual servitude.

Of course, the entire viewing experience and is enhanced by the NWA's trademark noisy ring ropes, understated arena atmosphere (sans the flood light illuminating the ring for television taping purposes), and sober commentary of David Crockett and Johnny Weaver.

Enjoy.

Twenty Years Ago Tonight...

...the stars of Jim Crockett Promotions/the National Wrestling Alliance -- along with a limited number of grapplers that were retained from the recently acquired Universal Wrestling Federation (i.e. Dr. Death, Chris Adams, Eddie Gilbert, Terry Taylor) and Championship Wrestling from Florida (Kendall Windham, Ed Gantner) promotions as part of Crockett's expansion/attempt to compete with Vince McMahon's burgeoning sports entertainment kingdom -- were on display at the Met Center in suburban Minneapolis.

Yours truly Malibu Sands, fresh off an expedition to Philadelphia to take in The Great American Bash on tour, was in attendance.

Here was the card:

Reason #95 to Despise Hulk Hogan

Shamelessly copied and pasted from TMZ.com:

August 17 -- TMZ has learned that Hulk Hogan's Miami Beach home was robbed of a reported $100,000 worth of jewelry just last night. Damn!

The Hulkster and his family were in the process of moving out of their home, when the jewelry was reportedly taken from right under their nose. Some of the pricey gems that have gone missing include a diamond-encrusted watch and two gold chains.

Sources close to the Hogans tell TMZ that the family was in the middle of moving to a new Hulk-palace when they discovered that the jewelry was gone.

Allow me to pinpoint the target of my righteous indignation. I am in no way suggesting that this alleged protector of the republic should be reviled for having his home robbed and valuables stolen. Far from it. Yours truly Malibu Sands, along with the entire editorial staff of Arabian Facebuster and our go-getter intern Chip, don't look kindly upon those gainfully employed in the burgling profession. In this regard, we actually have (shudder) empathy for the Hulkster.

However, we unconditionally loathe this heavily lacquered exploiter of the mentally feeble and cognitively deficient for having the capital to purchase $100k worth of (undoubtedly ostentatious) jewelry.

And don't get me started on the PR firm retained by Lucifer and Hitler's offspring that had the audacity to waste the public's time and drain its attention span by issuing a press release about this nonsense. At least tack on a statement to the effect of "law enforcement authorities need the public's help in solving this case..If you have any information, contact blah blah blah"...otherwise, its nothing more than a thinly veiled plea for coverage and exposure by inane, rumormongering blather repositories such as TMZ.com, US Weekly and Access: Hollywood.

Note to self: renew US Weekly subscription.

Bill Dundee: Superstar!

What do you get when you combine (1) aimless and shirtless motorcycle riding through a lush meadow; (2) lots of flamboyant hip gyrations and cocky strutting; (3) a wardrobe culled from Maurice Gibb's bargain rich garage sale of 1979; (4) confrontations with likes of Jerry "The King" Lawler, a pre-Fantastics era Tommy Rogers, and Dutch Mantell's back hair; and (5) Joan Jett's "Bad Reputation?"

A music video tribute to the short fused, pint sized "Superstar" Bill Dundee, of course. Thanks to the CWA/Memphis territory for having the foresight to produce a clip with this plethora of awesomeness!

Saturday Night's Main Event, or How I Learned To Stop Worrying And Love The Claw

Saturday Night found me intermittently dozing through yet another piss-poor WWE card. Orton/Cena, Hardy/Holyfield, blah blah blah. Thank the dark gods, then, for the first matchup on the card: Batista and Kane versus Finlay and The Murderous Great Khali.

No, your eyes do not deceive you. I have just issued praise to a Great Khali match. We will now take a short break while the rest of the Facebuster Staffers clean up the Iron City they just spit all over their computer screens. I'll be right here listening to "Funky Man" by Dee Dee King. Boom boom chak! Ba-boom ba-boom chak! Fa fa fa fa fa fa fa fa funky! Ah, good, you're back.

Yes, the Bats/Khali shmozz was dreadful. Yes, it featured a particularly offensive segment in which Kane and Batista used Hornswoggle as a battering ram. And, yes, it featured a good five minutes of Khali lazily "clawing" at Kane's heavily bandaged stomach.

And I laughed the sweet, chiming laughter of an innocent child.

If we are to live in a world of Whimsical Sportz Entertainment, then let Khali clawing Kane's jelly-filled tum serve as the key image of our era. This is a wrestling hold so awkward, so unbelievable, that it fills the heart of anyone who views it with warmth and light. Is it the pro wrestling that I know, love, and obsess over? Goodness, no. It is instead a simpler, purer sort of thing. It is the basic and instinctive play of youths... or perhaps of morons.

Claw away, you enormous murdering man-child. Arabian Facebuster has no heart to spoil your idiotic fun. And yes, someone should make a Dee Dee doll.

Hornswoggle...

Fighting cruiserweight champion or fightingest cruiserweight champion?

I'll reserve proffering an opinion on this all-important matter until the aftermath of tonight's Smackdown! taping.

Yr Champion v. Champion Foto of the Week

(W)WWF Champion Bob Backlund applies the abdominal stretch on NWA World Heavyweight Champion Harley Race. Madison Square Garden, New York, 1980.

We're Still Winning!

Another week, another virtually unwatchable Smackdown!. Last week, the first five minutes of the WWE's Friday night ratings pit had me leaping off the couch in disgust, Iron City frothing over as I declared WAR on Sportz Entertainment. This week, my disgust was of a more resigned and rueful tone, as I witnessed the unveiling of a new segment on Smackdown(!): "In the VIP" with Montel Vontavius Porter.

For those of you who haven't already nodded off, this is the latest in a series of attempts to recapture the long-lost magic of "Piper's Pit," a superstar-hosted fake talk show that allows the dickish heel host to berate and then assault his guests ("The Cutting Edge" leaps easily to mind). Despite abundant evidence that the genie is long gone from this particular bottle, the WWE brain(feh!)trust trot this gimmick out on the regular whenever they desperately need to kill some time. It eats about fifteen minutes of air time, features little to no actual wrestling, and poses very little risk of injury to your already depleted roster (unless Kane or the Great Khali are involved, in which case you might end up with a manslaughter charge on your hands). It also puts your audience the fuck to sleep.

That said, "In The VIP" was even worse than I could have predicted. Check out the picture above: yes, that's MVP, Matt Hardy, and Chris Masters together in one ring. Oofah. It looks like they're fighting over which one of them gets to have a personality this week. This segment made Bobby Lashley look animated.

Good news for the Facebuster Nation, though. Any company that willingly spreads this dross on the airwaves is clearly clutching at straws. Only one week into the war, and our enemies are already acting hunted and desperate. Hell, Saturday Night's Main Event is on tonight, and that never goes well. I predict another will-sapping ratings nightmare for th' WWE.

Unless, of course, Big Daddy V pledges his troth to CM Punk during the tag match.

Why We Watch Wrestling, Exhibit A

Arabian Facebuster's plucky intern Chip has brought it to my attention that many of the recent posts on this site have been of a decidedly negative and belligerent tone. Sorry folks, but war ain't pretty.

In the interest of of bucking this trend, allow me to acquaint you all with this early 1980s montage of "Nature Boy" Ric Flair from what I believe is the old St. Louis territory. There is so much of Flair's offensive prowess, firepower, and variety on display -- stiff punches, chops, elbow smashes, knee drops, standing vertical and side suplexes, and of course the figure four leg lock -- all of it executed with a sense of crispness, fluidity, realism, purpose, and urgency sorely lacking in today's in-ring performances. Witnessing the stomping Flair puts on that anonymous black trunked wrestler at about the sixty second mark has already made my weekend!!!

Oh, and did I mention that there's also leer jets and lovely ladies!?

So sit back, pop open a frosty can of Iron City (or fifteen) and let the sounds of Pat Benatar envelop you as you give praise to the religious Deity you choose to worship (or not) for allowing Richard Fliehr to walk this earth.

BREAKING NEWS: Chyna's Back...

...In rehab. As reported by Dave Meltzer: Noted author and owner of the other half of the late Anna Nicole Smith's BFF necklace Chyna/Chyna Doll/Joanie Laurer recently checked herself into a drug and alcohol rehabilitation facility, thereby (a) forgoing her scheduled appearance on Nancy Grace's reckless accusation fest and (b) denying America the opportunity to witness its biggest train wreck since the 1918 Nashville railroad collision.

And in other breaking news, dog bites man.

We're Making Progress!

A mere six days into our War on Sportz Entertainment, the enemy -- those dastardly individuals responsible for sabotaging our beloved pro wrestling and transforming it into a farcical, third rate old timey variety show-- is already showing signs of appeasement.

Encouraging dispatches from the battlefield continue to trickle in. Tuesday night, Big Daddy V (pictured at left foreshadowing how the end of his date with Mae Young will turn out) wrestled not once...but twice. First, BDV decimated straight edge teen heartthrob (think Danny Bonaduce without the red hair, narcissism, proclivity for threatening his loved ones, and overall mental derangement) and number one contender to the prestigious ECW Title C.M. Punk by count-out. BDV then followed up that semi-competitive squash with the total annihilation of "The Innovator of Violence" Tommy Dreamer,( a man who's last pin-fall victory came when George W. Bush's approval numbers were hovering north of 40%!).

By no means should this olive branch from the Tower's Titan be construed as a reason to let down our guard or lessen our resolve to win. Rest assured, this significant progress only reinforces our determination for nothing less than unconditional surrender and complete acquiescence to our demands, particularly the one that involves publicly executing The Miz.

Arabian Facebuster realizes that this war is going to be a long, hard slog. We aren't ready to fly a "Mission Accomplished" banner from high atop our majestic office building just yet. However, if say next Tuesday night Big Daddy V wrestles four squash matches under the "Big Gay Viscera" moniker, we might be persuaded into deploying all of our resources against TNA.

And Hulk Hogan. He's really been gnawing at my craw lately!

If This Is TNA, Then This Is War!

Let me see if I got all of this straight...

• Samoa Joe doing yet another the job in a World Heavyweight title match?
• A swerve involving Kurt Angle's wife in the main event that everybody could see coming from the start of this ill conceived angle (because obviously Joe vs. Angle needs some sort of failed marriage plot to ratchet up the buy rate)?
  
• Karen Angle receiving more camera time in the past month than about 90% of the actual wrestlers on the roster!
  
• Ditto for societal nuisance and eventual (just give him some more time on the "outside," people) convicted felon Adam Pac-Man Jones!?
  
• Abyss as the new #1 contender...again?
  
• The perpetual jobbing out of most charismatic and arguably freshest tag team on their roster, Chris Sabin & Alex Shelley!?
  
• Having your fresh, popular, credible babyface (Chris Harris) get destroyed by a washed up Dustin Rhodes?
  
• Extending the completely played out Robert Roode vs. Eric Young feud for yet another month?
  
• Alleged upper-mid-card player Rhino loses on PPV for about the fifteenth time in a row!
  
• A battle between the two most broken down, out of shape, shell of their former selves teams in professional wrestling, The Steiner Brothers and Team 3D!
  
• Kip James and BG James, who never had any reputation for innovation let alone any discernible talent to begin with, still on the payroll!?
  
• The signing of yet another WWE retread, Andrew "Test" Martin (at least Martin's new nickname -- "The Punisher"-- is apropos for having to endure his escapades)?
  
• Convoluted gimmick matches as a rule, not an exception?
  
• Don West's monster truck aficionado haircut and seemingly endless supply of poorly stitched, loudly shaded, reflective silk dress shirts!
  

This is TNA!?

Fuck TNA.

Regrettably, TNA leaves Arabian Facebuster no other recourse but to open up a second front in our war on near sighted, pointless nonsensical, purely whimsical, and/or utterly counterproductive professional wrestling booking.

That's right, Arabian Facebuster declares war on Total Nonstop Action Wrestling.

No retreat and no surrender.

These Are Our Demands...

While the epic conflict between yr beloved Arabian Facebuster and the despicable monolith that is World Wrestling Entertainment is naught but forty-eight hours old, and while our offensive maneuvers to date have consisted of merely announcing that said maneuvers are forthcoming, AND while all we've been up to is listening to old Dictators records and drinking Camo Black Ice and trying to decide what offensive maneuvers, exactly, we feel like making, there are already cowardly tremblings within Titan Towers. Rumor has it that some members of the double-double E inner circle have already had enough, and are desperate to reach some sort of accord with the mighty Facebuster Nation. "Apollo," they cry, "What sacrifice will appease you? What can we do to end this damnable war?"

Let it never be said that the editorial staff of Arabian Facebuster are unreasonable men. Please, gentle reader, click "play" on the above embedded Youtube clip, and let the sweet strains of Fugazi's "Reclamation" wash over you as you peruse our Official WWE Surrender Wishlist. Turn off your TV, indeed...

Arabian Facebuster will end its state of WAR against the WWE corporation when at least three of the following demands are met:

1. Fire good ol' JR and replace him with Juicy J of the rap group Three 6 Mafia.
2. Turn Viscera gay.
3. Terminate the contracts of at least three of the following: John Cena, The Great Khali, Christopher F. Masters, Jerry "Jerome" Lawler, Montel Vontavius Porter, Deuce, Domino, Batista, John "Hardcore" Holly, Mark Henry, Boogeyman, or Kevin Thorn.
4. Terminate the contract of The Miz. If he is publicly executed, we will waive one additional demand.
5. The same goes for Michael Cole.
6. Name Vince McMahon's bastard child after at least two Arabian Facebuster staffers. (Yes, we know it's supposed to be a WWE Superstar. Whatever. Like Marcus Cor Von wouldn't be a million times cooler if he were named Apollo Malibu Pencilneck Von Fury.)
7. Replace ECW on Sci-Fi with a "best of" program culled from the entire WWE/WCW/ECW tape archive. This program will be curated by one Malibu Sands.
8. Bring back RVD. And use him right this time, you stupid pricks.
9. Allow Umaga to speak like a goddamn educated-ass man, instead of a bullshit racist throwback.
10. Fix Snitsky's teeth.

That should do it for now. Further demands added as we think of them. More will be required once we really start winning.

Yr Old Skool Crimson Masks of the Week

The Missing Link (Dewey Robertson) and "Hot Stuff" Eddie Gilbert. Universal Wrestling Federation, circa 1987.

This Means War.

I'm so angry I can barely see to type this. I'm not even ten minutes into my tape of last night's Smackdown! and that gibbering pissant Michael Cole, falling all over himself in excitement over Khali's new offensive maneuver (bringing the grand total to three moves and bringing him perilously close to exceeding the technical acumen of one Big (Gay) Daddy V), compared the ineffectual stumblebum at left to both Harley Race and (wait for it) BRUISER FUCKING BRODY.

Of course you know, this means war.

Bad enough that Bruiser Brody is probably my favorite wrestler. Worse that the move that started this dangerously irresponsible round of hyperbole was performed on the legendary Ric Flair (Malibu's favorite wrestler). Even worse that this fucking chief is using a CLAW, as popularized by Killer Kowalski, making this an assault not just on credibility, good taste, and common sense, but also on POLISH-AMERICANS EVERYWHERE by ripping off one of our few legit cultural icons (Casimir Pulaski and Copernicus being the other Big Two). The real kicker, in terms of offensive pseudo-irony, is that Brody is famous (in large part) for being MURDERED for refusing to job to an inferior opponent, while Khali is famous (entirely) for KILLING A GUY because Khali is an inferior opponent.

Fuck that shit. I hereby declare war on World Wrestling Entertainment. My posts will now be so venomous, so blatantly biased, so flat out mean-spirited and ugly that strong men will blanch. I will relent only when the double-double submits to my demands (to follow in tomorrow's post). You hear me, Vince? You, Johnny Ace, and the rest of the rat fuckers are ON NOTICE.

By way of a closing argument, I submit the following footage. First, the Great Khali versus some other Giant Shitbag jerking curtains in Japan:



Second, the Immortal Bruiser Brody versus Abdullah the Butcher, number 759 in an infinite series of classic matches:



Ladies and gentlemen, I rest my case.

I'll See Yr Rock & Roll Express...

...and raise you Tommy Rogers & Bobby Fulton, The Fantastics. While the embedded clip above lacks double drop-kicks, incessant waist and knee gyrations, matching mustaches, and (closely related) a palpable homosexual attraction/tension amongst two lifelong friends as its meta narrative, it more than compensates for these deficiencies with bare chested high-fives, incensed shirt tossing, Chip-n-Dales inspired ring attire, the ogling of ladies in loose-fitting and non-revealing clothing, a horny pigeon no doubt coked up out of its diseased mind, synchronized hugging, and a valuable lesson to any aspiring derelict that headquartering one's hitchhiking expedition in the middle of a bridge on the freaking interstate freeway may not be the wisest option.

Not surprisingly, this video was also produced by the fine folks in the Mid-South Wrestling territory, circa 1985/1986.

Man, I really worked up a sweat typing up this post. Better take my shirt off.

Tuesday Night Titan

Here at Arabian Facebuster, the volume of unsolicited correspondence, fan mail, and packages (typically containing a decidedly naughty photo of some young lovely along with a pair of skimpy panties), we receive is staggering. Rather than applying to the US Postal Service for our own zip code, we instead have retained an intern who is responsible for wading through the old Arabian Facebuster mail sack (actually, its a Glad Trash Bag autographed by Tom Bosley), along with tidying up around corporate headquarters (aka the hood of Pencil Neck Geek's Jeep Cherokee), transcribing all thirteen episodes of of Wrestle Society X by crayon, painstakingly restaging the entire 60 minute Iron Man match between Bret Hart and Shawn Michaels at Wrestle Mania XII through claymation, and going on a twice-a-day run to the local 'hood mart for pork rinds and Camo Black Ice (the official malted beverage of the Arabian Facebuster Nation).

I think his name his Skippy. Wait. Or is it Chip? I'm pretty sure its Chip.

Regardless, our otherwise well mannered intern barged into the mothership this morning, urgently bringing to my attention that a great number of you are opining for more content and perspective on Big Daddy V, the perturbed looking, droopy breasted Star Trek fan cum sports entertainer pictured above. So many pertinent questions submitted in the past 24 hours from our readership: What is BDV's most significant contribution to the contemporary professional wrestling landscape? Will BDV get a run with the ECW Title, or at least become the new face of the Sci Fi network? If the government commissioned BDV's cavity as a water tower to buttress the nation's water supply system, how many fluid ounces would he have the capacity to hold? Did BDV's sun and moon tattoos originally sit on his shoulders? My wife's birthday is coming up and I need to get her a gift; when are BDV moo-moo's going to be available for purchase at WWE Shopzone?

Allow me to take a stab at the first question...

In his brief tenure to date with the ECW brand, Big Daddy V has revitalized the uncompetitive squash match (versus the more common semi-competitive squash, easily identifiable by the mere presence of Val Venis, Balls Mahoney, or Eugene in the ring) as both a noble and cathartic element of contemporary professional wrestling programming. The care and concern he has brought to the squash is on par with the passion and meticulousness Randy Orton has devoted to the subtle art of gym bag defecation. However, this is not to say that BDV was solely responsible for this paradigm shift. Far from it. For every offensive maneuver in BDV's arsenal (for those keeping track, those would be a fall away slam, bear hug, and a big splash in the corner) there is a John Q. Dirtbag or Joe P. Trailerpark on the receiving end, maximizing its impact and enhancing its perceived devastation. Their commitment to and proficiency at their craft, along with with BDV's vision and wherewithal, deserve equal credit for driving this resurgence.

That concludes my thoroughly marinated Big Daddy V take for this week. Until next time Facebusterites, keep sending in those cards, letters, and unmentionables! With an intern on board, we estimate that our response rate will increase by a not insignificant unit of 1/2 of 1%! And Chip, if you're reading this, get your ass to the Plaid Pantry post haste! We're all out of Camo Black Ice...again.

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.