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by Marx Rayner

Dear Ric Flair,

I have to tell you, I'm so angry right now.

I heard the news about ROH Manhattan Mayhem this past Saturday night. The way you walked out of the show rather than perform your scheduled enforcer duties for the main event. I wouldn't have minded so much had you walked out of a TNA show and screwed those poser bastards over. But Ring of Honor? The promotion of hard working young men who realize that learning twenty-five variations of a suplex is more tantamount to success than connecting with a large audience? How could you do such a thing?

But then I realized, Ric, you've spent your entire career being just such a hypocritical, two-faced basket case. It seems like we smarks defend you for absolutely no reason at all. Do you know what it takes to earn our endorsement? It takes hard work, desire, creativity, passion, and percision. Or, in your case, just working for the old Jim Crockett promotions will do. That's why, to this day, when WWE debuts a new talent that has even the SLIGHTEST potential, we rail on him on the forums all day. But should Ricky Steamboat or Barry Windham or The Midnight Express show up on Raw, we stain our pants, semen indistinguishable from spilled sour cream (unless they show up in TNA, then we rail on them for being has-beens who are holding down Alex Shelley). So whenever you show up on Raw, we smarks fill the forums with WHOOOOOOOOOOOOs and other terms of endearment as THE NAITCHA-BOOOOOY! IS LIVE! ON MONDAY NIGHT RAW! And then we jump up out of our chairs, Flair-strut across the room, and make it six steps before realizing that our toes weren't meant to support such weight and then we slink back into our chairs, unable to do much for the remainder of the week.

So yeah, you have this spell over us but, in a recent moment of lucidity, I began to realize a few things about you. See, you're not half the man you try to come off as.

I should have realized this years ago. Back when I'd be plopped down in front of my TV watching Clash of the Champions, my dad would walk by and say things like "How can such a brittle looking man with white hair be the champion?" I rolled my eyes, never once figuring how some long haired Leslie Nielsen lookalike could hang with Sting or Road Warrior Hawk. My little sister Morgan would walk in, dragging her Barbies and wanting to watch Carebears, when she'd see you wrestling and say "POP-POP!" because you looked like our Grandpa Richard. I corrected her with a knife edge chop and a loud WOOOO to send her crying from the room. She just didn't get it.

But I guess I didn't get it either. I guess it seems in all the excitement of your personality, I didn't realize how ludicrous it was for someone who looks like you to be able to hang with the muscleheads. But that's where technical ability comes into play, right? After all, you're the sixty minute man, right?

Then Morgan had to be a buzzkill again. Last year, I forced her to sit down and watch your one hour match with Steamboat at the '89 Clash and she yawned through most of it. She said you did the same shit over and over again with rest holds, chops, the Flair Flop, the Flair Flip, eye gouging, and couldn't figure out why I had a blanket over my lap. Being the weirdo girl she is, she kept remarking about your discolored nipples and ugly cheekbones. Women, I know. No wonder you divorced three of em. But yeah, she was bored senseless. She was expecting like a Benoit-Guerrero style of dramatic technical affair, but was very underwhelmed. But don't feel too bad. She said the only wrestler from North Carolina she likes does a ton of drugs, has no personality, and will be dead before he's 40 from his fuck-ups. I tried to defend your son Reid, but she insisted she meant Jeff Hardy. Take that for what it's worth.

But then I began to question myself, Ric. Are you as good as I always thought you were? I mean, the reliance on the same moves over and over again. The decreasing condition of your body. The fact that you still wrestled into your early fifties for a boss and promotion you couldn't stand, for reasons that eluded us until we found out you blew your money on hookers, beer, and blow. I mean, I can sympathize. Making only $275 at Kinkos and having to buy World of Warcraft expansion packs, as well as cases of Monster, it's not like I can just quit and find a new job, either. It's tough to be frugal when you have hobbies, I understand. But look at me, getting off track here. The point is I never noticed just how lame you truly were.

Then you come to WWF after the Invasion angle and it's like a rebirth. Suddenly, everything old was new again. The chops, the flop, the outdated robe, the sagging pecs. WHOOOOO! WHOOOOOO! THE NAITCHA-BOOOOY! STYLIN' AND PROFILIN'! And it lasted less than a year until you became Triple H's whipping boy. Yeah, even though the crowd was buying into your revival, you turned heel and became the Robin to HHH's Batman, the Tonto to his Lone Ranger, the Andariel Halo to his Marx Rayner. And for what? Just a way to keep appearing on TV? A way to get a check to get yourself further out of the debt you created with your extravagant lifestyle? Was this a way for a 16 time World Champion in his fifties to be portrayed? You were serving as the first line of defense for a steroided politician so that he wouldn't get hurt! Guys like Booker T and Batista and Chris Benoit and Randy Orton had to mow you down just to get to Hunter! And you allowed this to happen? Morgan just kept laughing and saying "Flair has to be the bitch because he has bigger tits than Hunter!". I took that to mean since my tits are bigger than hers, that makes me her bitch. But I got revenge for the both of us when I jammed her hand in the Cuisinart. Now who's the bitch?

But as mom and dad frantically drove Morgan to the hospital, I sat on the floor of my bedroom, kneading my old Galoob Ric Flair figure in my fingers, wondering if it could be true. What if my now nub-handed sister was right? What if you were overrated, Ric? That would mean that my childhood of cheering you was a sham. What if I was wrong when I thought that you were a worthy champion, brilliant technican, innovative wrestler, creative mind, devoted husband, family man, keen businessman, and classy human being? And why do we make exceptions for you? Edge cheats on his wife, we vilify him. You cheat and we give you collective boos. Orton does chinlocks and we call him boring. You go into your routine and we smile. Sunny blows her money on sin and we laugh at her. You do it and we say it's "Ric being Ric". And when dad came home two hours later, stormed into my room, and muttered "get up", that's when I knew I had to defend you. He was going to defend Morgan, that Flair hating cunt, so I had to stand my ground. I tried to throw a few knife chops, but dad dropped me. Hard. I woke up the next morning with blood clogging my nostrils and a black eye. I remember thinking how cool it would have looked if dad had irish whipped me into my laundry hamper and I flipped over it, but that probably didn't happen.

When you were given your retirement ceremony on Raw last year, I felt vindicated. Now THIS was a hero's send off. Names from your past, stars of the present, a who's who of the business coming out to pay their respects to one of the all time greats. I just smiled and thought "Fuck everyone else. Flair's the man". And I went to bed that night feeling good, knowing that I was right to be a fan of yours, because your good outweighs your bad. Then you became a barnstormer, appearing for various indies, some times with your sons, and giving back to the industry. Sometimes you'd appear on Raw as an honored legend and I felt good. All was right with the world!

And imagine how I felt when RIC FUCKING FLAIR was coming to Ring of Honor! WHOOOOO! WHOOOOOO! THE NAITCHA-BOOOOY! STYLIN' AND PROFILIN'! Giving his endorsement to the hardest working indy out there! And to be the AMBASSADOR! If I won free Asian porn for life on a game show, I wouldn't have been happier! This was too good to be true!

And it was. Because you double crossed those young kids by walking out on the company. Just because WWE brought you back and you didn't feel like honoring your commitments. Ric, I've had it. You're a stooge, a one trick pony who gets by in life by schmoozing to the corporate demigods just so you can have enough money to piss away on decandent items and acts. You're a pathetic old man, one who lives off residual cheers instead of offering something new. You're 60 years old and should be enjoying a quiet home life with friends and family, instead of living in the spotlight that's better served for stars of tomorrow. I'm done with you. Take your Horsemen memories, your cherished material goods, your wrinkled up old body, and your diminished credibility, and just go. Get the hell out of my memories and thoughts, and stay out!

Wait, I just read something. You're coming back to be the GM of Raw?!? WHOOOOO! WHOOOOOO! THE NAITCHA-BOOOOY! STYLIN' AND PROFILIN'! GENERAL MANAGING MONDAY NIGHT RAW! I'm gonna Flair strut until I break every last floor board!


Stylingy yours,


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.

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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.).