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Wow, I'm actually feeling halfway decent, fellow dwellers of the Rocktagon, and that's not just because I'm once again humping on a semi-regular basis. Well, yeah, it actually is, but I guess there are a couple of other things going on that can be construed as neat, as well.

For starters, this is the last Rocktagon you will see of its type. You remember that one rock and roll station you used to like? You know, the one that fucked up every now and then and actually played music that was quasi-decent in sporadic intervals? Well, it switched over to an all Mexican-fiesta format and now the owners of that station are actually making a profit. Using that token, I shall do the same with this vessel. Well, sort of.

In honor of entering a new era, we shall celebrate one last hurrah into the dingy archives of wrestling's bygone era of being-worth-as-shit. Let's just pick something at random, since it's not like we can really lose, right?

Oh shit, the 9/11/95 edition of Nitro? Well, looks like I was wrong.

Cue the pyro and opening montage of streets randomly exploding in sundry permutations. I'm telling you, WCW Street is an address I DEFINITELY wouldn't want to live on.

We are coming to you LIVE from Miami, Florida, home of The Rock and obscure Tenacious D references (whatchu gonna' do?) Oh, never mind, this was actually recorded earlier, the on screen text informs us. Trickery, WCW, trickery!

Fireworks and strobe effects are cool. . . unless they are purple, which they are indeed for tonight's gala. The WCW commentators' desk makes its official debut, as our hosts are Eric B, Steve "Mongo" McMicheal (with added emphasis on the "Mongo" part, of course) and Jesus 2.0 himself, Bobby The Mother-fucking Brain Heenan. The triad runs over the actions that transpired on the first Nitro, and probably some other things. For tonight's main event, Hulk Hogan will be taking on Lex Luger for the World's Heavyweight Championship. Hey, might as well.

Our opening contest features Sabu (yes, Sabu did wrestle in WCW for like a week, apparently) going tusk-to-tusk with Alex Wright. So, basically, it's a homicidal, suicidal, genocidal Arab guy duking it out with a crazy German club kid. While, at least there's nothing homicidal, suicidal, or genocidal about the Krauts, am I right?

Sabu is rocking the aluminum foil tights and sporting more bandages than. . . uh, a store of some kind that specializes in carrying large quantities of bandages? Yes, that will suffice. Five seconds into the bout, Sabu is already blowing spots, as he spends no time at all before botching a springboard elbow drop, which leads to ANOTHER botched spot, this time involving a hurrancanranna attempt that doesn't EVEN connect. Sabu quickly feeds Wright a baseball slide and a tope. Sabu goes for a chair-assisted I'm-Going-To-Hit-You-In-The-Face-With-My-Ass but finds himself crashing and burning into a guardrail instead. . . just like on 9/11. Wright goes on the offensive with Euro uppercuts and ARYAN dropkicks. Alex botches a kind of suicide dive, so it was more or less a Desperate-Cry-For-Help Dive in reality.

Sabu goes up top, and Alex drops him with a Super(MAN)plex. Sabu fucks up yet ANOTHER springboard elbow in retort. Maybe those faulty springboards should be recalled, you know? A top rope back flip is transitioned into a German Supplex for a two at the behest of Wright. Huh, I wonder if they just call them "Supplexes" in Alemania? The blonde, blue-eyed bastard gets crotched, and Sabu pins Wright with a. . . I have no idea what the fuck that move was supposed to be. An inverted hurrancanranna roll up off the tope rope? Close enough.

Post bout, 'Bu stomps Das Wunderkind with some extracurricular boots (I've always wanted a pair!) before setting up a table. Awesome, an impromptu game of cribbage! Oh, never mind, it's just Sabu fucking Lesnar-ing himself on a missed spot, which means that he marries a forty year old woman, tries out for the National Football League, sues his ex boss, fucks around in Japan, and wins the Ultimate Fighting Championship. Or, he lands on his head. Either one works.

Winner: Sabu, fans of things not going according to plan

I actually kind of enjoyed the bout, so I declare said match [The 6th Day] worthy. Next!

Mean Gene is standing in the middle of THAT VERY RING and calls out Ric Flair, whom pines over the absence of his BFF Arn Anderson. This brings out Lex Luger, whom Flair whole-heartily endorses for tonight's mega-bout main-event. The Trifecta banter about the upcoming Fall Brawl bout betwixt Flair and Anderson, which for those of you at home that are curious, sucked.

V.K. Wallstreet hails from Wallstreet, New York. What are the odds? Tonight, he'll be taking on Sting for the U.S. title, back when the belt actually meant something. (And by something, I mean, fuck, we have a lot of titles in our promotion).

Collar and elbow tie up to begin, with some headlock action ensuing. Yeah, that's what I came to see. Sting sticks a neon-tinged dropkick and V.K. begs for mercy in the corner in much the same manner that V.K. McMahon begged for mercy at the concurrent because WCW was kicking The WWF's ass in the ratings and always would and wouldn't get bought out for a couple of nickels in six year's time. NO NOT EVER, ISN'T THAT RIGHT, ERIC? V.K. takes a breather to the outside, and rolls back in long enough to dump Sting to the floor below. Sting follows-up with a rope-launched shoulder tackle, which he fucks up with an almost Sabu-esque grace. Chops get exchanged, and Sting gives the turnbuckle some head. . . Wallstreet's head, to be exact. VK eats some knuckles, gets a knee to the back and swallows a Stinger Splash before getting pinned by a top turnbuckle body vault from The Man Called Steve Borden.

Winner: Sting, and by association, our lord and savior Jesus Christ

Kind of a throwaway bout. Let's call it an [End of Days] affair and trek forward.

This Week, on Saturday Night: DISCO INFERNO! THE RENEGADE! MAX MUSCLE! DYSLEXIC DAVE SULLIVAN AND HIS RABBIT! With a star-studded lineup like that, who WOULDN'T be huddled around the television box come 6:05? (Solution: Everyone on Earth).

Scott Norton is taking on Randy Savage in the next bout. You know, it would be far more interesting to see Scott Norwood wrestle the Macho Man, but every dropkick the former would attempt would likely land wide left. Norton jumps Savage at the bell. Fast forward a bit, and Norton is slamming Randy with some backbreakers. . . in between not doing much. Wait, you mean a guy was hired by a wrestling company based on physique as opposed to talent? I scoff at such ridiculous accusations! Yeah, this match sucks. Earthquake dressed as a shark and Kamala make a run-in, which allots Savage the venue to drop the patented top rope elbow for the win.

Winner: Randy Savage, John Tenta's belly flab

Post bout, Kevin Sullivan and Zodiac (formerly known as Brutus "The Kisser of Hogan's Ass" Beefcake) run into the ring for, I don't know, some reason or another. Could Norton become a member of the Dungeon of Doom? NO, MY CHILDHOOD INNOCENCE!

Well, that was just kind of there. [End of Days], time to progress.

Following tonight's broadcast of Nitro, TNT will be airing "Bloodfight". I've never heard of such a film, but the prospect of tossing copious amounts of plasma at others does sound inertly intriguing.

Luger struts to the ring chewing a toothpick. For some reason, he's interrupted by a bumper for Fall Brawl, which apparently involves a cross pollination of Randy Savage, Big Van Vader, and children in wheelchairs. Jesus, that sounds like the most unfair War Games bout EVER.

Reminder: This was recorded earlier. Thanks, Turner Network Television, even though you canceled Monstervision, you lackluster assholes.

Hulk Hogan waltzes out next, championship belt en tow. Boy, this ought to be a mat classic. (The massive roar you hear in the background is the sound of my Sarcasm-meter exploding like a fucking super nova).

Tie-up. Stall. Tie-up. Stall. Luger threatens to punch Hogan, but the ref breaks it up. Wait, what? That's like flagging Kobe for dribbling or raping. IT'S WHAT THEY'RE SUPPOSED TO DO, PEOPLE! Stall, and a takedown, and Hogan locks in a full-nelson from the Pat Patterson half-mount. Suplex, and Luger no-sells it, to which Hogan replies "Who do you think you are, me?" Tie-up, and now it's Hogan's turn to be himself. Stall, tie-up, Luger goes to the outside. Luger re-enters the fray and gets back body dropped. Luger retorts with a press slam of his own. TORTURE RACK! The ref does the whole arm-drop thing and Luger celebrates a premature victory. Luger boots Hogan in the face, and Hogan [Himselfs] up! Big boot, leg drop, and here comes the Dungeon of Doom. Savage and Sting run in to save Hulk, whom still harbors animosity towards Luger. Will the foursome be able to get their collective poo-poo together to face The Dungeon this Sunday at Fall Brawl? Maybe!

Winner: No contest, fans of anti-finishes (club president, V. Russo)

Well, that wasn't too horrible. [End of Days], and that's all I've got.

The less said about the second-ever broadcast of Nitro, the better. Hey, Turner and co. already had the viewers hooked on the first episode, so why bother caring from there on out? It's like giving a girl a really good rim job the first time out and barely hitting vulva in subsequent outings. Thusly, the moral of today's story is this: Try kind of hard at first, and once you get your way, stop putting in the effort. Kind of like me with these articles. I mean, no, it is not at all like that.

All right, I'll be back in about two week's time, with something that you, THE WRESTLINGFAN fans have clamored for; something that will ULTIMATE-ly change the way we do business around these parts. Nope, no hints, man. I'm not going to give you a FIGHTING chance of prognosticating this series' new direction. . .


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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.).