"Is He Alive or Dead?"

Why don't YOU tell me, Kane. For I'm not the one carrying around the remnants of mysteriously disappeared hobo Rocky Mountain Thunder's gunny sack.

Larry Nelson: Germaphobe

Facebuster nation, much like Larry Nelson wants to talk about the AWA Streetfight Battle Royals coming to sold out arenas half-capacity high school gymnasiums in urban metropolises like Council Bluffs, Iowa, Fergus Falls, MN and Hammond, IN in the clip embedded above, I want to apologize for the dearth of substantive content emanating my office over the last couple of weeks.

Suffice it to say, I have been swamped with other projects of import, specifically penning a lengthy chastisement to Nick Cave (with a CC to each of The Bad Seeds) for leaving a size 13" carbon footprint in the form of a near 60 page booklet of lyrics and liner notes accompanying the haunting and majestic Dig, Lazarus, Dig! Now that's out of the way, I am formally suspending my rasslin' writing sabbatical so I can get back to giving all of you the slapdash content and unsophisticated insights you both crave and so richly deserve...more profiling the personalities that inspired our pro wrestling fandom and have compelled us to continue tuning in to today's mainstream product despite its creative bankruptcy (see last week's episode of RAW with John Cena accompanied by gregarious thugs Shad and JTG [thanks to Rev. Von Fury for informing me which is which, since all black people with the exception of Ice Man King Parsons, Bobby "Guy" Lashley, Big Daddy V, or any white person dressed in black face look alike to me] tagging Bradsahw's limo with the unfortunate phrase "JBL is poopy")...more caustic scrutiny of Terry Bollea's shallow and self-serving life (proclamations as to God's will and Biblical citations dually noted) and censures of Hulk Hogan's glaring in-ring limitations and goofy promos...more Rocky Mountain Thunder gunny sack contents speculation (after repeated careful viewings of the clip posted up on this very site, I am postulating that the gunny sack is either filled with RMT's stash of kiddie porn or the dismembered and mutilated corpse of a truck stop hooker)... and of course more admiration of Larry Nelson's salt-n-pepper whiskers and ability to do his job proficiently whilst under the influence of sixteen Cutty Sark neats and a couple of rails of cocaine snooted off a stripper's well tanned, glitter adorned, firm yet curvaceous bottom.

The clip in question is culled from the summer of 1987 and in no particular order features (a) a spry, impish, and feathered haired Paul E. Dangerously putting over his Dangerous Alliance stable comprised of The Original Midnight Express (Dennis Condrey and Randy Rose) and Adrian Adonis while promising to perpetrate violence upon the Funyuns and malt liquor ravaged torso of Tommy Rich (who I believe was being managed by Dangerously and working heel in Memphis against Jerry "The King" Lawler prior to jumping ship to the AWA); (b) Larry's agitation at Paul E's fully extended telephone antenna; (c) Larry's disgust after sullying his fingertips with a poster board containing such as blasphemous notion.

It's good to be back!

Yr Rube & Wrasslin' Foto of the Week

Ricky Morton and handicapable flickr.com user sunnsoul (who bears an uncanny resemblance to Jimmy Boogie Woogie Man Valiant), whose autophotobiography confirms that he is the embodiment of The National Wave's target audience.

"...and Now a Word from our Sponsor."

Yr Rube & Wrasslin' Foto of the Week

Inspired by this foto of the week (specifically the tub o' crap that is the meat in that delicious looking Rock-N-Roll Express sandwich), I am proud to announce that July's fotographic theme will be a tribute to those marks and fanboys who not only get their pictures taken with washed up professional wrestlers and/or 'roided up sports entertainers, but actually think it a good idea to upload said pictures onto the interwebs.

This week's post also features Chandler Biggins (the same guy from the Ricky & Robert photo, only fatter, sweatier, and slightly shaggier), this time posing with broken down, severely intoxicated, Singapore cane wielding icon, The Sandman.

In Memoriam...

Oh, dear God no... it can't be. I knew he was having problems, but I had no idea they were this serious. Oh my god. Jeff Hardy is dead.

Oh, no, wait, it's just a montage. Not dead at all, actually. In fact, he's just been sent over to Smackdown!

Perhaps I should explain.

This week, like many others, found me unable to hoof it over to the Farmer's Barn for a communal viewing of Monday Night RAW. This, coupled with smothering apathy over the creative direction of the WWE, left me with no information on the recent "draft" results when I arrived home from work at nine P.M. on Friday night. Th' VCR was taping Smackdown! and I'd left the television on so the pets could watch Tyra Banks (which may have something to do with the cats pissing on my shoes, but I digress). So it was that SD(!) was in full blare as I decanted the Riunite and slipped into my smoking jacket and licensed Bruiser Brody Commemorative Furry Boots.

I was greeted with the minor chords and plaintive vocals common to the "emo" musical genre, and a montage of Great Jeff Hardy Moments. Good Ol' J.R. intoning that this was "The daredevil... the risk-taker... the extremist... Jeff Hardy." What was going on?

The wheels started spinning. In my mind. Mentally, I mean. I assembled the evidence. Grainy shots of a teenage Jeff Hardy training? Emo ballad? Somber J.R. pronouncements? Jeff on echo-laden voice-over mumbling, "You want to know who I am?" Holy fucking shit, I bet he's dead.

Even as the Lostprophets (who have soundtracked something like five similar WWE montages in the past decade, if memory serves) swelled into the marginally more rocking part, I remained convinced of Hardy's demise. Sure, the music was getting a bit frisky for a memorial piece, but Jeff was doing his "spread my arms like a bird" poses and camera was zooming in on signs saying "Fly, Jeff, Fly" so I thought they were going for a triumphant he's-in-heaven-now thing. It wasn't until the dreadful double-time swell (at a minute and a half on the youtube clip above) that I began to wonder if something were wrong. Or, y'know. Not wrong.

And there it was. One last echo-y "I am Jeff Hardy (I am I am Jeff Jeff Hardy Ardy)" and a banner announcing that dude was coming to Smackdown! I felt foolish, but still, who could blame me? Would it really surprise any of you if Jeff Hardy finally took one monster spot (or bong rip) too many and took his jizz rag off to heaven, where his poor dog is waiting for him at the great double-wide in the sky?

Good night and good luck, Jeff Hardy. The Facebuster Nation urges you to stay safe.

Yr Diabolical Foreign Madmen of the Week

The Iron Sheik and Nikolai Volkoff.

A Confluence of Facebuster Luminaries

Once in a great while Arabian Facebuster is able to cull a clip from the sports entertainment archives featuring a plethora of our favorite disparate subjects of prose and therefore ridicule. Ladies, gentlemen, and Hulk Hogan apologists, this is very much that clip...shot in the summer of 1993 and starring then newcomer to the hip-hop game "Rappin'" Randy (Savage) and Men On The Mission -- the most non-threatening posse of angry black men ever assembled which just so happened to be anchored by the yet to be formally actualized Big Gay Vis -- as they deliver a barrage of dope rhymes and shred observations about Lex Luger, his eight wheeled smokestack, and his Summer Slam opponent Yokozuna's portly caboose.

A pithy critique: I thought Oscar's rhyming of "Jim Cornette" and "forget" was ingenious. Ditto Macho's linkage of "Bill Laimbeer" with "cheer." Although, I am perplexed why Oscar repeatedly rhymed "Lex Express" with "success" instead of "flex" or "glistening pecs."

Please also file this post under the title "Randy Savage: Dissonant Sounds from the Underground."

Dear Dixie...

Inspired by the past three weeks worth of McMahon's Million Dollar Giveaway themed episodes of Monday Night RAW, specifically Vince's: (1) comically futile attempts to operate a touch tone telephone; (2) inability to hold a brief and decidedly non-awkward on-air conversation with the mutants that enjoy his sanitized, homogenized, and increasingly listless and directionless interpretation of professional wrestling on a regular basis; (3) Rickrolling by someone still irate that Ricky Astley lost the 1989 Best New Artist Grammy to Tracy Chapman and hellbent on revenge; and (4) stubborn refusal to award yours truly a life-changing amount of money for doing nothing more than writing down the secret password, flipping the channel over to Dr. Quinn, Medicine Woman on the Hallmark channel, awaiting a phone call, and resuming binge drinking from the comforts of my bean bag, I fired off the following email to Dixie Carter, Total Nonstop Action Wrestling's chief mismanager of talent, waster of potential, purveyor of jackassery repackaged as whimsy, signer of WWE cast-offs to lucrative, guaranteed multi-year contracts, proponent of hexagonal rings, and launderer of Don West's shiny, neon colored dress shirts.

Dear Dixie:

I am writing to share an idea with you and TNA management that is guaranteed to launch The Impact Zone's television ratings from a not disrespectable 1.0 into the stratosphere...we're talking 1.1 and with perseverance even a 1.2 rating!!! Before I spell out this plan in further detail, allow me to digress for a moment. I've been a big fan of yours since you played the proper and dignified southern belle Maggie McKinney (otherwise known as Mrs. Phillip Drummond) on the side-splitting Diff'rent Stokes ("What you talking 'bout, Maggie!?"...freakin' hilarious) and later as the genteel and sophisticated southern belle Julia Sugarbaker on the timeless Designing Women. Your range and versatility are to be commended.

Alright, back to the purpose of my correspondence. While it's been a while since your wrestling promotion has impacted my life -- this idea is sure to get me and cash strapped, handout starved, get rich quick scheme inclined fans just like me tuning in again.

On each edition of Impact, I propose that you give away the sum of one million pennies -- in various increments, of course -- to your viewing audience. The logistics are quite simple really. Have contestants register for the contest the week before on your website, call them up during the broadcast from the top of the ramp way, have a wrestler the caliber of say a Kip James or Shark Boy join you and do/say/add absolutely nothing of merit, engage the randomly selected contestant in some forced banter, ask them to regurgitate the secret password that you perpetually scroll on the crawler throughout the broadcast (passwords should be uncreative, self-promoting, and uncomplicated so as not to frighten or confuse your pronunciation challenged audience, i.e. "Watch TNA and Win" or "Victory Road"), declare them a winner, and sometime over the next 10-12 weeks send them a (gunny) sack of pennies through the mail. And just sit back and watch the TV viewership, PPV buys, merchandise sales, website hits, and opportunities for additional NASCAR cross-pollination skyrocket!

Just ask the WWE what a desperate promotional tactic of this caliber can do to boost ratings. *Fact checks previous statement* Oh...um, never mind.

If you would like more information about this lucrative opportunity, please visit Arabian Facebuster, the most respected, least read site for professional wrestling news, commentary, analysis, Hulk Hogan bashing, and Larry Nelson facial hair admiration in all of the interwebs.

XOXO,

Malibu Sands

I Rickrolled that bitch good.

Reason #8 to Despise Hulk Hogan

He has ruined my 4th of July.

For the past 10 months, yours truly Malibu Sands has been training vigorously and building up endurance in order to wave* an "Official Uniting Towel of America" for exactly 15 consecutive minutes and thus participate in something called The National Wave, designed with the naive and futile hope to -- if only for a fleeting moment -- bring together and unite Americans from all walks of life in spite of our political squabbles and economic, cultural, and geographic differences through the shared experience of hankie oscillation. Think "Hands Across America" meets Petey Pablo.

After viewing the embedded clip and reading the preceding paragraph you are undoubtedly wondering "Why 15 minutes?" (because any interval less is a victory for the terrorists...and any greater duration is just plain excessive) and more importantly "How will waving a towel amidst a throng of little kids and Hulkamanioids for any duration, let alone 15 minutes, actually accomplish anything whatsoever, let alone mollify our polarized electorate and rancorous and hyper-partisan political discourse?" If you have to ask, then (a) you hate America; (b) you are a terrorist or at the very least a terrorist sympathizer and deserve to be on the bottom rung of a naked human pyramid; (c) the terrorists have already won; or (d) all of the above.

Let the healing commence.

Um, not so fast. For according to TMZ.com, the most earnest of the internet celebrity gossip sites, this sure to be sparsely attended event has been indefinitely postponed due to the outrage and/or ridicule that will inevitably result from Hulk Hogan's** participation and official spokesmen status in this arm tiring and repetitive stress disorder inducing endeavor. Phrased differently, it's hard to "bring the county together," "celebrate what makes us great," or actualize other quasi-patriotic platitudes when the public face of your event has the audacity to proclaim that God (with the aid of a certain Idiot Son) allowed his son's former best friend to wind up in a coma in order to make him a better person.

Looks like it's time for me to move onto plan B: imbibing a cooler's worth of Riunite and shooting off fireworks from the comfort of my couch sans protective plastic coating. Alone.

Also deeply disappointed in this indefinite postponement, Jeff Hardy, who was planning on waving his uniting, soiled, and fire starting super sized jizz rag to help mend this country's fissures.

***

*Seeing as how the crate of uniting towels I ordered were confiscated due to our government's ban on all products made in and imported from North Korea, I've instead been using a 1987 Homer Hankie for my thrice a day intensive workout regimen.

**Why is the Hulkster leading a countdown to unveil...a countdown clock?

***More Hulk Hogan towel wave promoting shenanigans, featuring Pat "I'm So Fucking Hot for You" O'Brien can be viewed here.

You All Owe Me A Million Beers

Ho. Lee. Shit.

Here at Arabian Facebuster, we've alluded to the existence of a "Macho Man" Randy Savage rap album before, but I had no real hope of ever actually hearing the damnable thing. That all ended this weekend. While prowling the darker corners of the internets for art-punk records to (ahem) SAMPLE FOR REVIEWING PURPOSES AND THEN LEGALLY PURCHASE AT CORPORATE CHAINSTORES, I stumbled across this.

Shit, meet pants. This is one of the finest wrestling crossover artifacts I have ever had the (dubious) pleasure of witnessing. Contained within: Macho sounding distincly uncomfortable with his ghostwritten "urban" slang, 90's one-hit-wonder DJ Kool scrabbling shamelessly for a check, a tender ballad dedicated to Mr. Perfect, a little bit of hip-hop mixed with a little rock n' roll ("I like this, ooohhhh yeeeeaahhhh!") and some great cheese metal screaming, all without any of that nasty cursing.

Also,the title song is possibly the greatest dis track in history. Check the science:

Huh Hulk Hogan, Hollywood Hulkster
whatever they call you, I'm comin' after you, you coward

Hot diggity damn Hulk I'm glad you set it off (set if off)
Used to be hard Hulk now ya done turned soft
Doin' telephone commercials I seen ya
Dancin' in tights as a ballerina
I knew all along you had those tendencies
Cuz you've been runnin' from Macho like I got a disease
Dude please your pay per view event was a joke
You're avoidin' Randy Savage cuz you know you'll get smoked
Come on that phony fight the Rock spanked you fast
But when I challenged Hogan to a real fight he passed
I called him out but the punk was scared to go
It was a charity event but the Hulk didn't show
Hollywood Hulkster you're at the end of your rope
And I'm a kick ya in the butt and wash your mouth out with soap
Cuz like Rodney Dangerfield you gets no respect
So come on Hulk let's wreck so I can put you in check

Be a man Hulk Come on don't be scared
Your runnin' from Macho that's what I heard

Be a man Hogan Come on don't be a chump
I never thought Hulk would go out like a punk

Be a man Hulk Come on don't be scared
You're runnin' from Macho that's what I heard

Be a man Hogan Boy you's a chump
Cuz Hulk Hogan is a real big punk

They call you Hollywood (huh huh) don't make me laugh
Cuz your movies and your actin' skills are both trash
Your movies straight to video the box office can't stand
While I got myself a feature role in Spider Man
Ya hidin' man but when I find you it's on
And when I slam ya to the dirt you'll wish you's never born
I smell a coward mmmm is that you Hogan
Macho's gonna kick ya butt is the slogan
You try to ignore me thinkin' I'll go away
But I'm a keep on messin' wit ya dude day after day
And once you step to Macho you're through
The joke's on you so Hulk what you gonna do
Probably nothing cuz you're a real big punk
You called my dad up on the phone man you's a chump
Cuz if you really got static take it up with me
And I'll punk ya butt out for the world to see

And that, fans, is how the fuck you get down. I will be accepting my Gratitude Drinks at the upcoming Facebuster Conference.

Facebuster Staff Conference Update

For your enjoyment, live evening entertainment has just been added to the already jam packed 2nd Annual Arabian Facebuster Staff Conference and Fan Conclave!

Scheduled to perform his cherubic, AM radio friendly, and keyboard mired anthems at the Shilo Inn-Portland Airport's odorous and dilapidated Cigar Room, The Ugandan Giant Kamala.

Won't you join Kamala and us August 21-23!?

Yr Diabolical Foreign Madman of the Week

Killer Kahn...master of the dreaded Oriental Spike.

RAW Hits A New Low

Well, I'm back. And where, you may ask (or not, honestly. Some of you may not have even not have even noticed I was gone, embroiled as you were in an epic debate over the intrinsic morality of despising Hulk Hogan), was I? I was HIDING.

From Vince McMahon.

You see, we've been experiencing some rather serious cash flow problems here at the palatial Apollo Spas Estates, and when my arch-nemesis announced that he'd be giving away his millions, I registered my name and several stolen cell phone numbers at the old double-double dot com.

That, of course, was how they found me. WWE stormtroopers (led by notorious racist Michael "P.S." Hayes!) kicked down the gilded door of my estate, and only the fiercely protective nature of my terrier allowed me to escape unscathed. An epic cross-country chase ensued.

So here we are, several weeks later, and I am broadcasting to you from inside a boxcar headed for parts unknown. The trail behind me is stained with the blood of the WWE Curtain-jerkers sent by Mr. McMahon to collect my head. Their screams haunt me still (except for Chris Masters. Killing him was a treat.), but my blogging freedom has no price!

I had despaired of ever returning to the warm embrace of civilization until the Pencil Neck Geek forwarded me the clip above. It was then that I realized I had nothing to fear. How, after all, could I be threatened by a man who is incapable of operating a simple telephone? Not even one of those fancy "blackberry" jobbers, either, this is an old-fashioned land line like my granny uses!

Further, I have been informed that this video demonstrates an activity known as "Rick Rolling," but I'm sure I don't know what that means. I seem to recall plucky intern Chip attempting to explain it to me once, but I struck him violently about the head and neck until he retreated. I will not have Rick Astley mentioned in my presence.

Regardless, it seems that Vince McMahon has finally succumbed to the latter stages of his (alleged) steroid abuse. The sub-excellent wrestling book (expect a report in the future) I'm presently curled up with (in my boxcar, natch) explains that steroid users experience a restriction of blood flow to their extremities, causing the decay and eventual death of their limbs. It would seem that this process has reached Mr. McMahon's brain.

And you know what that means.

Zombie.

BREAKING NEWS: Coming to the Shilo Inn...

...Portland Airport*, it's The 2nd Annual Arabian Facebuster Staff Conference and Fan Conclave. And yours truly Malibu Sands will be flying in for the festivities!

August 21-23, 2008.

Panels, workshops, seminars, breakout sessions, multimedia screenings (i.e. a viewing of the Chyna-X-Pac sex tape debacle in Pencil Neck Geek's hotel suite and the premiere of a few more installments of Rev. Von. Fury TV), exclusive and unfiltered access to your favorite Arabian Faceubuster personalities, hot tubbing, vending machine usage, smoking in non-smoking designated rooms, incessant and excessive drinking, not cleaning up after yourself, and reasonably priced continental breakfasts will be the order of the weekend.

I have also submitted a modest proposal with the Shilo Inn's executive leadership team to rename this property The Malibu Sands Beach Club for the weekend in question; to which I have been assured that this request will be given the trustees' full and undivided consideration at their next meeting.

And our intern Chip is working diligently on securing a keynote speaker...overtures have been sent out to the personal assistant's for Larry Nelson, Don West, Mike Adamle, Nelson Frazier Jr. assuming the role he was born to play -- Big Gay Viscera, Rocky Mountain Thunder, John Graziano's half-brother that threatened Hulk Hogan with bodily harm via voice mail, anybody from the Wrestle Society X not named X-Pac or Vampiro, Bobby "Guy" Lashley, and Jeff Hardy's jizz rag. And rumors are swirling in political circles that none other than "Playboy" Buddy Rose (or at least somebody with either the first name "Buddy" or the last name "Rose") has been approached by the mayor to present the Facebuster's Portland office with a key to the city. Fantastic.

So come spend a late August weekend with all of us...at the Shilo Inn-Portland Airport!!!

*Unfortunately, the palatial Doubletree is already booked solid for that weekend, according to the curt and cantankerous hotel manager that I spoke with. Thinking back to last year's gathering, my decision to pull a Randy Orton and evacuate my bowels in the hotel pool, sauna, elevator, drinking fountain AND lobby might have had something to do with the discourteous customer service.

Yr Diabolical Foreign Madman of the Week

The Great Kabuki, seen here applying a nerve hold to the cranium of Jimmy Valiant.

"An Alternative to R.E.v.T.V.?"

I realize that the many, many vonFuriods out there in the FaceBuster Nation have patiently and long awaited the coming of Rev. von Fury T.V.. 

I deeply and abidingly thank you all for your words of support and understanding as the process has proven a labor of love that I praise the lords above for the strength and faith to be coming soon.

Until that blessed, blessed day, please my bretheren and sisteren, turn your hearts and prayers and join me in giving praise to another soldier in the ongoing fight against the Darkness and Depravity that populates our Heathen plane. 

Amen. Amen.

the rev.

"Hulk Hogan vs. Nancy Grace"

*Please refer to mins. 1:39 when wondering who you should consult for your post-jail reality show to make the most dough.

"You need to do it with me [Hogan, the Elder] Jason [Hervey, I presume] and Eric [Bischoff, of course!]"

I mean for when any of you get out of Jail.

Rocky Mountain Thunder: Delightful Man

It's time for another generous helping of Rocky Mountain Thunder. In this installment, Dr. Thunder, accompanied by tractor trash Brandi Mae, squares off with something called Mike Somani, who evidentially goes to the same barber as Larry Zbyszko. As was the style at the time, Larry Nelson handles the ring introductions and cocaine sniffing duties while Rod Trongard (who sounds like he's been hitting the Riunite pretty hard during the taping) and the husky throated, pea brained Lee Marshall in charge of the broadcasting duties.

Other proposed, but ultimately scrapped, titles for this post derived from the citation rich commentary of Trongard & Marshall included: Rocky Mountain Thunder: Giant of a Man; Rocky Mountain Thunder: Great, Great Guy; Rocky Mountain Thunder...Don't Keep No Dirty Socks in that Gunny Sack; Rocky Mountain Thunder: He Doesn't Wear Any Shoes (For Crying Out Loud)!!!; Rocky Mountain Thunder...Wants to Play by the Rules; Rocky Mountain Thunder: C'Mon Let's Get It On; Rocky Mountain Thunder: Let's Go Big Fella!; Rocky Mountain Thunder: Very Gracious Man; and Rocky Mountain Thunder's Bear Hug: YIKES!

Reasons #288 & 289 to Despise Hulk Hogan

Not only do we here at Arabian Facebuster despise Hulk Hogan for having his very own portable electric (two words that should never be uttered anywhere in the vicinity of the next word in this sentence...) grill line (along with the marketing and product development departments at QVC and Tristar for making it happen), but so too for the fact that his Ultimate Grill has now been recalled by the U.S. Consumer Product Safety Commission for spontaneously igniting/flaring up at the mere application of some non-stick cooking spray or oil.

If you own happen to own this grill, at this point it looks like you have three options: (a) toss it in the trash; (b) keep using it as before and run the risk of being set ablaze in the comfort of your home; or (c) continue to use it sans oil/spray and ruin a perfectly good cut of meat by having to scrape it off the rack.

Two persons have in fact reported being burned as the result of usage. It seems to this impartial observer that Hulk Hogan will stop at nothing to inflict pain, suffering, and anguish on his fellow man. Like an animal that has tasted human flesh, he must be swiftly destroyed.

Thanks to TMZ for the tip. A copy of the actual recall alert can be viewed here.

Or if you prefer, please also consider these reasons #288 and 289 as to why we despise Terry Bollea.