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Every once in a great while, an event comes along that shatters reality, throwing the masses into cognitive dissidence, tearing down those paper thin curtains we throw over our fragile emotions to hide them from harm. Who could foresee such horrible tragedies? Such terrible consequential disasters that leave that bitter metallic taste in the back of your throat, cause us to wake up in the middle of the night with a startled gasp, reassuring ourselves that there’s no such thing as another Ultimate Warrior. It was all just a bad dream. The real bad dreams are the horrors that greet us in every day life, leaving a cold chill running down our spines, aching in the back of our necks, making our hair stand on end. Martin Luther King Jr….. The Titanic…. John F Kennedy….. 9/11.… Abraham Lincoln…. Pat Morita….That guy in the Red shirt from Star Trek, you know the one.

But now, even more tragic than all of these combined, is the terrible loss of our beloved (if by beloved you mean, hated, despised and possibly spat upon) Chairman of the WWE. The head figure of this sport we’ve all come to know and love (as long as no girl is looking). And while my boss, the Rev. Sean Carless, draws correlations toward the Sopranos for this incident, I see a much more obvious line to be drawn.

Which brings me to my once in a blue moon quickie article. (Fun Fact: A blue moon is still the same color! Honest!) It’s time for us to take a page right out of the Simpsons (Where instead of having Full Nelsons, they just have Nelsons. Okay, I just wanted to make that crappy joke. Sue me.) and play….


We start with the usual list of suspects. Is it Bobby Lashley? Some think so, having heard the high pitched muscle bound man fleeing the scene with a snickering “Haaa Haaaa!” under his breath. Or perhaps it was overweight law official Sgt Slaughter? He claims to have been busy eating donuts at the time. A likely story. Or, could it even be a frustrated right hand man? The ambiguously gay Jonathan Coachman might have a thing or two to say about that I assure you. That is, if he could ever stop dreaming of one day earning a chance to participate in his own initiation into the Vince McMahon Kiss My Ass Club. Maybe it was the madcap antics of the spiky haired loveable kid? I mean, I wouldn’t want to be on ECW either.

The Miz: “Aye Corumba! I‘ve been traded to ECW! WTF?!”

Yeah I didn’t think so either. Or maybe it was that guy who runs the comic book store?

RVD: “….Hello? Is anyone here…..ooooh cool dude! Echo echo echo..echo…..echo….”

Or was it Sideshow Bob Holly? But who really had the most motive here? The most to gain? And who has been conveniently missing for a long time now? Ample enough time to gather supplies for a bomb?
Perhaps it was a man who was so angry, so upset that his boss could never quite remember his name (Which who can really blame him, since he has like fifteen?). In fact, so scatterbrained was Vince with the whole idea that he had no idea the same man was stripped of the title and gained it right back.

Vince: “What’s his name again Coach? Hunter Hershey Helms?”

Coach: “……..”

Vince: “…….Coach….”

Coach: “It’s Paul Levesque sir. Triple H.”

Vince: “What’s that? His name is Paul something? Paul Heyman?”

Coach: “No, it’s Triple H sir.”

Vince: “Quintuple Whatsit?”

Coach: “Triple H. You know? The Game?”

Vince: “The Gameboy?”

Coach: “Triple H. The Cerebral Assassin.”

Vince: “The Cerebral Palsy?”

Coach: “It’s Triple. H. Sir.”

Vince: “Hulk Hogan?”

Coach: “….Yeah sure.”

Hunter: “D’OH!”

Vince: “Eeeeexcellent.”

It might be enough to drive anyone to murder. Being constantly ignored by your superior, not given any sort of a push at all. Having to job to someone like [NAME DELETED THAT DIDN‘T HAPPEN! EVERYONE WAS ON VACATION!] at Wrestlemania XX. Who could possibly stop a bloated man’s craving for what he wants most?

Hunter: “Mmmmm….titles……”

Er, yeah. Hunter continued his life of tediously burying the rest of the roster in a mind-numbingly methodic manner, sometimes even seeming to manage to fall asleep while engaged in the act it having become so mundane.

But you see, though the evidence is stacked against him, don’t be fooled. Because the true culprit behind this horrendous crime is someone you might never expect. We are about to bring you, the final moments of Vince McMahon’s life in gruesome detail.

*Vince exits the building, going down the hallway lined with all the supporting characters (most of them voiced by the same guy). Soon, he steps out into the parking lot where two stage hands are apparently jacking off instead of doing their jobs. Like…handing a stage or whatever the fuck those guys do. Slowly he walks across the parking lot, steps over to his limo and slips inside. Immediately the car is engulfed in a fiery explosion. But what’s this? There…on the grassy knoll (do parking lots have knolls?) sits a lone small figure. The small baby carriage with a remote detonator attached to it. The camera draws in…and there, sucking on her binky happily sits…..

……..Aurora Rose Lévesque-McMahon.

Cameron Burge is TWF's resident "Mr. Monday Night", penning the "Best Damn Raw Rant, Period" appearing every..umm, Monday night. That's right. Also known as "The REAL Inferno" (not to be confused with all those impostors out there) Cameron was hand picked by Michael Melchor himself to assume any and all RAW responsibilities. A selfless man, Cameron has also dedicated most of his organs to science. (which makes his current day to day life quite uncomfortable.) Read his Raw Reports or die.

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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.).