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.

Damn Clever, Those Japanese

For your consideration: footage from the HUSTLE promotion in Japan. This is apparently an attempt to weld traditional Japanese style action with Sports Entertainment storylines. Whatevs, it's all basically three scoops of insane with awesome sauce drizzled on top.

Here we find long-time Facebuster fave Tajiri teaming with Taiwanese swimsuit model Yinling to face the offensive stereotype "Real Gay" and... the motherfucking Great Muta. While there's a bit too much "erotic" posturing and ridiculous effeminate clowning for some tastes, Muta and Tajiri have some top-notch exchanges that look pretty goddamn stiff. And, of course, Muta blows th' Green Mist into Yinling's crotch.

Nice to see that the WWE aren't the only promotion monitoring my dreams for angles.

Big Daddy "V" For Victory!

Ladies and Gentlemen of the Facebuster Nation, it has been a long four months. There were times (mainly during Great Khali matches) that it seemed our nightmare would never end. There were times (whenever Batista touched a microphone) that we looked to the heavens and begged for an end to the atrocities of war. There were times (usually involving someone or other writhing in the clutches of "the Masterlock") that we wished we had never started this fucking blog at all, and wondered if we could ever again look on mainstream pro-wrasslin' product without feeling shudders of PTSD and Survivor's Guilt.

Well, we can. 'Cause we won. And we will keep winning.

A brief moment of exposition for the newer recruits to le armee Facebuster: Back in August, renowned shitheel Michael Cole inadvertently slandered the legendary Bruiser Brody. Acting on an undeniable moral imperative, the Facebuster Editorial Staff moved to declare war on the entire WWE organization, sparking a hellish ordeal of scorn, bluster, and Hornswoggle matches. Demands were issued, progress was made, but many doubted that we could ever acheive True Victory In Our Time.

Fuck off, doubters.

Has it occurred to any of you that it's a bit odd that the injured and suspended Edge was just allowed to waltz back into WWE title contention? Did you notice that he's currently providing at least a solid half hour of top-shelf entertainment every week? Did you watch the video montage of Edge and Vickie Guerrero frolicking in the park and say, "That's so much like my dreams, it's scary?"

We did, too. And that's because we LITERALLY HAD THAT DREAM, two weeks before it aired on Smackdown!. We also dreamed about there being three Edges, and y'all know how we feel about Big Daddy V. It's almost as though... (dare to say it) the WWE has been monitoring our dreams for story ideas. Finally.

All this was purest conjecture until last Friday's Smackdown!, when Rey Mysterio's entrance montage included the typical "pan across the glowing faces of the fans" shot... and there I was. Apollo Spas, circa 1997. Clad in a vintage Ramones T-shirt, shrugging off my ridiculous Echo & The Bunnymen trenchcoat, laughing and clapping for my wrasslin' favorites (photographic evidence pending, as we try to figure out how to work our computers, but feel free to come over to my place and watch the tape). No shit. As a token gesture of humility, defeat, and submission, the WWE bigwigs pulled some footage of me at a Tacoma Dome RAW taping and spliced into their latest, cutting-edge (har?) efforts. The war is over. The Facebuster Meme will be allowed to infect the WWE corporation at all levels. Victory is ours.

TNA? You're fucking next.

Yr Old Skool Legends of the Week

Bruiser Brody (furry boots) and Stan "The Lariat" Hansen (cowboy boots).

Yes, Virginia, There Is A Xanta Claus

"Dear Pencil Neck Geek: I am 8 years old. Some of my little friends say there is no Xanta Claus. Papa says, 'If you read it in Arabian Facebuster, it's so'. Please tell me the truth; is there a Xanta Claus? Sincerely, Virginia O'Hanlon- 115 N. Fessenden St."

Dearest Virginia, your father is clearly an discerning connoisseur of fine wrestling journalism. Your little friends, on the other hand, are a bunch of half-wit nincompoops. They have been affected by the skepticism of a skeptical age. They think that nothing can be that is not comprehensible to their rotten, mushy brains. They will try to tell you that Xanta is nothing but an illusion- Balls Mahoney with a funny hat and miserable gimmick. One more in a seemingly endless parade of desperate ratings grabs by Vince McMahon. A concept to be embraced and appreciated by only the most boorish and depraved of this society.

Let's face it Virginia- our nation is nothing if not boorish and depraved. The charity and benevolence of Old St. Nick reflects the spirit of our holiday season no more. In keeping with the times, Santa has evolved into Xanta- a hairy manifestation our culture's selfishness and crass commercialism. Who stands to benefit more from our beloved holiday than the "Million Dollar Man" ? What is more real to us than violence and greed?

When Xanta Claus stumbles in my back door on Christmas Eve reeking of Thunderbird and Slim Jims, I will arise to greet him with open arms. And though Xanta may wallop my head with a sack of discontinued WWE merchandise and disfigure my spine with a vigorous Camel Clutch, I will thank him. For I will know that I- and the rest of America- have received exactly what we deserved*.

Warmest regards,

Pencil Neck Geek**

* Hey Xanta- If you are reading this, please bring me a King Kong Bundy Stretch Wrestler and and an Ultimate Warrior Suck Cup. The Camo Black Ice will be waiting for you on the mantle.

** With apologies to Dr. Phillip O'Hanlon

Congratulations Edges...

...on your WWE Title victory.

To Our Newest Sponsor, Welcome!

Arabian Facebuster has formally terminated its affiliation with Socko, makers of the WWE branded energy drink for willfully conspiring with a certain dastardly terrorist...and for selecting a supposedly, and I quote, "more qualified, emotionally stable, and physically desirable" candidate than yours truly for the prestigious position of "Hot Air Balloon Operator Apprentice" within their venerated Street Team Division.

We wish Bliss Beverages all of the best in their future endeavors. Scratch that, we hope that all of their employees and those that continue to purchase their products get AIDS and die prolonged, agonizing deaths.

Arabian Facebuster would also like to take this opportunity to welcome our newest sponsor -- Mello Yello -- as the official non-alcoholic elixir of this mothership...

Yr Old Skool Tag Team of the Week

Percival Pringle III presents "Maniac" Matt Borne (aka Doink The Clown) and "Mad Dog" Buzz Sawyer, the World Class Wrestling Association Tag Team Champions. 1986.

Reason #209 to Despise Hulk Hogan

Oh, sweet Lord Jebus! It seems that Hulk Hogan is now embroiled in a heated, media driven celebr-feud with bloated, loud mouthed carpet muncher Rosie O'Donnell. Republished most certainly without permission from America's premier news outlet, TMZ.com:

Hulk Hogan's got it out for Rosie O'Donnell. For the love of Elisabeth!

At today's press day for his new show "American Gladiators," Hulk was asked which celebrity he'd like to see a Gladiator pummel. His answer "Without a doubt Rosie O'Donnell. Somebody needs to shut that big mouth up." Class!

Sorry, brother. Our money's on Ro.

UPDATE:
O'Donnell has responded to Hogan's crass comments on her blog -- in classic Rosie prose -- calling him and his cronies "a gang of gross guys," adding that they are "a club almost old dumb white and on tv".

Call Hulk Hogan what you will -- megalomaniac, broken down shell of a man, world's creepiest father, orange hued dirigible, melanoma ridden devil incarnate, chrome domed terrorist -- but you've got to give the founder of PastaMania! credit, he's keeps himself incredibly busy. Why in just the last month alone he's appeared on the Monday Night RAW 15th Anniversary special, taken umbrage with The Great Khali's treatment of midgets of Irish descent, gotten served with divorce papers from his top-heavy wife, watched his son's legal woes go from super fucked to super-duper fucked, whored his daughter out some more (well, probably), and tried to pinch his son's bestest friend out of a coma. And now this!? For Chrise Sakes, Arabian Facebuster hasn't even had the time to convey how much we already loathe his latest project, a prime-time relaunch of American Gladiators. Take that you no good, nasty, wart infested Hollywood writers!

What's next, then, for this youthfully dressed shitbag? I have a sneaking suspicion that a protracted beef between Hulkster and Chyna or that kid who played Steve Urkel on TV's Family Matters looms on the horizon, followed by a stint in a drug rehabilitation facility, followed by yet another "final run" in the creative vacuum otherwise known as World Wrestling Entertainment.

Think about it.

An Open Letter to Hulk Hogan, Part II

Facebuster nation, I have obtained an excerpt of a what appears to be a first draft letter The Ultimate Warrior ghost wrote for Linda Hogan as a way of informing her leathery skinned husband that she was leaving his sorry ass. While The Warrior's proclamations and thematic partitions might come across as a bit meandering and nebulous to some of our more pragmatic readers, overall I found his prose refreshingly assertive in tone, forthright in purpose, and sound in reasoning.

I knew that sifting through the Hogan family's trash would eventually pay off! Onto the letter...

Dear Hulkster:

(On why you are leaving him) What happened tonight was already written, Hulk Hogan. It was written a long time ago when the warriors that came before me and you... ...that what we must do is beyond us Hulk Hogan. I stood with my back to you Hulk Hogan. And I knew that you were not dumb. But Hulk Hogan, when I looked into your eyes, I saw walls...walls filled with fear...fear running thick through you, Hulk Hogan.

(A declaration of liberation)...I need no friends. I need no partners. Every man woman stands by himself like The Ultimate Warrior I always has [sic]. But Hulk Hogan, you still do not understand. You still have mistrust. I need not your protection.

(On moving on) Look on the walls...the warriors that could not come have attached thereselves to the outer structure, Hulk Hogan. They see me through. Feeling me, feeding me with the power to survive. They ride on my back for my protection. I need not you Hulk Hogan, and if you look closer, you will notice red and yellow, the colors of Hulkamania. Hulkamaniacs, they're questioning. Do you have, Hulk Hogan, what it takes to be the most powerful force in the entire universe?

(On fighting for sole custody of your bastard son, Nick) Hulk Hogan, look at me, Hulk Hogan. Look at me! Without the pain, Hulk Hogan, the desire to withstand the pain and give you the utmost in battle and combat...still stands, Hulk Hogan. For I am the chosen one.

Regretfully,

The Ultimate Warrior Linda Hogan

Yr Old Skool Crimson Mask of the Week

Bruiser Brody

15 Years and 2,500 Beers Later...

This Monday, WWE's flagship program "Monday Night RAW" celebrates its fifteenth anniversary. Fifteen years of poorly thought out storylines and hastily conceived angles bafflingly green lighted onto television. Fifteen years of long winded, crowd energy sapping promos. Fifteen years of wrestling matches with regular commercial interruption. Fifteen years of utterly worthless and forgettable characters that are, paradoxically, also infuriatingly unforgettable. Fifteen years of concurrently objectifying and degrading women, or as NBA Hall of Famer Isiah Thomas and I like to refer to them as, "juicy titted nut gobblers." Fifteen years of ring introductions that take longer than the actual match. Fifteen years of consistently mailing it in inside the squared circle. Fifteen years of Vince McMahon using the broadcast as a vehicle for his own inflating his own ego, self-perpetuating an aura of eminence, and compensating for his own fallibilities and limitations.

To commemorate this milestone, the WWE is bringing back most of its biggest and brightest superstars from the RAW era....America's favorite beer swilling wife beater "Stone Cold" Steve Austin, unfit parent and all around glory hog Hulk Hogan, Mick Foley, a one-night reunion of Evolution, the trite dysfunctionality of the McMahon family, Eric Bischoff, Trish Stratus, Lita, Bob Holly for one night only resurrecting the character that launched his career into the stratosphere -- Sparky Plug, Truth Commission members Kurrgan and Rekon (or will it be Kurrgan and Sniper!?), Headbanger Mosh, Mae Young performing unspeakable acts on the mummified corpse of The Fabulous Moolah, Headbanger Thrasher, TL Hopper, Duke "The Dumpster" Drosse, Disciples of Apocalypse members Skull and 8-Ball, an Oddities reunion necessitating Kurrgan to pull double duty and featuring Big Daddy V dawning the "Golga" mask worn by the late John Tenta, the Portuguese Man O'War Aldo Montoya, Salvatore Sincere, The Sultan, Farouq in his turquoise gladiator regalia, Todd Pettengill, and of course the one, the only, Naked Mideon (the heavily tattooed, patchily tanned, white trash speed freak pictured above).

So from all of us at Arabian Facebuster, Happy 15th Anniversary WWE Monday Night RAW! Oh, and after 15 years, we want out...we're sick and tired of putting up with all of your lies, self-delusions, broken promises, unfulfilled expectations, and all around bullshit. Is this a bad time to tell you?

Yeah, we thought so.

An Open Letter to Hulk Hogan, Part I

Dearest Hulk Hogan:

Hulk Hogan, I must ask you now, as you asked me, do you Hulk Hogan want your ideas, your beliefs to live forever? For Hulk Hogan, in this NORMAL world, physically, none of us can live forever. But the places you have taken the Hulkamaniacs, the ideas and beliefs you have given them, can live through me Hulk Hogan. That is why I breathe; that is why the warrior's have come.

Hulk Hogan, there are ones who question where you are taking them. Do you no longer want to walk or step into that darkness? Hulk Hogan, the darkness I speak of is nothing to fear. It is about the beliefs and accepting any and all challenges at the cost of losing everything, Hulk Hogan.

You have lived, Hulk Hogan...for this one belief. Now Hulk Hogan, I come to take what you believe in further than you ever could. I come, Hulk Hogan, not to destroy the Hulkamaniacs and Hulkamania. I come, Hulk Hogan, to bring the warriorahs and Hulkamaiacs together as one; as we, Hulk Hogan, accept all the challenges with all the strengths of the warriorahs and the Hulkamaniacs together.

Hulk Hogan, the colors of the Hulkamaniacs are coming through the pours of our skin. And Hulk Hogan, when we meet, Hulk Hogan, I will look at you and you will realize then that I have come to do no one no harm. But only, Hulk Hogan, to take what we both believe in to places it shall never have been.

Sincerest regards,

The Ultimate Warrior

PS: That Sean Mooney is nothing but a NORMAL, he doesn't deserve to breathe the same air that you and I do.

The Smell Of Combat

Arabian Facebuster presents one of many (and I mean MANY) epically deranged Ultimate Warrior promos from the early 90's. I'd try to sum up the madness on offer here, but seriously... what the fucking fuck? How about the part where Warrior 's all, "I need not the NORMALS!!!! To protect me... from what I find... most comforting..." ? How about the way he screams Hulk Hogan's name every five seconds? How about the way he turns slowly in place, with no regard for camera placement? Yeah, dude stank it up in the ring, but why can't we get promos like this anymore? Too bad th' WWE has scrapped its policy of aggressively hiring the mentally ill (see also: Randy Savage) in favor of fast-tracking half-wits like Randy Orton. Crazy beats stupid for entertainment value every time.

Yr Old Skool Foreign Object of the Week

With the assistance of "Beautiful" Bobby Eaton, Jim Cornette prepares to smash Flyin' Brian Pillman's throat with the handle of his tennis racket. 1990.