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By Anvil's Swagbag



The General Concensus seems to be that I get my work published on here because I suck a mean cock. Well, let me tell you, buddy, although I have never had a blow of the old meat trombone, if I had… well, my friend, I would be the best damn nads-nibbler this side of your mother. Who is good, by the way.


So no, I didn’t get this opportunity… AGAIN… because I have no gag reflex. HELL NO.
…I got the opportunity AGAIN because I describe it really well. Whoever said cyber-sex is sleazy is a douche. And Sean, I’ll catch you later. ALL of you.

Welcome to The Dungeon. A place in which your worst fears are realised. That’s right, we play Booker T vs. The Boogeyman ALL DAY LONG BAYBEH!

If there is one thing that the TWF needs, it is a real insider. I mean, now that Bacon has won the lottery and is too busy swimming in notes and sleeping with women but not really, the TWF is lacking a man who KNOWS the stars. A man with connections. And finally, FINALLY, that man…

Isn’t me. I’m English, dipshit. It isn’t even the right continent.

But as all of my faithful readers know, (and thanks again you three, the checks are in the mail,) I am a man who will go OUT OF MY WAY, against all logic, to get the latest scoop in the wrestling industry. Even if that means making the whole thing up. Fuck you.

This means that I have to be on the ball at all times. I mean, seriously, no breaks. No sleep. I look like Vince Vaughn, on crack, twelve years after his death.
I have to have my thumb on the pulse of the industry. I have to keep my eye on the future stars. And it is one of those VERY people of whom I am here to talk to you about today.

Now, once upon a time, I played a game with a friend. We had to combine all of the body parts of the world’s worst wrestlers to see what it would look like if Dr. Frankenstein decided to make the VERY ULTIMATE IN TERRIBLE wrestler.  The following is a picture of the result, after piecing it all together. ..

And here is a list of all of the wrestlers whom comprised this… this… beast.

Arms:- The Great Khali.
Legs:- The Great Khali.
Head:- The Great Khali.
Torso:- The Great Khali.
Penis:- Al Snow. Because some people were born lucky, and Al Snow was born with two inches of extra vagina. Seriously, ask Mick Foley. Chyna has a bigger dick than Al Snow.

Thusly, my decision was made. The logic being that Vince McMahon has a history of taking the very worst workers, the guys who wouldn‘t know work-rate if they were on a slave-ship (sorry, Joe), and pushing them regardless, purely down to their size. And if there is one thing you can honestly say about Khali, it is that he is shit.

…Oh, fine. If there is another, he is also really big.
I decided to get in touch with the Great Khali, and see if he would let me film his antics for a day. I wanted to get the true insider view of the Great Khali, doing what he does best, for a whole day. Hell, I was just intrigued to see if there is anything the guy does well.
Think of me as the Martin Bashir to his Michael Jackson, as we begin upon the journey that is…

A Day In The Life Of The Great Khali

(After catching wind of this article, Khali’s lawyers got in touch with me and threatened to sue. I sent them a letter back saying that it is all satire, and there isn’t a damn thing they can do. I then shat in the envelope, licked it (didn’t think that one through) and sent it back. I just hope that they don’t think I’m in cahoots with Orton….. Hey, it’s old stuff, but Orton shat in a bag. It’s still funny.)

Now some of you might be thinking, ‘hey, this shit is out of date! Where the hell is Khali? Out with an injury. This is ridiculous’.  WRONG. This little story isn’t out of date, for a couple of reasons. Recently, there have been some bombshell announcements in wrestling that will change the landscape blah blah. This piece, ladies and gentlemen, captures everything that happened JUST BEFORE these blockbusters! So, maybe in the words to come, you may find some answers to the questions how, why, and does anybody even care….

Upon hearing my request to follow him for a day with my tape recorder in tow, The Great Khali responded to my request to film him for a day… with… with…

…something unintelligible.

I was later informed that what he said was, in fact, no.

And, alas, as the tumbleweed solemnly blows past, that would indeed be the end of my story… IF IT WASN’T for the fact that Sean will kick my ass if I don’t stretch it further, and if I didn’t have a pretty active imagination. Heh heh.

I needed a plan, a monumental way of getting into The Great Khali’s inner circle, aka Daivari, without being caught. Now, if Khali’s inner circle usually consisted of one man… and all of a sudden there were two… he might get suspicious. And so I relied on what wrestling has taught me. Three simple rules that applied.

1) Anybody Sikh is a terrorist, and therefore an evil heel who must be spat on.

2) Nobody ‘dies’ in Wrestling, unless it is the Undertaker who is doing the killing, (Or unless some silly twat forgot to check that the harness could hold the weight of an actual man. D’oh!)  The Undertaker especially likes killing Sikh’s, but this is okay, because there is only one race inDeath Valley . Deceased.

Bill Watts:- And those bastard Pakistani’s! They get feckin’ everywhere!

SHUSH, Bill. Back into your box you go.

Ahem. Anywaaaaaaaay…

3) The Great American Bash is a god-awful pay-per-view. It is so bad, infact, that every year the McMahon family send up a sacrifice as a peace offering to the Gods. Past sacrifices have included Percy Pringle, Muhammed Hassan, various livers, continuity, and a number of fans whom could not take the pain anymore. The Gods, of course, are still not happy with this, and punish the McMahon’s by no-showing events. Right? Right.

It was obvious what I had to do. Right there, in black and white . Staring me in the face.
I must, of course, dress up as Daivari and infiltrate Khali from the inside.
See, told you. Obvious.
And as the old wrestling proverb goes, ‘If you don’t inject steroids in your ass, you aint getting a job with Vinnie Mack’. As ANOTHER, more relevant one goes, ‘there is the easy way, and the hard way.’ Unfortunately, the easy way isn’t FUNNY.

The plan was simple. I had to somehow persuade somebody in the back to take out Daivari, (figuratively I mean, Lita, put your fucking hand down). It had to be somebody who would not be around for long enough to boast about his actions… a part timer, say… somebody who enjoyed hurting Arabs…
And as it was two days from The Great American Bash, the event of Ritual Sacrifice… I thought I’d try my luck with the Dead Man.

Word soon circulates in the back if you suggest that SOMEBODY, somebody in a turban, was talking shit about a veteran. Ask Tiger Ali Singh.

As for Daivari… he is recovering. At first, he refused to take the choke slam. Until The Undertaker threatened to knock his orange bald fucking head off. He eventually took the choke slam, but it looked like shit. He then Hulked up, pointed at the Undertaker, and shouted ‘YOU!’ To which The Undertaker responded with a bullet to the kneecap, and a ‘NO SELL THAT, BITCH‘… where the hell was I going with this? Oh yes, Daivari is okay, now. And Hogan is a prick.

Let me tell you, getting to America dressed like an Arab is no mean feat. And, I mean, what the hell am I going to be hiding up my ass? Jeez, I keep my vibrator in my top drawer, dick. And, seriously, when they asked me what the reason was for my travel, and I responded, ‘to stalk a crap pro wrestler’, APPARENTLY that wasn’t good enough for them. Oh no. They let me go eventually, because my turban had a Marks and Spencer’s label on it. So turbans are not just towels, for future reference peeps
  So after my four hour interrogation, when I was finally sat on the plane, I thought, ‘ah! At last, some pleasant company.’ Wrong. Nobody would sit next to me, for Allah‘s sake! I couldn’t understand it.  I thought for a second that they might think that I am Joe, and be avoiding me, but hey. I’m like half the guys size. Maybe I should stop carrying my lucky wall clock with me, because apparently, I was the only one that finds the slow tick-tocking emanating from my rucksack relaxing.

- I arrived at Stamford midway through the day, and began my mission to find Khali.

-First wrestler I bump into? Lashley. And when he says he is a gentle speaker, this guy isn’t kidding. I couldn’t understand him for shit. It was like holding a conversation with that girl I have tied up in my basement. Before I take off the masking tape off and remove the pair of socks, that is.

  So, after about half an hour of him going, mmmmfffffffmffffhprrr and me going whatyallsaynah and he’s all like yo mffmfffmffffghfffmfmffppfhffh and I’m all up in his grill wit yo bitch y’all sound like some jive ass niggah and lots more racial slurs that everybody does in every article they write, he told me that Khali was in the mmmmpmmmmghgmmm.

And sure enough, Khali WAS on the toilet. Apparently, Eddie Guerrero’s corpse put something rotten in one of his burrito’s. (Maybe it was his hand or something). Apparently, Eddie likes playing food poisoning jokes on giants. Or just enjoys the sound of a big man shitting. CAN I GET A CLEVELAND STEAMER!

Khali falls for the disguise, because as Vince teaches us, tall guys are dumb. I rule. Khali ‘reminds me’ that tonight we are performing at a mmmmmmpgggghgmgmghggggg. Jesus, talking to wrestlers is turning out to be a lot like talking to the bad guy from Police Academy Two.

Officer:- …and anything you do say may be given in evidence.
Officer:- (Notepad in hand) Mmmmmhmmmmm.
Officer:- Aha. Yes.
Officer:- Yes. I’m not quite sure what you just said, so I wrote down ‘I confess that I am a paedophile.’ Any  coherent argument?
Officer:- No. Good.

- Before the house show, Khali is required to nip into the WWE Headquarters to discuss Vince’s plans, character development, and such.  I, of course, record the whole meeting. Below is a transcript of the entire occasion. (Note, I have translated Khali’s lines for you. There was no translator present at the meeting, because Vince seems to understand every word that Khali says without needing one. I surmise that this is because Vince can relate with the language of complete bullshit.)

Khali:- Hey Vince! How are you? Have you lost weight… you look magnificent…
Vince:- Yes, yes, that will do.
(Gerald Briscoe tries to crawl out from under the table.)
No, not you! You may proceed. So… KHALLLLLEEEEEEEEE!
Khali:- Yes?
Vince:- We have FINALLY come up with a gimmick for you! Want to hear it?
Khali:- Pray, tell.
Vince:- Right. Here it is. And I’m particularly proud of this one… right…you are BIG.
Khali:- … yes…?
Vince:- (with a smug smile on his face). Indeed!
Khali:- Wha… is that it?
Vince:- (Smile faltering slightly) Indeed…
Khali:- So… the whole crux of my character is that I am foreign, and… big.
Vince:- That’s the general gist, yes. My thinking is that you will be a MONSTER!
Khali:- A monster.
Vince:- A MONSTER!!
Khali:- So, I’m foreign, and big.
Vince:- A MONSTER.
Khali:- And a monster.
Vince:- Yes.
(Brief silence)
Khali:- I love it.
Vince:- I knew you would. Gerald did too, didn’t you, Gerald?
Vince:- (Picks up trashcan). Now….. PUKE!

- Ah, the journey to the house show. That staple of road life in wrestling. That very thing that defines whether or not you have paid your dues. The road is a wrestlers biggest enemy. The road is a means to an end, the only way to get from show to show, but the one thing that takes you further and further away from your family. Indeed, Tenacious D said it best when they said, ‘The road is a BEE EYE ITCH my friend, but it’s the only fucking road I know’. And that is why it is essential to have good road buddies.

Unfortunately, Khali travels on a little minibus with Funaki, Estrada, Bobby Lashley, Ric Flair, Eugene and Todd Grisham.

(If anybody is thinking, ‘that doesn’t make sense, these guys aint even on the same show!’, well done. Move to the left to claim your prize. A little more… that’s it… that’s it… I’m not pulling this lever until I KNOW you are stood on it… ah. Good There we go.)

Things start off slowly, but before long, Ric Flair suggests that everybody play the soggy biscuit game. I refuse to play, and sit in the front seat staring forwards. The noises coming from behind me are incredibly disturbing, a mixture of WHOOOOOO’s, INDEEDS, and IAMDEGREEETKHALEEEEeEEEE’s. Apparently, everybody comes before Todd Grisham, because he is the biggest wanker. Or something funnier. Ahem.

We are not half way before the arguments start to break out.

Flair:- Right, who broke my cigars up THIS TIME!! For FUCKS sake!
(Everybody stares at Estrada)
Estrada:- …What?
Todd:- Oh, COME ON, Estrada.
Lashley:- Mmmmmmffffffmmm.
Estrada:- For fu… IT WASN’T ME! I swear.
Flair:- Sure. Fine.
Estrada:- … typical. Nobody ever listens… ahaa… to ME.

(Everybody muttering  to themselves, nobody notices Eugene sneeze, nor do they notice the tobacco fly from his mouth.)

Flair:- Well, that’s done it. We need to stop somewhere, coz I need a smoke.
Funaki:- INDEED.
Todd:- Dude, we can’t stop! I have to introduce some crappy DVD’s today! I’m doing a guest announcing spot with Hogan for his match with Andre.
Funaki:- INDEED.
Flair:- What are you gonna ask? Why his muscles had deflated by Wrestlemania Nine?
(Everybody laughs)
Todd:- Shut it. Just shut it.
Flair:- Because Chris Benoit LOVED it when you did that to him, right, Tard?
Todd:- Look, can we just leave it!
Flair:- Sure we can. So, what ARE you gonna ask Hogan? ‘How did you keep SO PERKY during the Hulkamania period!? Is there any truth in the rumours that you took ‘taking a powder’ TOO literally!?’
Todd:- I’m gonna kick your ass, old man.
Funaki:- INDEED.
Estrada:- Funaki, that saying was popular for like, what, a month in 1999. Will you just fucking LEAVE IT.
Funaki:- (Silence)… … … it’s all I have… … … (Silence)
Lashley:- Mmmmffffmmmmmmmfm.

More problems arise when somebody suggests that it was Eugene ’s turn to drive. Eugene , being a retard of course, drives on the wrong side of the road, drives the wrong way down a one way street, and eventually crashes into a wall. Lashley, who’s turn it is to sit in the front seat, and can not fit the seatbelt over his mammoth shoulders, is thrown through the windscreen and into the aforementioned wall.

Todd:- Oh my god, you killed Lashley!
Flair:- You bastard!

Bill Watts:- That’s okay! There is no place for blacks in Wrestling regardless!


Anyway. Lashley is okay; his head is so small and the surface area so tiny that he merely made a tiddy hole in the wall. No problem. So, after Ric Flair walks down the middle of the bus naked and makes Todd Grisham touch his penis, we finally arrive at the arena.

- As we enter the arena, Khali hits his head against the doorframe hard enough to give himself a concussion, and definitely hard enough to kill a few brain cells. Khali doesn’t notice. That says it all really, doesn’t it.

- Walking through the back, I see some interesting sights.  My personal favourite follows.

  … Johnny Ace and Kurt Angle stood in a corner of the building. I missed some of the conversation, but here are the bits that I heard…

Johnny:- …….. ruptured SPLEEN, a broken kneecap, two open arteries, dysentery, scurvy and AIDS. Kurt, seriously.
Kurt:- (Manic smile, almost unnatural, on his face) Heeeeeheeeee nope! Johnny, Johnny, Johnny…. Why are there three of you Johnny?
Johnny:- I’m the one in the middle.
Kurt:- Heeeeeeeheeeeee. Johnny, I’m ffffiiiineeee! I can do this. I’ll blow this joint wide open.  Heeeheee.  (Lays on his back for ten seconds, and tries to tickle the moon. Upon realising that it might be getting angry, he stands up, and continues.) Look, Joh…
Johnny:- Kurt. That’s a plant. Focus.
Kurt:-  Heeeeeeheeeeeeeeee! Look, I’m wrestling tonight.  Heee. Kerry Von Erich wrestled with one leg. Hey, can I get some more of this shit? I can’t even FEEL my fractured spleen.
Johnny: - Kurt, I can’t in good conscience let you wrestle tonight. Go home.
Kurt:- Oh PLEASE.
Johnny:- No. It’s our policy not to let wrestlers who have CONCUSSION IN THEIR TOE wrestle.
Kurt:- Hmmmmpfffh. Okay. Well could you at least take this tortoise off my shoulder.
Johnny:- (Sigh) Kurt. There isn’t a tortoise on your shoulder.
Kurt:- There is SO! His name is Mister Jeebles.  (shouting) Sabuuuuuu! Can I get some more of your special Kain Pillars???’

Randy Orton also put his cigarette out on me, and Stephanie McMahon informed me that no amount of damage that I was going attempt to do backstage in my suicide mission would ever equal what her father had to go through when he sold steroids to his stars. I have to get rid of this damn M&S towel!

- Khali meets up with the guy who he’s wrestling tonight. I never catch his name. Sad way to go, without a name.

- They block the match, running through each and every intended move before they have to perform it on the big stage… Karate chop to the head, big boot, pin. Khali requests that the guy play dead after the match like all of his other opponents seem to. It’s a good gimmick, he says. How little he knows.

- Johnny Ace comes wandering over with what appears to be… a… needle. To take blood with. I look around, and what three seconds ago was a vibrant backstage area is now a deserted corridor, except for a packet of French Fries blowing casually past and The Big Show stood in a corner shrugging casually. It dawns on me that it is random drug test time.

I don’t see a wrestler other than Paul Wight for three hours.

- Eventually everybody reappears, and the event starts. Khali is curtain jerking tonight.

-  I watch the Khali match from the guerilla position, as ‘Daivari‘, me, is out of action with injuries. The match? It is so painful that I take it upon myself to go all New Jack on my retina’s. Fortunately for me, the BLINDNESS is only temporary. Unfortunately for Khali’s opponent, death isn’t.
After the match, Khali enters through the curtains and asks me, ’How was that?’. I tell him that he is improving, and that only killing one person in the ring is quite a step up. And when he turns away with the glint of satisfaction in his eyes, I spit on him.

- I follow Khali as he walks through the backstage area to get to his locker-room. The man clearly needs a shower. On the way, I pass Scotty 2 Hotty, Funaki, Cade and Murdoch, Paul London, Charlie Haas, Big Vis and Val Venis. THIS PROVES THAT EVERY BACKSTAGE SEGMENT EVER IS TRUE! THESE GUYS REALLY DO JUST STAND AROUND IN THE BACK AT SHOWS DOING FUCK ALL! These guys don’t do a damn thing, they just stand in the back, waiting for a Rey Mysterio or a John Cena to win a title so that they can all tap him on the back, as if to prove that wrestlers are actually nice. Or alternatively that they DO still exist. Fuck Heat.
At this point, I start to feel a little sad. There was a time when I would have even gone crazy for these guys, and rushed over to shake their hand… now, I look at them as guys I berate on the net… it doesn’t feel so good. I carry on

- Khali gets into the shower, turns it on, begins to whistle Brimful Of Asha…

Bill Watts:- YEAH! Because that Cornershop band were a bunch of…


The door to the shower-room slowly creaks open… and in creeps JBL, a bar of soap in one hand, a Durex in the other. He then sees me, says, ‘GODDAMIT!’, and leaves, slamming the door behind him.

-After his shower, Khali casually walks out of the shower, without a towel, and HOLY SHIT THE GUY REALLY DOES  HAVE AL SNOWS PENIS! Jeez, was somebody up there having a laugh. When he notices my shock, he mumbles something (literally) about the showers being cold, and calls me a gay for looking. But when you expect a Schlong that you could knock a nail into a wall with, and you don’t even get something the size of the nail… its just hard not to gawp.
Jeez Louise, God didn’t short change Khali. He just gave his real penis to me.
Form an orderly queue.

- Khali is now fully dressed, and we are ready to leave the arena, until JBL sends one of his lackeys… I think his name is Doug Bishom or something stupid… to inform us that there will be a wrestlers court in five minutes in the male changing room. We are not sure who will be facing the firing squad, so we go along out of blind curiosity…

- I am here to tell you that Wrestlers Court is NOT WHAT YOU ALL THINK IT IS! Dear god, it isn’t. For a start, we have been spelling ‘Court’ wrong all these years.
  If you have seen ‘Family Guy’, think ‘Greased Up Deaf Guy’. We enter the room to see Sylvan, soaped from head to toe, shouting mincingly, ‘Oooh! Catch me! Catch me!’, with Pat Patterson, JBL, Ahmed Johnson, Kanyon and Orlando Jordan chasing him. Especially surprising because three of the above are not contracted by the WWE, and one of them is an 80 year old cripple.
   We shudder, and edge ourselves back out of the door to Wrestlers Caught, just as Patterson grabs a leg and drags him to the floor. And as we exit the building, echoing down the corridors we hear…


-Final call of action on the day, the interview with Khali. But I have to do it subtle. I am supposed to be his colleague after all. I decide to go all Stasiak on his ass and tape the convo ‘on the road.’ Again, I have translated Khali’s words for you rather than mash the keypad with my palms and leave it at that. It would come to the same thing, but…

Me:- So, Khali, me old mucka, fancy a curry?
Khali:- I thought you hated curry…
Me:- Surely not, I’m Indian!
Khali:- Ha! I like that, playing off the racial steriotype. Very funny.
Me:-…… yeeeeeeees. Heh. Heh. So… erm… what do you think of your role as monster in the ‘Dub right now?
Khali:- I tell you what, the job has its perks. Plenty of ‘rats’, if you know what I’m saying. I mean, you’ve seen them!
Me:- Yeah…. They were… hot. I’m sure.
Khali:- Yup. Especially that Kanyon. I got his number, you know.
Me:- ……what!?
Khali:- Oh, women are too… delicate. You ever seen ‘Of Mice And Men’? Seriously, I give a woman a hug, I crush the bitch.

There was plenty of this. It went on for a long time. I ended that part of the conversation by giving him Nicole Bass’ cell-phone number.

Look, I want to say that the interview was insightful, a real look behind the scenes of Pro Wrestling, but it wasn’t. And here is where the moralistic part of the story comes in. I was sat there, remembering the times that I DIDN’T WANT to be an insider. Remembering marking out for Hogan hulking up for the zillionth time. Marking out, even as late as when McMahon pissed himself for Austin. I have walked behind the scenes of wrestling today, and I have seen NOTHING that I didn’t already know. There was no air of mystery, no surprises. Just obvious jokes and guys that will be picking up money from the state in a few weeks no doubt.
And I started to miss being a mark.

And so I got out of the car, took off the towel and removed the tape recorder that had been sat on my head. And I jumped on the next plane, came home, sat by my computer and wrote this, feeling increasingly sadder and sadder, longing for the days when Wrestling, to me, was unpredictable.

So, I lay down a challenge to Vince McMahon, and the writing team. Here’s the challenge. Within the next month, I want to see a BIG TWIST in a storyline. Something that not even the Smarks expect. MAKE WRESTLING FUN AGAIN. You have a month, McMahon. And if you do not do it, I am going to write a piece. I am going to create my own little DVD for the readers. I’ll call it True McMahon, and it will reveal the truth, THE TRUTH, behind McMahon. My next column is set out Vince. Surprise me, or I will write this column. This column that you will probably never see, or care that it even exists… but know this… there is a small wrestling community that will be laughing at you Vince. Oh yes, laughing at you oh so hard.

And finally, an update. Since my stint as Daivari, a few things have happened. Kurt Angle has left the federation, and is now working in a company which hired Jeff Hardy and Scott Hall. The guy is an understated genius.
Khali has been out for a while with an injury, which of course is sad news. Not for us; it means that we haven’t had to watch the big lug in the ring. Not for the roster, who received a sigh of relief when they heard and put back the writing of their will for a little longer. And not for Khali… who has been paid to sit on his ass… did I say this was a bad thing?? FUCK NO.

Feel free to send me some feedback saying that this article wasn’t as good as my other one.

Send Feedback to The Anvil's Swagbag 

The Anvil's Swagbag has eight girlfriends (two for Thursday) and lots and lots of fans. He says this is because it is very hot in his Dungeon. He states that his most embarrassing moment was when he forgot to tuck his penis into his sock one time, and kept having to pick pebbles out of his foreskin. He also loves Mick Foley. Lots.

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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.).