While watching the new breed unleashed on Sci-Fi last night, I couldn't help but notice the uncanny resemblance between ECW referee Scott Armstrong and former-GBV frontman Robert Pollard. Are the prolific singer-songwriter and the man assigned the unenviable task of maintaining some semblance of law and order in the Extreme Elimination Chamber on PPV this Sunday night both descended from the now steroid ravaged loins of "Bullet" Bob Armstrong? After placing a phone call to the authoritative Black Jack Brown, gathering an abundance of circumstantial and often contradictory evidence in the back issues of Man Splat, posting numerous inciting and rumor mongering messages on the ECW bulletin board under multiple user names and IP addresses, and submitting a paternity test of questionable contents to the Maury Povich show, the Arabian Facebuster Institute for Genealogic Studies concludes, irrefutably, "YES!"
However, this inexorable outcome begs the question: How come Bullet Bob's flawless genes were not passed down to this man?
It is a strange and disorienting thing to take one's enthusiasm for professional grappling out into the public eye. Safe in the confines of the living room, bellowing drunkenly at the screen, the constraints of modern society fall away. It is not unheard of for our team of correspondents to descend to the level of common beasts, howling and shrieking, leaping about the room like those apes at the beginning of 2001. Sure, we're just doing our Randy Orton impressions, but things can still get pretty nutty. It's easy to forget that there is a civilization outside the squared circle.
Thus, our first week without cable was rather difficult. RAW and SmackDown, we could live without. ECW? Pah. I'm beginning to get hoarse from scoffing at those jackasses. TNA, however, was an altogether different matter. Despite a certain jitteriness (to put things delicately) in their booking, they still put out the best TV wrestling show on the market, and their move to Prime Time was not to be missed. We were especially excited by the promise of the Christian/Rhino barbed wire (!) cage (!) match. Tired and jaded we may be, but massive lacerations and bloodshed still count for something in these modern times.
So it was that the Arabian Facebuster Editorial Staff found ourselves slouching into "The Barn," a rustic-looking drinkery in the posh environs of North Portland. As the saloon door slammed, we were greeted by a thick haze of smoke and a trio of soused Irishmen bulling their way through "Danny Boy." As they ramped up for the coda, one of the lads tottered over to the cluster of old-timers watching CSI at the bar.
"Can you please fuckin' turn off that fuckin' CSI so's we can hear this great fuckin' song?" he queried. "Just fuckin' turn it off for ten fuckin' seconds so we can fuckin' drunk talk jobble jobble mutter sluuurrrrr...."
Things looked grim for anyone wanting to watch a cage match in this joint. We grabbed our drinks and scuttered furtively into the back room, where a second TV towered. It gleamed majestically, gloriously unwatched. We waved the bartender over and began lobbying for our program. She seemed quite amenable, even going so far as to hit the "on" button, but then the St. Patrick's Parade in the next room boiled over. One of the inebriates took it upon himself to purge the Devil CSI and began attacking the television. The bartender raced into the front room to chastise him.
We sulked. The TV was on, showing some unwatchable police procedural. Perhaps it was a "Law and Order" or perhaps a "Homicide." It was certainly not a cage match. We tried flipping the channels ourselves, but who could make heads or tails of this damn satellite business? Why couldn't this bar get magic pixies trucked in along a length of cable like normal people?
The bartender returned, her knuckles bruised and a knot of red hair in her fist. The lads in the next room fumed along to a Pogues/Thin Lizzy medley. A quick stab of a button, and there was Spike TV. And no wrestling.
"Oh," the bartender said, "The satellite's on Eastern Time. Your show started at six." With that, she clomped off to the bar, leaving us to blink awkwardly at the Japanese game show confronting us. We lapped miserably at our beers. There was nothing left to do but get drunk. We ordered another round and began to discuss which road would best lead us to oblivion.
It was decided that, in the interest of adventure, we should investigate the establishment across the street.
Jim Cornette, "Beautiful" Bobby, and "Loverboy" Dennis . . . The Midnight Express celebrate after defeating the Rock & Roll Express to capture their first NWA World Tag Team Championship, Atlanta GA, February 1986.
I'm unsure to whether the title of this post is supposed to be an allusion to Yoda's syntax or those Citizen Echo Drive commercials. Regardless, here some more sweet sweet old skool goodness, brought to you by the Arabian Facebuster Historical Preservation Society. This clip has got it all: a classic bodyslam challenge angle, a 450 pound behemoth yet to discover his rich African heritage, a manager who gave back to the community by mentoring underprivileged ginger kids in his spare time, a very green (despite already being in the business for 7+ years) Zodiac, and an incredibly geeked up Boy from New York City, with an aide to right wing ideologue and former North Carolina Senator Jesse Helms narrating the action.
This clip comes from Mid-Atlantic Wrestling, circa 1983/84. For some unspecified and likely pointless reason, Sir Oliver Humperdrink offered anyone in professional wrestling $5,000 if they could slam his meal-ticket, and the most corpulent white man to ever roam the mean streets of Chicago's South Side, the One Man Gang. The Gang wears a black t-shirt with his name ironed on the front, likely the product of either unbridled narcissism or a seemingly innocent rib involving his gym bag and Bob Orton Jr's feces that spiraled out of control.
Anyways, after failing the week before, Dizzy "The Booty Man" Hogan makes another gallant but ultimately futile attempt to slam the Gang and collect the money. Suddenly, out comes Jimmy "The Boogie Woogie Man" Valiant. Between Valiant, the Gang, and Humperdink, the collection of mangy hairdos and unkept beards in the ring are truly a spectacle to behold. After a pathetic first try, Valiant demands the sound guy in the back to cue his music, presumably to his get his adrenaline flowing and enhance the rail after glorious rail of coke he snorted seconds before charging the ring. The sound guy obliges. As the AM soft rock stylings of Tony Orlando blare over the PA, Valiant lifts the Gang high into the air; but before he can drop the Gang onto his ample posterior, Humperdink intervenes, the Gang comes crashing down onto the hapless Valiant, and the beat down is muthafuckin' ON!
Dizzy "The Barber" Hogan finally gets his wits about him and makes the save, but it is too late. Valiant is convulsing on the canvas, his body in shock from the devastating 747 splash exacerbated by the toxic quantity of yayo in his system.
To my fellow Arabian Facebuster illuminati: My sincerest apologies for my lack of postings over the past three months. I went on the wagon. No, I didn't quit drinking . . . give up alcohol? C'mon now, you know me better than that; I gots a lifestyle to maintain.
Rather, I needed to free myself from the mediocrity, unfulfilled expectations, and consistent disappointment that is the current state of modern day sports entertainment programming. From Joey Styles predictably grunting "OH!" after every Mike Knox back body drop and Test boot to the face; to the trailers for The Marine week after agonizing week regardless of what brand I was watching; to redundant Extreme Rules matches; to finding valuable television time and a meaningful program for K-Fed but not for Shelton Benjamin; to the Great Khali in ECW, let alone having a job in professional wrestling; to the RAW Diva Search; to the narcissistic comedy stylings and change the channel inducing escapades of D-Generation X; to Matt Hardy defeating Gregory Helms in a non-title match for the 114th consecutive time; to the hyperactive, manic, nonsensical booking in TNA (even more so than usual it seems); to Matt Stryker's 'curtain jerker at the high-school gymnasium' gimmick, ring attire, mike-work, moveset and in-ring psychology; to the Miz NOT being repeatedly stabbed by a nameless assailant and left for dead in the parking lot prior to a house show; I couldn't take it anymore. I was disaffected. I needed a sabbatical. So I avoided the television on Monday, Tuesday, Thursday, and Friday nights and quit blogging on the ONLY professional wrestling site that matters.
So why am I once again embracing my addiction to THE modern day professional wrestling, despite its sheer crappulance!? Well, I learned some hard lessons over the past few months: (1) Watching the same old botched Lex Luger interview over and over again on YouTube was not a sufficient, long-term replacement for fresh, unabashedly scripted and awkwardly delivered promos by RVD and Sabu; (2) Despite booking that makes them often look weak or foolish, I genuinely enjoy watching the likes of Chris Benoit, Samoa Joe, Christpher Daniels, Finlay, and even The Monster Abyss for their innovative matches and willingness to give as much (if not more) as they take; (3) It is imperative to look towards/at the present in order to more fully appreciate the past goodness and simplistic brilliance of Crockett Promotions/NWA, World Class, the UWF, the original ECW, etc; and (closely related) (4) I would rather watch DREADFUL episodic professional wrestling/sports entertainment and voice my frustration and disdain (in blog form!) with its content and direction than abstain altogether.
So I hope you'll welcome me back, my giddy Arabian Facebuster multitude. If you do, I promise to keep bringing the old skool photos of the week, 80s video clips, Apter magazine excerpts, and sporadic yet measured commentary on the current state of pro werestling affairs. In short, I vow to stay off the wagon, for good.
So. I sat. Bottle in one hand, cable bill in the other. Monday Night RAW blaring inanely (is there any other way to blare?) in the background. I tallied up the costs. Basic cable. On Demand. Pay-Per-View purchases. And, god help me, I even contemplated dropping another ten bucks a month for WWE 24/7. I dropped both bill and bottle (the slow glug of sauce hitting hardwood tapped out a gentle rhythm), put my head in my hands, and wept.
My family fortunes were drained. My once-vast real estate empire lay in ruins. The yacht, in flames, slid beneath the icy waters of the Willamette (which, I suppose, quenched the flames. I wouldn't know. I was at home, drinking and crying and watching wrestling, remember?). What had I become? WHAT HAD I BECOME?
More to the point, what had WRESTLING become? RAW was a shiftless morass of (sports) ENTERTAINMENT, a resurgent Eric Bischoff riding roughshod over my cherished Warzone. ECW, once the brightest gem in the wrestling heavens, had become less than a ghost of itself, gleefully hoovering up whatever pitiful crumbs Vince McMahon let fall from his never-ending Shit Buffet. Smackdown, tragically, remained Smackdown.
Even my beloved TNA had forsaken me. "Bound for Glory" mired itself in mediocrity, and with Vince Russo at the helm, the course seemed set. TNA would gradually squander all that made them beautiful, hitching themselves to a surgically-reduced God Botherer and a pilled-up lunatic with a death wish. Even the LAX/Chertoff feud had ended, giving way to an unpromising dust-up with a pair of underperforming gay cowboys.
In this flat gray landscape, so destitue that I could no longer buy brandy, was I seriously considering spending MORE money on wrestling? It seemed that I, or perhaps the world, had gone mad.
I lifted my tear stained face, and looked to Monday Night RAW for what cold comfort it could offer. There, John Cena railed against his new foil, Kevin Federline (Ay! Mi Estomago!). He discussed experiencing a "moment of clarity." Then and there, I had my answer.
No more cable. No more On Demand. No more PPV. No 24/7. Cold turkey. If I must howl my critiques into the void, then Smackdown would be my muse. It was free. It was two hours long. It was not really THAT much worse than RAW or ECW.
I felt a tremendous weight lift, and the sun (metaphorically) appeared through the clouds. My life gained a monastic focus and simplicity. I was filled with a burning creative drive, a sense of righteous purpose. This was a wise thing I was doing. I felt saintlike. I felt Christlike. I felt like (rapture of raptures!) STING.
There you have it, gentle reader. My Road to Damascus moment. From this point on, Arabian Facebuster will be a leaner, hungrier beast. We will give you the finest wrestling coverage that No Money can buy. FREE WRESTLING FOR A FREE WORLD!
Except for TNA Impact!, which the Facebuster staff will be watching at The Barn in North Portland every Thursday. Oh, and we're buying the ECW Pay-Per-View, too, but that's the last one, EVER. I PROMISE.
I know, I know, the "blog chronology" of these two posts is all off. Whatever, nerds. It's called a "scrolldown," if my intern is to be believed. I caught him huffing the color ink from my printer cartridge last week, so his opinions are rather suspect.
The saddest part of this whole (alleged) Sting Fat-Sucking coverup is that dude was in pretty decent shape anyway. A bit doughy, to be sure, but fit as hell for a forty-seven-year-old man. Damn you, Extreme Makeover. Damn you to hell.
BTW, what the fuck is up with these ridiculous pouches Sting always has over his crotch? This one looks like a turtle's beak.
TNA did a pretty nice job photoshopping Sting's scar out of most of the "Bound For Glory" shots, but that shit's looking pretty inverted right here. Maybe they assumed nobody would even look at a picture of Jeff Jarrett applying a headlock, but they underestimated the tenacity of the Arabian Facebuster Research Institute.
Anyhoo, the left nipple appears to be where they removed 20% of the Sting from their federation. You know what I call that?
Greetings wrestling fans. My humblest apologies for the recent deficiency of WWE SmackDown related postings in these hallowed cyber-pages. My stay in rehab for steroid addiction was lengthy and emotionally demanding. I extend my most sincere gratitude to the Arabian Facebuster Wellness Program for starting me on the road to recovery. Although my once chiseled Adonis physique has returned to Jeff Hardy-like proportions, I am now able to enjoy SmackDown without destroying my living room every time Vickie Guerrero (and her JC Penny Fall Collection wearing ass) arrives on the screen.
My return has been an emotional one, made all the more so when I discovered the headquarters mail room flooded with the neglected letters of our ever-devoted fans: Dear Pencil Neck Geek, Who is this Chris Benoit guy and should the Great Kahli be concerned? Pencil Neck Geek, Are the new Jimmy Wang Yang collectible belt buckles available at WWE Shop Zone yet? Pencil Neck Geek, How can one justify the existence of God when innocent children are starving, cancer remains uncured, and the Miz is allowed to stink up the ring week after week? Well fans, like the return of Mark Henry, these questions will have to wait for another week. Today we must turn our attention to:
The CW! In a last ditch effort to avert the inevitable demise of the UPN and WB, the two floundering networks have recently been consolidated to into a mega-emporium of crap programming. As the corporate assholes behind this unholy merger desperately scramble to keep their sinking ship afloat, ratings are the highest order of the day. This is serious people. Our beloved SmackDown is just one more Bobby Lashley main event away from being replaced by a 7th Heaven marathon. Fortunately, said ratings have arrived- swathed in red spandex.
Intrepid research by the AFOSP (Arabian Facebuster Online Surveillance Program) reveals that Kane holds the cure for the seemingly unstoppable malaise that has plagued SmackDown for years. High level internet sources have assured us that the program, and wrestling in general, can be taken to glorious new heights if Vince will just strap the gold on this pasty monster. So what if I've always found the guy to be a bit one-dimensional in the ring? Desperate times call for, um, pyrotechnics and choke slams. Join me, won't you, as I usher in an exciting new era of Nielsen domination (in my best Jim Ross Shriek):
The above title is not, of course meant in ANY WAY to refer to the fellow on the left. Hernandez, Homicide, and the other two had the best match of the night at "Bound For Glory." They had, in fact, the ONLY MATCH as far as we're concerned. The rest of the show was the sort of sub-average schmoz-fest we're used to seeing out of th' WWE. TNA, you have let us down. Hernandez, on the other hand, has earned our undying respect. Please don't hurt us.
The sooner I can ring the mental curtain down on "Glory," the better. I must, however tarry for one moment more. 700 Club Member Steve Borden aka Sting aka your NWA World Champeen has apparently had some cheap back-alley fat-sucking surgery. Photos from the PPV are being sequestered by the TNA honchos, but we'll post 'em as we finds 'em. When we DO find 'em, or if any of you happen to be watching iMPACT! this week, check out Sting's left nipple (I know, I'm sorry, bear with me). What the ass is that bizarre scar tissue doing? And where have Sting's love handles gone? And why isn't he wrestling in his singlet (for the first time in like ten years) anymore? And why didn't TNA use some of that Kurt Angle money to spring for a legitimate surgeon? Hell, even I know the scar for something like this is s'posed to go UNDER one's man-boob/pectoral muscle/what-have-you.
So, "Bound For Glory": Underwhelming. LAX Versus Styles/Chertoff: Awesome. Sting: Scarred, Shrunken, God-Fearing.
Chris Kanyon did an excellent interview on the Howard Stern show today, focusing mainly on his sexual orientation and his "release" from the WWE. In a nutshell, Kanyon says he discussed coming out as gay with some of the "higher ups" at the fed. Shortly thereafter, Vince told him to dress up like Boy George and sing "like a faggot." In the ring, no less. Shortly THEREafter, he was released during a round of "cutbacks." Heat machines like Maven and Tyson Tomko remained on the payroll.
We at Arabian Facebuster applaud Kanyon for his bravery, decry Vince McMahon for his (completely obvious but still alleged) homophobia, and hope Mr. Kanyon can get off the indie circuit and into TNA sometime soon. Sure, he says he's making good money and all, but come on, man. Let's get your gay ass back on the TV. On second thought, perhaps not.
Oh, and Mr. McMahon, if you want to remove the dark stain of homophobia from your company, I got three words for ya: Big Gay Viscera.
Recent developments in TNA wrestling have left your correspondent in something of a moral quandry. As a long time lefty anarchist malcontent, I of course yearn for a utopian future where all the races of earth join together in their hearts and minds to seize the means of production, smash the state, execute their leaders, and walk the shining path of righteousness etcetera.
On the other hand, true racial understanding among the working classes would mean an end to the feud between the LAX and AJ Styles/Christopher Daniels (Pictured above at left). This, obviously, will not stand. Last month's Ultimate X match finally ushered in the much-heralded New Era of Violence, to near-universal acclaim. THIS month, we are blessed to receive a 6 Sides of Steel match (a cage match, for those of you wrestling in non-goofy rings) just in time for the first ever Arabian Facebuster Roundtable Summit (we welcome our visitors from the Land of 10,000 Lakes). It should be glorious, to say the least.
That said, it causes me no end of intellectual discomfort to know that this tremendous bounty lies at my feet ONLY through the tragic state of US-Mexico border relations. As long as the LAX represent the monstrous Bogey Man lurking at our Southern Border, eager to steal our jobs/make off with our women/enhance our cuisine, we are assured that the high-flying bloodbaths will continue. Should we (horrors!) relax into multiculturalism, the feud will lose heat faster than this guy.
So I am torn. I of couse want all humans everywhere to love and understand each other. I realize that Global Capitalism exploits the working stiffs of ALL cultures, and only by banding together to resist the cold hand of the multinational conglomerate can we ever hope to elevate ourselves. I also realize that LAX/Styles/Daniels plus steel cage equals TOTAL KICKASS. And if Arabian Facebuster cares about anything, it is ass kickin', no matter what its culture of origin.
First: I was right about the Raven/Abyss/Runt match. Everybody says so. Yes, the Ultimate X Tag match was (much) more polished, but the triple threat had HEART. I'm a sucker for people overcoming their personal limitations. Whether scrawny, kneeless, or mute, Our Boys pulled off a garbage wrestling tour-de-force t'other night, and lo! I sing their praises.
On to other things. While the LAX labor manfully to usher in a much-desired "new era of violence," a counter-insuregency has been launched. Deep in the bowels (haw!) of TNA, the leading lights of the X Division are dedicating themselves to exploring the heights (depths?) of faux-hilarious jackassery. In short, they desire a New Era of Whimsy.
From the initial Jackass 2 tie-in stunt (pictured in all its grisly detail above) to the awkwardly executed bowling-ball-to-crotch thing to Sunday Night's capital-D Dreadful laxative/blow-up doll double-header, the X Division Boys are cutting a swath of "Tom and Jerry" mayhem through the usually staid environs of the iMPACT! zone. While I will acknowledge that watching Petey Williams struggle to contain his impending "poop package" elicited a few juvenile chuckles, I am by and large opposed to all this "comedy."
Perhaps it is, in some small way, my fault. I have stated loudly and publicly that Chris Sabin, Jay Lethal, and (e-fucking-specially) Sonjay Dutt, whether singly or en masse, do not have the personality God gave a twig. Arabian Facebuster's influence is worldwide, and TNA cannot be blamed for responding to our critiques. Regardless, I must insist that dressing "The Playa from the Himalayas" up in an oversized baseball jersey and having Chris Sabin smell his ass is NOT what we had in mind.
I was wrong. There, I said it. The X Division stars are great BECAUSE they lack personality. I long for the days of faceless, interchangeable daredevils ping-ponging around the ridiculous six-sided ring. These fellows must not be allowed anywhere near a microphone, and should perhaps have their faces surgically altered so they all look like clones of each other. Then they can get back to flying around the ring like so many lucha-inspired popcorn kernels.
Take heed, TNA. This japery will not stand. Arabian Facebuster decrees it.
At the risk of overhyping this crippled, lumbering mass of hair dye and flannel, I must once again urge the readers of Arabian Facebuster to consider: Raven. The reason I have to shell out my hard-earned lucre for another goddamn PPV.
My attitude towards the upcoming TNA "No Surrender" Pay-Per-View could be charitably described as chilly. Disinterested. Totes Whatevs. TNA is clearly saving its full attention for "Bound For Glory" next month, leading the informed wrestling fan to conclude that "Surrender" will be a mere placeholder, marking time until the electrifying thrill-fest that is the biggest low-rent wrestling event of the year.
Then, curse them, the TNA booking masterminds started piling on the quality. The LAX/Styles/Daniels feud has provided that much-sought-after "next level of violence" your correspondent craves. Samoa Joe has promised to literally murder Jeff Jarrett. And the Christian Cage/Rhino matchup should be really adequate.
And, innocuously slipped into the undercard, we have Raven vs. The Monster Abyss vs. Brother Runt. Three men. Four knees. No Disqualifications. There's your match of the evening, right fucking there. I cannot for the life of me imagine why TNA is not sinking more hype into this bloodbath. Raven and Runt have more than proven that they are willing to drop a few pints for the cause, and Abyss is basically Kane if you replaced his "personality" with an actual work rate. I'm genuinely surprised TNA isn't saving this feast for next month's BIG DEAL show. I guess this is just the sort of effusive generosity Total Non-stop Action wrestling is known for.
I wish I could look away. I really do. I have things to do on Sunday. But here's Raven, and here's Abyss and Spike Dudley, and here's me buying the stupid Pay-Per-View.
The staff of Arabian Facebuster would like to offer our sincere congratulations to Scott "Raven" Levy on his return to wrestling actual wrestlers (see: last night's iMPACT!). We were all deeply impressed by his ability to conduct an entire match against The Monster Abyss without bending his knees. It's a good thing, too, since Raven's kneecaps were apparently unable to negotiate a new contract with TNA management. Still, that's what you get for hiring a separate agent for your own knees.
Anyway, welcome back Raven. We're glad you're not still clumping around after Larry Zbyszko. We'd also like to point out that we never made fun of your weight, not once. Besides, compared to Jeff Hardy, you're actually pretty fucking svelte.
Ladies and Gentlemen, a wrestling enthusiast must learn to take pleasure from small victories. The life of a WWE viewer, in particular, closely resembles a barren desert, punctuated by lush oases of quality. An Umaga desert, if you will, with Mick Foley oases. Again, only if you will. The wary traveller will only enter this desert when heavily stocked with provisions, for these must carry him through the wasteland.
So it was that last night found me, well-stocked with sixteen-ounce cans of malted beverage, wading intrepidly through the grim landscape of Monday Night RAW. I had anticipated quite the lengthy slog, and was packed densely with fluids. Then, a-suddenly, I came upon a hitherto uncharted oasis. Super Crazy. Versus "The Masterpiece" Chris Masters (seen in the picture on the left, which is approximately twice his current size). For the second week in a row.
A rematch between two perpetual midcarders, one dwarfed by his legendary past and one dwarfed by his own steroid-addled former self, seemed an unlikely place for quality to nestle, but Lo! I found myself riveted by this match. No, it wasn't quite as intense as their match from last week, but it was notable for two things: Masters displayed his newly adequate work rate, and Super Crazy won. Again.
I admit, Facebuster Fans, that one huge part of my aversion to Smackdown! stems from their mistreatment of Super Crazy and Psicosis (the [shudder] Mexicools). Taking two blindingly fast, savagely insane luchadores and shafting them with an inane ultra-racist gimmick (making them ride to the ring on LAWNMOWERS, f'r fuck's sake) seemed the ultimate insult to true wrestling fans. We at Arabian Facebuster have long lamented the loss of Old School ECW's "international flavor", and The Mexicools were the final insulting nail in an appallingly bigoted coffin. So it was with great surprise that I witnessed my beloved Super Crazy actually winning a match! Against a White Boy, of all things!
Which brings me (at last!) to a bit of advice for the WWE. If you expect me to cross the Racist Throwback Umaga Desert every goddamn week, there's only one oasis from which to sup. The Super Crazy/Masters Oasis. The oasis in which Super Crazy cuts that cracker on his stupid cracker face.
At the risk of straining last week's dubious metaphor to the breaking point, last night's ECW tag match was like extremely satisfying make-up sex. After watching Mike Knox and Test blunder into every delectable high spot Sabu and RVD could dream up, ECW and I snuggled in close, exchanged tender glances, and reaffirmed our love for each other.
Which is not to say I care about ECW more than I do about TNA. The very idea is absurd. One halfway decent tag match cannot wash away three months of Big Shew main events, and Kevin Thorn and his inflatable girlfriend are still skulking around giving each other "very sexual" Tarot Readings.
Still and all, it was quite nice to see Test and Mike Knox finally finding their niche in ECW. Not every performer aspires to be a dull-witted-but-durable punching bag for a pair of pilled-up sociopaths, but who am I to question Mr. Knox's career path? And while Arabian Facebuster would never condone steroid abuse, it's worth noting that Test took some pretty hefty punishment during the match and emerged none the worse for wear. So what if he can't really feel his skin anymore and his testicles seem to have retreated into his cheekbones? Rob Van Dam can throw a steel chair directly into Test's face, and Test barely even blinks. Of course, he CAN'T blink because if he closes his eyes he sees an infinite lake of fire consuming all of existence (I understand Scott Steiner has a similar problem), but blinking isn't exactly EXTREME, now is it?
So thumbs up to ECW for a lovely evening. I particularly enjoyed puffy-faced crybaby Shannon Moore, and I hope to see more of him when I (yes, I admit it) tune in next week.
I'm sorry, ECW... this is hard for me to say, but... look, I know we had some great times back in the 90's, and I know when you left I swore I'd wait for you, and I'd always be there for you, and I know I even said I loved you...
The thing is, you've changed. I'm not trying to blame you, but ever since you've been back, it's like you don't really care about me anymore. I keep making excuses to all my friends, saying stuff like, "They're booking shitty matches on PURPOSE so we'll all get really excited when they finally stage a Pay-Per-View and Sabu beats Big Show and the matches get good again and we'll hold each other's hands and kiss and it'll be just like before and...". I guess it does sound pretty pathetic. Everyone tries to tell me that you're just not that into quality wrestling anymore, and I guess that's pretty true. It breaks my heart to admit it, but the reason I haven't talked about this on Arabian Facebuster until now is that I've been ashamed. I knew I was being duped, but I just wanted to believe in you SO MUCH. I guess I let myself be fooled.
You can't even look at me, can you? It's alright, I know all about Vince McMahon. I know he can give you things I can't. Things like TV contracts, jobs, and a way out of total bankruptcy. All I can give you is twenty-five bucks for the world's ugliest Terry Funk t-shirt, the odd DVD sale if your merch is on clearance at Sam Goody, and a promise to buy every other Pay-Per-View as long as they don't get too shitty. It hurts me to know that Vince's money means that much to you, but I understand. I just want you to know that I feel betrayed.
Also, there's... um, I don't know how to put this, but there's someone else. Don't take that tone with me, it's obvious you don't even care about me anymore. I've been watching TNA pretty much every week, and it's been great. We make each other really, really happy. We can talk like adults. We can compromise (I put up with one Scott Steiner promo a week, and TNA gives me Christopher Daniels' bleeding head whenever I want). We can have a one hour TV program that contains more than six minutes of WATCHABLE FUCKING WRESTLING.
I'm sorry. I shouldn't have raised my voice. I'm just frustrated and upset. I thought we had something once, and it hurts me to have to let it go. I'd like it if we could still be friends. Heck, maybe I'll even get one of your Pay-Per-Views sometime, just so we can keep in touch. I just can't stand to watch your crappy show week after week. Not when there's a federation out there that gives me what I need. Not when you're hanging out with vampires, meth addicts, and convicts (actually, I don't mind about the convicts. Them boys got a bum rap). Not when Spike "Brother Runt" Dudley just had a Ten Thousand Thumbtacks match against The Monster Abyss that ended with Abyss going through two (!) tables laden with the aforementioned thumbtacks.
I know you'll be okay. You're going to make some new fans very happy someday. It's getting late. I have to go. Listen, I'll call you, alright?
