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Hey there, Fuckies, and welcome to the very 2nd  last BLFK of 2007, and the only column to appear as frequently as Fellatio after the 2nd year of Marriage. That's right. And boy, has 2007 gone by fast. It seems just like 11 months ago I wrote a standard Back-Leg Frontkick.  But irregardless, here were are again TO PRESENT THE YEAR IN REVIEW (AND EVEN MORE~!). And sure, some folks out there are probably saying "This is but another lazy attempt to just reorganize and present jokes and news you've already reported". And well, just because those people are right, doesn't mean you should listen to them. I mean, I have pictures! Look at them! Laugh! Forget I'm recycling the same exact shit again! Whoo. That's better.
Anyhoo, that all said, I thought I'd bite the Bullet (not Bob Armstrong) and present an organized all-in-one look at the calendar year 2007 from my somewhat warped perspective. And why not? In about 2 weeks, you're all going to be completely inundated with these types of fucking things anyway, as every asshole and his brother churns out the same exact carbon copies of each other's works. You know, Taker wins the Rumble, HHH returns, Jericho returns, etc, along with a myriad of *really exciting* lists that include their by gawd choices for the year's best matches. And boy, it'll be tedious, terrible and repetitive. The only difference is I'm doing it FIRST. Did I mention I have pictures? Ok, then.
So, that all said, let us look at the BLFK YEAR IN REVIEW 2007 from the insane perspective of the one and only Sean Carless. I wish there was more of me, but God broke the mold after making me. Although, some out there will insist that God broke it while. Those Assholes.

The following is not a completely detailed look at the Year in Wrestling, but rather varying news-bits that caught my notice, and absurd stories that fell through the cracks. This is the Back-Leg Frontkick YEAR IN REVIEW. Your Almanac of fucking complete absurdity. I mean, anyone can tell you that HBK vs. John Cena on RAW was a five star match, but only one man can tell the same exact joke a number of ways and make you believe it's original. I wish I was that man....
Onto the review~!
2007 actually opened up with thus far the only unrequited job John Cena ever did...KEVIN FEDERLINE. That's right, the former Mr. Britney Spears, and these days, hilariously enough, the more credible of the two. Flashing your vagina that better resembled the after-effect of a tragic house of wax fire and shaving your head so you look like the fucking Kurgan from Highlander will do that. The irony of the Federline job though was that it never really lead anywhere long-term. Kevin never returned in any shape or form again, leading many people to question why it was even booked at all. I mean, why bother? What does John Cena even have in common with a manufactured wigger dickhead who's completely overexposed? Oh.
All kidding aside, Cena pretty much carried the company this year, putting on great matches and debunking his detractors claims that he didn't deserve his spot by being, outside of maybe HBK, the most consistent in-ring performer this year. Even if he, like your wife of five years, never laid on his back for more than two seconds at a time.
From there, Krypton Massachusetts favorite (Last?) son would go on to have the longest title reign of the last twenty years, clocking in at almost 13 straight months, much to the joy of his fans, who were no doubt showing loyalty and respect. Hustlin'? Not so much. It's physically impossible when you way in excess of 400 pounds.
Anyway, after a year of overcomin' all those odds, yo, Super Cena would eventually meet his doom(sday) in the form of Mr. Kennedy, who legitimately injured The Man of Tomorrow (and the next day, and the next, and the next, well, if that title reign was any proof) putting him on the shelf, and sending him back to recuperate, and no doubt soak up the rays of the yellow sun of the Earth at his the Fortress of Solitude in Kandor Mass. that he shares with his nameless father Mr. Cena. And just like that, the reign was over. And I'm convinced, that if you watch that match again, you'll see a point where Kennedy puts a chain with a piece of West Newbury attached to it around Cena's neck before that arrant hip-toss gone awry. IT'S THE ONLY WAY TO EXPLAIN IT. And clearly the most rational.
In any event, The Death of Superman gave way to the title run of one arch-criminal Randy Orton, whose own super power of sucking the energy and charisma out of a building full of people thus far is unstoppable. But fear not, Super Cena will return for Truth, Justice, Hustlin', Loyalty, Respectin' and the American way, yo. And if not, maybe he can just fly around the Earth until it reverses its axis and sends him back in time before that Kennedy match? Maybe.
HHH started off the year by tearing his quad, and being forced to sit out Wrestlemania. A Wrestlemania that we learned in HBK's new DVD set that he was supposed to headline...AGAIN . And guess what? He's on tap again this year. Holy shit. Is it just me, or has Wrestlemania's booking turned into fucking Shampoo instructions? Add Hunter. Rinse. Repeat.
But hey, I'd be lying if for most of this year, people weren't clamoring for the return of the King Of Kings. Not to be confused with Jesus. That King of Kings at least brings dead people back to life. This King takes very much alive things, and then kills them. Anyway, as the Summer approached, people become stoked, as we started seeing vignettes for Hunter's big Summerslam return. And apparently WWE hadn't bothered filming this guy pumping iron in 5 years, because I'll be damned if that wasn't the exact same footage they used before. Of course sans the inspirational declaration from Bono that an inflated HHH to full capacity was indeed a Beautiful Day. Still, people were stoked. Even though, I myself compared this jubilation to people in the middle ages really looking forward to the arrival of the Plague, you know, because while it ravages everything, it just might destroy and dispose of a few people you want gone anyway.
Anyway, Trips made his triumphant return at Summer Slam, but not before telling King Booker "Didn't I tell you the first time that your kind couldn't be Champion?" And that kind? Threatening upper-midcarders? Sounds about right. From there, the King Of Kings went on a rampage, destroying any tag team in his path, simultaneously. But in Hunter's defense, WWE's booking has proven, that if you're Tag Team Champions, even if there are TWO of you, you'll still lose to one single Main Event Wrestler. It's science. You can't fight it. From there, HHH would recapture the WWE Title, just because, at No Mercy, only to graciously hot potato it to Randy Orton, but not before making sure he pinned him completely cleanly first. Oh, and not before pinning his original scheduled opponent Umaga, cleanly as well. And of course, not before feverishly having someone solder a fucking nameplate onto a belt he was going to surrender like an hour later anyway. God bless that man.
Since then, though, HHH has magnanimously stepped aside and allowed others to pursue... and lose to the WWE Champion, while he himself fills up on midcarders, and the heat of Jeff Hardy. And unlike that other King Of Kings, I doubt this'll be his "Last Supper". I mean, since returning almost 6 months ago, the only man to press his shoulders to the mat is the same guy that he drinks fucking egg nog with in their Bathrobes on Christmas morn, Dear old Dad. Sweet deal.
As we all know by now, Wrestlemania 23 was pretty much built around Vince McMahon and Donald Trump and their respective hair. Or just The Donald's, because lets face it, no one on Earth gave a shit whether Vince was bald or not. I mean, come on. Really.
Originally, Trump's proposed hair-helmet defender was said to be HULK HOGAN. But a falling out with Vince ruined that. And that's too bad, because I would have found hilarious irony in seeing a guy, Hogan, who hasn't had hair since the fucking Vietnam War started, battling for the preservation of it at Wrestlemania. And of course, secretly spooning up the losers discarded bounty on the mat and fashioning it into a toupee, all while hoping no one noticed.
That said, with Hogan persona non-grata, bruther, the responsibility to defend Trump's omnipresent translucent bird's-nest went to Bobby Lashley, or "Bobby Lindsay" as originally announced by Trump in a radio interview. But not before Vince carted out arguably the most unfunny spectacle ever: TRUMP VS. ROSIE on RAW. LESBIANS ARE YUCKY UNLESS THEY'RE HOT AND STALK OTHER DIVAS!!!! Oh, WWE. Do the laughs ever start.
Once Wrestlemania came around, Trump triumphed, thus negating all the interest in the match, and Vince was shaved bald. But hey, by then, WWE had all your money. So score one for Vince. The precedent has been set. Wrestlemania 24? Stephanie McMahon vs. Ivanka Trump: Loser gets a Brazilian. I'd get behind that. Multiple times. From different angles. At varying speeds.
Ironically enough though for Trump, once Wrestlemania came and went, so did any and all WWE proof that the Donald himself was ever in WWE, as he was erased from posters and had his named removed and image covered on the Mania DVD. It's as if The Donald NEVER EXISTED. And to my knowledge, his real last name isn't even Benoit. However, Trump at least still appeared on the WM 23 replay on WWE 24/7. Unlike that other guy. German Bearer-Bonds > German Suplexes, apparently.
After the disastrous December to Dismember PPV, ECW had a new face. A face that had apparently not yet seen puberty: Bobby Lashley! And soon there after, The post-Heyman era of ECW was (still)born, with Lashley at the helm. And soon, we were privy to the celebrated ECW MAIN EVENT DISQUALIFICATION, because by gawd, Bobby (whom Donald Trump insisted we loved) was just too extreme for rules. Or Charisma. It's true. Lashley, a talented wrestler, and imposing specimen, just lost all credibility once he opened his mouth, giving us the best promos you've never heard in your life. But still, Vince was unwavering, and soon, Lashley became ECW's John Cena, overcoming so many fucking odds that it'd probably be in your best interests to ask the motherfucker to buy you a powerball ticket.
Eventually, once Vince had fattened Lashley up by feeding him the entire ECW roster, Lashley made the jump to RAW, and immediately surrendered the ECW belt without having ever lost it in the ring. And he didn't even lose his smile first! And good thing, too, because with those black tights he wears, that was the only thing that kept him visible out there! Ah, I kid.
However,with Bobby's jump to RAW came his biggest challenge yet, his twin brutha from a different mother, JOHN CENA. And despite the movie Time Cop insisting differently, it turns out the exact same matter COULD exist at the same time, as the two did battle at the Great American Bash. It was a Battle between two identical forces, incapable of showing any sort of vulnerability, and sadly, unlike I predicted, the entire Universe DID NOT collapse upon itself and obliterate life as we know it. And too bad. Sure it'd suck to no longer physically exist, but at least we'd have been spared the payoff to Vince's bastard child storyline. Way to go, WWE.
That said, Cena ultimately prevailed, and Lashley ended up going on injury reserve. Or maybe that's the INJURY RESERVES. He was a Army Sgt., remember? It just makes sense. Hell, even The Marine John Cena is serving there now! BACK TO BASE, SOLDIER. FUNKY FUNKY BASS.
Someone once suggested that Smackdown's World Title is made of AZTEC GOLD (and not Acapulco Gold, or else I'm sure RVD would have stuck with the company and insisted on a reign) and thus it's CURSED. Just think about it. Almost everyone in line for the belt or to receive it has been struck down with injury, killed or just risked a combination of the two by putting it on Great Khali. Hell, I once had a theory that this whole scenario was WWE's version of FINAL DESTINATION. Well, until even the Grim Reaper went down, too. Now I'm not so sure....
What a difference a year makes. One year ago, ECW was beginning its New Blood vs. ECW Originals feud, and now, bar Tommy Dreamer, all the Originals are gone. Although, it appears 2/3rds of Tommy's hair may have left the company with them.
Sabu, the only Genocidal man not being pursued by the Bush Government (Be warned BOMBAY MICHIGAN, YOUR TIME IS COMING) first left the company, after missing a few matches because his umm, extreme alarm clock didn't go off. Same with RVD, who left, after being ignored by management for having his alarm clock set perpetually to 4:20. Sandman, too, is now gone, but not before making a brief stop on RAW where he was disqualified for 12 weeks straight. Enter night. Exit Company? Sounds about right.
Hell, even some "New Blood" has umm, congealed? Maybe. Marcus Cor Von has left the company to raise his sister's kids, and no doubt cause a few headaches at Parent-teachers night when he shoulderblocks the faculty, just because. Test galloped off into the sunset, and re-appeared in TNA as "The Punisher", only to be released again, or sued by Stan Lee. Whatever comes first. Hell, even Ariel was released. Or subjected to sunlight? I don't know. All I know is that those great giant implants are totally going to waste. And what a shame, too. As a vampire, I imagine she had the shortest recovery time ever. They opened her up, stuffed the sack in there and the wound sealed right up by itself. True story.
There were also other casualties. Sylvester Terkay? Cut. That's right, they cut the Terkay. The white meat is gone, but thankfully the dark is still here in the form of Elijah Burke. Little Guido is now a Half-Blooded Italian? after losing his partner Tony Mamaluke, and even his manager Trinity, who apparently raided a Police crime scene to cover her titties for no reason, because she was still let go. Hell, Guido, even lost his IDENTITY, somehow morphing back into NUNZIO when no one was watching... which luckily for ECW, is almost literally the case. 
Matt Striker is still around, although apparently the NYC School board still hasn't forgave him yet for never wearing pants with his argyle sweater-vest, because he's STILL disgraced. Well, if Joey Styles is to be believed. Hell, even Kevin Thorn has been somewhat overhauled. Apparently, someone must have killed the Vampire who bit him, because I'll be damned if he's not a regular dude now. That, or he broke the second rule of Bite Club and told someone about it. (needless to say, Styles can never be a member).
Extreme Exposé is now no more either, as Brooke danced her way terribly out of the company. BUT FEAR NOT FANS OF UNCOORDINATED UNSEXY EXTREME DANCING TO EXTREME SONGS BY EXTREME JUSTIN TIMBERLAKE, Kelly and Layla are still here, feuding in wrestling's first ever Worst of Everything Series, and not even being able to pull off a FOOD FIGHT convincingly. How do you fuck that up? Step A) Throw Food. Step B) Get Hit With It. Step C) Repeat. Dear God.
However, the biggest mystery of this year is who is STILL here! Mike Knox made it! Perhaps, like I once accused Lance Cade of doing, every time cuts are looming, he puts on one of those pairs of novelty glasses and innocently whistles? Maybe?
And of course, still here is TWF's favorite wrestler, and not just because he emailed me, STEVEN RICHARDS.  The moment Steven gets released truly means Armageddon is coming. Live on PPV. Seriously, fuck the moon turning to blood or that Mark of the Beast shit. Richards being let go is the REAL seventh sign. I'm telling you.
As for CM Punk, he's actually prospering. And all that had to happen for him to finally get the belt was for someone to die, then the guy who replaced him getting busted for steroids. Poor Punk. I for one think the culprit in the company being tentative to get behind this guy was Punk's addiction to Competition. A serious condition that if left untreated can cause all kinds of problems. I lost a best friend to competition this year. He overdosed on chinlocks and snap mares. We all tried to get him to go Cold Terkay, but he never listened. Now it's too late. He was 25. And boy could he dropkick. What a waste.
The preceding buffoonery was done entirely for the sake of making as many jokes as possible. Yup. EC-DUB! EC-DUB! EC-DUB!
It hasn't been the best year for that Stark Ravin' Hulkster, dude, as the cruel and harsh mistress known as Fate figuratively tore the crucifix from his bright orange neck in the ultimate act of betrayal, bruther. Hulk's year of turmoil started out with a huge falling out between he and Vince McMahon purportedly over Hulk's Summer Slam payoff. From there, Vince rubbed salt in those wounds, dude, by mocking his daughter with the Jillian Hall character. I originally hoped that this would somehow mutate into a Father and daughter tag team match featuring all the players, if only to see Brooke finally embrace her destiny as a Hogan and bodyslam the Giant Stephanie. But sadly, that never materialized. Oh, and for the record, in my version, Brooke may or may not have paid homage to dad by tearing her shirt off as well.
After the falling out, Hulk decided he would promote his own wrestling event, featuring himself against the former Big Show, Paul Wight in Memphis. It was originally scheduled to be against Jerry "The King" Lawler, but Lawler pulled out due to pressure by WWE. And it's too bad. I would have LOVED to see a similar build between the two as with the Orton match in 2006 where King hits on his daughter:
Jerry: "I swear, Hulk, I thought she was 14!"
Hogan: "She's 18, dude."
Jerry: "18? Really? Eww."
Anyway, the event went down, with Hogan winning (SURPRISE~!) but it only drew 2200 fans. Originally, Hulk, like he had boasted in 1988 in Atlantic City, was readily prepared to dog paddle a capacity of 20,000 screamin' maniacs to safety in the event that Memphis became submerged underwater, but after hearing there was maybe two thousand people, Hulk said "Fuck that, dude. We'll just bring life jackets, bruther. Or maybe a Dinghy, dude". True story.
From there, things just got worse for Hogan when his son Nick got into a brutal car crash leaving the passenger a vegetable. Hopefully a carrot, in honor of the palette of Hulk himself. Soon there after, we discovered that the family of Nick's passenger was suing the Hulkster and family in civil court for an undisclosed amount of money, and no doubt tens of thousands of bandanas, dude. Things escalated too, when a video surfaced of Hulk's wife Linda putting over illegal street racing. And from there, on November 7th, Nick was formally charged with several driving violations including a felony. The Mega Power handshake would NOT get Little Hulkster out of this conundrum. No sir. And Hulk was said to be SO angry that he insisted on disciplining Nick himself:
Hogan: "Linda, fetch me my weightlifter's belt!"
Linda: "Hulk, you're wearing it."
Hogan:"I am?"
Linda: "Ya, you never take it off".
Hulk: " Ok, well, let's try this; Whatcha gonna do, Nasty Nick? WHAT ARE YOU GONNA DO, WHEN THESE 24 INCH PY--"
Nick: "Dad, that shit don't work in real life!"
Hulk: Ok, that's it, bruther! Lay down. Linda help me up so I can drop the leg, will ya?"
Linda: *eye roll*
The following may have only happened in my head.
Anyway, 2007 ended even worse for the Hulkster, as his wife of twenty plus years, Linda, filed for divorce, citing bodyslamming, wearing spandex pants and dew-rags in every day life, and having to sew some 50,000 lycra shirts in the last 20 years as cause. Ok, she didn't say that. But my reason is better. Apparently, though, Hulk had no idea about Linda's intentions, and when told by a reporter, he claimed that he knocked the wind out of him. Which I can only assume meant that like King King Bundy and Earthquake before him, that the reporter savagely attacked Hogan's injured ribs and delivered a series of thunderous splashes.
So, ya, that was Hulk's year in a nutshell. But there is some silver lining, dudes. Hulk is not only the new host of American Gladiators, where I have no doubt that through his contract, we'll see him somehow win the competition, but he'll also be on the RAW 15th Anniversary,~!... no doubt picking up the first fat person he sees and throwing him through the air. That is after all what Hogan Knows Best. Bruther.
It was quite the strange year for Ashley Massarro as well. First up, Ashley did a pictorial for Playboy, and somehow, this got her a WWE Woman's Title match at Wrestlemania. So, there you go. Success and job promotion is that easy. NUDITY = JOB PROMOTION. And just the other day, I put this theory to the test. I went to a Staff meeting, took off my pants, and now I'm executive Vice President of the whole company. Thanks for the heads up, WWE!
From there, Ashley took a leave of absence from WWE, to go to China and film SURVIVOR. And why not? She's perfect for Survivor. After all, she's already trained herself to not eat, so there's no problems there. Plus, let's not forget she has no issues with rats. After all, she did compete in the Diva search! Ahem.
However, Ashley was not long for Survivor, being eliminated 2nd, after getting ill and not being able to carry her weight with the tribe. OH NO YOU DON'T SAY. She actually was sidelined and unable to do anything of any note, thus wasting a lot of people's time? Good to see she doesn't limit her uselessness to just wrestling.
That said, we have yet (at least as of me writing this) to see Ashley return to WWE. My theory for this is that after going into the Ocean, she dissolved into porridge and was swept away by the current. I'm sticking with that. God speed, Ashley.
Mick Foley was a brilliant hardcore wrestler, well versed in wrestling psychology and off the cuff natural promos. But even he could not stop the terrible virus called "WWE Creative" and "Main Event style" that soon became wide-spread, "infecting" countless superstars, and subsequently wiping out any and all natural charisma and relatability... in favor of robotic, tedious, unrealistic dialogue and boring paint-by-numbers offense.
Somehow immune to "shitty promos" and being "boring", Foley now finds himself as Mankind's (HIYO) last survivor in what is left of Stamford Connecticut... and maybe the World. Although, there's really no way to know for sure, because Vince McMahon is convinced that no other countries or cultures exist outside the U.S. borders, and thus has never bothered to find out. Who can blame him. Who knows what kinds of evil threats may be plotting against popular muscle-men in terrorist hot beds like FINLAND and American Samoa? You can NEVER be too careful.  USA! USA! USA!
Since the outbreak, and for three years, Foley has faithfully sent out messages, cheaply plugging random hometowns and various books of his own writing, in hope that someone, anyone, would finally reply... or at least show any sort of impassioned response or emotion outside of when fucking John Cena's on TV. Dear god.
Foley however eventually finds that he is not completely alone. Mutant victims of the plague -- The Infected -- lurk in the shadows... spinebustering, spearing, and as god as my witness, DROPKICKING any that stand in their path. It's horrible. Foley is eventually able to clearly identify theses vampiric threats (who suck any and all interest from anything they touch) by the fact that often, they're really tall and are covered in a plethora of tribal tattoos and have a crew cut. You can't miss them.
During the day, Foley hunts these "Infected", immobilizing them completely by telling them that they're going out there to wrestle with nothing scripted and absolutely no planned finish, and will just "wing it". Befuddled, they subsequently walk in three circles, fall down, then explode on the spot. Originally, he contemplated a way to somehow utilize his own immune blood to perhaps find a way to cure the Infected... but that was mostly because he couldn't quite ever shake the habit of blading for no reason, and was just trying to think of new excuses to continue. 
After destroying many of these mutants, Foley soon grows tired of constantly throwing himself through tables for seemingly zero reward, and just puts them over. Because, well, that's what Foley does. He then disappears completely and writes a children's novel, and WWE never changes. The end. That's the movie. Yup.
If someone had told a year ago that X-Pac would be forced into a casket by a dark figure with a white skeleton face, I'd have assumed it was just the actual grim reaper coming to collect him after a lifestyle of poor choices. Well, as it turns out, it wasn't the Grim Reaper, but rather a match for Wrestling Society-X, an MTV produced half-hour wrestling show, that mixed frenetically paced wrestling with hard rock music. Well, that, and a plethora of stupid gimmick matches involving electricity and piranhas and other buffoonery. And no, Vince Russo was not behind it, but lord knows, once he sees it what kind of ideas it'll conjure up:
Russo: "Yes! Get this, Jeff. What if put fo' tuppa-ware containa's on a pole! And then dese containa's are filled wit electricity! And da losin' wrestla gets all electrocuted-like, while da winna goes onto a tournament! Ya, Den he wins dat tourney, but loses da title shot to da guy who got electrified! Den you pin that guy, Jeff! Whatcha think?"
Jarrett: "So, I win the thing anyway?"
Russo: "Yup."
Jarrett: "I love it."
Dutch Mantell: "Can the guys losing be from the X-Division?"
Russo: "Sure, why not?"
Dutch Mantell: " Excellent".
Kurt Angle: "Wait. I want to pin them, too."
Russo: "Why not! Let's make a night of it! Anybody else?"
Nash: "Sure, I could go for that."
Team 3D: "Count us in."
Motor City Machine Guns: "Us too!"
Russo, Jarrett, Mantell: "Nice try guys."
Motor City Machine Guns: ...
Oh ya, by the way, WSX stopped production. It's history. But I still wanted to hijack this with some TNA jokes. Relevance be damned.
Abyss this year was subject to some pretty bizarre booking. For example, last Spring, TNA revealed that Abyss had murdered his father and spent time in Prison. I can see that. I mean, how hard could it have possibly been to pick him out of that Police line-up? Soon thereafter, Abyss' "mother" showed up, albeit briefly, with some sort of mind control over her giant mask-wearing, quasi-retarded son. This prompted me to ask where I had seen this all before. Eventually, Mother disappeared, never to be seen again on TV, extinguishing my wish that other family members with "Abyss"-themed names may soon show up as well. Family members like his Gay Uncle Kanyon. His cousin "Void" played by any interchangeable member of the X-Division. And hell, even his sister "Huge Fucking Hole", who'd be played by Lita. I was heartbroken.
Abyss eventually segued that storyline into a full-on feud with his former manager James Mitchell, and his "son" Judas Mesias. (until Judas got injured like a week in). However, answer me this, how is that every evil manager that turns on his longtime charge, somehow has his own giant son with flame covered tights, for whom he exacts revenge through? WHAT ARE THE ODDS.
Abyss then closed out the year dodging Goldust's rat (not Terri) and a masked Johnny the Bull renamed "Rellik" which is Killer backwards. And boy doesn't that gimmick Kcus.
So, ya, that's the incredibly true story of "Chris Abyss" as once labeled by Sting. Holy shit. There's a reason why there's no "Glen Kane" or "Mark Undertaker", motherfucker. Take a note, TNA.
When Santino Marella debuted, who'd have thunk that he'd end up as arguably the most entertaining part of WWE television? But that's exactly what happened. And to think we were all making jokes after he debuted at the expense of his stereotypical gimmick. With the only "Milan Miracle" I could think of being how a guy this incredibly fucking green ever got called up in the first place. Boy was I wrong. And I feel really bad now about making allusions that Santino's first big feud would see him stomp on someone's head and then kick it across the ring, before getting counted out after he dropped vertically down a giant upright green pipe. Or that the reason he moved to NEW JERSEY from Italy of all places was to join Organized Crime. After all, that's how Furio got here, isn't it? And why not the Mob?, I thought. I'm sure come annual WWE roster cut time, a guy like that could *really* come in handy for the company. Have a problem with your release? Well, one trip to Satriales, and they'll find pieces of Charlie Haas in a series of well-placed bowling-ball bags. My only hope was that in the interim, Santino had the good sense to not fall in love with Linda McMahon after connecting over some morning coffees. It was at this point I realized that I stereotyped poor Santino worse than WWE ever could, and vowed to never ever do it again. Until right now. ;)
TNA had its ups and downs this year. They blew their load too soon on the Samoa Joe vs. Somas Kurt feud. But elevated some great new talent like the Motor City Machine Guns and Lay Lethal. They then invented arguably the dumbest concept not involving a pole with a fucking turkey attached to it with the Reverse Battle Royal, which ironically enough lead to my Reverse liking TNA for a while. However, they continued to entertain with Kevin Nash in hilarious backstage skits. But then ruined that by bringing Nash back to actually Wrestle. At least I think that was Nash. At first glance, it looked like song-meister Kenny Rogers had laced up the boots.
You got to know when to hold up promoters, know when to bullshit owners,
Know when to walk away, when you done nuttin' but won.
You always count all your money, and only wrestle when you're able.
There'll be time enough for jobbing, after a new deal is done.
 Holy Shit, Kevin Nash is THE GAMBLER. I mean, the dude did call himself Vinnie Vegas once, remember? It just makes sense.
That said, I guess what I'm saying is that TNA is EVEN STEVEN. It's a perfect balance of awesome and shit. It's Status Quo, baby. And it's a fucking 1.1 Rating forever. Or until they restructure TNA creative and fire Russo & Mantell. The latter of which I have no idea how he even survives in humid Florida.  I mean, a furry dude in that kind of climate? Buddy looks like he’s perpetually rocking a fur coat made of Wooly Mammoth, so he must be DYING down there. I have no idea how he does it. Maybe that's why his ideas are so shitty. He's actually worked his body into a fever due to heat and this is the best he can come up with in his state of madness? I don't know. All I do know is no healthy sane man would ever come up with that "Feast or Fired" shit.
With ratings starting to plummet after Wrestlemania, Vince was eventually forced to undertake a publicity stunt to steal away mainstream attention from the controversial Sopranos finale the night before (which I tied in right HERE. Cheap plug~!). So he did what any man in that position would, he Exploded. And not just his inflated enhanced muscles from all four of his limbs at once, as I would have predicted, but rather because of a CAR BOMB. "Who killed Vince McMahon?" was the flavor of the week, bringing attention to WWE from everywhere. Hell, someone even called the fucking FBI thinking Vince had really died. That person was then told there was no Santa Claus, The Tooth Fairy is your fucking parents, and that Undertaker isn't really an un-killable zombie. They cried and cried. However, just when the angle was taking off, Chris Benoit went and totally one-upped Vince by killing his family and himself. That's right, Chris, you take that ball and you run with it! Oh. Anyhoo, this real-life non-exploding murder forced Vince to come out and admit he was still alive and that he had blown himself up. And yes, like everything else in WWE with a similar build, it turned out Vince was behind it all along. Who would have guessed it...
When Chris Benoit won the World Title at Wrestlemania XX, who would have thought, just 3 years later that he'd become perhaps the most infamous wrestler in history. Heck, I can just hear HHH saying "See, I told you putting that guy over wasn't worth it! I don't think I should ever lose to anyone but you Dad, from now on! Who knows who might end up being a murderer! We can't be too careful!..."
That said, no doubt, this one event will likely be a black mark on the sport forever. I mean, people are still talking about it. Hell, I even heard Germany has since recalled all their suplexes due to the negative connotations surrounding them. Ok, maybe not.
But still, to think there may have been warning signs. And not just Jim Ross basically telling us that the noble Atlanta Wolverine (indigenous to the climate no doubt) had RABIES. Fuck this steroid shit! Someone find the animal that bit Chris before it strikes again! Ahem.
Anyway, after the news came down, this whole sorted tragedy soon took on a life of its own in the Media; where first off, Geraldo Rivera somehow tried to connect Benoit to the death of Sensational Sherri a week before. Dear god. Although, maybe Geraldo had information we never heard? Although, from all the news I've heard, Sherri was sitting on her porch when it happened, so unless Chris came off with a amazing flying headbutt from her fucking roof, I'm casting some serious doubt on Geraldo's credibility here. But hey, stay tuned anyway for Geraldo's big exposé in "CHRIS BENOIT'S VAULT". It'll be awesome. And Empty.
[image] From there, wrestlers and varying industry cling-ons like Marc Mero and Stone Cold's Ex-wife Debra all appeared on TV shows like Nancy Grace besmirching the name of WWE and Vince McMahon. The latter of which used the tragedy to air her own dirty laundry that Austin beat her... with piston-like right hands no doubt. Bah. She should feel lucky. Most abusive husbands just smack their wives around with their bare hands and don't bother to put the thought and timing into cool things like LOU THESZ PRESSES, and coming off the coffee table whilst a steel chair is wrapped around your ankle. It means he cares.
The biggest change though to come out of this whole thing was WWE was forced to really improve their Wellness policy, and they handed out suspensions accordingly to those individuals who made them look like fucking idiots. Especially people who claimed that there was not really steroids in wrestling anymore............ ANYMORE! (Subtlety FTW).
Still though, it's hard to believe Chris is gone. Nancy, too. (Although, I contend that she'd still be with us, had she stopped rolling after that first German.). Hell, it's even been two years since Eddie died, too. And holy shit, didn't Perry Saturn get shot a bunch of times a few years ago? Clearly, it's not a good time to be a member of the Radicalz. If I was Dean Malenko, I'd keep a defibrillator handy and wear a bulletproof bee-keeper's suit made out of whatever it is that Black Boxes on planes are made out of, just in case.
However, all that said, the biggest impact, in the wrestling sense, is that Benoit has seemingly been erased from all of WWE History. There's no mention of him almost anywhere on their site. Hell, programming was even edited on WWE 24/7 anytime he was used. And it wouldn't even surprise me if he's edited off DVDs eventually. Which'll make Wrestlemania XX pretty fucking interesting. Maybe HHH will somehow convince WWE to say that he defeated himself at Wrestlemania to win the World Title? I mean, why not? It's the only person he hasn't pinned yet. It just seems natural. And yes, I'm somehow turning this whole tragedy into one big joke at HHH's expense. Laughter is the best medicine. Unless you're a Diabetic. In that case, Insulin.
Lex Luger is apparently paralyzed after suffering a spinal stroke. And somewhere out there, a member of Elizabeth's family is glad they bought that Voodoo doll. But still, best of luck to Luger on what is expected to eventually be a full recovery. Normally, I'd insist that like his forearm, Lex get a huge metal plate inserted in his whole body, because that worked out so cool the first time, but I fear that Jack Tunney will just force him to wear a full-body rubber unitard to protect people who'll bump into him...and be completely knocked unconscious. That's how it works, after all. But hey, for now, I say enjoy the *NEW* Lex Express. It has a lowering mechanical chair on it and everything, and it can even be parked ANYWHERE with no worries about getting tickets! Enjoy it while it lasts. I know I would.
HBK's comeback from a hiatus last Spring was definitely one of the real surprises of the year in WWE. Most notably, because it looked like Ol' HBK rolled Skinner for his gear. Seriously. Right now, poor Steve Keirn is floating at the bottom of the Everglades in HBK's metal chaps The best part, though? HBK looks to be sticking with the HBKeirn look! YES. Hobo is the new chic. And in honor of the occasion, I finally finished the new theme song I wrote for him last month!...
Oh, Oh, Oh, Shawn!
He thinks he's Keirn!
He knows he's Skinner!
He's got a new plaid look
And his hairline's gettin' thinner!
He's got bad knees
Can barely walk
He covers his ears
When Hunter says Cock.
He's just a sexy boy,
Sexy boy
He's not your boy toy,
Boy toy
He's just a sexy boy,
Sexy boy
He's not your boy toy,
Boy toy
He'll carry loads
Won't put over choades
He'll lose his smile
if you force him to job for a while
He calls himself "kid" at Forty
He loves him the Lordy
He make Hosses look,
Like they're actually fucking worthwhile
He's just a sexy boy,
Sexy boy
He's not your boy toy,
Boy toy
He's just a sexy boy,
Sexy boy
He's not your boy toy,
Boy toy
Eat your heart out Bret.
Go buy his merchandise.
See, I can say these things because A) I'm Canadian, and it's the law here as it pertains to Michaels. And b) I'm still man enough to admit he's the best wrestler in the world right now.
After 6 years in the WWE, RVD, finally got his rolling  walking papers, and took his educated feet and walked out of the company... as a winner, defeating Randy Orton in a stretcher match at One Night Stand... which I'd think at this point should probably just be labeled a fucking Relationship. Jesus, it's getting a little ridiculous. But upon closer examination, RVD never really had a chance of losing a match where the basic principle was to ROLL something, did he?. Still though, the night did not *officially* end until Rob took a kick to the head from Randy and sent on his merry way. But no worries, RVD is doing fine. After all, his whole life is one big perpetual state of logginess, so what's a "concussion"? That's just another day at the office when you're Rob Van Dam.
Anyway, in his retirement, Rob's stayed busy, and is apparently set to debut RVD TV, which looks hilarious. Seriously, check it out. I have no idea when it airs, but something tells me they *might not* be broadcasting a little before Half Past Four. Just call it hunch.
Of all the people to fill Trish's umm, shoes, I would never have guessed that Candice Michelle would be the heir apparent. I mean, when I was watching Candice obviously sitting on a dude's stomach simulating intercourse a few years ago, I never knew that, one day, this woman would be Women's Champion. See, I didn't think this, because, well, it's hard to think anything when all your blood is relocated somewhere else.
Eventually, Candice joined WWE, and much like flaccid tools during that aforementioned episode of Hotel Erotica, she rose quickly, and soon, she won the Women's Title one month after earning the Title shot in a giant kiddy pool full of Chocolate pudding. It's said that Lou Thesz once earned his first NWA Title in a similar manner by besting Orville Brown in a sandbox filled with pork and beans. So good for her.
As weeks past, and as champion, she improved, and eventually somewhat mastered basic psychology. So, with that under belt, why not move onto physics next and prove Newton's law of gravity? You know, by plummeting face first to the mat. Gone Daddy? Almost. Still, Canvas Michelle hasn't been seen on TV since. Although, if Stephanie McMahon had have had her way, it'd be NEVER AGAIN, as Steph gave a concussed Candice a giant bottle of water to ingest after swatting away EMTs who eventually told Steph to basically fuck off and let them do their job. The bad part? Apparently giving water to someone with a concussion can CHOKE them. Who knew? Man, it's a shame she's such a *great* writer, because I'm sure there's a career waiting for Big Steph in Medicine. In fucking Trinidad. Dear god. But hey, in Steph's defense, as I've said before, I'm completely convinced that she believes that Hunter is the TRUE King Of Kings, and as such, much like that other King Of Kings, drinking from his chalice, in this case a giant water bottle, would INSTANTLY HEAL CANDICE. Oh well. Maybe one day. Until then, I'm sure the Knights of Templar will guard that Evian with their very lives.
Earlier this year, we bore witness to the WWE's latest...and last... foray into theaters with the Condemned, starring Stone Cold Steve Austin; a film based on the principle of Austin being isolated with a bunch of hopeless ragtag losers, all fighting amongst each other for a fleeting chance at freedom. And no, WWE didn't film the movie in the former Deep South Wrestling developmental league. The movie was somewhat of a critical success, but basically completely bombed at all the theaters it played in. Although, I heard, at the very least it inspired Vince to place all his contracted talent in those explosive bracelets to prevent escape. You'll know it works when they only find a few shards of kinky hair, apple and teeth in Carlito's rental car in 90 days.
Anyway, despite WWE and Steve Austin's high hopes, the film did not deliver at the Box Office. Hell,  I think even fucking Kickin' it Old Skool outdrew the Condemned, which I think if you check your Bible, it states that anything remotely successful featuring Jamie Kennedy marks the earth for future destruction. Repent now.
From there, WWE scratched their heads, not being able to figure out what went wrong. But that didn't stop them from promoting it at all opportunity...minus one small important factor...having fucking STEVE AUSTIN APPEAR ON TV and create some buzz. Well that, and I don't know, maybe lose the fucking name "WWE FILMS". You might as well just have Steve give Stunners for two hours straight and spray people with a fucking beer hose for how much credibility that creates. WWE however blamed the distributor for not promoting it properly, and also the "R" rating, as it prevented their bread and butter, fat-faced little children, from watching the film and buying John Cena's T-shirts, just because.
Anyway, as the stench of failure set in more and more, WWE even got petty, and eventually poked fun at that month's box-office champion "Spider-Man 3" by having Cryme Tyme attack an overweight guy in a tiny Spidey costume. OH THE HILARITY. My suggestion that Sandman be the one to cane him obviously fell on deaf ears. Oh well.
In any event, Condemned soon disappeared from Theaters faster than a Kielbasa in a Nunnery, and WWE eventually revealed that all future WWE Films releases will now go straight to DVD as I once predicted back in 2006. (CHEAP PLUG~!).Condemned was not finished however, as it popped up again come DVD time, where it seems to have made a good bulk of its money back, which I'm sure pleases the Texas Rattlesnake. Although, I've heard that he was just happy to finally have a legal opportunity to punch some women in the face with no ramifications. True story.
Anyway, the selling features on the commercial ads I've seen for it heavily promotes exclusive commentary with Steve Austin, whom I'll be disappointed in if he doesn't interrupt the Producer every five seconds with a What, and director Scott Wiper. Holy shit, THE Scott Wiper? Wait. Who the fuck is Scott Wiper? And why should I care about what he has to say for 2 hours? And why is he sticking with the last name Wiper? And what horrible occupation did his ancestors do for a living to come up with that surname? All these questions and more answered when you buy the DVD. Because every time you don't, they flog Paul London & Brian Kendrick and fire an ECW Original. Live with that guilt.
From the makers of this shirt, WWE is proud to present yet ANOTHER Triple H shirt that appears from a distance to be really old and discolored, perhaps as a result of never having ever been washed! It's true. Be the first to wear the new and improved "HHH COMPLETE GIBBERISH T-SHIRT"! Created when HHH accidentally fell asleep on a discarded newspaper backstage whilst thinking of fun new creative ways to defeat a depleted roster of tag teams all in one night. It was the best and most comfortable sleep of his life. And now you can experience that comfort when you wear the T-Shirt that Triple H swears by! Literally! Just earlier today while wearing it, he told Carlito that he has no fucking heart for this business. It was hilarious!
So what are you waiting for, WWE Creative to give you an opportunity just because you're really over with the audience? Order now! And in honor of The Game, we're holding down the price for a limited time! Be the hit of your school! Pin three classmates at once! Date the Principal's daughter and get a free valedictorian scholarship as a result! Order now!
I actually recently buckled, and ordered some of Jim Ross's famous BBQ sauce (seriously). And it's actually damn good. Good Gosh Almighty it's good. I almost got a case of the limber-tail, but I dug deep in my heart of the rattlesnake and by gawd ordered it.  I ate that steak quicker than a hiccup. It was like a slobberknocker to my lower intestine. To commemorate the occasion, I mailed my government, in hopes they'd issue me some livestock that I could in turn beat the shit out of, well, because I've always assumed that's the purpose of a mule. My Dog died, so he got off the hook before being scalded. As god as my witness, I'd have broke him in half. I promise you. You don't gotta be a cerebral assasin to know It was that damn good. By gawd.
What a year it's been for the Legend Killer. A "Legend Killer" whose own life I'll assume is going to get a heck of a lot more awkward once he himself becomes a legend. I can just picture the suicide note:
I. Can't. Take. It. Any. More. Some. One. Remember. To. Feed. My. Cat. I. Love. You. All.
Sin. Cerely.
Randy. Orton. Legend. Killer.
Sounds about right. Anyway, 2007 will probably be remembered as the year Randy Orton become WWE Champion. A championship belt that strangely still resembles the exact same one Cena wore, only it doesn't spin. And too bad. As mentioned before, I always thought if you placed a picture of Randy applying a chinlock on the faceplate and spun it enough times, perhaps, the audience would be hypnotized into believing it's not the most boring tedious hold EVER. Shows what I know.
Anyway, while Randy's WWE Title conquests are probably the main plot point of his year, there's been many, many highlights and lowlights to Randall's 2007. First, he created controversy during a European tour when he allegedly obliterated a Hotel Room. At first, I thought it completely impossible, because after all, how much damage could a side headlock do to a mini-fridge? But then I read the damage was in the excess of thousands of dollars. That's a lot of RKOs. Those lamps must have really pissed him off. And I have no idea why. Although, I found a little humor in thinking of Orton's quasi-retarded Brick Tamland-like tone spouting that he in fact HATES LAMP.
In any event, Orton was never officially suspended, but rather, was FINED (OH NO~!) in addition to enjoying a streak of matches where he spent more time on his back than a Diva Hopeful meeting with Johnny Ace. Eventually, Orton was given another chance, and segued that into reinventing his character. He was still so robotic, he made Linda McMahon look like Robin Williams, on crack, injected with pure Adrenaline, mind you, but NOW, HE KICKED PEOPLE IN THE HEAD. HBK was his first victim. Although, it may have been an accident. After all, it's not hard to miss that forehead these days. RVD was next, as mentioned previously. I can just picture that Ambulance looking like the Cheech and Chong Van with a siren on top. Eventually, Orton found himself in WWE Title contention, and got under John Cena's skin, by kicking his father,Jor-El  Mr. Cena in the head. Perhaps for not having the decency to have a first name. I don't know. And from there, and with Cena legitimately injured, we all know how this story ended. Well, actually the story actually ends the same exact way it did the last time. Under the weight of a heaving HHH, wrapping Orton's title around his waist and laughing and pointing a lot. It's just a matter of when and where HHH needs the strap to hold up his Cerebral pants. The count is on. Perhaps we need a Y2J-esque clock to remind us of the exact moment we need to change the channel.
In closing, Orton had another big moment this year, totally unrelated to the ring. He tied the knot! And not just on the towel he likely shit into before stuffing it secretly into a stuffy Diva's carryall. No sir. I'm talking about marriage! It's true. Randy Orton is now a married man! I just hoped he had the reserve to not soccer kick the Bride when she dropped to one knee to ceremonially remove her Garter. But hey, it's a Randy Orton wedding, you have to picture these types of things! I mean, can't you just picture that "Just Married" limo pulling out dragging a bunch of Gym Bags? No? Well, I'll stop then. Because Orton shitting jokes are so 2006.
Mr. & Mrs. Orton's honeymoon however didn't last too long, because Orton was almost immediately back to work. I've always insisted that this is because Mrs. Orton knew all too well what happened the last time Randy had a prolonged stay in a Hotel, and well, she just got all those blenders and Coffee makers, and she'll be damned if Orton annihilates them. That's right.
So, best of luck to your Randy in 2008. Whether it be trying to get HHH from climbing on top of you, or convincing the jaded Misses to follow the Game's grand example.
Did you break the code? If the answer to this is "no", then well, you're probably dead already, because your body was unable to handle both breathing and walking simultaneously. But seriously, there were actually people out there who doubted it was going to be Y2J. And immediately after RAW, these same lot were likely spoon-fed pureed carrots by a trained medical staff, blinked twice, then fell asleep. Hopefully forever.
That said, Jericho's return, despite being the worst kept secret since Ru Paul has a cock, still managed to be the most exciting build to an angle in years, that didn't culminate with a fucking midget. For weeks, crowds were stoked, and finally, the big night arrived. With first, a the torch runner getting clotheslined, which ironically enough would get me to actually watch the fucking Olympics, and then the countdown. 9, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1..and Boom...There stood... a Bar Tender at an upscale Gay Night Club? Could have fooled me. But irregardless, it was great to have Jericho back. And it still is. Jericho has come to Save us! Unless it's from general illness or bodily injury. You're out of luck there, Chief. For everyone else, he's back to add a little bit of personality to a show filled with Cookie-cutter douchebags. And I have no doubt he'll save us once THEY'RE OUT OF THE FUCKING CAROLINAS. Dear god. In Space they can't hear you scream cheer. Quick, get Jericho above the Mason Dixon line, stat. Or put some NASCAR stickers on him!!!! Maybe that would help.

Make a BIG SPLASH on the Criminal Element in PARTS UNKNOWN. But beware, you could SELF-DESTRUCT at any minute! Seriously. That's what that little button does. Trust me. 
New for the Christmas Season, it's GRAND THEFT AUTO: PARTS UNKNOWN! The streets of PARTS UNKNOWN are in turmoil. Crime is rampant. There's a Pimp/Voodoo priest of every corner. Warlords are popping up everywhere. And they insist on carrying little mysterious wands with tiny W's on them and wearing half-masks for no reason. This once proud and prospering Metropolis is ripe for demolition. Ax & Smash are having a field day. There's drive-by thunderous axe-handles to the back seemingly every five minutes. It's a truly tumultuous time. Enter, WARRIOR. Your playable character, and a man of ULTIMATE principle, vowing to return to the completely unidentifiable city he made famous, and clean it up, one homosexual Mexican communist at a time.
Armed with PRESS SLAMS and CLOTHESLINES, and maybe a few guns, because let's be honest, it's a real chore getting a dude to lay on the ground for 3 minutes straight while you continuously run back and forth before hitting a big splash, WARRIOR attempts to FINALLY rid the streets of its Barbaric threats (Literally. The Barbarian just moved here last Tuesday. There's Antlers everywhere), and perhaps once and for all dispose of the element of crime and drugs....bar a few specific muscle-enhancing growth hormones, because, come on, you try to maintain a 290 pound physique while working a 300 day schedule. It's impossible. But beware, there is a nefarious element looking to cover up their illegal activities, and stop Warrior's noble quest to find the missing link (he's hiding in a cave somewhere) to this puzzle, and bring down this corruption once and for all. Or maybe haggle over a payday, no show a few missions, and disappear forever. Whatever comes first.
I could bore you with the details, but needless to say, in between vowing to defeat Ultimate Fighters three at a time, all while rebuilding the industry with a crippled Big Show, Current TNA Champion, Kurt Angle added two new "I's" to his original 3 this year. The first was "DUI" when our Olympic Hero was pulled over for drunk driving. I blame the failed breathalyzer test on the fact that he couldn't wrap his lips around the nozzle because of his Mouth-piece. Could be? No? Alright then. The other "I" involved the TNA debut of his real-life wife, Karen. And that "I"? BROWN EYE. Yes, this is the same Karen that Kurt proudly declared last year on a radio show that she "LOVED ANAL SEX". Holy shit, and you thought Kurt's 2005 "Bestiality" faze was disturbing. Kurt Angle: he not only forces your ass to tap out, HE THEN TAPS THAT ASS. And it's not like you're going to stop him even if you wanted to. You've seen the way he tenaciously transitions back to that anklelock! Imagine him floating back over on your ass over and over again. You'll know it's time to bite the pillow when the straps come down. Dear god.
Well, WWE Recycles anyway. Particularly guys no one cares about toiling on Heat, whom they either strip down, and shave, and then try to convince the world that they're UNDEFEATED, despite the fact there's video evidence on their very website to the contrary featuring dozens of hours of Jobs to Hacksaw Jim Duggan and his fucking 1970's Gym shorts. There are two main culprits in question. First, there's Big Daddy V, who is no longer recognized as the World's Largest Love Machine, and not just because he heard that I constructed a 600 pound mechanical vagina, and that his boasts no longer held any merit. Not even. The former Viscera's big change came when they took out his white contacts, stripped him of his giant pajamas, all while hopefully burning them in one of those radiation-proof rooms with the giant salad tongs, thus exposing a body so hideous that no amount of praying or subliminal hypnosis can erase the images now burned into our souls. It's true. If six months ago you had told me, that every week, we could look forward to seeing 6 titties exposed at once, I'd have thought "FINALLY. They're doing something worthwhile with "Extreme Exposé!", but lord was I in for a surprise.  And you know, that said, I'm completely convinced that the day after V's big ECW debut, people around the world found countless corpses frozen in distorted horrified poses like in the fucking RING. The only difference is, if that was truly the case, V would probably still be stuck in that well, Winnie the Pooh-style. If only.
Then we have Snitsky. Formerly a loveable foot-loving Pro-choice lug, who has since apparently waged battle with Obi-Wan Kenobi on fucking Mustafar. Seriously, Snitsky. There was a reason Anakin (Acnekin?) wore that suit. Take a hint.  From there, WWE immediately placed Snitsky on ECW, acting as if this was totally new wrestler never before seen in the company. Same with RAW. And hey, maybe it *might* have worked out a little bit better, had the guy not still called himself SNITSKY. Clearly, there's a reason why Vince McMahon has never worked with the Witness Relocation Program.
So, there you go. WWE's Recycling program in action. Although, I don't suggest ever trying it yourself. You thought they gave you trouble when you don't bundle your Newspapers? Try putting a giant shapeless black man out at the curb. I may have been heavily drinking when I wrote this part.
Earlier this year, after seemingly turning TNA into the fucking roster from Smackdown 2 for PS1, TNA tried to further create a controversial buzz by signing disgraced NFL player Adam "Pacman" Jones to their roster whilst he was on league suspension. Well, what transpired was the signing of a guy who was forbidden to not only wrestle, but to even become remotely physical in any shape or form. So, TNA did what ANY company in a similar position would do. They put a Championship on him. Dear lord. And the result? Absolutely zilch as far as ratings and buyrates went. MONEY WELL SPENT. Holy shit, TNA. You'd probably have been better suited to just pull a fucking Pacman and pelt Strippers with the money it cost you, for how much worth you got out of this guy. Seriously, Pac-Man brought literally nothing to the table. Hell, even pairing him with a fountain of natural charisma like Ron Killings didn't seem to help, because as I've mentioned before, finding Pacman's charisma is like the world's longest game of Where's Waldo.
In any event "TEAM PACMAN" eventually lost the titles, all without Pacman having ever wrestled one single match or exhibiting any effort whatsoever. I understand that's Kevin Nash's dream job. By the time Bound For Glory aired, Pacman had left the company, when they opted to not resign him. Although, I prefer to think that he was just lead to his ultimate demise through a series of conveniently dropped pellets, then cornered by 4 or 5 guys. But that's just me. GAME OVER, PACMAN.
It yet another death knell to the Brand Extension, WWE subsequently ended single-brand pay-per-views, pretty much guaranteeing that you'll never see certain lower tier guys on PPV again. And while my heart breaks for the Majors, who as a result will probably never have a new grandiose audience for which to make absolutely no impact on whatsoever, the ensuing Tri-Branded PPVs have brought about an even worse irritating trend: THE VAUNTED PAY-PER-VIEW DISQUALIFICATION. It's true. Now, you can pay 40 dollars a month to see absolutely no conclusive ending to match! Or better yet, see the rematch with a conclusive ending or the big debut you've waited for, just a week later ON FREE TV. Sound great? Seriously, why does the Brand Extension exist anymore? I have no idea how anyone can defend it. Well, I can see it from WWE's point of view, but the fans, the Brand Extension supporters, to me, are the equivalent of the fucking Flat Earth Society. It doesn't matter how much evidence and sense you throw at them, they still cling to the ideal that it's working, when everything from a creative standpoint proves otherwise. Face it. The Brand Extension is like fucking Communism. It only works in theory. Would that make us wrestling fans Smart-Marxists? Maybe.
Chances are, I just wanted to use the term "Smart-Marxist", and feel really clever about myself for a few minutes, and really don't care one way or the other. Probably.
I guess if you're going to insist on having the last name "Long", you better take Viagra to maintain the image. And therein is the story of one Theodore Long, Smackdown General Manager, and the second character in Smackdown history to suffer a cock-induced heart attack. A way I too would like to one day leave this mortal coil. Perhaps, as a precaution, I can talk women into vigorous penile massage to stave off the cardiac arrest. Or prolong it. Whichever. I'm flexible.
Anyway, Long suffered said heart attack while getting married to Krystal on Smackdown. And you'd think after EVERY SINGLE in-ring Marriage of the last twenty years ended in tragedy, that maybe, just maybe, they'd see this coming, or I don't know, NOT DO IT IN A RING? You've got to love wrestling. Wrestlers never learn their lessons. EVER. No matter what the scenario. Hell, even after it's happened every single time, they still NEVER see the potential disaster of wheeling giant cakes out to the ring, too. WHAT COULD POSSIBLY HAPPEN.
With Teddy in the hospital, apparently, an angle was supposed to transpire where Edge and Krystal got together, and revealed the two manipulated the whole "marriage", but that didn't happen, because Krytal refused the angle in real-life, as she did not want to be portrayed as a SLUT. Painting the canvas blue with her tits and ass during the Diva's Search? Sure, that's just wholesome family entertainment. Stripping to your underwear in a Strip Poker tournament on camera? Why not? That's what Role Models are all about. Playing Edge's girlfriend on TV in a fake angle? You've got to draw the line somewhere!
Krystal then left the WWE altogether. Some were quick to say that perhaps her real-life boyfriend, Bobby Lashley made her turn down the role. And if so, perhaps, it was only because thus far, Bobby has only mastered two words in the English language. And one is the word "no". To think this whole thing could just be one colossal misunderstanding!
In the interim, VICKIE GUERRERO has taken up with Edge to carry on the angle, and umm, dear lord. Although, maybe Vickie is MINX in the sack, and we have no idea what we're missing. I mean, that rolling hips move Eddie used to do off of suplexes could easily be translated to the boudoir to fantastic results. But I wouldn't trust her when she says she had an orgasm, Edge. You know how those Guerreros lie.
Anyway, to bottom line this whole fiasco, Teddy is back. His penis flaccid, but his heart functional. Krystal is gone, but in her stead Teddy still has his other life-mate: THE UNDERTAKER!... for whom Teddy uses to solve all his problems. And to think, had Teddy just used Undertaker as a bedroom surrogate all along, this whole mess could have been avoided. And why not Undertaker? He's perfect for the role. After all, he does bury stiffs for a living. HIYO.
This year hasn't been too kind to Lillian Garcia. First, she suffered a sprained ankle, whilst skiing, that somehow put her on the shelf for almost 2 MONTHS. Holy shit. Two months? She's lucky she didn't get a hangnail or stub her toe, they would have had the Tribute show for her by now. In any event, after "healing" from the tumoultous and unforgiving ankle sprain, that we here at TWF blamed on Charlie Haas, just because, she hit the recording studios with gusto, and churned out a brand spankin' new album called "Quiero Vivir" featuring a plethora of Spanish love songs! You know, just what the 18-34 male target demographic wants.  What's next? Fucking WWE Fabergé eggs? Who thought that this would work? Needless to say, it bombed, as the world of fat dudes in beer helmets and really small Austin 3:16 t-shirts were just not ready for the rocking sounds of ethnic love anthems. What a shame. And I feel bad for Lillian. Really I do. She's actually quite talented. This had to hit her hard. Hell, they even thawed out Jon Secada for this album, and nada. I picture her with a long face. Ok, a longer face? It's breaking me up inside. OK, I'm over it.
Woooo! It looks like, after being old enough to remember what Wrestling was first like atop Mt. Olympus, Ric Flair just may finally retire at Wrestlemania 24, as WWE has set an angle into motion where if he "loses" he must retire. And I'm actually bummed by this. And for once, I'm serious. A lot of people get down on Ric, and find it absurd that he defeat today's young stars, but come on, IT'S RIC FLAIR. As far as I'm concerned, he's earned a free pass forever. Younger wrestlers could learn a ton from Slick Ric. Especially Psychology. For example, the other day, Ric told me that the reason I'm so bitter is because I hold repressed anger and resentment towards my parents from my childhood. He then explained to me the difference between cognitism and behaviorism, and how it could positively affect my life. Don't doubt Ric's Psychology. He's the real deal.
On an unrelated non-wrestling note, Naitch also started his own loan company this year: RIC FLAIR FINANCE. YES. And like you, I think this is the greatest thing I've ever heard. Until I remembered that Ric was practically bankrupt last year. And with that, I picture all of Ric's "customers" actually just being him in disguise, hoping his partners never notice. Maybe not wearing monogrammed trunks might help. Anyway, to put the legitimacy of this great company to the test (and by gawd, that Figure Four loan process better involve an actual leg lock), I will be signing up for a loan this week. Or at least attempting to. I'll let you know how it goes. All I know is, it better involve at some point me tossing Flair off the office safe, or his Ex Beth Flair tackling me in the parking lot and grabbing the money bag before I get into my car. And if I'm late on my payments? Well, Arn, Tully, Ole & Barry Windham better be laying me out with a tire iron. If it's good enough for Sting, it's good enough for Sean Carless. Woooo!
After Vince's explosion fell apart, or blew apart as it were, WWE needed some other "hook" to get back on track, and snag new potential viewers. That angle? That he had a bastard son. And soon there after, WWE start dropping clues and what not, in addition to defying all logic and reason by declaring that the mother in question, suing Vince for support of A GROWN MAN, refused to reveal her identity, only allowing her lawyer to reveal small clues. Ya, that's how the law works.
Lawyer: You've been served.
Sean: For what?
Lawyer: I can't tell you.
Sean: Huh? Well, who is the Plaintiff?
Lawyer: I can't tell you.
Sean: Well, can you tell me anything?
Lawyer: They like to play games. Hopscotch. Hide and Seek...
Sean: Fuck you.
In any event, all clues pointed to one man: Mr. Kennedy. And the big revelation was set to be in Green Bay, Wisconsin, so it all made sense. However, in the interim, Mr. Kennedy was suspended, along with multiple others in the Signature Pharmacy debacle, forcing WWE to go in an entirely new direction: Hornswoggle, a let down of a revelation that made the fucking Gobbeldy Gooker seem like Chris Jericho in 1999. Dear lord. From there, we were subjected to skit after unfunny skit featuring Hornswoggle, dynamite, and Looney Tunes-style painted holes on walls. You know, spray paint that paints perfectly symmetrical even rectangles on walls with no effort. Holy shit, am I actually asking for credibility in a sport where you can crush, burn, run over, and even cripple guys with a sledgehammer, but if you hop the guard rail after being given the "night off", you get arrested and sent to jail? Umm, I kind of am.
But hey, to each their own. I'm just glad WWE has taught us some important life lessons that otherwise we'd never have known. Like you can force an adult man to be adopted against his will. Who knew? You better believe I'm doing that ASAP. The way I figure it, with my 25 year old+ brothers in new homes, that leaves more Christmas gifts for me. Thanks, WWE.
And finally, there were a slew of other stories I beat to death this year. Stories like Batista, who came programmed with the Konami Cheat Code, enabling him unlimited Title shots, all while besmirching the good name of Basketball, telling Great Khali that they don't hold grudges. Bullshit. I once double-crossed a basketball in 1988, and 15 years later, it framed me for murder. They NEVER forget. So don't sell me that pack of lies, Batista. Anyway, from there, like an annoying neighbor who constantly reminds you that you still have his fucking gardening shears, Batista finally fulfilled his vow on every fucking Sunday for 10 months straight that he would be getting his title back, by doing just that Unforgiven, finally smiting The Great Khali and the reputation of quality sports equipment everywhere once and for all.
The rest of those stories included the ascension of Jeff Hardy and the subsequent nicknaming of him as "Rainbow Haired Warrior"; as I curiously asked when was the last time we had any "Rainbow haired Wars" to necessitate the needed warriors to fight in them? Good luck blending in on that fucking battlefield.
From there we had Jeff's brother, Matt, who every year seemed to be hand-cuffed to one guy for whom he wrestles match after match against. T'is the pitfalls of Immortality, I suppose. You have all the time in the world, and they stick you with only one asshole. This year's big Matt Hardy feud was with MVP; although, the two have yet to really wrestle, as every time they came close, Mother Nature bitch-slapped one of the two, rendering them physically unable to compete. First was MVP, who apparently had a heart condition last summer. Luckily though, he was able to round up 2 friends and head to Oz, and soon there after, was good to go (although, I heard the WWE Creative member that requesting a brain left empty-handed). However, once back, it was Matt's turn, as he is currently out after having an emergency Appendectomy. Apparently God was pissed at this whole "I cannot die" stuff, and wanted to teach him some humility. I don't know. All I know is, that could be the case. God just hasn't been the same with WWE wrestlers since he was forced to do the job at Backlash 2006.
 From there, we had the former Chyna, Joanie Laurer, who like Warrior before her, legally changed her name to, you guessed it "Chyna", to defy WWE's trademark of the name. She then challenged Vince McMahon to a "fight" as she exited the court room, but thus far, we've heard no reply from Vince. I don't blame him. Any "woman" who could fit a magnum-sized condom on her Clitoris, is not a woman I want to mess with. Or be in the same room with. Or Country. Or planet. You get the drift.
And I'd be remiss if I didn't mention that this was a year of big debuts from 2nd and third generation stars. Well, bar Teddy Hart, who as we all expected, lasted about as long in WWE Developmental as a prom night Handjob. Luckily though, Al Snow didn't even have to forcefully throw him out of the building, as he just opened the door ands a gust of wind caught Teddy and his Balloon pants and away he want. He was 27. And an asshole. However, his cousin Nattie Neidhart, for whom I hope at least some hair on her body is grown in an Anvil-esque manner, is now working house shows, while other cousin, Harry Smith, err DH, Smith, (HGH Smith?) son of the late (but let's face it, he's never arriving) Davey Boy Smith, made his debut, beat Carlito a few times, and then got suspended for Violating the Wellness Policy with steroids... and not the MUMPS, as his strange WWE.com avatar kind of suggests. Yes, suspended for Steroids. You know, the same thing that contributed to the death of his father. Good thinking. But I don't blame Harry. I mean, looking around WWE these days, 3rd Generation guys who blatantly violate The Wellness Policy get WORLD TITLES, they don't get suspended! I could see how he could have made that mistake.
And finally, we have the son of a son of a plumber, and apparent Hetero-sexual life-mate of the Rookie-Monster Bob Holly, one Cody Rhodes, an actual charismatic young wrestler who just happens to be perpetually trapped in the body of THQ Create-a-Player Default character. Unfortunately though, there's no sliding scale to make him grow and suddenly have any kind of remotely discernable look whatsoever. Oh well. That's how the rookie crumbles. If you weeeel.
And finally, my absolute favorite story of the year: Gangrel is making a porn! You remember Gangrel, the leader of the Brood? Well, good ol' Gangrel will be filming an adult feature! But before you ask, no, Gangrel himself won't be umm, impaling any of the ladies himself; but will instead just be DIRECTING the features. Although, I'm not sure how good of an idea this is either.  I mean, I don't know about you, but is having a dude who needs constant plasma just to SURVIVE, hovering around ANYTHING blood gorged really the best idea? It could only end in tragedy. But on the other hand, it could have its benefits. With all the STDs going around in porn, what better way to make sure your performers stay alive and healthy then to make them NOSFERATU? It's brilliant!
Yup. And like a giant pair of swinging balls, that was my 2007 in a huge nutshell.
Well, that's it for this year, month, and whenever. I'll be back with another BLFK..eventually? Maybe. You see, I'm like that deadbeat Dad who promises you he'll be there to see your big game and open presents on X-mas morn, only to forget all about it, break your heart, and get drunk and hit the strip-club instead. It's my lot in life. Anyhoo, big thanks go out to the men & women of wrestling this year for being such good sports about my incessant buffoonery, and for not being like Warrior and wanting to inflict bodily harm upon me via a slew of clotheslines. You'd think by now I'd be a pariah in this business, but yet, a lot of workers I've actually gotten responses from seem to get a kick out of it. Who knew. Also, while you're here, put your cock away, and check out the rest of TWF's Motley Crew of anti-social deviants~!:
 Derek Burgan, James Walker, Catherine PerezJoe MerrickCameron Burge, Canadian BaconGersh, Harry SimonJustin Shapiro and newcomers Neil Cathan, Charley Martin, Anthony DeanMatthew Folger and James Swift. And hopefully, YOU. That's right, Fatso. We need a new TWF WWE PPV Recapper. And it has your name all over it. And despite my best efforts, it just won't wash out. If you're interested, send me a sample of a recapped match in your by gawd style, and hopefully you can join the Internet's best real athletes in non-physical wrestling Journalism.
And ya, we have a MY SPACE PAGE as well. Be our Friend. Or more than a Friend. TWF's easy. She has no self-respect and puts out frequently under the impression that it'll somehow lead to true love. Yup.
So, from me to you, have a Happy Holiday, Merry Christmas, High-falutin Hanukkah and Killer Kwanzaa, or whatever bizarre savage winter-time ritual of your choice is. Go with Xmas or Hanukkah. At least you get gifts.
 See y'all soon. But first...

....Your Moment of Zen!: (your check's in the mail, Jon)

Come On, Billy. Don't Be Scared. See, It "Spins", Just Like The Belt! Maybe If We Turn The Camera Off? No?
I'm Sean.

Sean Carless is a man of many hats. And he wears those hats to cover an ever-increasing bald spot. Sean's various scribblings have been read at Live Audio Wrestling, 411 Mania, Honky Tonk Man.com, The Toronto Star.com, Wrestlecrap, and Lethal Wrestling. He has also cured AIDS.

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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.).