Why We Watch...Exhibit E

Here at Arabian Facebuster, we are committed to exposing you to the very best that professional wrestling has to offer. And the very worst. This clip -- featuring the agitated, inflammatory, possibly offensive (assuming you are easily outraged by an unrelenting contempt towards fat, ugly broads), and downright hilarious ramblings of "Captain Redneck" Dick Murdoch -- falls squarely into the former category.

Based on Murdoch's nickname and "barroom brawler" physical stature, you would think that his promos would consist of rudimentary syntax, logical fallacies, and plenty of grunting delivered in a thick, practically indecipherable southern drawl with glaringly limited emotional range. Instead what Murdoch delivers is a cohesive, articulate, urgent, credible, and above all prototypical heel promo that features (a) the introduction of epithets like "scum belt," "mongoloid," and "Fat Albert" into the professional wrestling lexicon; (b) the use of a broom as both a prop and a rich metaphorical device; (c) an invective of ridiculing, vile, degrading remarks hurled towards the studio audience that would make the great Don Rickles proud; and (d) emotional breadth, depth, and versatility that allows Murdoch to incorporate fearlessness, seething rage, agitation, arrogance, contempt, begrudging respect, and even a hint of giddiness over the course of a single, 2 1/2 minute promo.

Enjoy.

Ric Flair: Really Busy Man

Despite an ongoing contractual dispute (or if the rumors on the internets are to be believed, replace "ongoing contractual dispute" with "quit the company") with the WWE that has necessitated his (glaring) absence from the Friday night ratings juggernaut and critical darling that is Smackdown!, "Nature Boy" Ric Flair isn't sulking around the house, waiting patiently for a phone call by a contrite Vince McMahon begging him to come back, and blithely sleeping his mornings away on Apollo's Costco Camping Mats.

Far from it.

Last week, Naitch not only opened the virtual doors to his very own financial services enterprise [insert topical and hilarious joke referencing Flair owing $1M in back taxes to the IRS here] that'll slap the old figure four lock on those evasive lenders, he also delivered the command to go NASCAR Busch Series racin' at Dover Speedway in seemingly the most embarrassingly self-parodied manner possible.

What then does next week hold in store for the former sixteen time world heavyweight wrestling champion? On Monday, he'll be the keynote speaker at the Winston Salem Warthogs end of the season formal awards banquet and fan conclave. Tuesday, he'll be cutting the ribbon to proclaim the new Sonic in Hickory, NC "open." And picking up his dry cleaning.

Woooooo! Indeed.

Yr "Blood, Sweat and Tears" Foto of the Week

Seemingly panting for air, a winded "The American Dream" Dusty Rhodes applies a rest hold on the lacerated NWA World Heavyweight Wrestling Champion "Nature Boy" Ric Flair.

Diva Search Prognostication 2007!

War can be a brutal experience that tries the souls of the strongest men. So it is that we here at the Arabian Facebuster Command Bunker seek spiritual solace in whatever paltry shreds of levity cross our paths. In particular, the boys in the trenches have taken a keen (and possibly unhealthy) interest in the outcome of this year's WWE Diva Search.

We were keenly disappointed to see the young lady at the top of the post (whose name is... Lynnsie? Kynnsie? Leynsie? Some goddamn thing.) receive her walking papers, as we thought she had all the qualities needed to make a truly top-tier WWE Diva. To wit:

As you can see, she was an early favorite. Alas, even our patented Facebuster Prognostication Methods can fail in the face of current market realities. Regardless, we urge our readers to keep the flame of hope a'burning. The fellows down at the OTB have assured us that they are still accepting wagers, so there is still time to roll your bet over to THIS lovely (and talented) young lady and recoup your losses:

Facebuster Nation, I give you Jessica Hatch. She attended Galveston Junior College on a Volleyball Scholarship (of course), is majoring in Kinesiology (which she can spell), and works at "fit gym" in River Oaks, where she hopes to someday build a large "clinetal" (it appears she had some help with "Kinesiology"). She is super talented (and lovely), is a big fan of Jesus Christ, and has that special something that all great WWE Divas possess:

If Jessica doesn't seem like a winner to you, don't panic, 'cos I have got a grade-a pure gold lead-pipe CINCH of a Diva for you. The drum roll really should have started three paragraphs ago, because that's how excited we are about this next hot young (lovely, talented) prospect:

Awww, yeeeaahhh. Eve Torres, ladies and gentlemen! Now THAT is a Diva-to-be! Eve is an LA-based actress/model/dancer. Wow! A triple slashie! She's lovely, talented, and is currently working as a "spirit dancer" for the LA Clippers, but hopefully that will clear up real soon. She is a strong advocate for women of color pursuing higher education (just look what it's done for her!), and her many fan web sites tout her "unique look". I know, right, tell me about it:

There they are, fans. The Arabian Facebuster picks for Diva Search 2007. I'm sure the entire staff joins me in wishing one of these ladies all the best in her dazzling new career. Hopefully she will enjoy all the stunning perks of Diva-dom, such as shaking her tits before ECW dark matches and having her gym bag crapped in by Randy Orton.

Thank you and goodnight.

Why We Watch...Exhibit D

We watch wrestling to observe gentlemen like Ric Flair, Stan Hansen, and Abdullah the Butcher apply their craft. Conversely, we also watch wrestling to witness ostracized malcontents like the Dingo/Ultimate Warrior (back in the days before he was ostracized and malcontented) make a complete jackass of himself (in this case, more so than usual) by hawking poorly made yet attractively priced East/Central European automobiles on behalf of a suburban Dallas used car huckster with a penchant for sporting neon framed, jumbo sized novelty sunglasses and offering egalitarian transportation for not an unreasonable monthly disbursement.

The host of this clip has disabled embedding. So click here and take a gander.

What Was Your Favorite...

Monty Brown (Or should I say "The Alpha Male" Marquis CorVon) in the WWE moment? His dominating victory over Tommy Dreamer before the formation of the New Breed faction? Or his dominating victory over Tommy Dreamer after the formation of the New Breed faction?

What does the sports entertainment future hold in store for Monty? A begrudging return to the TNA for another protracted feud with the aimless Rhino, along with the inevitable inclusion in the whole Pac-Man Jones/Ron "The Truth" Killings discomfiture? Towel boy for the Buffalo Bills? Teaching aspiring grapplers how to arbitrarily name drop the Serengeti in every single one of their promos? Trailblazing across this majestic land of ours a la Lewis & Clark in search of the finest in buffet cuisine with the underemployed "Big T" Tony Norris?

Thank you Monty, for providing the readers of Arabian Facebuster over the years with countless hours seventeen minutes of thrills, chills, and spills. Good night...and good luck.

Yr Belated "Slick Ric" Foto of the Week

Ric Flair (with cup o' scotch) and Barry Windham model the latest fashions from the Bugle Boy for Men collection.

RAW is War is Hell

Exit, stage left?

There have been recent comments circulating in the liberal Jew-run media disparaging this administration's wartime strategy. To wit, they allege that we haven't got a wartime strategy. These bleeding-heart left-wing communist-backed Mafia Mind Control Frankensteins sit in their depraved homosexual opium dens and sneer, "Apollo, you guys said you were at war with the WWE and TNA, but all you've done is sit on the fender of a Jeep with no steering wheel, drinking Iron City and writing drafts for posts like The Eliminators: Gay Tag Team or Gayest Tag Team? and watching old GLOW tapes as 'research'. What kind of war are you fighting, anyway?"

Listen, you mealy-mouthed punks. I didn't spend ten years in a Viet Cong prison camp so you could talk shit about America. No, seriously, I didn't. But I DID spend ten minutes scrolling through the latest wrestling gossip, and lemme tell ya... whatever we're doing, it's working. In the last two weeks, the double double E has suspended at least ten of its wrestlers, fired perennial time-wasters Eugene and Cryme Tyme, and (this is the crucial part) possibly lost the services of both the legendary Ric Flair and the insanely entertaining King Booker.

Now, by all reports, Flair is too far in debt to both the IRS and his ex-wife to seriously consider getting out of the wrasslin' game (although I have a couple of Costco Camping Mats that Flair can crash on, if he needs to. For real. They're the Cadillac of portable sleep accessories.), but King Booker is another story. Wealthy, erudite, and possessed of his Own Goddamn Wrestling Federation, King Bookah looks set to walk. This, obviously, deals a pretty serious blow to th' WWE talent pool, which is already heavily depleted by injuries (hi, Undertaker!) and drug suspensions (hi, Edge, William Regal, Umaga, Mr. Kennedy, Randy Orton, John Morrison, Sho Funaki [!], and numerous others!). Soon, our war of attrition will have taken the ultimate toll on the WWE. That's right. They'll be forced to put Teddy Hart back on national TV.

And then, ladies and gentlemen, the whole world wins.

As for TNA, they might not be willing to shell out the loot to keep Kevin Nash around. Good luck filling your new two hour slot, you fucking chuckleheads. Cheers for sacking Test, though. That's the kind of creative firing that might get you off the war list.

So let's hear no more of this defeatist pinko crap. We're Arabian Facebuster, the Greatest Wrestling Website Of All Time. And we're fucking winning.

Yr "Sixty Minute Man" Foto of the Week

Ricky Steamboat and Ric Flair battle for the NWA Heavyweight Title. Steamboat would go on to defeat Flair for the belt. Chicago, IL. February, 1989.

Chris Benoit's Brain

The readers of Arabian Facebuster may have already heard, but the folks at the Sports Legacy Institute have conducted a post-mortem study on Chris Benoit's Brain. The results are... I don't know. Mollifying?

The STI has concluded that Benoit was suffering from a syndrome called CTE, or Chronic Traumatic Encephalopathy. The layman's version ('cause that's all I can give you) is that repeated blows to the head (such as those sustained by doing flying headbutts every damn night) cause lasting damage to the brain, resulting in depression, dementia, and erratic behavior. It is the STI's position that this syndrome may have contributed to the destruction of the Benoit Family.

Can it be said, then, that Benoit's injuries made him deranged, and he was therefore not responsible for his actions? Is this another indictment of the grim backstage reality of pro wrestling, where serious injuries are ignored or trivialized? Or is this just a sign that all sports (even the "entertainment" variety) need to take better care of their athletes?

Beats me, kids. I'm very, very tired.

I'll be back with some snark tomorrow. Or the next day. Promise.

Yr "Nature Boy" Foto of the Week

Judging by the ring ropes/turnbuckles, older version of the NWA World Heavyweight Title, and Flair's trunks, I'm going to venture that this photo was taken either the St. Louis or Florida territories, circa 1984/85.

Reason #3 to Despise Hulk Hogan

He pouts like a little bitch whenever faced with adversity.

In the history of embarrassing and downright awful sports entertainment angles, the whole Kevin Sullivan/Dungeon of Doom vs. Orange Hued Melanoma Ridden Leg Dropping Dirigible clusterfuck takes home the Facebustery for the most prolonged, far-fetched, and fan-base intelligence insulting in the postmodern (post 1989) era of wrestling.

Instead of offering a paragraph previewing the tomfoolery above, instead permit me to put this clip in context and then offer a chronological analysis.

The premise is this...the Hulkster, surrounded by a legion of adoring fans seventeen village idiots, gives an interview to lap dog Gene Okerlund on a coveted bike before being rudely interrupted by the Big Shew and his pimped out monster truck.

Onto the clip...

1 minute 56 seconds: Ugh, remember the days of Nitro when the announce team consisted of an unmotivated Bobby Heenan, overbearing Eric Bischoff, and downright unlistenable Steve "Mongo" McMichael? Me too!? Strange, as I thought the copious amount of marijuana that I smoked during the fall of 1995 (and the three years that followed) and that frontal lobotomy I got for my 30th birthday would have wiped out those memories.

1:47: Gene Okerlund looks so fucking boss in that pair of blue blockers that I'm surprised he wasn't asked to represent the brand on infomercials and at mall kiosks throughout this great land. Based on my encounter Mene Gene at a Minneapolis watering hole a few years back, I am quite certain that he is lives out his gimmick...there is no distinction whatsoever between the character on TV and the man that trolls the bars looking for a piece of under-dressed, over-served trim to take back to his dilapidated McMansion in Coon Rapids and pollinate with his love seed.

1:43: Hulk Hogan...irrefutably the greatest heavyweight champion of all time. Bawh! Next time I spot Mean Gene combing the taverns for some young floppers to rub his face in for the night, I'll be sure to accost him and provide him with plenty of evidence to the contrary.

1:31: Finally, I've discovered something the Hulkster and I have in common...arbitrarily flexing our muscles (I too like to refer to mine as "pythons") amidst a throng of screaming, middle aged, multiple fanny pack owning white people. Not surprisingly, there is an upsurge in my flexing rate whenever I fight my way through the mourners the old PastaMania! location (which I believe is now a Panda Express) to lay a wreath and pay my respects.

1:24: Brother! He said Brother! Don't get the Hulkster started on saying "Brother!" For when it rains "Brother!" it pours "Brother!" $20 on him uttering another "Brother!" or perhaps a "Look here, Dude!" within the next 30 seconds. Who wants some action, Brother?!

1:09: Is he referring to the Confederate flag?

1:05 "Dungeon of Goons?" Oh snap! Kevin Sullivan, you just got served, son.

1:04: There it is, two "Brothers!" in rapid succession! Now we need a "Look here, Dude." Wait for it...wait for it.

:47: What a senseless tragedy. Hogan was only two more installments away from having that motorcycle completely paid off.

:44: The Hulkster is so irate that he appears to have lost control of bowels. Like gutter punk icon GG Alin, Hogan is seemingly taking a crap from an upright position. Or maybe that's just his standard facial contortion whenever the director instructs him to look "exasperated."

:27: Good thing the Big Shew's monster truck makes that "beeping noise" when in reverse. In the WCW, safety comes first (while compelling storylines come fourth, right behind camera time for Eric Bischoff and making sure that Hogan's buddies are all in high-profile feuds/spots and put over strongly on TV).

:17: Based upon Shew's facial contortions, it appears that he is receiving "road head" during the filming of this vignette.

:12: I don't think we're getting a "Look here, Dude!"

:05: If only Hogan had a stepladder handy so he could climb up to the window and give Shew an unconvincing right hand to the head instead of girlishly flailing away at the side of Shew's monster truck.

:04: No, Hulkster, you are the one that is out of your mind...for being an accomplice in booking this garbage.

Alright, that's enough Hulk Hogan fodder for tonight. Time to go out drinking, in search of "Mean" Gene Okerlund.

Why We Watch...Exhibit C

We watch wrestling to see jobbers like Don Herbert get maimed by rough-n-tumble, hard hitting, no-nonsense, bad-ass heels like Stan Hansen. We watch wrestling to witness Ric Flair style and profile.

We also watch wrestling to see foreign objects get utilized and the gratuitous bloodshed that inevitably results, exemplified in the clip above by Abdullah The Butcher's repeated fork thrusts to the forehead of his ill-matched (translation: without eating utensil) foe, Armandito (Lil' Armando, I presume!?) Salgato. Not surprisingly, the Madman from the Sudan carves up his opponent with ease, who in turn hemorrhages buckets of that beautiful blood all over the ring, as well as on the ample tum of our favorite purveyor of ribs AND Chinese cuisine.*

This match bloodbath takes place in Puerto Rico's ultra gory World Wrestling Council promotion (circa late 1980s?), with what sounds like a young Carlos Mencia providing the histrionic play-by-play.

*I hope Abdullah has the opportunity to read the less than enthusiastic review of his establishment linked above. For I can't think of another restaurant critic more deserving of being repeatedly jabbed in the face with a fork than Jerry Portwood (384 Northyards Blvd., Suite 600 Atlanta, GA) of Creative Loafing.

WSX: Where Are They Now? (Part Four)

Sean "X-Pac Dynamite Kid 6-Pac Syxx-Pac" Waltman is currently dropping it off in the lovely and talented (?) Alicia Webb, aka Ryan Shamrock, the fake sister of UFC mainstay and onetime WWE barnacle Ken Shamrock. We have no word yet on whether she's been punching him in the head like his last girlfriend used to. Still, a bit of an upgrade, no?

Career wise, not so much. Pac has been working with the AAA federation and losing tag title matches to phantom jobber Joey "Magnum" Ryan.

Still, things could be a lot worse. He's got a decent-looking fiance, he's sort of working, and he's not getting clocked in the grill by Herman Munster anymore. Plus, he's keeping his girlish figure, unlike some people he knows.

Congratulations, dirtbag. You're living the dream.

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.