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Stephen Rivera's 4th Fall

Session 15: Anti-Gravity

August 3, 2011

NASA has dropped the ball likely and hopefully for the last time by shutting down its Space Shuttle program. Actually, they have left the ball floating in space, and they want me to go up there on my own dime and run with it. Look, astronauts; you had over half of a century to find out what this mystical "WWE Universe" was all about, but you chose to put a bunch of flags on the Moon instead. You missed the entire point of space exploration. You grossly overestimated the distance in which I am willing to travel for a Capture the Flag match as well. Just call it a no-contest already.

With that said, space does make an enticing travel destination. Intelligent life... on the Ethernet? Yes, please. I want seconds and thirds. Other than the fine men, women, and super children reading my words at this very moment, intelligent life is rather sparse on Terra firma. Ursa Major and Ursa Minor? The Ursas are my favourite foreign big man/foreign little man tag team, despite my ambivalent feelings about their manager, Tucana (it looks like a male constellation, if you ask me). And what about Saturn? I am a fan of its finisher, but the planet itself leaves something to be desired. It does have its admirers, though. Jupiter put rings on it.

Once I complete my own mission and take my lady back in my strong casting arms, who knows? I am an ambitious and humble man full of brilliant ideas. Maybe I will found The Wrestling Fan Aeronautics and Space Administration. My cousin Montague insists that I save what remains of my fortune to ensure a better future for myself and those around me. Clearly, he is not aware of my extensive background in the field of all sciences. For Science's sake, I am the inventor of Fruit Roll-Up Wrestling Masks. Did your mask shift during combat, almost exposing your true identity, proud luchador? No problem. Take a recess with a bite of this fruity face treat. Lucha-licious.

Today marks one small step for me. Tomorrow marks another small step for me. The day after tomorrow, may a large man attempt to chokeslam me high enough to reach my one true home.

- In the battle of WWE Champion CM Punk versus WWE Champion John Cena, readers are dying to know one thing: Am I one of the voiceless, or part of the sovereign nation of "Ce"? First of all, readers like yourselves seem to expire with ease. Do not let any future viruses or hit men get wind of your weakness. Please stop risking your lives for insignificant causes and pay a visit to the doctor. Second of all, what kind of option is this? One man dresses himself in spandex trunks and does not need a belt around his waist. The other man already has a belt that supports his couture jean shorts. Yet, he is obsessed with possessing two belts at all times. In some Third World country, a starving child is walking around with jean shorts around his ankles. John Cena made this reality so.

You have given me a Sophie's Choice of sorts, except I do not care for either of my children. Let them fight for my affection, I say. The winner receives the loser's Lunchables.

- Triple H's water-spitting trick impresses you, doesn't it? If it works for Hunter a multiple-time world champion turned wrestling executive and Michael Cole to a lesser extent, it must work for you, right? When taking a shower, you probably put on that leather-jean-jacket hybrid of yours, stuff your cheeks with warm water, and create wondrous mouth geysers as Motorhead plays in your head. I bet you think that spitting water all over yourself makes you some sort of 3.14159 MP. Well, you are Theodore R. Wrong (Tyler Incorreks if you are a dreadlocked Caucasian).

Unemployed sprinklers and thirsty plants everywhere agree with me. You are a sorry excuse for a floozy solicitor. Have fun being dehydrated and reproducing nothing but female offspring. Meanwhile, I will be over here, my thirst quenched and my loins prepared to create presidents who can carry on my family name.

- The following individuals are banned from my Pay-Per-View viewing parties: Eve, The Miz, Brie Bella, Nikki Bella, Kofi Kingston, Chris Masters, John Morrison, and Alicia Fox. Emerging from the water with determined lust in your eyes is an odd yet alluring life choice. Bypassing the crucial towelling/clothing process is understandable in an emergency. However, ruining my leather couch with your half-naked, moist bodies is unforgivable. Were you raised by parents, wolves, a single parent, or a single wolf parent? May Lord Vincent of McMahon have mercy on your soul if you were raised by a single wolf parent. You will need it.

If any of you even think about sneaking back into my living room, let me remind you that the surfboard nailed to my wall is a hunting trophy. H.A.G.S..

- I do not find much use in the star ratings of professional wrestling matches. In my opinion, they are convoluted, nitpicky, and in no way intergalactic. Do not promise quality astronomical classifications and fail to deliver, like so many who came before you.

The difference between a four-and-one-quarter-star match and a four-and-three-quarter-star match seems to be based upon how a certain food agreed with the professional wrestling reviewer at the time. If you are a reviewer in search of a fresh and alternative way to rate matches, look no further than adopting the S.B.M.R.S. (Southern Belle Match Rating System):

Bad Match: Place the back of your hand against your forehead. Say, "Oh my, oh my, oh my. I do this believe this has sent me into a tizzy. The vapours." Now faint in melodramatic fashion.

Average Match: Politely watch the match in its entirety while taking dainty sips from your tall glass of lemonade. Once it is over, take off your lace gloves and retire to your boudoir for a nap.

Good Match: Rapidly fan yourself with an ornate fan. Couple this with the flirtatious batting of your eyelashes.

Excellent Match: Invite the match to your Victorian home to meet your father Buford, who runs a successful tobacco plantation on the property. When he passes, you two will run the family business together. Later, your love will be tested by the perils of the Civil War.

- In a match-up dreamt up in the dreams of the least demanding wrestling fan alive, Cody Rhodes covers The Rock with a paper bag. Does that mean Cody wins, or will the debut of The Scissors accompanied by its manager, "Running Human" hinder his plan? And no, a run-in by Dynamite is unlikely to occur. Dynamite will not be brought back. Bridges continue to hold a personal grudge against it.

- Impact Wrestling Impact Update: What? Impact Wrestling? You think I'm worried about Impact Wrestling? I am on my computer, holding it sideways to play Angry Birds. th46yhyehyrhn6yh6jh5whtyhrs. I won again.

- Be on the lookout for future WWE auctions that feature Montel Vontavious Porter's old, inflatable entrance tunnel. I wish to purchase and sublet that tunnel to those without a permanent residence. Although these individuals must rehabilitate themselves before they can gain entrance into the tunnel, I will throw some colourful balls in there and let them have at it when they do. Tick, tock. This pizza party is better than expected.

- The Nation of Domination is an outdated concept best left in the past. A stable of four African Americans who show their superiority over others through violence will not work in 2011. If WWE wishes to group four such men together, I would prefer they create a Connect Four stable. During in-ring promos, Connect Four can stand horizontally or diagonally on a vertical plane. Instant feud with a 7-UP Cool Spot stable.

- I enjoy that moment in a wrestling match when a dastardly wrestler grabs a hold of his opponent's tights to gain leverage for a pinfall.. At the same time, I do not like it when that wrestler is too eager to grab the tights and accidentally exposes his opponent's backside. I better not see that Coppertone dog in the next installment of Tough Enough. He would be my least favourite contestant. Yes, living next to a dog methamphetamine lab is difficult. Who hasn't done that in their lifetime?

- Fantastic news, ladies and gentlemen. Kurt Angle and I sorted out our differences over a warm helping of hose milk. Now that we are able to co-exist, I have decided to go into business with him. Starting in September, bring your gal pals and rad lads to "Milque" the hippest, multi-floor dance club in Los Angeles. Do you think Kurt Angle sucks? He sure does... at Mother's Teat. This second-floor lounge is home to two kinds of people: the young Hollywood elite and you. At Mother's Teat, every alcoholic beverage is infused with milk to give it a healthy and nutritious kick. Get your calcium on and suckle to your heart's content.

On the first floor, get down and/or funky in the dance hall as DJ Evaporated Milk bumps Olympic-slamming beats. "Everybody in the club drinks that evaporated milk. Everybody in the club swigs that evaporated milk. Put your hands up, put your hands up. Hold your cans up, hold your cans up."

And last but not least, every Thursday is 1984 Night. Are you a sixteen-year-old kid who still does not understand how to use the toilet? You have come to the right place. Our club has no washrooms whatsoever. So, put on your flashiest pair of Teen Pampers and watch Panamanian sensation, "DJ Home Skullet," turn the tables. After all, he has been doing it since 1984. Milque: Does Everybody Good.

- You know what? I doubt John Cena nor CM Punk will ever help that starving Third World child keep his jean shorts up. Therefore, I shall step up and donate my own gold, jewel-encrusted belt. All I ask is to raise my belt one last triumphant time for everyone to see. Who's the real champ now? Yummy, yummy, yummy. I got love in my tummy and I feel like a-lovin' you. That is not my current theme song, but I think I proved my point.

- Your 2011 Summer Reading Challenge: I want you to find a SmackDown announce table. Attach a full beard to the table, then place it in front of Randy Orton's home. Frustrated by the resilient nature of WWE announce tables as of late, Randy will lash out at his new gift and attempt to break it. After dozens of tries, he will successfully shatter the table into pieces and stuff the remains into the trash. Sleep will not be easy for him.

The next morning, I want you find a second SmackDown announce table. Dress it up in a large blonde wig and insert a garden hose into the table (when the table overflows with water, it will appear as though it is crying). Place this second table in front of Randy Orton's home. Being the equal opportunity attacker that he is, Randy will spend his entire evening laying waste to this table. He will celebrate his victory by stuffing those remains into the trash. All night, he will toss and turn.

On the third day, find a smaller SmackDown announce table. Stick a propeller beanie on top of the table, tape a baseball to one side and a baseball glove to the other, and place it in front of Randy Orton's home. Fed up with these presents, Randy will take a chainsaw to the table. He will use a dust pan to shovel the remnants of sawdust into the trash. As the garbage man vanishes into the distance with all three bags loaded onto his truck, Randy will grin from ear to ear. That is your cue to finish the job.

While Randy enjoys a rare night of peaceful slumber, find three SmackDown announce tables in mint condition. Attach a full beard to one table. Dress the second table up in a blonde wig. Stick a propeller beanie on the smallest table. Equip all three tables with switchblades and position them at the foot of his bed. Before you leave the room, tap Orton on the shoulder.


Stephen Rivera is the creator of The Swerved (2006-2010), Neon Ropes, and this column. When he was a young man, he had liberty, but he did not see it. He had time, but he did not know it. And he had love, but he did not feel it. And he knows that at any moment, someone could come for him, or his column. He knew he would not have enough time to write everything, but now he worries that he does not have enough time to write anything.

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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.).