Jizz Rag Smokes Pot, Burns Down Trailer

Cameron N.C.- Moore County Sheriff's Dept. officials have identified Jeff Hardy's loyal back pocket towel as the prime suspect in the arson of the wrestler's double-wide abode last week. In an exclusive interview with Arabian Facebuster, the rouge terrycloth shares shocking secrets of drug addled depravity and details of the blazing inferno that may well spell the end of his illustrious career.

Speaking to this reporter in exchange for a crumpled Ziploc baggie of "dank bud" and a 32 ounce bottle of Downy fabric softener, Hardy's towel hazily recalled their heady early days. "I first met Jeff back in '98, while hanging out in a pile of rags behind Mean Gene's Burgers in Cheyenne, Wyoming. Jeff was blowing a doob and I asked if he could hook a brother up. " An illustrious (and co-dependent) alliance was soon to blossom- born of sacrifice, determination, and bong load after bong load of "the most fucking amazing chronic" .

As he Flippity-Flopped his way to the top of the WWE's mid-card, the excesses of Hardy's marijuana consumption were topped only by his insatiable appetite. "At one point, we owed Popeye's Chicken over $30,000" recalls the towel. "Man, Jeff wouldn't even get out of bed until he'd polished off a 12-piece box of thighs and 2 orders of popcorn shrimp." Hardy, sensing his career slip away through his greasy hands, had no choice but to abandon his steadfast fuzzy companion and head to rehab. Left alone in a storage space packed with bricks of Black Russian hash and endless boxes of Little Debbie Swiss Rolls, the towel plunged even further into the depths of addiction.

Returning to the ring revitalized and ready for action, Hardy was dismayed to find his friend bloated to beach-towel sized proportions. While the svelte and spunky rag he knew was a distant memory, the ever-loyal grappler hoped to carry his mildew laden pal along on the path to recovery. "It was bad. I was causing Jeff to blow spots left and right. Umaga tripped over me three times in one match". Hardy "accidentally" left his associate backstage with increasing frequency. "Snitsky did horrible things to me back there" said the towel, choking back tears. "I don't even want to talk about it".

Dejected, the towel returned to Hardy's North Carolina estate "for a little R n' R. Y'know, Reefer n' Ribs". The pleasures of the towel's retreat were fleeting. Soaked in Goldschlager after a particularly Bacchanalian night of festivities, the rag sparked a roach left between Hardy's couch cushions. He was ablaze within moments, with Hardy's home soon to follow. Engulfed in flames and burnt within an inch of his life, the resourceful towel found salvation in a jumbo-sized bottle of Good Old J.R.'s Chipotle Bar-B-Que Sauce. Doused in piquant, smokey deliciousness, the towel emerged from the pyre alive. Unfortunately, Cameron N.C. firefighters (also fighting the fire with barbecue sauce) were unable to save Hardy's residence.

When asked when he will be turning himself over to authorities, the rag responded "In just minute. I'm just going to get a little bit high first". As for the future of troubled Jeff Hardy? "Don't worry. I have the feeling he'll be just fine".

Everywhere I look, There's A Darkness...

So. Less than a week until Wrestlemania. Time to commence the betting. Time to risk it all (I mean it. Just wait for th' pay-off) in order to win twelve cans of cheap beer. As usual, twelve frosty-licious tins of IRON CITY to the lucky stiff with the most picks. To the loser? To the sad wretch whose wrestling prognostication abilities lie shamed in front of his compadres?

I can't believe I'm about to get involved in this.

See, th' Pencil-Neck Geek and I were talking about this on our way back from band practice (Tyrants' first show at th' palatial EXIT ONLY on March 26th. If "Bad Brains meets Suicide" doesn't get yr ass in a seat, then you might be retarded.) and he sagely pointed out that we gambled for pretty high stakes last year.

"I know," I said, "I had to read the Chyna book. It fucking sucked."

And then th' PNG said the thing. The bad thing. The thing after which, to quote the Nation Of Ulysses, "I know nothing's gonna be alright again."

He said. That the loser. Should watch. The. Chyna. Sex. Tape.

I think I might throw up.

Huhhhgh. Ummmmugh. Gruh. No, don't, I'm okay. It's just, ah... I said... I said that it might be a pretty good idea. HEAR ME OUT! Look, it's good copy. And we've been slacking off lately, admit it. When we first started, we were recapping fucking ECW matches, for God's Sake! That took dedication! And now? Photos of arenas? Sure, they're gorgeous and even a little avant-garde, but it's hardly cutting-edge wrasslin' content, now is it? Time to get hungry again! Time to stand tall and go where other wrestling scandal sheets fear to tread! Time to see if Chyna Really Has A Dick.

Believe me, I wish there was another way. I lost last year's pool, remember? It could very easily be me trudging over to the Fat Cobra looking shellshocked and defeated. I could be the poor soul who gets turned off of sex for the next half-decade. But in the interest of Real Journalism... well, frankly, it's shameful that we haven't had the balls to do this yet.

So. Loser watches X-Pac bang Chyna (in the pooper, no less!). Winner gets drunk for free. Agreed?

I'm gonna study tomorrow night's Smackdown! like it was the fucking Torah.

espn cLASSIC!

Other than reruns of Mama's Family, the occasional episode of World's Wildest Police Videos where the perpetrators in question commit crimes with no regard for human decency, or that "health secrets that the government doesn't want you to know about and if I reveal these medical breakthroughs to you government stormtroopers will come to my house in the middle of the night, brutally rape my wife and two daughters, kidnap me from my home and torture me ceaselessly in a dungeon rank with the foul stench of death until my corpse is mutilated beyond recognition...but I'm going to tell you anyways because, by God, this America and YOU have the right to know, so long as you send $79.95 to the address on the screen" infomercial hosted by what appears to be a freshly embalmed Hugh Downs, I am hard pressed to find reliably imaginative, provocative, cerebral programming through my Comcast basic-deluxe cable package.

That all changed this past Friday night/Saturday morning when, with much anticipation and perfectly chilled Kokanee in hand, I tuned into ESPN Classic to watch the grapplers of the American Wrestling Association clobber the holy hell out of each other! No upgrade to Comcast's super-basic-deluxe package for this guy. You see, it turns out that ESPN Classic is airing reruns of AWA Championship Wrestling on midnight, five days a week. Originally broadcast on ESPN in mid-March, 1986, this episode emanated from The Showboat Sports Pavilion in Las Vegas (the AWA taped TV at this facility from 1986 until I believe sometime in 1988/1989) with white boy rap guru "Killer" Ken Resnik and Greg Gagne calling the action and ring announcing duties performed by a no doubt tuned up Larry Nelson, whose beard was in dire need of a generous application of Just for Men treatment.

Despite the AWA being decidedly on the wane at this point in their history and losing the battle for national supremacy with the World Wrestling Federation and National Wrestling Alliance for a variety of reasons too detailed unpack in this post (the AWA would hit rock bottom in terms of talent, booking, reputation, and fan interest/enthusiasm in the product in 1989 after the failure/collapse of its working arrangement with World Class (Dallas) and the CWA (Memphis) territories and stay there until finally shutting 'er down in early 1991), I can say that, without hesitation, this was a far more entertaining program than anything offered up by TNA! or the WWE in recent months.

Some quick-n-dirty highlights and observations:

• In the opening bout, a 20 year old, pudgy baby-faced rookie by the name of Sean Michaels (spelled Sean Micheals by the inept AWA graphics department) defeated "Pretty Boy" Doug Summers with a top-rope flying body press/splash. This was before the formation of the Midnight Rockers, although that team would materialize within weeks of this match. If Buddy Landell was a poor man's Ric Flair in terms of look, mannerisms, and talent, then Doug Summers was more along the lines of a homeless man's Nature Boy. I'm not sure if "The Pretty Boy" had formed a tag team combination with "The Playboy" Buddy Rose at this point, but these two teams would square off at WrestleRock and have some memorable encounters. Afterwards, Michaels gives an in-ring babyface interview with Nelson putting over the competition in the AWA as the roughest and toughest in professional wrestling. Who would've thunk that he'd end up being one of Top 5 performers in the history of the business?
  
• Nord The Barbarian (later and better known as The Berzerker in the WWF) and Boris Zukhov versus 1/2 of the AWA World Tag Team Champs Curt Henning and Marty Jannetty ended either in a disqualification or countout. I have no idea why Henning didn't team up with his tag team partner Scott Hall, especially since Hall shows up at the end of the contest to stand around at ringside and do absolutely nothing but look dumbfounded. Nord is a lumbering stiff of the highest order. Lucky for him he has a couple of capable babyface opponents and a solid if unspectacular partner in Zukhov to do the heavy lifting. Henning is just phenomenal in this match and really over with the fans. His in-ring talents that I'm sure all of you remember from the early Mr. Perfect years in the WWF were pretty fully developed at this point. In hindsight, Verne should have booked him to defeat Stan Hansen for the title later that year (as opposed to what actually happened, Hansen walking out of the promotion and surrendering the title, with Verne awarding it to a deteriorating, aged Nick Bockwinkel instead of holding some kind of tournament or match between Bockwinkel and another top contender) and not waited until 1987 to give him a run with the strap.
  
• Larry Zbyszko defeated Leon "Baby Bull" White (aka Big Van Vader) by count out. White was pretty green here, but clearly showed much more potential, enthusiasm, and in-ring fluidity than Nord would ever demonstrate in his entire career...although you'd never predict that he would go on to be a mega-star in Japan and one of the bigger U.S. stars of the 1990s. To his credit, Zbyszko (a) makes White look credible by bumping like a madman during the contest...I've never seen any better selling of a turnbuckle smash than in this contest; and (b) gets the ringside crowd (comprised primarily of local hicks interspliced with a contingent of degenerate gamblers and coke fiends) in a lather during his post-match interview with Larry Nelson. Good little match before the cop-out finish.
  
• And in the main event, Stan "The Lariat" Hansen successfully defended his AWA Heavyweight Title against David Sammartino. This match didn't do much for me, lots of mat-based stalling rather than actual mat-based exchanges, jockeying, reversals, and psychology. Sammartino has got good muscle definition, but also quite a bit of baby fat. His physique is at once lumbering and absurd as he's packed 240+ pounds onto a frame that should probably support no more than 200.
  

Alright, that's enough AWA related ramblings for now. Time to clear my calendar for Friday night.

[Checks calendar]

Oh, that's right, it's already empty. Sigh.

Are Those New?

While an abundance of money certainly allows you to purchase the most extravagant and rarefied commodities -- a solid gold blimp, bald eagle egg omelettes, a fleet of space shuttles parked in your very own hangar constructed from the lumber of petrified redwoods, hand stitched Bengal Tiger skinned condoms -- it most certainly does not guarantee you happiness, inner peace, or fulfillment. Nor does it act as a proverbial epoxy to bond your family together in perpetuity.

Take orange hued dirigible Hulk Hogan, as but one example. He's earned millions upon millions of dollars through wrestling, merchandise, motion pictures (Suburban Commando, anyone?), a bevy of television shows, a lucrative music career, commercials, a culinary ambitious trattoria, a foul tasting energy drink, and whoring out his offspring...all of it executed in the most middling, uninspiring, nonthreatening manner possible in order to resonate with the lowest common denominators in our society. However, all of that wealth could not keep his wife from filing for divorce. Nor did it prevent his idiot son from recklessly operating a motor vehicle and needlessly putting his (now former, I'm sure) best friend's life in jeopardy.

Nor can money purchase the unconditional and genuine love of your only daughter. But it can buy her a jumbo sized rack! Brooke Hogan was spotted at the beach a couple of weeks back catching some rays and frolicking in the surf as part of the launch party for her new chest. Thankfully, the paparazzi were on hand to capture the proceedings.

Adjectives like "perky," "bouncy," "spunky," and "frisky" fail to do justice in describing the euphoric and energetic temperament of these pups. Brooke's newly affixed breasts appear to be inflated with the same volume of helium required to blow up the aforementioned solid gold blimp. Most importantly, they are sure to really bring out the luminescence and iridescence in her cubic zirconium encrusted grill.

RIP -- Gary Hart

"Playboy" Gary Hart, one of my favorite managers and one of the all-time greatest bookers and evaluators of professional wrestling talent, passed away this weekend at the age of 66.

Throughout his career, Gary managed some of the biggest names -- Dusty Rhodes, Abdullah the Butcher, Bruiser Brody, The Great Kabuki, Terry Funk, and The Great Muta, just to name a few -- and booked some of the classic feuds, angles, and territories, most notably ushering in and guiding the boom periods in Florida during the mid 1970s (when he turned Dusty Rhodes babyface) and World Class Championship Wrestling (when he turned the Fabulous Freebirds heel thereby igniting their feud with The Von Erichs) during the early/mid 1980s.

Yr Old Skool Arena of the Week

Mid South Coliseum, (Memphis TN) which hosted CWA/USWA wrestling and the likes of Lawler, Dundee, Idol, Jarrett, Rich, and Gilbert on Monday nights during the 1970s, 80s, and early 90s.

Whither the Jizz Rag Indeed???

Jeff Hardy's North Carolina double-wide trailer home apparently burned down last night, destroying all his worldly possesions, including his dog. He should have listened to me .

the rev.

Bruiser Brody Postscript

Not to undermine the wrestling knowledge of honeybun138, but the inchoate motherfuckers in the comments for this video gem contend that their clip is actually Bruiser Brody's last match. I don't really have a dog in this fight, and since the squash match below contains explicit mention of Abdullah the Butcher (who Brody was scheduled to fight the night of his murder) it seems that honeybun could probably win out if this case ever comes to trial. REGARDLESS, we here find the late, great Brody beating the living mulefuck out of Invader I... who, perhaps understandably, was the man accused of shanking Brody in the showers right after one of these two matches.

The video quality on this is pretty appalling, but that doesn't mean you're allowed to skip it. Watch the relentless onslaught of Brody! Thrill to the old-skool hardcore brawling! Shudder at how durable Puerto Rican Tables seem to be! Gasp as Invader I's blood soaks through his mask! And weep bitter tears, my angels, for the passing of a true legend.

Why We Watch, Exhibit M

Over the past few months, Arabian Facebuster has recognized and honored some of the all-time great wrestlers and promotions in the annals of professional wrestling. And the not so great. However, what validity would an inventory of this sort have without the inclusion of Bruiser Brody? Although I intended that to be a rhetorical question, allow me to answer it anyways -- None...None whatsoever.

Therefore, in order to rectify this oversight, please direct your attention to this squash match from Puerto Rico's World Wrestling Council, featuring Bruiser Brody taking on a jobber by the name of El Exotico who may very well be a long lost DeBarge brother. According to honeybun138 (the individual with the silly handle but impeccable wrestling taste who posted this clip), this was Brody's last match before being ruthlessly stabbed to death in the locker room showers by Jose Gonalez (aka Invader I), which would put this clip in July of 1988. While I can neither confirm nor deny this contention, I have no doubt -- based on visual evidence like Brody's graying beard and the Bell Biv DeVoe hair style of his hapless opponent -- that this match took place in Brody's final days.

If you are in a particularly morose mood, a downright eerie clip of Brody wrestling his murderer in an oddly configured outdoor stadium (i.e. no fans around ringside) can be viewed here.

Enjoy watching this consummate, unrivaled performer in action!

BREAKING NEWS: Jeff Hardy Suspended!

Mixed martial arts fan boy Dave Meltzer is reporting that Jeff Hardy, seen here after a futile attempt at tagging whilst on the junk, has been suspended by World Wrestling Entertainment for 60 days in lieu of a second Wellness Policy violation. Steroids have already been ruled out as the illicit substance in question.

As a result, Jeff (a) dropped the seldom defended Intercontinental Title to Chris Jericho this past Monday night; (b) will be forced to forgo his spot in the "Money in the Bank Ladder Match" at WrestleMania; (c) will spend the subsequent six months worth of Monday night's in sports entertainment purgatory, i.e. laying down for an assortment of talentless youngsters like Santino Morella, Cody Rhodes, and DB Smith, and grizzled lugs like Hacksaw Duggan and Sparky Plugg; and (d) will have ample free time to pursue his other passions -- penning cryptic poetry*, strumming melodic protest songs on his boss acoustic guitar, designing and sewing his own ring attire, laundering his jizz rag, offering hand gesture coaching to underprivileged youngsters, and scrap booking a career retrospective.

To paraphrase Yogi Berra, this whole situation is like deja vu...all over again.

I think Hardy's poem "A Lot in Common" is especially poignant and encapsulates the array of emotions that a nation of Jeffaholics are grappling with in this difficult time...

You're beautiful...but strange...So am I.
You're smart...but still slow...So am I.
You're impatient...but fast...So am I.
You're tired...but still last...So do I.
You're hot...but still cold...So am I.
You're established...but not old...So am I.
You're waiting...but happy...So am I.
You're leaving...but staying...So am I.
You're amazing...but weird...So am I.
You're yourself...but still feared...So am I.
We both want to be...A forever seen star.
I have to say...a lot in common is what we are.

Riveting.

*The person that hosts this site believes that Jeff's "work is as good as any that I've read." Clearly, he/she is not much of a reader.

Yr Old Skool Arena of the Week

The J.S. Dorton Arena (Raleigh NC) which hosted Mid-Atlantic Wrestling cards every Tuesday night during the 1970s and 1980s. More shots of this architecturally unique facility can be viewed here.

One From Th' Vaults

Submitted for yr approval: a hardcore classic from the golden age of wrasslin', complete with all manner of barbaric bloodletting, foreign objects, and even some intense mat work for all you old-skoolers.

Features a cameo by Ric Flair, btw.

Yr Old Skool Arena of the Week

The Will Rogers Memorial Center (Ft. Worth, Texas), which paid host to World Class Championship Wrestling every Monday night through most of the 1980s. Spacious and paved parking stalls not pictured.

W...T...F...?!?

Dear God,

I have been in self imposed-exile so long. Seeking. Seeking the Truth, but not of the Ron Killings kind. My time spent wandering in the outermost perils-beyond the vast Wrestling Wilderness, seeking that which was once Known as the True Wrestling Knowledge....

Seeking, since my last post posted, a Reason. Seeking some golden, fruitful bounty of holy needed Reason to purge forth in honeyed har dee harr harrrs of delightful and sacred commentaries....

And I have returned from thee Wilderness because I have Witnessed.
And I realize now their are no Words.
No Words...

The Truth of Man's Great Wretchedness Has Been Revealed!!
It is an awful Truth! Beyond words!! Mankind's, not the Mic Foley kind, depravity on such a degenerate parade of true wickedness. So sinnfully wrong in it's Terrible countenance....

yr. humble servant
the Rev.

WSX: Where Are They Now? (Part Six)

Months after the whimper-not-a-bang demise of MTV's garbage-y spinny-flip-fest WSX, a bunch of the cats involved seem to be trying to "One Night Stand" their way back into the spotlight by reviving Xtreme Pro Wrestling... which, if yr keeping score, means they're ripping off the comeback show of the federation they were originally ripping off, AFTER their second ripoff failed. That's a lot of offripping!

Juding by the talent on display, they're turning the spinny-flippy WAY down for this one, and putting the focus back on suicidal spots and insane hardcore bloodletting. Whatever. The greatness of ECW was that it managed to transcend the "hardcore" niche with riveting storytelling and excellent ringwork, but its legions of imitators tend to focus solely on stacking barbed wire flaming tables on top of electricfied shark tanks.

So, here's this thing... nice to see Sabu working again, and Vampiro and Kaos tend to "bring it" in a fairly acceptable way. Sandman looked pretty washed up during his WWECW stint, and I can't imagine New Jack still has anything left in the tank. Oh, and a quick trip to th' XPW website reveals that this event has a whopping seven hundred (!?) tickets for sale, so all you shmozz-lovers better get hopping.

Happy 59th Birthday...

..."Nature Boy" Ric Flair.

Yr Black History Month Foto of the Week

Butch Reed and Sweet Brown Sugar with the North American Tag Titles (the CWF/Florida territory tag team belts), circa 1982.

Why We Watch...Exhibit L

We watch professional wrestling for the brash, conceited, quasi-"pretty boy" heel...performed brilliantly in the clip above by "Mr. Perfect" Curt Henning, epitomized by legends like Flair, Blanchard, Hernandez (Gino, not Herclues), and Austin (Idol, not "Stone Cold"), and sadly best exemplified in today's professional sports entertainment wasteland by daddy-to-be, "The Dastardly Defecator" Randy Orton.

But wait, there's more. By watching this clip not only do you get to witness Mr. Perfect squash something called Kevin Renno (whose look seems more suited to the early 90s WCW jobbers than the prototypical WWF enhancement worker from this period) in convincing fashion, you also get to listen to the announcing tandem of Sean Mooney and Lord Alfred Hayes at no additional charge!!!

I could genuinely listen to his Lordship say "How about Earthquake...how about Big Bus Man...how about anybody" for hours days on end. If only at the conclusion of this segment had Sean Mooney thrown it over to himself at the "WWF Event Center" for some last minute Royal Rumble shilling.

If only.

Try Not To Vomit

It saddens me to report that, despite the potential consequences for the human gene pool, Randy Orton has been allowed to reproduce. Orton and his wife (pictured at left just moments prior to the conception) are expecting to burden our mental health system with their offspring sometime this summer.

Now, I'm no fan of eugenics, but can't something be done about this? Surely people like this... you know... with their, um... special needs... well, y'know... it's not like they even know what they're doing, is it? I mean, look at their happy faces! They haven't got a care in the world! And I just don't think they're really capable of making a life-altering decision like this. I mean, genetically, it's highly likely that the product of this union will have the same problems as Randy, or whatever deficiencies his lovely and simple wife may have.

Please, America. I know it's hard to talk about these things. But for the good of hotel rooms and gym bags everywhere, we must not let Randy breed.

Yr Black History Month Foto of the Week

Brickhouse Brown and Ice Man King Parsons...ready to fuck shit up.

Chyna's Sobriety Experiment

Tonight was my first face-to-television exposure withVH1's Friday night ratings juggernaut Celebrity Rehab. About 10 minutes into the inanity, I had an epiphany. I realized that Chyna, pictured here impersonating a cow, is a far more compelling character and viable brand when she is absolutely annihilated on some combination of booze, powders, prescription drugs, and X-Pac semen than when she is teetotaling her way through yet another directionless and humdrum day.

On behalf of Arabian Facebuster, I implore Chyna to reconsider her decision to stay clean. Based on tonight's episode, I am being generous by describing her newfound sobriety as a catastrophic failure and unmitigated disaster.

That is all...

Why We Watch....Exhibit K

We watch for the opening montage of our weekly syndicated wrestling program. I have embedded two classic examples for your consideration. The first is the opening sequence from NWA Pro Wrestling (which yours truly watched faithfully every Saturday morning on Channel 23 in 1986-1987) featuring the mainstays of Jim Crockett Promotions and the moves that made them famous....Tully Blanchard and his slingshot suplex, the high-pitched scream inducing double drop kick of Rock and/or Roll Express, Niktia Koloff's Russian Sickle clothesline, Dusty Rhodes' jiggly breasts, and the centerpieces of this clip, Magnum T.A.'s impeccably kept shlong cut and devastating belly-to-belly suplex, delivered to what has to be the most pathetic, scruffy looking jobber (you've just been usurped, Don Herbert) ever captured on videotape.




The second is the World Wide Wrestling opening theme that supplanted the more well regarded 1984-1988 version shortly after Ted Turner bought out Crockett. I included this not only for the catchy riffage, but Flair's sharply dressed run-in to save Sting and brawl with a formal wear clad Terry Funk and The Great Muta and Jim Ross' histrionic play-by-play (is the man even capable of any other kind?).

I would have included the old World Class Championship Wrestling opening (complete with timpany drums and a cavalcade of Von Erich offensive maneuvers on display), but I have yet to locate the footage.

Thanks to the fine folks at Mid-Atlantic Gateway for making these memories available to share! Enjoy.

Songs From The U.S. Male

The legendary underground radio station WFMU provides many fantastic services to its fans: stellar programming, insightful commentary, and a burning passion for music normally ignored by mainstream (read: sane) audiences. In this reporter's humble opinion, however, WFMU's greatest contribution to Modern Society is their practically bottomless collection of MP3 downloads. Featuring everything from corporate-produced musicals extolling the virtues of state-of-the-art bathroom fixtures to long-forgotten Big Black promotional interviews, WFMU's Mp3 selection will transform yr Ipod from staid to stunning with the click (give or take a few hundred clicks) of a mouse.

Of particular interest to the Facebuster Faithful is the download page from September of '07, which features tracks from the Holy Grail of wrestling ephemera: Classy Freddie Blassie's "Pencil Neck Geek" record. Swaggering machismo? Check. Classic Heel dickishness? Check. Rampant sexism? Check and CHECK. Often imitated, never duplicated... ladies and gentlemen, in association with WFMU New York, Arabian Facebuster presents: THE KING OF MEN!

Now get clicking, geeks!

Happy Valentine's Day!

Stupid Goddamn TNA

So the semi-stars of TNA wrestling are coming to the New York area for a live event a week from Thursday. It features three (3!) championship matches, a tables match, and a number one contenders match for the tag titles. The line up features Kurt Angle vs. Christian Cage (again, but still...), longtime Facebuster fave Samoa Joe vs. AJ Styles (maybe Joe will powerbomb his head into the crowd barrier again), Black Machismo vs. "The Guru of Whimsy" Sonjay Dutt, and our beloved LAX. Just judging by the card, it will be one of the best evenings of pro wrestling this year.

And nobody outside th' Big Apple will get to see it, because the mopes at TNA haven't figured out how to take their TV show on the road. Never mind that they insist on quixotically sending their PPVs to all corners of our great nation (torpedoing their own crowd response, BTW),the logistics of televising their NYC Supercard (trademark Arabian Facebuster, in case you're wondering) have left the TNA braintrust baffled.

Instead, we're getting some NASCAR crossover triple threat bullshit. Just this Monday, a hastily-convened Facebuster conference concluded that triple threat matches suck by definition, but sticking three NASCAR geeks into the mix? Unwatchable.

I got my Thursday nights off for this?

I Have an Annoucement to Make...

Time to dig the 'shroom pipe out of storage and dust off the ol' mortarboard. I'm quiting my job and going back to school!

Welding school!!!



Facebusterians, you won't believe the money these folks make after just a few short months of training. We're talking big money!

Thanks to "Captain Redneck" Dick Murdoch for giving me the confidence to follow his my dreams and the courage to write a check for $49.95 to cover application processing expenses, as well as to the admissions committee at the fabled Tulsa Welding School for extending an offer of matriculation (and cashing my check) in just four business days, thereby making my impetuous career change a swift and sobering reality!

Yr Black History Month Foto of the Week

Bad News Brown

Tonight on The Impact Zone!

According to the Wrestling Observer, tonight's jam packed two-hour adrenaline rush will feature:

Kaz vs. Black Reign in a pole match with mouse traps at the top of three poles and the rat that keeps changing its colors and look and name on top of the other pole.

I hope that dastardly metamorphosing rodent finally gets its comeuppance!!! So, what time is everyone heading over to The Tiny Bubble Room this evening?

Caucus Night in Minnesota

Here in Minnesota, we do democracy in the manner our forefathers intended...inconvenient (you convene and cast your vote between 6:30 and 8:00pm, no exceptions), chaotic (it took me about 20 minutes to find my correct precinct homeroom at the White Bear Lake High School -- Go Bears!), ill-prepared (they had perplexingly run out of "ballots," or more specifically, haphazardly cut 8.5" x 11" pieces printer paper with the names of candidates typed in what appeared to be Courier font), frustrating (I stood in line to sign in for about 45 minutes before finally being given a blank piece of paper and instructions to write in the name of my preferred candidate -- I wonder how many votes Mitt Huckabee will receive tonight!?), decidedly naughty (the nubile caucus clerk was showing some nice ass crack, keeping this nearly disenfranchised voter distracted long enough from otherwise bludgeoning the couple ahead of me in line with my pocket crucifix featuring a tiny bass playing Mike Hucakbee nailed to the cross), and insightful with post-caucus political analysis from former High Flyer and Killer Bee, "Jumpin'" Jim Brunzell.

God damn right.

Leaving the sprawling suburbatropolis of White Bear Lake, I flipped on AM flagship, the "Gooood Neighbor" 830 WCCO, for some perspective on the evening's exercise in standing on line. After a few minutes, Twin Cities radio icon and degenerate gambler Dark Star -- whose frequent use of the word "unbelievable" to describe absolutely anything he is sounding off on is nothing short of...well..unbelievable -- introduced Brunzell, who was calling in from the comfort of his topaz colored 1994 Chevy Astro Van to unleash his political gravitas on the unsuspecting masses. Jumpin' Jim's savvy and sophisticated insights included that he caucused for the first time tonight (as a point of reference, I am about 25 years younger than Jim and have caucused in MN twice despite not living here for 50% of the presidential elections I have been eligible to participate in)...he and his wife drove around trying for what seemed like forever to locate a parking spot in the aforementioned Astro Van...it was really crowded inside too...and he also mentioned something about trying to go to the Obama rally on Saturday but not being able to stick it out because Arabian Facebuster's preferred candidate for enacting its anti-job stealing/disease ridden illegal immigrant, pro third-trimester abortion platform wasn't going to speak until 4:00 and he had dinner plans (Brunzell obviously secured a coveted 5:15 reservation at Bubba Gump Shrimp Company in the food court that Hulkamania! built).

Provocative, shrewd, unrivaled electoral observations from 1/2 of the 27th greatest tag team in World Wrestling Federation History. Now that's compelling radio!

No word on whether former tag team partner B. Brian Blair was able to weather the lines and cast a ballot this evening.

Goodbye, Guys.

Hey there, guys. It's your guy here, with some news for you guys. But... guy, this is hard for a guy to talk about, guys. (Sigh)... well... ok, guys, here goes...

Guys, I'm not coming back to the WWE.

It's a hard choice for a guy to make, giving up the glitzy life of a WWE Superstar. But, guy, even though the WWE are still a great bunch of guys, it just sort of seems like those guys didn't have any real plans for this guy, guys.

Look, I'm just a guy. Heck, we're all guys, here. It's just... guy! This guy worked really hard to get healthy, and put on great shows for you guys, and a guy gets all excited about hanging out with the guys backstage... and then the office guys are all, "Sorry, guy, we won't let you win the Royal Rumble, we've got some other guy in mind for that." And then, guys, do you know what guy they're talking about? That guy John Cena! Don't get me wrong, guys, he's a heck of a guy, but sometimes... that guy... that guy... just... OOOOOHHHH!!!! GUY!

Sorry about that, guys. This stuff just gets a guy pretty worked up.

Anyway, it's hard for a guy to say what's next. There's some great guys in TNA, and some of those Japanese guys are pretty cool, and then there's guys like Brock Lesnar doing that UFC stuff for you guys... guy, the guy doesn't know, guys. It might just be time for a guy to... I dunno, write a guy's memoirs or something. Guy... (sigh)... guy.

Well, that's about it for a guy. I'll see you guys... somewhere. Sometime. Goodbye, guys.

Yr Black History Month Foto of the Week

"The Big Cat" Ernie Ladd

Why We Watch, Exhibit J

Arabian Facebuster would like to take this moment to induct Magnum T.A.'s mullet -- which might very well have been the greatest soccer rocker in the history of Jim Crockett Promotions and the National Wrestling Alliance -- into this blog's Pantheon of Professional Wrestling, alongside such luminaries as Ric Flair, Stan Hansen, Abdullah the Butcher and his trusty fork, Dick Murdoch, The Ultimate Warrior's foray into used car hucksterism, Manny Fernandez, the ethos of World Class Championship Wrestling as captured by Buzz Sawyer, The Fabulous Freebirds, and "Playboy" Buddy Rose.

In order to celebrate this achievements, I give you this sixty second clip from October 1985 (part of the build for the I Quit Steel Cage Match between Magnum and Tully Blanchard at Starrcade '85). There is so much awesomeness to digest...(1) Magnum putting an impassioned lip lock on Baby Doll, with his perfectly combed Mississippi mud flap glistening in the boom lighting; (2) Baby Doll's 80's "coke whore by day, synth rocker by night" leather n' lace gloves, black spandex tights, and ba dunka dunk butt; (3) David Crockett's prepubescent exuberance and shit eating grin as he watches Magnum sexually assault Baby Doll from close range -- "She likes it! She likes it! Look at it! Awww!"; (4) Blanchard's sneak attack to prevent his valet from succumbing to the charms of T.A's perfectly symmetrical, feathery textured shlong cut; and (5) Magnum just fucking unloading some stiff right hands to the cranium of Blanchard as David Crockett tries in vain to pry them off of each other.

Enjoy!

Reason #148 to Despise Hulk Hogan

A few weeks back, Arabian Facebuster endorsed Mike Huckabee for President based on his conservative bona fides -- namely his commitment to mobilize, deploy, and spend every resource at the government's disposal in identifying, rounding up, torturing (fingers crossed), and deporting all 12 million filthy, filthy illegals and his pledge to go to any length to legislate biblically congruent social policy , including amending the United States Constitution -- and the political savvy and equanimity of his backers. After a string of discouraging, momentum killing, distant third place finishes, Arabian Facebuster has decided to pull its support in favor of a candidate that actually stands a plausible chance of winning his or her party's nomination and enacting Arabian Facebuster's three pronged political agenda: (1) erecting a monument on the Washington Mall to honor the memory of Bruiser Brody; (2) exerting pressure on the WWE to turn the Big Daddy V character gayer than a Richard Simmons cameo on an episode of Prison Break; (3) offering on-demand, no questions asked, government funded abortions at every town square and church basement throughout this great land.

Arabian Facebuster was about ready to endorse Barack Obama as the only viable remaining candidate competent enough to articulate this message of hope and committed to implement our platform...until we discovered this clip...



Hulk Hogan just co-opted our (newest) candidate. Sigh.

I wonder if Mike Gravel is still in the race.

And The Winner Is...

Congratulations to Malibu Sands for winning the Second Annual Arabian Facebuster Royal Rumble Sweepstakes (or SAAFRRS for short). I've been re-tabulating the results for five days now and still can't manipulate the bonus points to eek out a victory for myself. Erstwhile intern Chip will be arriving at your Minnesota satellite office with a frosty, cold shipment of Iron City any day now. We hope it is helpful, if only for a short time, in helping you forget that John Cena is back and ready to stink up Wrestlemania.

But let us save the Cena bitch session for another day- for tonight, we CELEBRATE!

Philosopher Warrior or Philosopher NORMAL?

Remember that Introducton to Philosophy course you took as a plucky freshman undergraduate? Spirited discussions of Nietzsche's views on truth and morality on the quad with that nippy chick with the questionable grooming practices but smokin' hot body (I'm thinking of that Kate girl from Maine -- you know, the one that hung out with all the trust fund nippy dudes -- before her tum and dumper appropriated the dreaded freshman 15)? Pulling an all-nighter tweaked out of your mind on trucker pills and six cups of the sludgiest Maxwell House coffee you could brew to churn out a paper on the existentialist movement's critique of transcendentalism!? Confidently contrasting the theoretical underpinnings of the institutional deconstructionist methodologies employed by Foucault and Derrida on that essay final!?

Yeah, neither do I.

Therefore, in the interest of helping the Facebuster nation to relearn what near a decade of nights filled with bong hits of that sweet sweet kang, perfectly chilled can after succulent can of Schmidt's tall boys, badly burnt Jeno's pizzas (assorted varieties) and reruns of Thunder In Paradise in front of a grainy 12" Zenith helped us to so easily unlearn, I have attached a link to a philosophical quiz tailored made to Arabian Facebuster's sensibilities, a quiz that includes passages from the most brilliant and profound American philosophical mind since the passing of Allan Bloom -- The Ultimate Warrior.

http://blogs.citypages.com/ctg/2008/01/philosopher_or.php

See if you to identify which quote was spewed forth by the Philosopher Warrior, and which were penned by those pretentious Philosopher NORMALS. Post your carefully considered responses in the comments section. I'll throw the answer key up in a couple of days. This ain't college gentlemen...so no cheating!

Christ, just thinking about the writings of Martin Heidegger makes my head throb with actual brain activity. Time to blaze a fatty and find a jammin' drum circle and let the cranial stimulation just fade into oblivion.

Yr Old Skool Foto of the Week

Boris Malenko presents The Masked Superstar (Bill Eadie).

Reason #100 to Despise Hulk Hogan...

...that his self-propagated and delusional mythology of immortality compelled the fatty pictured above (foreshadowing what Nick Hogan will look like in another 15 years or so) to desecrate his stuffed crust pizza and Little Debbie Snack Cake ravaged torso in tribute.

Let's Get Ready To Gamble!

Thanks to the the ever-supportive Portland Wrestling community, th' Facebuster Staffers will indeed be enduring the Royal Rumble this Sunday. And, in our continuing effort to make the modern wrestling experience somewhat bearable, we will once again be giving away twelve cans of delicious Iron City Beer to whoever has the most picks in our hastily cobbled-together betting pool. Also, we'll purchase a 40 oz. beer of yr choice if you correctly name the winner of the Rumble itself... but in the interst of fairness, you are NOT ALLOWED TO PICK TRIPLE H. Yessir, those 40's are staying on the goddamn shelf this year. Also, I'm including some bonus points to help prevent tie scores in what is, honestly, an especially predictable schmozz.

Your matches, without further ado:

Chris Jericho vs. JBL
Bonus Point: Will this match be any good?

MVP vs. Ric Flair "Career Threatening Match"
Bonus Point: Will MVP gain my respect by bleeding like a stuck pig during this match?

Rey Mysterio vs. Your Facebuster Champion Edge
Bonus Point: Will we also see a Chavo/CM Punk Match? This bonus question goes up in smoke by the end of tonight, obviously.

Randy Orton vs. Jeff Hardy
Bonus Point: Will the WWE Crafts Services guys treat Randy to a Pizza Party after the match? They better!

And, finally, the schmozz de la schmozz:

Only twenty-four entries have been announced, brace yrselves: Umage, Snitsky, Bob Holly, th' Miz, John Morrison, Hornswoggle, Mick Foley, Batista, Undertaker, Kane, Jamie Noble, Finlay, Cody Rhodes, Shelton Benjamin, Carlito, Santino, HBK, Mark Henry, the mudering Great Khali, Mr. Kennedy, Tommy Dreamer, Triple H, th' BGV, and Chuck Palumbo.

One Bonus Point for every mystery contestant you can guess. Any announced before yr entry is submitted are, of course, disqualified.

Now to dip into the prize stash and make some picks...

24 Years Ago Yesterday...

The unfortunate phenomenon known as Hulkamania was born with his victory over the The Iron Sheik (click here and give another viewing of the poet laureate of Arabian Facebuster's expletive and epithet laden tirade on recreational drug use, various sports entertainment legends and the pitfalls of carpooling with "Hacksaw" Jim Duggan after ingesting about ten gallons worth of truth serum) to capture the WWF Championship.

Please also file this post under "Reason #17 to Despise Hulk Hogan."

Yr Force 2B Reckoned With Foto of the Week

Flanked by Walker: Texas Ranger and "Nature Boy" Ric Flair, God warrior Mike Huckabee stumps for votes in South Carolina.

"Celebrity" Rehab.

And now, another dose of schadenfreude from Joanie Laurer. Apologies for the out-of-sync sound in this clip, in which the newly-rechristened Chyna attempts to tell Dr. Drew Pinsky exactly what addiction she needs rehabbed. Dr. Drew asks the question on America's lips: "If you're not hooked on booze and pills, why are you on this show?"

Well, for starters, Chyna may not be hooked on booze and pills RIGHT NOW, but anybody who caught her legendary "Holiday" performance on the Howard Stern Show can tell you this lady(?) knows her way around a prescription pad. Further, fans of VH1's Surreal Life know that Joanie drinks like she's got a hollow leg. But her real addiction is so obvious I can't believe Drew can't spot it right away.

So yes, Chyna hits the bottle from time to time. And yes, Chyna may or may not take the odd bar of Xanax. But the real problem is that she's on her THIRD FACE and now she's a puffy wasteland of Botox and collagen.
The poor thing.

You know what I think would help? A song. Chyna's got such a pretty voice.

Why We Watch...Exhibit I

We watch for th' heart-warmin', chest-swellin' pride of regionalism. Before the death of the territory system, every sector of this Great American Nation Of Ours had its own breed of wrasslin' champion. Sure, there were those who strode from territory to territory like mighty colossuses, but our main draw for today, despite gaining (heh) large (hah) amounts of fame on a national stage, never really ballooned (haw) to leviathan proportions (hee!) outside the Pacific Northwest. While Ric Flair dominated the entire USA, the Northwest always kept PLAYBOY BUDDY ROSE clasped tightly to its collective bosom.

Misguided fat jokes aside, this clip is gold. From the initial Mount Saint Helens comparison to the incongruous hockey footage, this little gem is jam-packed with jets, champagne, and lovely ladies. Also on display is the trademark Buddy Rose promo style: confident, laconic, and stoned to the fucking gills (allegedly).

Speaking of which, my pal Jose Enrique claims to have spent a large part of the 80's hanging out with Buddy Rose in the North Portland/Vancouver environs. Joe says Buddy was a pretty heroic drinker (not quite like this guy, but still... Joe and his pals would be on beer three while th' Playboy was killing his sixth (and Jose is no slouch in the booze department, I can assure you). Other Jose-supplied Playboy factoids: Buddy Rose loved the sweet marijuana (of course), Buddy Rose was hilarious (duh), and Buddy Rose bought himself a pair of novelty "brass balls" to hang under the license plate of his car. This last bit of gossip should be accompanied by an image of a late-period Playboy, giddy as a schoolgirl, speeding North on I-5 so his Mexican Buddies in Vancouver (WA, natch) could weld fake testicles to his car.

God, I love this sport.

Andre the Giant...

Great drunk, or the greatest drunk?

Unequivocally, the greatest drunk in the history of humankind, if the Hemmingway's at Modern Drunkard Magazine are to be believed. So that's why they call Missy Hyatt the Andre The Giant of venereal diseases?!*

Color me skeptical, however, as this article contains numerous factual inaccuracies and suspect claims...his match was Hulk Hogan at WM3 was not a "bodyslam challenge"...Andre didn't retire after WM3, he wrestled for at least three years after doing the job to Hogan...their rematch took place 9 months (not 3 months later), contradicting their very own claim that Andre retired immediately after WM3...a case of wine is 12 bottles, not 16...$20k in take home pay per MSG house show in the late 1970s/early 1980s seems exorbitantly high considering (a) Bruno/Backlund were headlining the card during that period; and (b) during the busiest week of the year (Christmas) in the early 1980s, Ric Flair netted around $30k.

It's like this article was hastily penned by a bunch of unscrupulous, degenerate, heavily intoxicated, aspirant web based journalists full of moxie, confidence, conviction, unfounded and unsubstantiated opinions, and cans upon cans of thirst quenching Iron City Lager. Wait a second...

Details aside though, its hard to quibble with the article's overriding premise, that Andre could really fire down the liquor.

*Or if you prefer, replace this sentence with "So that's why they call "Mean" Gene Okerlund the Andre The Giant of acquaintance rape?!"

Oh, Crap! The Royal Rumble!

First, endless apologies for my absence. After an initial (planned) vacation from snark and whimsy (and the scorched and blighted thing that is contemporary wrasslin') I found myself the target of a particularly savage illness, which left me a howling tunnel of shit and vomit, crying for the sweet release of death.

I felt like last Friday's Smackdown! (Haw. Did you miss me, you poor bastards?)

So, stomach a-settled and teeth freshly-brushed, I thought I'd pop a Beefheart record on th' hi-fi and see what's doing in the world of Sports Entertainment. Oh, crackers! It's only a week-and-a-half until the Royal Rumble! The most important pay-per-view of the year except the main one and (debatably) that other one! I'd better hurry up and cover this shit! Why, we've got Edge/Mysterio, we've got Orton/Hardy, we've...

Aw, fuck it. I do NOT care. Just weeks after officially ending hostilities against the double-double E, and I'm itching for another war. These clowns have learned nothing from my dreams. Yeah, Edge is still killing shit, but the rest of Smackdown! is one big shrug. Even the decent matches are ones we've seen twice already (hi, Rey and Chavo!), the new announcing team of Coach and Cole is making me long for the amazing color work of Peter Senerchia, and the bad matches... Khali's manager arm-wrestles Hornswoggle? Ye Gods.

Look, if we can watch this for free at some unsuspecting bar, that's great. Last year was fun, right? All the Portland Wrestling guys had drinking-game rules for the rumble and we drew contestants out of a hat? And I got Sabu? And I severely burned my mouth with some fried chicken? But as far as actually paying for this per-view, and watching Jeff Hardy job to Randy Randy in a sober, non-circus atmosphere, I'm afraid fucking not.

Hey, don't cry... I'm not trying to be mean. Maybe we can get the TNA thing in February.

Eh. Maybe.

Yr Father-n-Son Foto of the Week

Barry Windham and Blackjack Mulligan

Why We Watch...Exhibit H

Our svelte, tastefully yet stylishly dressed, impeccably groomed, super bubbly intern Chip has brought it to my attention that Arabian Facebuster been spending an inordinate amount of time chronicling all of the gayness that professional wrestling has to offer as of late. From documenting Road Warrior Animal's leatherman phase, to promoting the shirtless outdoor hijinks of The New Generation, to exposing this continent to Japan's newest effeminate red thong wrestling prodigy Real Gay, to appealing the powers that be in Stamford CT to turn Big Daddy V more flamingly gay than a Lance Bass concert at Turkish bathhouse with 2-for-1's on unprotected, totally discreet butt sex, Arabian Facebuster is quickly becoming the EDGE New York City of professional wrestling blog sites -- young, hip, throbbing with hot content, completely shaven, and totally fucking gay.

In an effort to curb our descent into matters of immorality and sin (if Ric Flair's endorsed candidate for president is to be believed) once again stake our claim to the mantle of America's least read yet most respected and influential non-gay web site for objective professional wrestling journalism and incessant Hulk Hogan bashing, Arabian Facebuster is proud to present The Fabulous Freebirds (R to L) -- Terry Gordy, Michael Hayes, and Buddy Roberts -- three blue collar, good ol' rednecks who love to brawl, swill beer, grow chest hair, shoot animals, fly the confederate flag, park pick up trucks in their yard, crank The Georgia Satellites at all hours of the night, and most certainly not have sex with men.

Have a look at this clip from Bill Watts' Universal Wrestling Federation of Michael Hayes covering Thin Lizzy's "The Boys Are Back in Town," the supplier of which unfortunately disabled embedding (he's probably a homo just like that Bart Batten). What Michael Hayes lacks in vocal range, wrestling talent, or ability to project an aura of machismo through his sneering and posturing, he more than makes up for with...um...errr...lots of interspliced footage of Terry Gordy acrimoniously delivering a barrage of piledrivers, snap suplexes, and powerslams on the likes of Bill Watts, Steve "Dr. Death Williams," and Ted DiBiase?!

On second thought, with all of Hayes' hip gyrations, pelvis thrusts, and brazen strutting -- notwithstanding the fact he is flamboyantly sprawled out on a piano wearing black spandex smartly accessorized with a pair of white tennis shoes and what appears to be a children's extra small sized t-shirt at the clip's crescendo -- this video is kinda gay too.

Oh well, better luck to us next time in putting forth some unequivocally heterosexual content. And thanks for your insights, Chip. I appreciate your commitment to the Arabian Facebuster project and commend your tasteful decoration of our corporate headquarters.

Now stop admiring my crotch and get back to work.

Speaking of Uber Gay...

...check out this music video from the Memphis/CWA territory assembled to build up the hunky, handsome, juiced up babyface tag team of Bart Batten (the less worthless twin brother in the Batten Brothers tag team, both of which can be seen here getting absolutely pulverized by "Mad Dog" Buzz Sawyer) and something called Johnny Wilhoit -- The New Generation. Let's hear it for the boyz, indeed! Why is professional wrestling so fascinated and obsessed in documenting a young tag team's shirtless ATV riding exploits o'er a pastoral prairie, shirted horseback riding adventures through a lush meadow, shirtless joyriding of a motorcycle that appears to have been stolen from one "Superstar" Bill Dundee down a rolling hillside, shirtless fence post straddling on a bucolic ranch, shirtless buggy riding across an undulating pasture, and shirtless poolside foreplay horseplay presumably near these majestic backdrops onto videotape?

That was a rhetorical question...so don't feel pressured to pen a treatise on homoerotic iconography and professional wrestling in the comments section, unless of course you feel so inclined.

Yr Uber Gay Foto of the Week

Road Warrior Animal pays homage to Glenn Hughes' unwavering commitment to the advancement of gay rights by stuffing himself into a pair of super snug, super revealing cut off jean shorts.

To Be The Man...

Thanks to the highly sought after endorsement of a certain sub prime loan brokering guru, nutritional supplement pitchman, former sixteen time world heavyweight wrestling champion, ugly sweater party host, and frequent house guest of Arabian Facebuster's very own Apollo Spas, former Arkansas Governor Mike Huckabee surged to victory in last night's Iowa Republican caucuses, finishing solidly ahead of former Massachusetts Governor Mitt Romney -- whose conceitedness, insincerity, crass opportunism, and pandering on cue makes him the Hulk Hogan of the 2008 Republican presidential field.

You're welcome.

Hmm, I wonder how Harley Race's preferred candidate fared?*

* I think Duncan Hunter's "Countdown to Iowa Caucuses clock" needs a good winding...not only is it about three days slow, its actually counting up!

Why We Watch...Exhibit G

Kids, its time for another installment of Arabian Facebuster's sporadic series waxing nostalgic on the greatness that was professional wrestling before the death of the territory system and eventual institution of WWE hegemony. This interrupts our regularly scheduled blogging time devoted to heaping righteous indignation on and chronicling the absurd misadventures of Hulk Hogan, Nick Hogan, a geriatric and disheveled Ric Flair, Bobby "Guy" Lashley, Chyna, Randy Orton, The Great Khali, TNA, and...Hulk Hogan.

This clip from June, 1986 exemplifies all that was right about World Class Championship Wrestling, even as the promotion was still reeling from the deaths of David Von Erich and Gino Hernandez and adjusting to life without the services of its biggest babyface Kerry Von Erich (who suffered a horrible motorcycle accident just weeks before, putting him out of commission for 18 months and eventually necessitating in the amputation of his right leg ). Although business was on the decline, the in-ring product and booking remained solid, as evidenced by this wild and violent segment, anchored by "The Mad Dog" Buzz Sawyer.

Rugged in-ring action, intense post-match brawling, and a white hot crowd? Check.

Announcer Mark Lowrance's curious enchantment with the uncongested streets and spacious parking stalls around the Will Rogers Memorial Complex? Check.

"Mad Dog" Sawyer beating the shit out of identical twin pretty boy tag team partners, wannabe Chip-N-Dale dancers, and underrated chest hair sculptors Bart and Brad Batten? Check.

Fossil referee Bronco Lubich's dawdling three count and utterly feeble attempt to restore some semblance of order and decorum to the post-match proceedings? Check.

Legendary WCCW jobber Perry Jackson (who Mark Lowrance oddly refers to as "Perry Johnson") taking a brutal looking suplex by The Mad Dog on the concrete floor? Check.

The crowd's palpable, genuine, and almost inconceivable level of adoration for Kevin Von Erich? Check.

Man, watching this brings back fond memories of the World Class promotion. I hope you enjoy.

Yr Old Skool Newspaper Clipping of the Week

"The Handsome Half Breed" Gino Hernandez applies an abdominal stretch on "The Modern Day Warrior" Kerry Von Erich.

This picture appeared in the Dallas Times Herald on February 19, 1986, in memorium to Hernandez who died of an apparent cocaine overdose earlier in the month. More on Hernandez's life and the suspect event and circumstances surrounding his death can be viewed here.