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By Catherine Perez


Welcome back to Deadface Walking, the first internet column with an intro written the week before and sans internet connection. Allow me to explain last week's lack of Deadfacey goodness. The Nazis over at Comcast decided to fuck me over last week in a fashion that the twats over at Verizon will never even fathom. You know why only Nazis and twats run the cable and phone companies? Because George Bush doesn't care about tan people! It's true! Now, before I take my conspiracy theory further, I'm Catherine Perez, your angry hostess. Yeah, so, where was I? Oh, right. Don't those Comcast pricks know that I've got fucking columns to write, Psychology class assignments to e-mail, PEOPLE TO TALK TO? Well, guess what, anonymous cable company asshole who isn't reading this anyway? From now on, I'm calling you guys CUNTCAST~! YEAH, TAKE THAT, WHORES. CUNT. CAST. ENJOY. Alright, let's get on with the show. And don't think I'm not going to use some of last week's would've-been-reports for this one.

Here's one for the Oh, Shit file. Hardcore Holly and the younger, prettier (not by my standards, though), more agile, and not injury-happy Cody Rhodes are currently being written to team up and feud with Lance Cade and Trevor Murdoch for the World Tag Team Championships. The perpetually pissed Holly had this to say: "Why the fuck didn't I think of this before? I can use Cody to finally get over with the crowd, and then I get to beat him within an inch of his life if I fail once again! Hey, is this on-the-record? Shit. I meant to say that it'll be great for Cody to get a rub from someone as charismatic and exciting as I am. Stop laughing!" If WWE plan this out right, Hard Rhodes will be the greatest tag team EVER. Think about it. Every time they lose, Holly beats the shit out of Cody. Every time they win, Holly beats the shit out of Cody... then takes all the credit for winning. IT'LL BE GREAT. Ah, who am I kidding? Judging by the way it's already going, this'll end up being completely lame:

Holly: You're tougher than I thought, Rhodes. Allow me to take you under my wing and skyrocket you to the TOP of the card~!
Rhodes: Hehehe...

This week's episode of Monday Night Raw has scored a 2.8 rating. Wow. Too bad, too; a lot of you missed the return of Shawn Michaels as Michaels Texas Ranger. Poo on you.

And now... some Shelly Martinez (formerly known as Ariel) news~! First off, Shelly will be starting her TNA career this Sunday at Bound for Glory. Yeah, yeah; I know you're not going to order the show because of the fact. Second, Shelly is supposedly rumored to be shooting a porn flick through some porn flick company called Platinum Jewel. I hope Gangrel isn't directing this. Please, don't let it be a vampire porn. On top of that, please don't let there be any cheesetastic, vampiric puns.

Shelly: Don't worry, I don't bite... hard...
Gangrel, looking down: I think Little Gangrel has just risen from the dead.
Horny guy watching this shit: Thanks for softening my massive chubby, guys.

Shelly, of course, had this to say via MySpace: "There is a HUGE difference between porn and Bettie Page fetish style shoots that is all I have to say." Hey, whatever, just keep Gangrel away.

Bobby Lashley should be making his full-time return to WWE TV sometime in December. Aw, and I was just beginning to enjoy Raw more! Lashley could possibly be returning with girlfriend Kristal Marshall by his side. Of course! Fuck charisma; THAT'S what Lashley's been missing all along! Besides, no charisma plus no charisma HAS to equal ratings, right? I've never been good at math. Speaking of Lashley missing stuff, there are rumors that suggest that he's debulked since his last television appearance. God, I wonder why... Well, if it's any consolation to you Lashley fans out there, at least Lashley's head won't seem like some kind of Shuar headhunter shrunken head anymore. Am I right, or what?

Teddy Hart got fired... again. Show of hands - who's surprised? Nobody? Moving on.

Since Cena will be taking the next six to twelve months off (thank you, Cena, for getting Shawn Michaels back to TV faster), plans to have WWE Hall of Famer "Cowboy" Bob Orton brought in for the Cena vs. Orton feud have probably either been postponed or dropped altogether. In the event that he is brought in sometime in the future, - if the Cena/Orton feud continues - he will most likely not be doing anything physical, because of the Hepatitis and everything. I'm sure we all remember that Orton was given his walking papers last year after he bled on Undertaker and his own son during the Armageddon '06 Hell in a Cell match, thus becoming the first man to ever scare the living dead shit out of our favorite Deadman. Congratulations, Bob.

Speaking of the Undertaker, anyone with eyes has to have noticed the spiffy Photoshop work done to Undertaker's neck on many magazine shots and WWE.com photos. Though no reason has been given for it, there is a bit of speculation that Sara Calaway has been dumped for one Michelle McCool. For shame, Mr. Deadman. Then again, I would have never pegged Michelle McCool, the all-American girl (and the only American female in existence, as WWE would like you to believe), as a necrophiliac. Zing~! Besides all that, it looks like 'Taker's sporting some new ink on his neck. Behold~!

Still not fully recovered from the debacle that was Teddy Long's wedding? Blame Smackdown writer Michael Hayes, who pushed for the heart attack to happen on that, uh, fateful night. Hayes has been itching to put out an angle involving Viagra for some time now. Dear God, why? I thought Smackdown was supposed to be kid-friendly. Even so, what adult is going to laugh at Viagra-induced heart attacks? Vince McMahon, you say? Good point.

There was recently a confrontation involving CM Punk and Tony Atlas at an OVW taping. Punk was told by Atlas that the staff did not want Punk to heavily tape his hands and arms. Punk, being Punk, paid no mind to Atlas's dumbass request, and left his arms as they were. After the taping, Atlas told the OVW performers that some talent have attitude problems, all while looking right at Punk. Punk didn't take that too lightly, and proceeded to ask why he was getting the look. After an exchange of words, Atlas was asked, "Do you even watch our show? Do you even know who I am?" Atlas then replied with, "Do you know who I am? I'm Saba fucking Simba!" Well, maybe he didn't. Well, don't sweat it, Punk; I mean, Tony's only one half of WWE's first ever African-American Tag Team Champions, that's all.

While we're on the subject of OVW-related stuff, this week's least important news bit goes to the Major Brothers, who have been getting themselves terrible reviews over at the developmental territory, and are said to have major heat on them. Ring veterans Steve Williams and Robert Gibson offered the two advice, but the non-stars acted as if they had no clue who the veterans are or why they should be taking their advice. I don't know, guys; maybe because everyone else is? Just a thought. The general belief is that the Majors think they're too good for OVW and shouldn't have to be there. What do these guys think, that half the ECW and Smackdown audiences remember who the hell they are? Hell, I barely remember any of their matches. As it stands, the Major Brothers are complete nobodies, and will continue to be nobodies if they keep up the holier-than-thou attitudes. See you at the Burger King counter, dudes.

Today, we dive knee-first into the story of a man who never really had much going for him. Then he sort of did, but then it was back to normal within a few short years. Billy Kidman was born into a family of wolves. True story, don't question my sources or even ask how that's possible. As a toddler, the then-nameless boy developed an uncanny ability to flip forward and crush things with his knee accidentally. Upon trying this on his wolf father and subsequently causing his death by cranial implosion, he was shunned from the community. After spending many weeks without a place to call home, the boy was picked up off the side of a road by a couple of heroin junkies.

Originally intending to sell the little boy in exchange for heroin, Mr. and Mrs. Kidman quickly found that drug dealers already have over 15 children to deal with, and have no need for another. They kept the kid as their own, renaming him Billy. Lacking baby food, the Kidmans would often bottle-feed 4-year-old Billy water laced with reefer. "Hey, it shut him up at night," Mr. Kidman argues today. Up until his teen years, Billy enjoyed many delicacies, such as beans and weed, rice and weed, squash and weed, and a crazy little meal that the Kidmans call "HEY, THAT AIN'T WEED~!" which was topped with oregano. Tasty. At the age of 15, Billy was kicked out of his home after failing to exchange a dead skunk for some heroin.

Nearly five years later, Billy Kidman had grown accustomed to homelessness, and had taken up a heroin habit. Being as broke as Kidman was, obtaining heroin was a tough task. However, he did have a mouth, and he used it to his advantage (what that means will be left to your imagination). One day, a week after hitch-hiking to Houston, Texas, Kidman came up with the bright idea of robbing the local Wendy's restaurant. Upon his arrival to Wendy's, a black guy in a Wendy's uniform, along with some other guys, scattered out of the restaurant while holding several wads of cash. The men made a quick getaway, but had left a few $20 bills behind on the ground. "Hey, this'll be good for some heroin!" Kidman thought, and proceeded to collect the money. Unfortunately, tons of cop cars arrived within seconds, and Kidman was then beat up, tased, and brought down to the Houston police station.

It was at the slammer where Kidman would meet the same guy who robbed Wendy's, a guy who called himself Booker T. Booker spoke endlessly about joining the wrestling business just so he could come out to music that sounded a bit like the soundtrack to a Winterfresh gum commercial. Kidman asked to join Booker on his pro-wrestling journey, which would have to wait about five years, the ridiculously long amount of time Kidman served.

Five years without heroin drove Billy Kidman damn near insane, so as soon as he was released from the slammer, he sucked enough drug dealer dong to earn himself a week's supply of smack (actually, it was a year's supply, but you never know with these junkies). After using up his supply, he joined WCW, where then-employee Raven found himself completely amused by Kidman's mannerisms, which included scratching himself constantly. Raven talked Kidman into joining his Flock, a group of social outcasts whose members included REALLY FUCKING TALL GUY, HEAVY METAL FAN GUY, and I NEED APPROVAL AND ACCEPTANCE GUY. Thanks to WCW, Kidman got to use his talent for accidentally crushing faces with his knee after flipping forward (he called this the Seven Year Itch) on his opponents. Strangely enough, during Kidman's multiple-year stay in WCW, not once did anyone see him shoot up on heroin in a backstage segment. Too bad WCW never used the slogan "WCW: We're like rehab, but with more action." Well, Kidman did at least find himself a girlfriend in Torrie Wilson.

After WCW folded in 2001, Kidman jumped to rival company WWF completely heroin-free. Three years later, he crushed the shit out of Chavo Guerrero's face after botching a Shooting Star Press/Seven Year Itch. Mentally anguished by nearly killing Chavo like he did to his wolf father, Kidman delivered another Shooting Star Press onto former tag team partner Paul London at WWE's No Mercy 2004 pay-per-view show. Never mind trying to find the logic in that. The next year, Kidman was given his walking papers. Oh well.

So, where is Billy Kidman now? After years of living off of Torrie Wilson's money, Kidman fell victim to something that hurts more than any knee to the face: divorce. Today, Kidman is homeless once again and supporting his revived drug habit by wrestling in matches for obscure promotions and occasionally putting his mouth to use when he has to. Speaking of which, if Kidman ever reads this: Vince Russo wants you to call him at 1-900-SEX-TIME. Yeah.

Thank you for returning to America's number one hard-hitting shoot interview segment (I base this on absolutely nothing), Hey Man, Nice Shoot~! This week will prove to be a big, fat and oily show. Without any further ado... ladies and gentlemen... BIG. DICK. JOHNSON!

Crappy stripper music plays as Big Dick dances much to everyone's disgust.


Dear God, man. You could've at least worn some pants.

Johnson: Pfft. Pants are for losers.

Good point. I sure do feel like I've lost my appetite. So, what have you been up to lately... besides swimming in baby oil?

Johnson: Makin' the ladies faint, of course! YEAAAAHHH, BABY!

I'll bet. Here's a question that wrestling fans have been dying to know. Do you own, or have you ever owned, a pair of pants? A shirt? Shorts?

Johnson: I---

That aren't Daisy Dukes?

Johnson: Oh...

Right, thought so. Big Dick, I invited you onto the show today so I could show you something.

Johnson: Your boobs?
Anvil's Swagbag: Fuck yeah!

...no. Much like I did to Vince Russo many, many weeks ago, I've put together a video of your coworkers and other random people I could find, in an attempt to show to that you are, in fact, a disgusting slob-pig-whore. Roll the tape, monkeys!

Catherine: Go ahead, Moron Squad. Say anything you want.
Kelly Kelly: Like, omigah, Big Dick Johnson is like, SO GROSS!
Layla El: Totally!
Brooke: Totally!

Needles the Tailor: I'll be more than happy to make you some pants. I'll do anything, anything at all. DEAR GOD, VINCE MCMAHON, LET ME HAVE MY JOB BACK~!
Catherine: Who the hell are you?
Needles: ...just a guy.

Snitsky: You... pants... now. Heh heh.
Catherine: Same to you, Human Penis!

The Miz: Hey, uh... I was actually really turned on by that lap dance you gave me. Call me?

Bastion Booger: Christ, what a fucking pig.

Gil Grissom of CSI: Hey, Big Dick. I went over to a local army surplus store to get you some camouflage pants, but I couldn't see any.
Catherine: Your puns are so ridiculously bad.

Vince Russo: A fat, oily guy in a thong? Why didn't I think of that? Oh, wait, I came up with Big Fat Oily Guy all by myself! Me and my noggin! Haha! TAKE THAT, WWE! TNA! TNA! TNA! TN--- no, don't shoot me, please! I'm begging you! PLEASE! PLEAAAAAAAA--- [BANG~!]

U-Gene: I---
U-Gene: ...bitch.

Triple H: You know, I was completely against the idea of having Big Dick Johnson on WWE programming, namely on the show where I am king -- King of Kings, to be more accurate. Who does this guy think he is? I guess I'm going to have to remind him just who the HELL I am. I am Triple H. I'm the Game. I'm the Cerebral Assassin. I'm that damn good. Hell, I should change that to "that damn godly". I'm built like a Greek god. Not Hercules, though. Hercules never paid his dues. Hercules would only be over in the indies. I've never been in the indies. I was a star the day I debuted in the WWF as a frenchie. Didn't I make a really convincing blue-blooded frenchie? Man, I'm parched. Enough about me, let's talk about this fat, greasy bastard who's trying to steal my thunder. Oh, I should be Zeus. Or Thor. Thor's Greek, right? Anyway, who does this fat bastard think he is? Let me tell you just who the HELL I am.

[The camera begins to read: LOW BATTERY.]

Triple H: I am Triple H. I am the Game, the Cerebral Assassin, the King of Kings, a degenerate who's pushing 40, the father of the next WWE Champ, 11 times the King, your mother's best lay, the savior of mankind, a damn good cook, the guy your father wants to be, the gr---

[The camera shuts off, thus ending this fancy little video.]

My God. Nearly fell asleep there. I hope that teaches you to wear some damn clothes, you greased-up Virginia ham. Dick? Big Dick? Wake up, asshole!

Johnson: Huh? What? OH YEAH, TIME TO PARTY~! [Big Dick dances off the set.]

Fine with me. Making my set smell like swamp-ass and bacon... That's all for this week's disastrous interview! Join me next time when I go one-on-one with... seriously? Oh, come on! What do you mean Chris Benoit wasn't available?! Oh... ahem. Next week, John Cena! Dear God.

Thank you for checking out this edition of Deadface Walking. My apologies for the lateness, but if it's any consolation, I skipped classes on Friday to finish writing all this. That's dedication right there, kids. And I didn't spell-check. Can't have it all, kids. Remember that all feedback goes to my e-mail inbox or
MySpace. Speaking of MySpace, in case you haven't heard yet, TheWrestlingFan.com has gotten itself a spiffy new MySpace page. Check that out HERE, 'cause sometimes there's exclusive ramblings that you won't find on this site. And now, shameless pluggery for others~! Check out Anthony Dean's SMACKDOWN RANT, Sean Carless's drunken NO MERCY 2007 RAMBLINGS, Cameron Burge's RAW RANT, Gershon Levy's ECW ON SCI-FI RANT, and more Sean-ariffic updates with a Retro Review of G.I. JOE THE MOVIE and, one of my all-time favorite TWF features, the SOUR 25. Now get to it, bitch!

Catherine Perez is a proud owner of three e-mails from WWE's legal department, which she regularly prints out for when all the toilet paper runs out.  She was the first person to call the Ghostbusters after witnessing something strange in her neighborhood, and is thus immortalized in a song that was made popular four years before her birth.  Catherine enjoys collecting vintage WWF t-shirts, painting on her clothing, and the smell of crushed dreams in the mornings. She also shot J.R.

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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.).