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Back-Leg Frontkick: FEBRUARY 2005: (02/25/05): New Look...Same Great Taste! This Week Featuring: My Deep Dark Secret; Lex Luger Is Guilty...Of Being A Fucking Moron; Anvil In Trouble; Stone Cold = Dr. Evil? Me Getting Biblical; Vince Doesn't Have A Leg To Stand On; Amy Weber Fucks Off; TNA Is Not OK; Motivation: TWF Style! And Buying Batista's Underwear.... All This, Plus More!

Hello all, and welcome to the column that’s a lot like an absentee father... emotionally damaging and totally undependable: The Back-Leg Frontkick! I am of course your party host, the Good Reverend Sean Carless. And I do actually mean Reverend.” You see, thanks to the miracle of the Internets, I am now ordained to practice Godliness in the whole of North America. I really wish I was joking, but sadly I am not. You see, I was turned on to a certain fly-by-night website, that guaranteed ordainment in one day, and all without the years of silly theology and faith that often goes with a traditional ministry. Which is too bad, because I was really looking forward to dispensing the full gamut of my biblical wizardry.  So, since it fit all my criteria (absolutely ZERO effort), and gave me a pipeline to the big man upstairs, and believe me, thanks to the life I've led, I need all the help I can get, I signed up, filled out the questionnaire, and here I am, an honest to goodness minister, ready to dispense Jesusness like it was no one's business. 

 

From there, I learned that for a small price, I can actually send away for a *special* "minister package", which I'm hoping isn't literally the genitals of some televangelist. I guess we'll find out.

Under the rules of my ordainment, I am now apparently *legally* able to perform a slew of religious ceremonies, ranging the spectrum from marriage to last rites. Although, I unfortunately found out that it's kinda frowned upon to do the latter to people who are still very much alive. But what if I just want them dead? No? Whatever. 

 

Anyway, according to the guidelines of this obviously reputable organization, I can even construct my very own church! However, I may hold off on that for now, because I don’t really see my congregation growing while being housed in my mother’s suburban townhouse basement. Although, the prospect of mom bringing a plate of sandwiches instead of communion wafers would be a breath of fresh air. Oh well. 

 

Apparently, the only practice I’m NOT qualified to practice is circumcision, which is A-Ok with me, ‘cause I never really was that into handling junk not belonging to my person. I mean, seriously? Who would willingly choose to handle penises? Sure, it'll get you some perks in Prison like cigarettes, and not getting shanked in the shower, but what pray-tell is the reason anyone would pursue this vocation in the real world? "My real reward comes from the joy I feel when I know a guy doesn't piss all over his balls by accident anymore. You can't buy satisfaction like that". Dear god. (LITERALLY~!).

That all said, some people who know me well were horrified to find out this news, as they feel my ministry will not exactly live up to the lofty moral standards set by men like Jerry Falwell, Billy Graham, and the Million Dollar Man Ted DiBiase. The latter of which has A LOT OF FUCKING NERVE passing that collection plate around. And sure, I’d probably take a more unorthodox approach (which according to JR means I'll kick a lot and do too many rolling thunders) to my duties, as I cleanse the impure souls of various young lasses by baptizing them in a giant Mr. Turtle pool filled with gravy and 18 inch kielbasas; but hey, we all worship the father in our own way...

You know, I may have finally found my true calling in life. After all, who can spread the word of the dangers of sin better than a man (me) who has partaken in many of them just while writing this column? And besides, am I any less credible a man of the cloth (a cloth that came in handy last Sunday during the Divas skit) than Vince Russo? I think not. Hell, if Russo can cast off the shackles of sin, lesbian storylines and alienating minorities, surely I can be a credible minister of faith? Right? RIGHT? (This is the part where you agree with me.).

So, with that said, as I get ready to go out into the world and spread the word of God (any donations can be made here), my first act as a minister here, will see me looking at several of the wrestling industry's biggest sinners; those individuals who embody specific “deadly sins” and pardon them of their spiritual wrongdoings, as only I can… through baptism by way of tasteless jokes and stinging acerbic hatred! ‘Cause as the Father says, to err is human, but to forgive is divine, so if God can forgive me for my many wrongdoings (one of which is ordering the Carmen Electra ppv last weekend), surely, I can find it in my heart to forgive. So let’s get on with it….

SEVEN DEADLY SINS:

Pride:

HHH;  If the Lord thy God can give his only son to cleanse us all our sin, surely Vince can cleanse the WWE of his son..errr in law. At least for a few months. Because, you see, to HHH, PASSOVER is just relegated to Jericho & RVD not getting World Titles. And if God's son can sacrifice himself for the betterment of the world, surely Vince can do the same to HHH for the betterment of the World, Wrestling Entertainment? I mean, sure, it's not nailing HHH to some wood, but it'd be nice if he actually work the midcard…the same midcard he insists that he’d have no problem working…yet, hasn’t been a part of in over 6 years….

Come on, HHH. If J.C. can give the shirt of his back, surely you can give up the belt around your waist. And perform your own set of miracles (and not just getting a good match out of Batista.). How about taking a basket of midcarders, and turning them into SUPERSTARS~!. I'll follow you barefoot through Galilee if you can pull that off. Well, that, and cutting down your "sermon because you Mount Stephanie" to maybe like 5 minutes. In and out, baby. Raise Lazarus from the dead, or maybe just Booker T's main event status, and move on to the next miracle. I'm begging you.

Your penance? Six months in midcard, a gimmick change, and a fucking shave. Lemmy has an excuse for his beard. He’s been baked for 40 years and has no concept of what he looks like anymore…

Greed:

VINCE MCMAHON; Oh Vince, when is enough, enough? Have you not bled us dry enough with 12 pay-per-views a year, and now you smite us with 15? As it says in the good book, it is better to giveth, than to receive. But hey, when was the last time you gaveth me anything? My broken spirit and depleted wallet are testament to this. I'm not sure which testament. Probably the Old. It had more pain & suffering, after all.

 

Anyway, I’m sitting here, foam shopzone knuckles on hand, my Big Show “Big all over” T-shirt crumpled into a ball in the hamper, and completely broke… all while you sit in your Ivory (Titan) tower counting my blood money and occasionally swimming through a vault of gold doubloons a la Scrooge McDuck, whilst you throw darts at people's pictures on the wall deciding which newcomer you'll push, and which you'll just make a fucking garbage man or pirate for shits and giggles. You ever hear the old expression, “give the shirt off your back?” Well, you can go ahead and keep your shirt (but get rid of that hound's-tooth jacket)… but make it up to me by giving me the shirt off Steph’s back… then perhaps the bra off her back as well; you know, just to round things off. I don't make the rules. An eye for eye. A tremendously gigantic tit for a tit.

Your penance? 4 or 5  pay-per-views to a calendar year and actual nudity in a Divas skit. If I can actually have the women in my congregation wear white whilst being dunked in water or pudding as it were, surely you can do the same. You know, as sexy as that completely non-transparent deep-mauve is in Wet T-shirt contests. ARE YOU NOT MERCIFUL.

Envy:

JEFF JARRETT. Double J, you are guilty of the deadly sin of envy…envy that you are not Triple H.  The total dominance, the being the focal point of EVERY show, hiring "stars" just so you can defeat them, and having “Daddy” in your back pocket… it all smells of HHH, and you sir are no HHH.  You know, there was once this guy who had probably the best connections with his dad going...yet HE chose to make it on his own. That man’s name was Jesus, buster, and he did it all his way! Jesus GOT OVER HUGE on skill, baby, and skill alone. Sure he could call in a favor from Dad and have Pilate turned into utility donkey or something, but he went down his own path. BAREFOOT. And he certainly didn’t rely on the same tired gimmick over and over again like a balsa wood guitar…no sir, when the fish gimmick got old, he went back into his bag of tricks and healed a few lepers, walked on water, and even brought a person back from the dead! The closest Jarrett came to working with a lifeless body was almost pulling a credible match out of his ass with Kevin Nash…. Still though. Come on.

Your penance: Just disappear. Please. Take your quasi-homosexual pink muscle shirt and box tights and take off…

Lust:

ROB FEINSTEIN. What of the code of honor? What of it, Rob? Surely that just wasn’t a line you told your crew of smallish…young…boyish wrestlers…hey wait…. How could we not see this coming? The whole company was made up of hairless teenage looking wrestlers…and Samoa Joe, but that was a beard baby! It was a clever ruse to throw us off track of the real happenings! The nonsensical flips off cages and guys puking post-match were there just to blind us to the truth! And for the record, why didn’t you ever sit Samoa Joe down and say “Joe, listen, we know your Samoan, we “get it.” The tropical shirts and lei’s tipped us off. You may want to think of a new name if you ever want to make an actual living anywhere.”

You know, I may have had a point in this whole ramble but I doubt it, so let’s move on…

Anyway, Rob’s penance: Sex with a woman…and not a dude in chick’s clothing. A real fully functioning pussy (not X-Pac). And maybe you can also send me an actual version of the Iron Sheik shoot video that actually makes fucking sense, too.

Gluttony:

STEPHANIE MCMAHON. I know I always make jokes about Steph’s weight, but that’s only because I used to be so attracted to her..umm, personality. That’s right. Both of them, in fact…. She definitely has a great set of personalities….

Anyway, times have changed, and the once svelte form of Mrs. Helmsley has transformed into something that might be seen clung to the side of the Empire State building…swatting away planes and helicopters, ands not writing good TV.  You’d think that the wife of a body builder would be in better shape, but unfortunately, it looks like the only “reps” she’s been doing is opening and closing the fridge door. Don’t believe me? Take a look at this before and after pic. *shudder*.

 Personally, I believe the true culprit to be HHH. I mean it’s a strange coincidence that since they’ve had a “relationship”, she has nearly tripled in size? probably? Somehow, I believe that by passing on his anabolically charged super-seed to Steph, she has metamorphed in size and in strength, much like the steroid driven Bane in the Batman comics. Also, to make matters worse, her voice, once shrill, has transformed completely, as the sounds now heard emanating from her mouth now appear to belong to someone who has smoked 500 cigarettes a day for 1000 standard human years. It’s kind of scary….yet sexy at the same time. I mean, part of me, the part that is twisted, wonders what it would like to be violated by Super-Steph than left for dead. I think I need help….

Anyway, Steph’s penance is… I’m not sure. See, if my assumption is true, her rapid growth may not be her fault, and her transformation into The Hulk (it has yet to be proven if she can also leap many miles like Hulk. If so, I’d imagine it save the company considerable travel expense) would not be a sin at all. But if it is gluttony, her penance is to lay off the butter for a while. Well, unless it’s  to lube up her giant body. Then by all means continue. And videotape it.  You know, to teach people the error of their ways! That's it. The masturbation part is just for dramatic effect. It's all about helping sinners! I promise! Maybe!

Sloth:

KEVIN NASH; It takes a lot of strength of character to pull yourself up after a severe injury. It takes none to just lay there in a heap crying.

Penance: Three Hail Mary’s….like Fredo in the Godfather 2. Than two shots to the back of the head…like Fredo in Godfather 2….

Wrath:

BOB HOLLY. Hey, we’ve all been there, Bob. Life is passing you by; your bald spot has reached epic proportions to which it may now be used as a helipad, and those red and white race-car jammies that hang in your closet, the very same ones you once wore with pride for 6 years, now mock your very existence. At this point, it’s natural to feel the urge to pound the life out of someone like Rene Dupree. But don’t do ‘cause he’s a rookie. Do it because he feathers his hair, and can't seem to go five minutes without getting an erection.  Seriously though, I understand your rage, but it doesn’t make it right, Bob. But don’t fret; you’ll always have THE BEST DROPKICK IN THE BUSINESS. No one can take that away from you. Mostly because they're actually learning exciting moves, but hey, whatever.

Penance: A return to NASCAR!... Only I’m driving and you’re running….

Anyway, that’s enough for today. This ministry business is exhausting. And I haven't even got to the part where I turn Harry into my own personal Mideon by making him drink my blood. Maybe next week. I'm tired. Although, it may have been all the communion Jim Beam err I mean “wine” that I’ve drank while writing this. But whatever brings me closer to God, right? And by that, I mean I've drank so much I don't think I'll make it through the night. Good thing I have this all-access pass to Heaven now.

 

Guilty As Charged.

 

Well, it’s SuperBowl weekend….and I actually couldn’t possibly care less. As countless people across the nation load their ugly families into their rusty pickups, and from there, share on-the-turn hotdogs with other obese shirtless, face-painted heroes in the parking lot of the Alltel Stadium in Jacksonville Florida before taking in the “big game”, I myself will instead be banging out this column, then probably taking a gander at whatever spyware laden porn link our own Harry Simon has decided to private message me with this evening. But to each their own. I hold no ill-will toward those millions watching tonight’s game. For you see, I too have an uncontrollable obsession. And even though I don’t paint my face, my crimes against humanity are MUCH WORSE. You see, I am a Wrestling Fan, and in the name of my favorite past time, I have partaken in a lot of activities that quite frankly I am ashamed to speak of today. But speak of it, I will. Some people may call it therapeutic, but I call it column filler…..

Anyway, there was two brief times in my life when it was acceptable to admit you were a wrestling fan; one was the Rock and Wrestling era of 1985-88, a time where you could utter the term “Hulkamania”, and still not worry about going to bed alone that night. The other was of course the Attitude era, where a multitude of husky gentlemen could be seen in all walks of life wearing their discolored nWo tees, with a hint of gut peeking out with little to no backlash. Think Comic Book Guy if he said “4 life” a lot and had a basic knowledge of submission wrestling. Anyway, one could go about their fandom during these times, and not feel like a complete moron, if only because the media deemed it socially acceptable. However, times ultimately changed. Today, you are a social pariah if you're seen wearing your foam John Cena knux. But mostly because they're ridiculous.

That said, going back to three years ago, my girlfriend at the time was helping me reorganize my closet, when a dusty box appeared…and no, I’m not speaking of her vapid genitalia, although she was not as forthcoming as I would have liked…. but one that harbored my full Wrestling video collection. (and keep in mind, she had no idea just how deeply involved I was into the sport.). Anyway, I quickly grabbed the box and attempted to scoot away with it, but my girlfriend stopped me and basically said: “Nice porn collection there! You’re not fooling anyone!” and then I uttered “it’s not porn…it’s wrestling…” and opened the box, revealing a full load of videos… complete with cheesy homemade cases I had constructed for many of them. Her face turned to absolute horror, and it struck me at that moment that she probably wished that it was porn, because quite frankly, being a pervert who likes to watch horses fuck really tall women is a lot more plausible to most people, then watching 4-5 hours a week of sweaty dudes rolling around in their underwear.

Anyway, Pandora’s box had been opened, and my secret was out. But bless her heart, she honestly tried to understand. She even watched RAW with me on Monday night’s a few times, but never really “got it.” “Why would Vince hire these guys (Hall, Nash and Hogan) to destroy his own company?” she’d ask. And I’d ultimately answer...nothing. I’d just look over and shrug my shoulders and say, “it doesn’t have to make sense, it’s wrestling.” To which she’d reply, “Well, it’s stupid.”

Our relationship pretty much ended soon after that. But it was for the best. She had a habit of using a little too much teeth on her blowjobs, and I secretly feared being left with a member that resembled a microwave hotdog that you forget to punch holes into first. And yes, this was the reason it ended, and not my emotional unavailability. I'm telling you.

Anyway, to finally gain closure on my disease, (I've caught INOPERABLE LOCKER ROOM CANCER from HHH and Hulk Hogan) I will now supply my laundry list of stupid wrestling fan crimes:

-For almost ten years, I created championship belts made out of cardboard that I drew, and in turn colored with pencil crayons. I was something. This of course was for my imaginary wrestling league that I ran from 1985-1993…where I was 16 years old. 16 YEARS OLD. And you want to know what’s worse? I still have the “WWA” championship belt in my apartment closet. But hey, who knows? One of my adversaries from the old days…who no doubt have children and pay mortgages now, may show up at my door and want to throw down…and I’ll be damned if I’ll just forfeit my championship! I lay down for nobody.*

*Everybody. I'm easy and a whore.

-I traded a series of Batman comics in 1991 for…. a pair of bicycle shorts. Get it? They’re tights and I was a wrestler! And even though, normally, that wouldn’t be too bad to say you own a pair of bicycle shorts…I’ve never cycled in my entire life, and instead would squeeze my pudgy 14 year old ass into them when it came time to “compete.” (I even wrote in indelible magic-marker “Stunning Sean” down the side (don’t ask…please.).

-TWF's own Jason Hart and I manhandled neighborhood children with a variety of wrestling holds, leaving a path of broken bodies in our wake…and no, we had no idea that actually injuring people makes you a SHITTY wrestler. I also thought at age 15, that pressing kids over my head would impress girls. They ultimately felt sorry for the guy I dropped behind my back and gave me no play. They had no appreciation for my mightiness. Why is it that when Hulk Hogan slammed fat people he was applauded, yet I was bemoaned? Because I was a teenager and they were small defenseless children? Maybe.

-During a house show in 1994, I attempted to give Doink the Clown a complicated handshake as he made his way around the ring slapping fans hands. He shook his head and pulled away. Fuck you, Phil Apollo! You sucker of cocks!

-During this same house show, Jason and I had an in depth conversation with Dink the Clown backstage….then bragged about to it some girls at the concession stands.  One of the girls liked me….until I revealed my excitement over talking to… a midget...in a clown suit, no less. Fuck her. Girls are a dime a dozen. When are you ever going to see a midget in a clown suit again? Or want to?

-Jason and I chased Bret Hart’s limo…with Jason even jumping onto the hood as it sped from the Memorial center parking lot. Bret somehow resisted the urge to excellently execute us that night. Or call the police. Lucky us.

-While in Toronto , Jason, me and several other friends used to think it was funny to blast “Real American” while stopped at Intersections. And pretend to rock out to it. Or not pretend. THAT SHIT SHIT STILL STANDS UP, AND I'LL TAKE ON ANYONE WHO SAYS OTHERWISE. Come on. He fights for the rights of every man. What more could you want?

-While other kids in my class listened to Public Enemy in high school… I taped Mr. Perfect’s theme song off an episode of WWF Superstars and looped it over and over. I thought I was quite clever.  Sure, they could do the Running-man. But could they Perfect-Plex? I think not. Perhaps one day a situation will arise where snaring someone in its inescapable grasp will come in handy. Hopefully.

-I still can't chew gum without spitting it from my mouth and propelling it with my palm across the room. It's true. And if I toss a towel to you behind my back, you better fucking catch it.

-I actually used the phrase “It’s Austin ’s house now” (from a Survivor Series’96 promo) in an argument with a girlfriend. She was less than impressed. But hey, screw her. (which I only did once. Unfortunately).

 

-When a fat girl slipped and fell into a table in the food court, my friends and I began yelling out “E-C-Dub! E-C-Dub!” We laughed pretty hard. Oh, and ya, I was 25 at the time….

-I once turned down sex so I could watch a taped episode of Nitro. So for those reading. Ciclope > Sexual intercourse. Ya, I’m a loser.

-I constantly hum wrestler theme songs. I mean all the time. And while this happens to most people with catchy pop songs, it ceases to be cool when you do an entire riff of Tiger Ali Singh’s remixed 1998 theme song….

-I taught my grandma the mandible claw. And yes, I am serious. (old people have no teeth so it’s an easy application…).

-To this day, I can’t pass a family member/friend/girlfriend in the hall without pretending to clothesline them. Or not pretending. They can't bump for shit. Amateurs.

-I can’t dive into a pool without flashing the Superfly symbol first (sadly this is also true. Fortunately, this is where my Superfly tribute ends, as the fact that my girlfriend is still alive will no doubt prove).

- I know Erik Watts’ 1992 WCW theme song, verbatim.

-I thought it would be hilarious on Valentine’s Day in 1995 to record myself singing a Boys 2 Men love song for my then girlfriend…in Hawk of the Legion of Doom’s voice. She was not pleased at the romantic ballad of the throaty Road Warrior. Too bad. But at least I saved money on flowers. Even if I couldn't convince her to get up on my shoulders as a follow up.

-When I was 17, a girl I was interested in (who also liked me) began playfully wrestling with me. I got a little overzealous and applied Repo Man’s “crowbar” leg-lock and made her cry. I never heard from her again. I chalk this up to credibility of the hold (SHE WANTED NO MORE OF THAT!) and not wonton physical abuse. She's just lucky I didn't further take a page from Repo and steal random articles of her clothing for no reason.

So, in closing, these stories have not been embellished because they need no embellishment. They are simply, horrifyingly, the story of my life as a short, stocky, slow-witted, bald man. OK, I am none of these things, but I always loved Seinfeld…maybe a little too much. But I’ll get into that another day.

Headlines!

At first, I was going to hold off doing the Back-Leg this week, but I couldn’t resist tackling some of these wrestling newsbits. So, with that said, you know the drill...I take headlines floating about online…and make light of them because I’m a bad person and stuff.

Mission Jimpossible: Guess "WHO" just got sued:

Former WWE star Jim Neidhart and his wife Ellie (Stu Hart's daughter) have been accused of stealing $10,000 in jewelry from the house of John McCann, a Calgary businessman, between March and September of 2004. Neidhart ended up selling the jewelry to a pawn shop. McCann ended up paying $9,937 to get the jewelry back. Neidhart's wife claims that the charges are "faultless" because the jewelry belonged to McCann's wife, not McCann himself. The Calgary Sun has an article up on this story here.

What the hell happened to this family? Since the death of the matriarch and patriarch of the Hart clan, this family seems to be disintegrating faster than a leper in a hot tub. However, this whole allegation is hilarious nonetheless. Upon hearing about how the Neidhart’s nabbed jewelry, I immediately got the visual of Jim, dressed in full cat burglar attire, using that slingshot shoulder block of his to cascade through a large bay window, cleaning out the goods, then yelling out to Ellie while stroking his goatee “Come on, baby!!! Bwahahahaha!!” I'm telling you, it happened EXACTLY like that..

But, you know, Ellie should know better. Stu would not approve of this kind of action. Did the awesome power of the sugar-hold teach you no discipline, Ellie? It sure seemed to work on those crying football players. Oh well. Still, pulling heists with The Anvil, beats getting sodomized while you sleep, I guess. Seriously. She allegedly mentioned to Diana (at least according to Diana) that Anvil would anally rape her while she slept, then in turn passed this “trick” onto Davey Boy Smith. Who’d then apparently follow suit on Diana, as The British Bulldog veered off Di's Piccadilly circus, and went straight down the Hershey highway whilst she slumbered. That's some quality tandem offense. And here I thought they just went over double-team holds, and psychology. Those Harts really go the extra mile. No wonder they held so many titles! Ahem. Still though, if the ass-fucking IS true, I don't see the problem, personally. Those Hart's are MASTERS of execution, so I'd assume it'd just look really painful, but in reality, you wouldn't feel a thing. I mean, if they can make a piledriver look devastating and the guy can still walk after, surely getting boned in the cornhole would be the same thing. Get your head in the game Diana. And maybe your ass in a chastity belt.

But hey, if they do get formally charged, Jim can maybe eventually look forward to that same treatment.

 The following was an excuse to talk about nothing while making a lot of lewd jokes. Mission ACCOMPLISHED.

BANG 3:16

The drama between Steve Austin and his ex-girlfriend Tess Broussard is still not over. Celebrity Justice reports that Steve Austin has officially filed a $185 million lawsuit against Broussard, citing many allegations including Broussard putting a gun in his mouth before turning it to his friends, the Los Lonely Boys band. The full article on this story is available here.

 

185 million dollars?! Am the only one who got an immediate visual of Steve Austin, dressed as Dr. Evil when I read that? Clearly, he missed the boat on following that up by tying her to a conveyer belt that rolls slowly towards a giant diamond-tipped laser cannon.

Tess: "Do, you expect me to talk?"

Stone Cold: "Uh uh, Miss Broussard! I done expect your ass to die!"

Anyway, this story just keeps getting more interesting. But you know, if she did force a gun in Austin’s mouth, (and not the kind that says BANG 3:16) I say it’s only fair. After all, she has had to stick all kinds of things in her mouth over the years! I've seen it on Skinemax. Turn about is fair-play!

But seriously, "then she turned the gun on Los Lonely boys band"?. She should be REWARDED in this case. I think the *real* tragedy here is Austin’s choice of friends. Perhaps if Stone Cold is going to choose his friends from the music industry, he should maybe keep the company of some gangsta rappers. If he had, the bitch would be on ice in someone’s trunk right now and Steve could finally sleep easy! Well, as easy as one can sleep in pajamas with giant orthopedic knee braces over them.

 

The 7th Seal Has Been Broken….

There are grumblings in the back that the WWE Divas may be credited with the recent surge in ratings. The Smackdown Divas have had no problems co-existing with the male wrestlers while the Raw Divas have had a more difficult time fitting in backstage. Stephanie McMahon has been working with the Divas on their pre-taped segments and most of them are only signed on a week to week basis with no long term contracts.

 

If this is indeed true, I may be forced to bang my head on my desk until I draw blood...or die. Whichever comes first. But seriously, I think it’s time that we “Smarks” admit that we’re sadly out of touch and don’t know what the general population wants or likes. Perhaps Vince does know his target audience, after all. And perhaps I shouldn’t have masturbated so much to these Divas. I feel so dirty now. I did my part to spread this plague! I’m as much to blame as the next guy! I’ve sold my brothers out! I rejected the technical mastery of Misawa and Kawada for tawdry carnal pleasures!  But there is a solution. The remedy involves watching Benoit Vs. Angle from Royal Rumble 2003 repeating continuously until any and all thoughts of these Siren-like temptresses are stricken from my mind for good. Then, and only then, can I take my first step back towards regaining my “smark” status. I feel so ashamed. But hey, that Maria does have quite the rack on her, though… NO!!! I can’t stop! Help me! GOD HELP US ALL!

 

Made In The USA  DUI

Wrestling personality Lex Luger — whose real name is Lawrence Pfohl — was arrested Monday morning on I-575 on DUI and other charges, Cherokee authorities said.

Pfohl was spotted stopped on the side of the interstate by a Cobb County police officer, said Cherokee Sheriff's Deputy Nicole Ebbeskotte. When the officer went to investigate he found Pfohl, 46, of Marietta slumped over the steering wheel of his vehicle, Ebbeskotte said. Pfohl woke up and drove away, and the officer called Cherokee authorities for assistance.

Pfohl was taken into custody on I-575 at Ga. 92 and charged with DUI, driving on an expired tag, alteration of tag, no proof of insurance and open container, Ebbeskotte said.

Pfohl's girlfriend and manager, Elizabeth Hulette, 42, died in his house in April 2003 of an accidental overdose of pills and alcohol.

So, Luger fled the scene? I can’t imagine it’d be too hard to catch up with him. After all, just how fast can a 100 foot, red, white & blue bus possibly go?

Anyway, Luger these days is a walking comedy of errors, and this story can only end badly if you ask me. Perhaps it’s time Luger follow a certain best friend, and trade in his steroids, pills and bad attitude, and propel from roof tops with the Stinger, spreading the word of the one true Christ. as only a dark mysterious figure in terrifying face paint can. It’s got to be better than what he’s doing these days. (slamming Samoans? Not remembering the number for 911? IT'S ALL HE KNOWS!).

Anyway, as it turns out, the DUI was the least of Flexy Lexy’s problems, as he was finally sentenced to five years probation this week after pleading guilty to possessing over 1000 pills including anabolic steroids. Huh, who knew that after all these years of being called the “Total package” that the real “package” contained enough steroids to fund the entire East German Olympic team for the next two millenniums?

And isn’t it funny, that no matter what the circumstances are, someone always mentions Elizabeth dying on Lex’s watch? This is still a sore point for a lot of us wrestling fans, (who toasted our first loads to the classy Miss Elizabeth) because Lex was probably laughing too hard at what he thought was Liz doing her spot-on Great Muta impression, and thus had no clue that she was actually choking to death. Stupid fucking Luger. Here was one case where the wrong “rack” lived to see another day.

Pfohl was spotted stopped on the side of the interstate by a Cobb County police officer, said Cherokee Sheriff's Deputy Nicole Ebbeskotte. When the officer went to investigate he found Pfohl, 46, of Marietta slumped over the steering wheel of his vehicle, Ebbeskotte said. Pfohl woke up and drove away, and the officer called Cherokee authorities for assistance.

Pfohl was taken into custody on I-575 at Ga. 92 and charged with DUI, driving on an expired tag, alteration of tag, no proof of insurance and open container, Ebbeskotte said.

Pfohl's girlfriend and manager, Elizabeth Hulette, 42, died in his house in April 2003 of an accidental overdose of pills and alcohol.

So, Luger fled the scene? I can’t imagine it’d be too hard to catch up with him. After all, just how fast can a 100 foot, red, white & blue bus possibly go?

Anyway, Luger these days is a walking comedy of errors, and this story can only end badly if you ask me. Perhaps it’s time Luger follow a certain best friend, and trade in his steroids, pills and bad attitude, and propel from roof17;s biggest star ever. Hell, they could have probably filled the thing with 18 chapters of a wasted RVD feverishly trying to open a bag of Cheetoes to no avail, and the company would still be none the wiser. And don’t even get me started on Paul Heyman’s alleged lack of input into this thing.  Ya, that makes sense. That'd be like trying to repaint the fucking Mona Lisa yourself, while you have Da Vinci out mowing your grass. Or something. I don't know.

What I do know is, I’m cynical, and if for some reason they pull it off with the same level of integrity they did with the actual ECW DVD, I’ll be the first apologist. I may have to make fun of HHH's fucking mustache first, for no reason, but I will apologize. But, still, I'm skeptical. You have to remember, THEY HAD ECW in 2001, with many of its stars HEALTHY, and they still amalgamated it with their terrible mongrel WCW roster, with the bulk of their “Extreme” booking seeing Jerry Lynn get repeatedly murdered by fucking K-Kwik on Heat. You get a few Mark Jindrak's fucking running around, and suddenly Justin Credible's looking like a pretty decent World Champion.  THIS WAS EXTREME.

That said, hiring Super Crazy and New Jack for one night isn’t enough. Although, if you want to find a creative way to axe the Dudley's, hiring Jack would be a good way. Well, if you want them legitimately axed.  This thing needs to TRULY be ECW. So, no paychecks for anybody! Err, I mean, complete with Joey Styles, Heyman, Cyrus, Douglas, Jerry Lynn and Rob fucking Van Dam...healthy and closing the show, and mysteriously profusely sweating through the asshole of his unitard despite only jumping around a bit.  A watered down paunchy Tommy Dreamer, drinking barbicide, then caning Nunzio won’t cut it. It’s all or nothing, baby! And please, don’t have HHH or JBL involved at all… no matter how hard you want to rub our faces in it, Vince. We get it. WWF won. If Vince was President after WW2, He'd have forced Japan to hang a huge picture in the capital of a mushroom cloud with himself giving a big thumbs down. That's how he rolls. (Umm, literally now).

 

McMahon Down

Vince McMahon is expected to miss at least the next two months of TV as he recovers from his quad injuries. He could end up being out up to six months.

McMahon tore one of his quad muscles during the Royal Rumble and then tore his other quad trying to walk to the back on his own power. Vince has always tried to never show pain in front of his workers since he demands so much of them.

Word is that McMahon is very frustrated right now, not only because he can't attend TV tapings but also because he can't workout. McMahon has always been obsessed with his appearance and does not want to return to work looking thin and old. This could keep him from even showing up at WrestleMania, since he will only return after he has had time to work himself back up to his normal shape and size.

 

What’s the deal with all these quads in the WWE? You know, Vince, Nash, HHH… Droz..

Anyway, truth be told, when Vince slid into the ring at the Rumble and basically just sat on the mat, the first thing I thought was he must have shit his pants. Maybe he saw Armageddon's buyrates, I thought. Seriously though, he’s always walked to the ring like he was constipated, so maybe it was finally “go time” and he unloaded his bounty? Who knows? Anyway, as he barked out orders while basically sitting there like an old man, comfortable in his tepid bath, I laughed at the very real possibility that the industry’s most powerful and influential mically just sat on the mat, the first thing I thought was he must have shit his pants. Maybe he saw Armageddon's buyrates, I thought. Seriously though, he’s always walked to the ring like he was constipated, so maybe it was finally “go time” and he unloaded his bounty? Who knows? Anyway, as he barked out orders while basically sitting there like an old man, comfortable in his tepid bath, I laughed at the very real possibility that the industry’s most powerful and influential man had painted his drawers. Unfortunately, it turned out to be worse, of course. A quad injury is one of the most painful muscle tears you can get, unless you're slamming a 900 pound Andre, and ripping every muscle in your barn-door back en route to killing him 3 days later.  Part of me admires his toughness for not blubbering like a baby, or a 7 foot pussy in pleather pants who's wrestled once in 2 years and trips and explodes after two steps. Or something. However, walking back to the dressing ro admit that you’re getting old and that Randy Orton is just not over. Or maybe just the first part. No amount of ridiculous power walking in a powder blue tracksuit, or in Vince’s case, injecting “breakfast” through his toes will change the inevitable. You HAVE to admit that you’re breaking down and there’s nothing you can do about it. I mean, come on. Vince is actually starting to look like the Frankenstein monster, as his head looks like it was sutured to a much younger body. Somewhere out there in a closet, there's a portrait of Vince with a 20 year old head with a pudgy body, bitch tits, a baggy Bermuda shirt and orthopedic socks. And there in lies the problem. And this is a message to all the heroes I see out there over 55 with their refusal to give it up: NO MATTER HOW HARD YOU WORK OUT YOUR BODY, YOUR HEAD STILL LOOKS LIKE A DEHYDRATED APPLE, and there’s no amount of fucking “Participaction” that can change this FACT. It’s just nature’s way of reminding you how ridiculous you are. So, come on, Vince. Tone it down. ‘Cause the way things are going, the only way you’ll be able to see your grandson’s graduation one day will be as a disembodied head a la Futurama. And he'll still probably insist on working a street fight at Wrestlemania. The payoff though, will be seeing Shane shatter the jar with a Van-Terminator.

What A Tangled Weber We Weave…

As it stands, Amy Webber will not be returning to WWE at this point. We’ve heavily reported the facts to her situation with WWE regarding the strip club flyer, the ribbing, as well as the plan journey between Japan and Alaska.

Apparently Webber injured her tailbone while practicing for a match that was scheduled for No Way Out. According to sources, the landed awkwardly when she was thrown out of the ring, and suffered a painful injury.

During the plan journey, she confronted a trainer asking how to treat the injury, as it was causing her distress. Another person asked about it and she explained. That got turned into accusations that she was complaining about the injury, which two Raw wrestlers felt was lame given all that they’ve been through to get where they are. She stretched out on several seats to sleep, which shouldn’t have been a big deal since one WWE source there were a number of rows of open seats on the charter.

Whilst she was sleeping, two wrestlers poured a liquid on her to wake her up. It was the physical abuse that she says happened to her on the flight that caused her to quit and fly home on her own, not wanting to endure spending any more time with the wrestlers on the flight back from Alaska. “They are a bunch of assholes basically who think that they can get away with anything,” says a source close to Weber, who adds that at first Weber’s feelings were hurt from the teasing about the stripper flyer, but Bruce Prichard explained to her that the teasing wasn’t meant to be taken seriously, but was more just a test to see if she had a sense of humor about herself.

One of the wrestlers who were guilty of teasing Webber about the Flyer was JBL, however he later apologized to her because he didn’t mean to hurt her feelings since the wrestlers didn’t actually take the flyer seriously. Says one wrestler: “Amy is one of the smarter divas. JBL was just having fun the way he has fun. It was what it was and she took it too seriously at first because she was trying so hard to fit in. The girls just don’t understand the mentality because they got thrown into this. Wrestlers should be more mature, but this type of stuff is how we stay sane on road trips.”

As reported previously, there is some heat on John Laurenaitis because Prichard ended up having to deal with the situation, whereas it should have fallen under Laurenaitis’s job description. Webber, says the source close to her, is “still speaking with her attorneys about the best way to handle what she was put through.”

Well, things could be A LOT worse considering what happened the last time all the boys were on one plane. Amy should just count herself lucky that unlike many of the stewardesses on the “Plane ride from Hell”, she didn’t have to bear witness to a nude Ric Flair playing his gear like the fucking pied piper leading all the children out of Hamelin. (A skill Rob Feinstein has been hoping to perfect for YEARS…).

Anyway, as heard on other sites, this whole sordid mess apparently started over In Japan, where there was a flyer with Amy’s picture on it for a massage parlor (apparently used without her permission). The problem though was that the flyer also promised that Weber would provide “additional services” for the right price. The boys then got their hands on said flyer and teased her about it.  The rest sort of snow-balled from there to the point where she quit. Too bad, too, because out of all the new Divas she was the best. Does that make sense? Out of all the people with no talent she was the most talented talentless…or something like that.

Oh well, what can you do? I guess she can at least return to the dignity, poise and grace of her previous occupation: SOFT CORE PORN (Click here). You know, the profession where co-workers are on your ass literally as opposed to just figuratively.

 

TeNAcious Move.

In what has to be considered their most aggressive move yet, TNA is in talks with Fox Sports Net to run a three hour special on FSN the night before WrestleMania 21. The event would apparently be held in Las Vegas. Talks have been going on this week about the show and will continue today. Nothing has been finalized yet.

Normally, I’d say this would be a great way to get exposure for TNA, in the same way NWA/WCW’s Clash of Champions was a good alternative to many a WWF pay-per-view at the time. HOWEVER, TNA has proven, at least to me, that they are not interested in pushing the new stars on top, as the influx of has-been WWE midcarders who have been fed to Jarrett’s monster ego have proven. And it’s really too bad, because from the ground up, TNA has A LOT of talent. Unfortunately though, where it counts, on top, the roster is thinner than that one Olsen twin. You see, TNA is a lot like an ugly girl with a great personality. You want to love it for all its good qualities (the midcard), but DAMN, you just can’t get past that fucking face (the main-event.). And in this case, the ugly grill of TNA is made up of people that are so over the hill they’re on the other side. I mean, why would I care if Jarrett is facing Nash on a pay-per-view? That’s akin to choosing which death you’d prefer, AIDS or Ebola. Because, either way, you’re going to be suffering pretty fucking badly.

And from there, the (s)hits keep on coming, ‘cause here comes “Mr. Ass” (Monty “Billy Gunn” Sopp”) and a guy who fucked a “mister in the ass” Sean “123syxxpac” Waltman. I mean, really, was the world really clamoring for a DX reunion that badly? And besides, they can’t even call themselves that anyway. And if they could, it'd be ridiculous at their ages. D-Generated Bones? Oh well, if they can’t resurrect DX, maybe Billy can dig deep into his past and bring back a version of the Smokin’ Gunns with Waltman? How bout  "Smokin' Crack?" It's a tribute to the drugs Waltman required to find Chyna attractive, and Billy's beloved Ass. IT JUST MAKES SENSE.

Up To Your Ass In Batista.

In my ever loving quest to find stuff to discredit and make light of, often I find myself traveling to WWE’s Shop Zone website.…where a slew of comic gold usually awaits. And DEALS. I mean, where else can you buy an Undertaker EASTER BASKET?

 

HOWEVER, what I found on my last trip was greater than ANYTHING I had ever seen: WWE Auction! Where YOU, John Q. Fucky can bid with fellow fans to purchase a piece of wrestling history! Unless that "history" involves Randy Savage. Because that never happened! Ahem.

 

Anyway, I came across this particular item whilst perusing the page, and, well, read for yourself:

“In the weeks following the Pay-Per-View, Batista autographed and donated his event-worn red tights to WWE Auction for one fortunate Batista fanatic to take possession of.  As this wrecking machine continues to build momentum in sports-entertainment, these autographed trunks will only increase in their sentimental value.  Own a piece of Batista's wardrobe and get ready for this Superstar to give the word "dominance" a whole new meaFONT-FAMILY: Arial">

Amazing. And the kicker is, not only did someone bid, but the item sold, and sold for $1,473! Yes. Someone out there, spent close to $1500 AMERICAN dollars no less to basically own an article of clothing that housed the boys of Dave Batista. And hey, don’t get me wrong, I consider myself a pretty big fan of DAVE, and I think he’s the BALLS and all that (but that doesn't mean I want to own anything that's touched his), but Batista could give me these trunks for fucking free and I wouldn’t touch those things with a ten foot pole. I mean, who in their right mind would dedicate that much coin to basically own Dave Batista’s underwear?… worn no less. Hell, if you're into underwear that badly, you can have mine for no charge. But be warned, they look like someone smoked a carton of cigarettes through the asshole. But seriously, the product's tagline alone here would be enough to stop me in my tracks. END BID. "Give the word "DOMINANCE" a whole new meaning?". Dear god. The fact that THIS is being said about UNDERWEAR, terrifies me as to what actually transpired whilst he was wearing them. And how much rubber DAVE was wearing while it happened. (Coming soon! Own The GIMP MASK Batista wore whilst penetrating some poor motherfucker with a riding crop and a cat o' nine-tails!!).

Anyway, upon further inspection, I noticed there was quite the little bidding war going on there, and the funny part is that a bidder, going by the net-handle of “bigdaveylicious” not only bid…but kept bidding, DESPITE THE FACT THAT THEY WERE THE ONLY ONE’S BETTING ON THE ITEM for almost an entire day. Man, someone needs to teach this cat how an Auction works. When NO ONE else bids, you don’t have to keep bidding. Holy shit. Anyway, despite bigdaveylicious’ best intentions, someone going by the name of “avenger” snatched Davey’s coveted Speedos away for about $2.50 cents more, which of course is hilarious for the fact that they spent all day betting against nobody, then folded their tent when someone tossed some pocket change into the mix. Better luck next time, I guess. And to “avenger,” umm, enjoy your prize that I’m sure by now you’re wearing over your face like a fucking Spiderman mask as you dance across the living room a la Buffalo Bill with your cock tucked between your legs. Batista probably should have done humanity a favor and just burned these. Hell, throw them in the pyre that Vince is burning all evidence of Randy Savage's existence. Could have saved us a lot of grief.

MOTIVATION: TWF STYLE!

By now, I think we’ve all seen those motivational posters that adorn many an office wall. They were all the rage a few years ago, and no doubt as we speak, your idiot boss probably has one on his office wall that says SUCCESS in bold letters with a random serene image of a putting-green in the background.  That Asshole.

Anyway, I had done something similar to this almost two years ago with wrestling as a theme (several others online have as well), but since it’s been so long, I thought I’d update them.

So, without further adieu, prepare to be MOTIVATED~!:

 

Ok, everyone, that's it for me for this month. The Lord's work awaits! Well, if in fact the Lord wants me to watch some late night soft-core pornography starring Amber Smith. He works in mysterious ways! Ahem. 

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, and Lethal Wrestling. He has also cured AIDS.

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TWF FLASHBACK

November 2006

SATIRE: DISCONTINUED WWE XMAS PRODUCTS!

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.).