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Stephen Rivera's 4th Fall

Session Fourteen: Magdalena

July 21, 2011

- As a change of pace, I viewed the Money in the Bank Pay-Per-View at the local cineplex with two hundred of my most distant strangers.. Middle-class wrestling fanatics seem to love nothing more than to come together and witness grown men hurt each other with climbing apparatuses to receive free travel luggage.

Even though the view was less than ideal, I made sure to purchase front row seats. I was not going to let somebody else snatch up those primo, Pay-Per-View chair souvenirs. In case the crowbar broke, I brought a backup crowbar and a bulldozer. The theatre employees were less than impressed. "That bulldozer does not look eleven months old. You should pay full price," they said. Whatever.

- Good riddance to CM Punk. Am I right, Internet? While he is on the run with his title, hitching rides on the railroad freight cars of America, I hope he discovers that the championship is actually a decoy made of alcohol-infused, drug-laced chocolate. Wrestlers who talk about insider, CM Bunk are no champions of mine. I do not look at him and think, Now this is a winner who would taste great in ice-cream-bar form. He doesn't even look that palatable in regular form.

And what is a Colt Cabana anyway? A shaded, outdoor pool area for Peyton Manning's majestic horses? Give me a break. They do not deserve that luxury. Those cabanas are reserved for people, you fool.

- Justice has been served. The WWE Talent Wellness Program has claimed another worthy casualty. In my opinion, they should have caught Sin Cara's drug violation sooner. With his mere presence, he is able to alter the lighting of the outside world, yet nobody batted an eye until now? Pretty suspicious, if you ask me. If you invited a stranger into your home, and he turned the entire interior of your bathroom royal blue for ten minutes, you wouldn't let him stay for dinner. You would get him tested post-haste.

- Wrestling promotions could save us 59 minutes of our free time if they were willing to embrace the One-Minute Iron Man Match. After 59 minutes of backstage, off-screen tussling, both wrestlers would come out in an exhausted state. As they lifelessly claw at each other, one guy pins the other. Match over. In the event that they need to go into overtime, send them backstage again. They already got their minute to shine. Plus, I'm busy. I have things to do. I have 59 other Iron Man Matches to watch.

- Impact Wrestling Impact Update: I am told that Sting has become "The Joker," the disturbed antagonist from the independent, art-house motion picture known as The Dark Knight. After seeing a picture of him, I will take my source's word for it as it appears as though Sting simply forgot how to properly eat marmalade. To the inferior fans of an inferior product who remain irate at this inferior emulation, need not worry. Life could be much more inferior for you. Think of the alternatives.

Sting could become Mr. Freeze, threatening you with boredom and hypothermia with every entrance. How about Sting as Poison Ivy? While he is trying to seduce you, I guarantee that you will itch somewhere you will not want to scratch.. On that note, Sting's Catwoman would be one of the least desirable wrestling characters in history — right behind a weave-deficient Kelly Kelly or a scantily-clad Mark Henry sitting atop the mighty shoulders of The Predator, who is sitting atop Gabourey Sidibe's shoulders to create "The Precious Chocolate Monster."

Sting does not have the figure for catsuits. Meow Nix that Meow Mix. I will not be home to accept any of your deliveries. Please leave it at your cat food warehouse.

- In the heyday of the original Extreme Championship Wrestling, I dreamt of playing the role of "Permanently Blind Sandman." I would enter arenas wearing mismatched, ill-fitting clothes, and swing around my Singapore walking cane to clear a path for myself. During every entrance, the arena lights would go out, forcing everyone in the crowd to read "Enter Sandman" on Braille. As seeing-eye dogs and fans alike maintain my balance on guardrails, I would swig carrot juice to strengthen what is left of my eyesight. I am talking hardcore, pre-teenage, superstar-icon status here. Permanently Blind Sandman sleeps with two eyes open. He can only see dark shadows.

- I hate to admit it, but I agree with Randy Orton's vandalized tour bus. This is only the fifth instance in which I have shared the opinion of a large motor vehicle. Celebrate these good times while you can get them.

The very concept of Randy Orton "suxing" Theodore Long (suxing: dressing one up in aviatic accoutrements to resemble the Sioux Gateway Airport in Sioux City, Iowa) is moronic enough to make Christian an uncrowned world champion. Not only would you have one man dressed like a minor American airport, another man would be walking around the world, wearing a championship belt for a crown. Thank goodness we have not seen either.

- Who wants to play Truth or Dare with me? Splendid. What a great turnout we have here. I even see some professional Truth or Dare players in the crowd, including the eight-time National Truth or Dare Champion himself: Eric Bischoff. How exciting. Hold on to your trust funds, good sirs. He is in it to win it.

We shall begin the game shortly. Just let me access my extensive collection of Truth or Dare playing card decks, which I carry around at all times in my official Truth or Dare playing card shoulder bag. Oh dear/dare. Sticks of a fiddling nature. I have misplaced my official Truth or Dare playing card shoulder bag. I must have left it in my Truth or Dare game room.

Those Truth or Dare playing cards are the essential elements of any wrestling or non-wrestling-related Truth or Dare game. Now we can't play. I hate when that happens. I saw a Straight Dare in my future. I guess we will have to play a game that uses no playing cards whatsoever. State of Texas Hold Them Poker, anyone?

- I am in favour of replacing the violent act of Pillmanizing (attacking the limb of one's opponent while it is wedged in a steel folding chair) for Pillsburying — its family-friendly, PG equivalent. In place of a folding chair, a wrestler would encase his opponent's limb in crescent roll dough, then bake the dough with shots from an iron-hot rolling pin. Upon his discretion, the attacker or victim may accentuate each shot with adorable, Pilllsbury-Doughboy-esque giggling.

In this scenario, the opponent could suffer tremendous pain and may end up losing his limb in the process. However, something smells delicious in here.

- I require a tissue. Do you have one? The Big Show punched me in the face again. I didn't even do anything to him. One moment, I am in front of the television, watching Show read the delightful children's tale, Money in the Bank, to Hornswoggle, who is obviously a child because he is small and has a beard. The next thing I know, I get a fistful of pain salutations.

If I ever see you in public while I am reading to bearded first graders, I will have my revenge, Show. Yes, I am aware that you are injured. Care for another injury? "Then Margaret decided to get sanitary down there. God was cool with it. He knew Teenage Softies could absorb more blue liquid than other brands." Pow. Right in your facial region.

- The next hit WWE reality show is upon us: Thirteen hopeful contestants from thirteen different walks of life live and train together under the same roof. Every week, popular WWE Superstars of today and yesterday test the contestants' strength, stamina, will, skill and charisma in various challenges. At the end of each program, the wrestling hopefuls vote one of their own off the show. That individual must enter the Steel Cage of Judgment. In the Steel Cage of Judgment, one man enters, yet two men exit on occasion. What is going on? Find out on the next episode of The Next WWE Superstar or Asexual Wizard.

- I have finally given in to the demands of sceptic readers everywhere. Every day for the past two weeks, I have analyzed tapes of the infamous Montreal Screwjob. Some readers claim that the screwjob was a legitimate act in which Vince McMahon betrayed WWF Champion Bret "The Hitman" Hart. Others insist that the incident was an elaborate deception for the purpose of stirring controversy and interest in the World Wrestling Federation during the highly-contested Monday Night Wars with World Championship Wrestling.

My conclusion is that the Montreal Screwjob was a hoax; you heard it here first. As Earl Hebner sprints out of the ring in the ultimate act of bravery, the hard camera catches a Milton Bradley’s Karate Fighters sign flapping in the breeze. Any expert worth his authoritative salt will tell you that there is no wind in Quebec — only classy women named Genevieve who will blow into your ear for a medium to large serving of poutine. Signs cannot wave in a French-Canadian vacuum.

I am almost certain that I will get in trouble for revealing the truth, but I simply do not care anymore. My lady is either close to death or about to gain mermaiden status, people. Anyone who believes that the Montreal Screwjob actually happened is sadly mistaken. That would never happen in real life, your life, or even my life for that matter.


Stephen Rivera is the creator of The Swerved (2006-2010), Neon Ropes, and this column. He has missed an unacceptable number of creating days. In the opinion of this publisher, Stephen is not taking his writing growth seriously. Now, I've spent my morning examining his work. If Stephen thinks that he can just coast through this month and still get published, he is sorely mistaken. I have no reservations whatsoever about holding him back another year.

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November 2006


by Sean Carless

With Christmas just around the corner, what better way to spend your few remaining dollars (left over after the seemingly infinite line-up of fucking pay-per-views ) then on the following "quality WWE merchandise!" After all, if they don't move this stuff, and fast, stockholders just might get time to figure out what "plummeting domestic buyrates" means!... and well, I don't think they need to tell you what that means! (Seriously. They're not telling you. Everything is fine! Ahem.).