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LETTERS FROM MY MOM'S BASEMENT
by Marx Rayner
 
Dear City Of Montreal, 

Did you guys have fun at Breaking Point? Enjoy the show? Have fun watching John Mother Fucking Goddamn Cena win another world title? Look on with despair when precious D-Generation X lost their submission match? Get hostile when The Undertaker was screwed over in the main event? Hmm? Did you enjoy yourselves at the kiddie-mark fun show? Were your three hours an eventful time of screaming and cheering? Did you enjoy your concessions and merchandise purchases? Did you?

In case you couldn't tell (and since it's not in French or frilly fucking Quebecois, maybe you can't), I'm raining down a wave of condesendence upon you assholes. Never before in my life have I seen such a blatant disregard of moral fiber and integrity since Domino's showed up at my house four minutes past the thirty minute deadline and, instead of giving me my fucking two extra-larges free, tried telling me that they were backed up by a severe accident and they tried maneuvering the side streets to get here for my satisfaction. The fucking nerve!

But anywho, let me spell out my rage for you right here. At Breaking Point, I was treated to a few good things. CM Punk still getting to be World Heavyweight Champion. Christian's winning streak continuing. Chris Jericho scoring a pinfall. My sister Morgan footing the bill for the show. And these are all well and good, but they paled against the sheath of shit that it stood up against.

I'm talking about D-Generation X.

Now, don't get me wrong. I'm by no means a mark who buys into the action, lets his adrenaline flow at scripted performances, and expresses himself with distinct loudness, but when Shawn Michaels submitted, I ran around the room screaming, jumping up and down, doing the Curly Shuffle, kicking over a folding chair (with Morgan still in it, but fuck her), throwing Fritos into the air, laughing loudly that that motherfucking bitch ass hypocrital piece of shit Jesus praising talent-down-holding asshole submitted IN THE FUCKING RING LIKE THE ASS RAPING DOG FUCKING CHILD MOLESTING CROCK OF WEASEL SHIT HE IS! YOU LOST SHAWN! YOU'RE A FUCKING LOSER, SHAWN! YOU GOT BEAT IN THE MIDDLE OF THE FUCKING RING! AHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!~!!!11!!!~!

*Ahem* my bad. Like I said, I'm not a crazed mark. If you discount every match that Benoit, Jericho, Flair, Bret, and Danielson have ever won, then this is the first time I've ever acted like this.

But that was the yin of the situation. The yang occured in the pre-match ritual when Michaels and Triple H did their cutesy, inoffensive comedy schtick. At first, you fans cheered the taint-sniffers like the packaged babyfaces that they are, until a heroic "YOU SCREWED BRET" chant broke out.

As happy as I was to hear the truth continue to ring out in real time, it gnawed at my soul that you seemed to all forget at first. If there were 20,000 American soldiers in the arena, and WWE's hottest new babyface tag team, The Al Qaida Connection, came to the ring, would you cheer them? At least until a vocal minority bellowed "USA!" and "KILL BIN LADEN!" until everybody got the point? It's the same thing here.

And late in the match, just as Cody Rhodes and Ted Dibiase had Shawn Michaels locked in the double submission, what did you idiots do? You chanted "TRIPLE H!!" as if you wanted him to make the save! The very man who helped Michaels, Vince McMahon, and Gerald Brisco initiate the screwjob that made Bret Hart look like a fool in front of home countrymen.

A day that will live in wrestling infamy forever, November 9, 1997. I was sixteen years old, with twice the zits I have now, but 1/5 of the beard needed to obscure them. I was shocked, mouth agape as my then ten-year-old sister Morgan and I watched the show. She didn't care about Bret being screwed, she was just happy that the show was fun. She didn't mind doing extra chores to come up with the money to buy the show, because I certainly wasn't going to pay for the show when Taka Michinoku wasn't on it.

But back to the point at hand. Bret Hart has never let go of this fateful day, and for you, the fans of Montreal, to forgive two of the men responsible when The Hitman himself has not is sickening.

Bret Hart, for those of you who are too dense to remember, is the greatest wrestler of all time. He is a man of class and integrity who always put family first. Except when he was on the road and his wife wasn't around, and he would put another woman first. Let's face it, Bret needed to make SOMEONE happy, and even he wasn't capable of making Julie have an orgasm thousands of miles away. Bret also could carry anyone to a great match. His formula of doing the same five moves in sequence near the end of the match and calling all of the spots himself makes him a tremendous worker. And if a worker couldn't follow the structured pattern that Bret set, then he was clearly not worth his salt. Bret's clean living, save for the random sex and occasional steroid and drug use, is legendary. His loyalty to WWE is also noteworthy, remaining loyal even when Vince McMahon said he couldn't pay his exorbant salary in 1997, leading Bret, already a millionaire, to threaten to sue the man who gave him five World titles despite wrestling the same match for the previous six years and booking him strongly. But in spite of anything here that may resemble a flaw, Bret Hart is perfect. See? It's right here in text.

And if Bret Hart's not too good to live his life in self-pity, writing columns in his local newspaper about that date in his life with unending obsession, telling anyone who will listen that Vince McMahon, Shawn Michaels, and Triple H are spawns of Satan will who latch onto you like a succubus and bleed your spirit dry, then we're not either. Who are we to question the man that always gave it 110% in ring, except in WCW when he resigned himself to misery? Toronto fans haven't forgotten! They boo EVERYONE that McMahon tries passing off as a babyface! They live in the same self-deprecating, personal Hell that we American smarks created for ourselves to placate Bret Hart's wishes. WWBHD?, that's our initialed credo!

But to see what Montreal has degenerated (literally) into is astonishing. All of a sudden, you've all bought into Vince McMahon's utopia of a sports-entertainment laden landscape, filled with cartoon characters and talentless big-boobed divas and happy storylines. What happened to the blue collar appreciation you guys would display for the likes of hard-nosed wrestlers that would do dangerous suplexes and throws, and bust each other open to enhance the midcard? Look, I know Vince McMahon doesn't want us to think about Chris Benoit anymore, but who are we to do what he says? Do you really want to forget about Benoit in favor of being happy? When did French Canada just stop giving a shit?

Look, guys, we can't be having this. The next time WWE rolls through your province, you need to show your old moxie. Boo DX. Boo Cena. Boo any of their smiling midcard babyfaces that they design and package for your approval. Boo the divas and chant "WE WANT AKIRA HOKUTO!". Cheer Jericho. Throw your boxers and panties at him. Cheer Punk. Chant "WE WANT BRET!" Give the Hart Dynasty a standing ovation. Do whatever it takes to show Vince McMahon that his idea of an entertainment conglomerate is not acceptable to your sensibilities. Make it known that if he's to ever bring his show back to Molson country, he'd better change everything. And he never comes back, fuck em! You showed em!

In closing, I'll forgive you guys over last night, but remember this: you have an image to uphold. Never forget that. Because that image will be forever shattered should you ever give in and cheer John Cena.

And nobody wants that.

Screwjobbingly yours,
M.R.
 
SEND FEEDBACK TO MARX RAYNER

Marx Rayner spends his days watching wrestling and bitching about it afterward. His nights are pretty much the same, except he bitches while watching it. His mavenism of the business has left him with no time for dating, social activity, or proper hygiene, but he assures us that this is strictly by choice. His myspace is http://www.myspace.com/pwn3dbymarx, and encourages you to be his friend. He'd do the same for you. Marx can also be found at http://twitter.com/marxrayner, where he continues to stand behind his pulpit, expounding wrestling truth. Also, the pulpit helps him keep his balance.

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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.).