Mania is supposed to be the equivalent of The Super Bowl, a mega-awesome spectacle that attracts even the retards that think Hulk Hogan is actually a nice person. There's very little going on to placate the non-fan this year, and even more disheartening, there isn't a whole lot going on for the actual fan, either. It's kind of like going to an all-you-can-eat buffet, paying full price, and getting to the table only to have a stuffy waiter mock your inherent fatness for the duration of the meal. Truth is, WM has lost that, well "WM luster", as I like to call it. Hell, even in the promotion's most trying times (2003 - 2006), they at least took the initiative to attempt to make the marquee show of the year somewhat enthusing. Now, you get a glorified Raw match masquerading as main event, a couple of gimmicks on the undercard and a shitload of fireworks and are told that it's "good enough".

It wasn't always like that, though. The first WM I recall having thorough sentience of was the 1991 iteration, which transpired around the dwindling point of the First of Three Gulf Wars. (Oops, did I say three? I meant two, and no, I am not actually a transient from the future here to warn humanity of ensuing nuclear obliteration. Nope, not at all). WM 7 was essentially the zeitgeist of my mark fandom, and I positively HAD to see the PPV, to the point that I thought about accusing my parents of sexual molestation unless they ordered it. This card was just positively stacked: you had Hulk Hogan taking on the son-of-a-bitching son-of-a-bitch Sgt. Son-of-a-bitch-Slaughter- Bitch not only for the title, BUT FOR AMERICA, god damn it. That's right: This card was so fucking epic, that mother fucking DEMOCRACY hung in the balance. The undercard was just as awe-inspiring, highlighted by a RETIREMENT match betwixt The Ultimate Warrior and Randy Savage, in which a man's very lifeblood was on the line PERMANENTLY (or until the next PPV, whichever occurs first). I was even pumped for a BIG BOSS MAN match, for Christ's sake. That's a S.S. Propaganda-caliber hype job right there, folks. Back in the day, they KNEW how to sell you on Wrestle Mania.

So, here we are, eighteen years after the fact. Does my zenith of childhood reminiscence still ring as spectacularly as it chimed nearly two decades ago, or am I just another twenty-something loser feebly attempting to find value in overrated nostalgia? Well, there's only one way to find out: I present unto the. WRESTLE MANIA VII!

An American flag color scheme. . . utilized for a professional wrestling event? Unheard of! Our main event for the evening is a growling Sgt. Slaughter taking on THE IMMORTAL Hulk Hogan, FACE TO FAAAAAACE (Vince McMahon splooge voice)

Since it is the height of the Gulf War (you know, the one people have favorable recollections of), there's a lot of gaudy stars and stripes throughout the audience, along with the requisite mullets and Ultimate Warrior beach towels. Is it just me, or does every early 90s WWF show appear as if the audience is comprised of 95 percent mongoloid? Honestly, it's as if Vince personally wheeled an army of relocation buses to every Ronald McDonald House on the West Coast, baited them aboard with shiny objects and used them to paper the audience.

Speaking of retards, it's Willie Nelson, here to sing America the Beautiful, which ISN'T the National Anthem of the United States. Guess nobody 'round the corporate offices had the heart to tell Vinny Mac that notion, and we've been stick with it for oh, TWENTY FIVE YEARS.

Willy concludes the ditty, and ends his performance by ripping off his WrestleMania tee-shirt and lighting up a fattie indoors. Just kidding, he doesn't really rip his shirt off.

We are coming to you LIVE from some piece of shit hockey rink in Los Angeles, because TERRORISTS threatened to blow up wrestling if it were held in a PPV quality venue. I wonder if TNA has used the rationale to explain why they can't go over a 2.0 in the ratings.

Gorilla Monsoon is covering the event solo, before introducing his "special" one-bout only commentating buddy, Hacksaw Jim Duggan, bedecked in a tacky, patriotic ensemble, or as I will reference him from here on out, I Am (Uncle) Sam. The two shill the night's other epic match-up, a career-ending bout betwixt Macho King Randy Savage and The Ultimate Warrior. Hack Sam Jim Uncle then notes that Hogan will come out here in front of hundreds of people and kick the ass of Slaughter. That's right; he actually referenced the miniscule attendance figures. And like that, there goes his proposed IC title run.

Here comes the Mooney! The Rockers are backstage, and they promise to "do what they always do" on the tag team of Haku and The Barbarian. So, does that mean they are going to use their vaunted backstage power to childishly avoid reprimand, or are they going to take a whole bunch of drugs and wreck a rental car?

I just know noticed how much the Rockers entrance music sounds like that one faggoty Everything's Tropical In New York or whatever that shit song is called. Whether or not Demolition's tune was ripped off by the Ting Tings is yet to be evaluated.

Michaels and Haku to begin. Shawn does his typical flip floppy offense, culminating with the Rockers doing their patented tandem hip toss, elbow drop, and feet spring, which is introduced to the variable of The Barbarian clotheslining the tremendous blue fuck out of them. That, dare I say it, was awesome? Crescent Kicks in stereo, and Barb takes a breather to the outside.

Jannety and Barb tear it up to get the in-ring action reinitiated. It's kind of obvious that they're working the face-in-peril plot in this one. Barb and Haku take turns beating the dog shit out of Marty until Barbie finally misses a top rope splash, which facilitates a hot tag for Michaels. Twenty gajillion double team moves later, Shawn hits Barb with a cross body off the top rope to pick up the "W".

Winner: The Rockers, pelt loin cloth aficionados

Nothing too offensive. A commendable [The 6th Day] effort.

Backstage, Mean Gene is chatting it up with Regis Philbin, Marla Maples, and Alex Trebek, whom will be competing in a three way, poison-tipped barbed- wire exploding cage death match later in the evening to determine the first WWF Celebrity-Weight Champion. (NOTE: This may or may not have actually happened.)

Special Laugh Out Loud Point of Interest: Alex Trebek says that he and "Jim" Okerlund are close personal friends.

Dino Bravo will be taking on The Texas Tornado Kerry Von Erich in the next bout. You know what would be a fun game to play? Let's count how many dead people are involved in tonight's contests. So far, we've got a body count of three (including Marty Jannety's career).

So let me get this straight: Bravo is purportedly the world's strongest man? I can think of a certain Wellsville resident that may contest that claim, Dino.

Heenan makes a funny by saying that this is "the last we'll see of the Texas Tornado!" Give or take a few months, he was actually kind of right. Due to Kerry's unfortunate wardrobe selection of a thick overcoat and bicycle tassels, his moniker for this bout shall be The Ultimate Hobo.

VON ERICH NO SELLS THE SIDEWALK SLAM!

Kerry slaps on the Iron claw to little fanfare, before old horse face sends this one to pasture early with the discus punch.

Winner: Kerry Von Erich, twangy Southern rock

Wow, that match sucked. I've seen Hulk Hogan TV BOUTS that are better than this debacle. A lackluster [Batman and Robin] caliber match.

More MOONEY! The Warlord and Slick are backstage, making nine-thousand puns about dogs and dog-related references, and espousing the LETHALNESS of the Full Nelson.

Mean "Jim" is in another backstage (how many of those damn things does the WWF have, anyway?) with The British Bulldog. who informs us that his pup Winston believes Slick is full of the shit. Wait, so Davey Boy is hearing voices from dogs? Isn't that how The Son of Sam got started?

Wow, this was a short assed match, and that's not a complaint. Smith and Warlord compare steroid receipts before our (War)lord and savior locks in the Full Nelson. Davey Boy manages to grease his way out and lands the power slam for the 1, 2 and 3.

Winner: Davey Boy Smith, fans of fucking blowing through the undercard

Well, I can't really nitpick anything too horrendous, but still, it's a throwaway bout. [End of Days], time to move on.

Oh, and for those of you playing the official RottingMania 7 home game, the total thus far is 3. [Plus or minus a Jannety, if you so desire]

Post bout, Davey Boy celebrates by waving dog genitals at the audience. No, really.

ANOTHER backstage segment:

Recap:

Nasty Boys: We're nasty, and we're going win the tag team titles.

The Hart Foundation: Fuck you, no you're not.

That's about it.

The Nasty Boys had cool sounding music, but for my money, the old Hart Foundation theme music was pretty much the bossest track ever laid down in a WWF studio.

I have a temporal out of body experience, because the camera pans on some chick in the audience that looks EXACTLY like this one girl I dated a couple years back. Well, sans the gigantic bear claw earrings, anyway.

Hey, what do you know. Macauly Caulkin in attendance. I'd make a really off- color joke about WWE Films remaking Home Alone with the Benoit family, so I will.

I'll say this: bomb-scare hoax bullshit face-saving tactics aside, this is a pretty hot crowd. Bret even hand picked this bout for his DVD retrospective, which means that he either enjoyed working under such conditions, or he has no idea what constitutes a good match and his inclusion of the bout on his DVD set is just the errant Goldberg-induced brain damage talking. Either reason will suffice for the purposes of this article.

Anyway, this is a pretty enjoyable little romp, with Bret Hart doing all of the technical work (I know, HUGE SURPRISE) while The Anvil breaks out the crowd-popping heavyweight spots. The Nasty Boys, in what is really one of their better performances, do the chicken-heel thing to a tee. The match ends when Sachs pins Anvil after he gets waylaid by a megaphone shot from Knobs.

Winner: The Nasty Boys, fans of custom airbrushed motorcycle helmets, and particularly, wearing them when not riding motorcycles.

Pretty good diversion of a match, irritatingly bordering on being legitimately respectable. A solid [The 6th Day] affair.

The best thing about the bout is the urban legend that the Nasty Boys got high with Willie Nelson in celebration of their victory and left the tag team belts on his tour bus. That was actually uttered by Knobbs on the WM 2000 retrospect, in a rare moment in which is mouth tissue wasn't firmly embedded within the orange muscle fibers of Hulk Hogan's asshole.

I hope you're in the mood to laugh, because the recap of The Jake Roberts / Rick Martel feud is a veritable cavalcade of comedy, beginning with Jake getting HONEST TO GOODNESS LEGIT blinded by The Model's "arrogance spray", which in turn leads to a segment in which The Snake DDTS Brother Love while Roddy Piper orgasmically screams in approval. Later footage details Jake trying to interfere in one of Rick's matches, only to "accidentally" beat the shit out of Tito Santana instead. If watching a fake Mexican get shoulder blocked by a cracked out guy with a mustache doesn't make you guffaw, you simply don't have a pulse, my friend.

Well, this is the infamous blindfold bout, a match in which both contestants' heads are draped in black cloth like Abu Gharib detainees and forced to fumble about for ten or so minutes while the crowd plays Marco Polo. Of course, the reality is, both guys can see just fine, and they have to pretend to stumble about like Stevie Wonder after a getting off a tilt-a- whirl.

Regardless, this is quite a shitacular spectacle, and one of the worst matches in WrestleMania history, and considering the massive amount of suck emanating from parts 1, 4, 5, and 9, respectively, that's kind of saying something. For God's sake, the Dino Bravo bout from earlier was BETTER than this one. Dino goddamn mother fucking Bravo, people. Jake lands the DDT, feels up the mat for a minute and still scores the pinfall.

Winner: Jake Roberts, audiences engaged in swimming-pool mantra on a massive scale.

Another detestable [Batman and Robin] level disaster.

Backstage, The Nasty Boys, The Mountie, Dino FREAKING Bravo and Earthquake celebrate with some bubbly. RottingMania 7 players, that makes 4.

Cue a Coliseum Home Video Exclusive, which includes Jake the Snake swapping spit with a four year old. Poor kid probably got a contact high from him.

Next up, its Jimmy Snuka taking on The Undertaker. So, should we count guys that HAVE killed people as being apart of the RottingMania index? Yeah, no surprise how this one ends. For what it's worth, it's a relatively stinky match, but at least we don't have to yell at the wrestlers where to lob their fake punches. As Gorilla so eloquently phrased it, this one concludes in "Tombstone City" (which is right outside of Mesa, I hear).

Winner: The Undertaker, fans of up close shots of frightened children.

Eh, we'll chalk it up as being an [End of Days] bout and make forward progression.

Let us make no bones of the sort: this show, thus far, has sucked. That is soon to come to cessation, because it is now time recap the Ultimate Warrior / Randy Savage feud.

Let's begin with Randy blindsiding the Warrior on SNME, which brings us to that one time Sensational Sherri (That makes 5, RM 7 players) got in the blowjob position and begged for a Macho Man title shot, which Warrior promptly refused by hocking a loogey on the floor and roaring "NOOOOOOO!" into her make-up caked faced. That, of course, leads to the Warrior's epic title-costing beat down at the hands of The Macho Man at the Royal Rumble just a few months prior.

All right, I hate to have to do this, but I'm TEMPORALLY going to have to turn off my patented asshole filter for this bout, just because I care more about this match than I do 80 percent of my family members. We'll get back to the chuckles later on, OK?

Before the bout even begins, a bamboozled Bobby Heenan gazes into the crowd, his eyes firmly affixed on something in the audience. "Gorilla, is that who I think it is?" he quizzically quips.

The camera focalizes on a lone figure in the crowd. "That's Miss Elizabeth!" Heenan notes, before sardonically gnashing "How low can I woman get?" Sure enough, it is indeed the ex-apple of Randy Savage's eye, solemnly situated within the darkness of the crowd, the intent of her attendance perplexingly unstated.

Randy Savage makes his way ringside for the bout, sited snugly beside his "new" queen, the devious Sherri, a virtual photo negative of his virtuous former love. Adorned in a gaudy outfit, and carried on the backs of subjected peers, Randy is unaware of Elizabeth's arrival, and one can't help but note Savage's seeming carelessness at such a risky bout. This is about no mere title; rather, the very essence of his career is on the line. A loss in this contest spells the end of his livelihood; and his adversary is perhaps the most dangerous wildcard in the industry.

In stark contrast, The Ultimate Warrior comes out, uncharacteristically subdued, noting the grave and dire implementations of the match. Typically, he shoots out of the entrance gate like a rampaging bull, but his arrival through the curtains for what could be his final bout is a hushed, almost lugubrious march to the ring. Unlike Randy, The Warrior is taking this bout extremely serious. Even his war ensemble is deathly staid for the battle, his garb brandishing imprints of psychological combat.

The Warrior dominates early, easily overpowering the Macho Man, whom realizes that his seedy, underhanded tricks are unserviceable for the bout. Even intervention on the behalf of Sherri cannot allot an early advantage, and in that semblance, Randy begins to realize the err of his arrogant mindset pre-matchup.

After a brief offensive putsch, Macho Man heads up top, attempting to body splash his foe. The Warrior simply catches him in midflight, preferring to sit him down as opposed to slamming him, a spirit-breaking display of power. Randy simply rolls to the outside, sensing the degradation of his game plan. Frustrated, Randy tosses a chair into the battlefield, utilizing the distraction to blindside the Warrior. Once again, the Warrior overpowers him, and Randy is easily squelched by the unorthodox brawler. A reversal of fortune transitions, as an errant leap into the corner sends the Warrior crashing headlong into metal post at full speed, which allows Sherri to strike him with an illegal weapon as the referee is distracted.

A revitalized Randy mocks the Warrior by spitting in his face, before rolling to the safety of the outside playing field once again. The Warrior gears up for his devastating clothesline, before being tripped up by Savage, who feebly attempts to transform the scenario into a winning pinning predicament. The Warrior staves off a sleeper hold from Savage, eventually wearing his adversary down with a clothesline that also takes him down temporarily.

The Warrior has Randy pinned, but a distraction on behalf of Sherri allows Randy to untangle himself from the Warrior's cradle. Expediently taking advantage of a downed referee, Randy is errantly struck by his own lover. Capitalizing on another distraction, Randy takes the vehement upper hand in battle and begins attacking The Warrior with reckless abandon. No man has ever kicked out of Randy's devastating top rope elbow drop. On The Warrior, he drops five. The arena takes on a hushed, mausoleum tone. The Warrior's career is over. Randy goes for the pinfall, and somehow, miraculously, inhumanly, The Warrior kicks out. The crowd explodes in awed wonder, and Savage's face turns a pale, sickly hue. He now knows that he simply cannot beat The Warrior.

The Warrior, imbued with certainty, takes the upper hand, and levels Randy with his own onslaught of clothesline, dropping him with a press slam and body splash, a trifecta that no mere mortal has ever survived. The crowd cheers in early celebration, as The Warrior hooks the leg. In absolute astonishment, Savage, sensing the twilight of his career, the draining of his lifeblood, kicks out in a display of sheer, unfettered will.

The Warrior looks up to the heavens, for the first time, feeling the sensation of self-doubt. It's now anybody's game.

Taking advantage of The Warrior's moment of inquisition, Savage blindsides him. He realizes that he can salvage a victory, but he has just one shot at doing so. He climbs up top, and takes his very career into his own hands. He sails across the air, letting the intangible of fate guide his destination. At that precise moment, The Warrior suddenly realizes his, and nails the coup de grace on Savage, sending his buckled frame to the floor below.

All Savage can do is continue to roll out of harm's way. He knows it's only a matter of time until The Warrior defeats him. Anything to prolong his passion, his life, his love. It's all about to come to an end.

The Warrior places a solid boot on Randy's chest. One, two. Randy reflects on the career that was, and accepts the finality of his existence. Three. He lies motionless, exhausted, defeated as the unconquerable Spartan celebrates in the wake of his vanquishing.

Dejected, his better half storms the ring, kicking his unworthy, beaten frame. Sherri continues to trounce on her bested ex-lover, until Randy's one true love, the one that had been there from the beginning, storms the ring, and stands up for her beloved.

Randy, slowly awakens, and in his moment of abject failure, his absolute lowest peak, standing before him. . . is the only thing that matters. The materialistic gain, the vaunted fame, even the occupational pride; it means nothing. As his eyes transfix on his old love, he realizes that which matters most. He lost everything.

But as he embraces the woman that makes his life significant, he realizes that he has gained everything.

All right, back to me being a splendiferous asshole. Earnestly though, goddamn, what a match. You really don't get better results out of early 90s WWF fare, and if for some stupid ass reason you haven't experienced this bout by now, turn off the fucking monitor and trek down the modern day masterpiece PRONTO. Well, actually, that would probably require that you turn the monitor back on because the match is all over the Internet, but still.

EASILY one of the ten best WWF bouts of the 90s. EASILY. A motherfucking [Terminator 2: Judgment Day] bout if there ever was one.

To counteract the tide of emotion we have just incurred, here's a Demolition bout joined in progress.

Oh, and Elizabeth makes 6, for those of you still playing at home.

Ax and Smash, or Crush or Prancer or Blitzen, I have a hard time remembering, are taking on Tenryu and Kitao, or as they are known to American fans, "who they fuck are Tenryu and Kitao? I feel incredibly bad for these guys, having to follow up the Savage/Warrior classic. What they accomplish is admirable enough, though, with Tenryu scoring the pinfall after power bombing.Donner? Yeah, I think that's right.

Winner: Tenryu, Kitao, Grumpy, Sneezy and Doc

An OK enough [End of Days] tosser. Oh, and Bryan Clark makes 7.

And what do you know? Number eight will be taking on number 9 for the IC title RIGHT NOW.

The Big Boss Man is challenging Mr. Perfect, with Lord Alfred Hayes taking over Heenan's slot on commentary. Man, his voice really sparks up those Ice Cream Bars hunger pangs.

To begin, Boss Man wipes his ass with Perfect's towel and hocks a snot rocket right in Henning's mug. See! That is EXACTLY why I don't trust the police.

You know the score for this one. Boss Man breaks out the power moves, Heenan trips him up when he can, and eventually he gets dumped to the outside and pummeled by The Brain. Pretty basic plot structure in play here. That is, until ANDRE THE FREAKING GIANT shows up, which brings our Rotting Mania figures to 10. You know, while we are at it, we might as will factor in the guys pulling commentating duty, so in actuality, it's really 12. Haku and Barbarian make a run in, shenanigans ensue, and The Giant and The Boss Man whip all kinds of ass. Kind of weird that a cop from the Deep South and a French Leviathan found such a kinship, huh? The first person to send me slash fiction on the subject wins. . . well, nothing, really.

Winner: Big Boss Man (by DQ), Andre the Giant (whom once ate a DQ)

Minimal expectations, minimal output. A frank [End of Days] offering.

Backstage, Big Boss Man and Andre the Giant make out. Or something. Hey, is that a Confederate flag on Boss Man's uniform? And wasn't Andre an admitted racist? Too bad Andre kicked the bucket before they could form the tag team of White Power and Glory (Which was the name of a movie about black soldiers which they hated because they are racist).

Up next, Earthquake (RIP) does battle with Greg the Hammer Valentine (Career, RIP). This, believe it or not, is actually one of the less offensive bouts on the card, albeit a totally disposable element. Valentine gets some offense in, and even locks in the figure four at one point, but did anybody REALLY expect this match to end in anything other than "Massive Ass Splash"? I ponder "nay".

Winner: Earthquake (lucky 13), fans of generic rumbling stock audio

Let's call another [End of Days] bout here. HONEST TO GOODNESS REAL LIFE ANECDOTE TIME: In the ninth grade, I sent Earthquake an email asking for advice in trying to remedy a problematic rift in my relationship with my next door girlfriend and he sent me a response stating that "he wasn't Ann Landers, kid". I'm not saying that's what gave him cancer, but it could have.

One of The Road Warriors states that by the time they get done with "Power and Glory", they'll be known as "Sour and Gory". Well, the gory part I get, but how the fuck do you make someone sour? If there isn't a considerable amount of tart in the ensuing bout, consider me mucho disappointed.

Well, Paul Roma and Hercules make up Power and Glory, and they got their asses kicked in like a minute. Ironically, the sole living member of P&G receives The Doomsday Device from the sole living member of The LOD. Maybe the secret to immortality lies in having a guy with a Mohawk clothesline you off the top rope?

Winner: The Legion of Doom, especially Solomon Grundy

Way too short to be considered anything other than a [Batman and Robin] outing.

Official Rotting Mania 7 count: 15.

The Million Dollar Man struts out for the next contest, as a hobbling Roddy Piper introduces his opponent, his ex-slave Virgil. Yeah, I wish I was making that shit up, too. Man, this is even funnier than the Jake the Snake match from earlier in the evening. The referee has to check Virgil's tights for smuggling illegal weapons, unaware that the bulging girth from underneath his shorts is actually his notoriously huge-tastic dong. Also awesome is when Piper yells "Fuck!" as Virgil gets drop-toe held by Dibiase. This is all sports-entertainment tinged nonsense, as Ted gets counted out and post-bout, Sherri aligns herself with The Million Dollar Man. The new power couple takes turns stomping the crippled Piper, and leave right before Virgil enacts slave justice (which I can only fathom involves choking out his ex-owner with his anaconda like schlong.) The scene ends with Virgil's interracial friendship provoking Roddy Piper to overcome his debilitating injury and stand up under his own freewill. It's kind of like "Brian's Song", only instead of being emotionally captivating, it isn't.

Winner: Virgil, transcultural amity

[End of Days] caliber. It made me chuckle.

A Sgt. Slaughter interview is shown, and this shit is money. You couldn't concoct a cheesier fabrication, and the presser makes me grin like a Cheshire. Let's start with Slaughter BURNING a Hulk Hogan T-Shirt. That Monster! Next up, Iron Sheik almost makes me piss myself by just saying things at normal modulation. Honestly, the guy could be reading from a restaurant menu and it'd be Richard Pryor / George Carlin levels of hilarious. Slaughter's acting job is so ham-fistedly awkward that it almost doesn't feel right to hear the speech sans an MST3K audio track in the background. God, even the parts of the 90s that sucked still ruled.

Hey, who wants to see a throwaway bout between The Mountie and Tito Santana? Yeah, me neither. [Batman and Robin], fuck this shit. The Canadian beat the Mexican, if anybody cares (you don't).

During a Hulk promo, it dawned on me just how weird his gimmick actually was: If the very fate of Western Democracy hinged in the balance, would you really entrust the providence of capitalistic egalitarianism within the big orange mitts of an irradiated Irish surfer?

Marla Maples, Alex Trebek and Regis Philbin soon make their ways ringside. I've got to say, I was quite surprised by the sheer level of brutality and bloodshed the triangle match fostered. The part where Alex Trebek shredded Philbin's eye socket with a cheese grater was expertly sold, but the high spot, in which Marla Maples' was punted in the cervix by Trebek before being choked with razor wire by Philbin seemed a bit rushed. The conclusion came at 14:53, when Trebek nailed Philbin with the Burning Hammer on a flaming board of barbed wire, thumb tacks and mousetraps. Overall, an impressive showing, but Trebek's No-Ropes, Barbed Wire C4 title defense against Bob Vila at Summer Slam was a far superior outing. [* * * *]

[NOTE: The above may or may not have been the hallucinatory aftereffect of huffing jet fuel and may not have actually transpired in reality.]

All right, main event time. The fate, the VERY FATE of the American way of life is on the line in this bout. What, you thought the Balkans conflict was settled months earlier, via military action? Pshaw! THIS is how international disputes are finally settled. You know, like how Vietnam won when Ho Chi Minh threw salt in Nixon's eyes and rolled him up with his feet on the ropes for a heel three count. NEVER FORGET.

Hold on, why is Sgt. Still coming out to the drone of USMC cadence? I thought he was supposed to be ANTI-American. That's like Osama Bin Laden playing Toby Keith music in the background of the next Al Qaeda release. SENSE, IT DOES NOT MAKE.

When it comes crashing down and hurts inside. . . huh. Could it be that Rick Derringer foresaw the events of 9/11 nearly TWENTY years beforehand? If his soothsaying proves accurate, I believe it's about time we invaded whichever country Hoochie Koos emanate from. (I predict Pakistan).

Slowwww start to begin, with Slaughter bumping like crazy already because he knows his time in the spotlight is soon to be a fleeting memory. Hogan spends about ten minutes feeding the crowd's unquenchable thirst for jingoism by beating the Iraqi facsimile in a nigh Warner Bros-like manner. Take that, culture that's different from mine! God, Hogan eats the softest chair shots imaginable. You might as well be socking the puss with a pillow. Weird moment comes when Slaughter locks Hogan in a Liontamer-precursor. Holy shit, Hogan is actually juicing. Cobra clutch attempt negated, sternum first bump tests positive for Hogan. Slaughter attempts to pin Hulk under the banner of an Iraqi flag. YAY XENOPHOBIA! The blatant attempt at trying to promote cultural understanding causes HULK TO BECOME IRATE AND SUPERHUMAN. Big Boot, leg drop, new world champ.

Winner: Hulk Hogan, and FREEDOM. As far as Hulk bouts go, that was actually one of his least abhorrent. An entertaining slice of non-caloric nostalgia right here. [The 6th Day]

All right, that was a pretty fun little recap to trudge through. Obviously, most of the matches are completely and utterly trivial, but there's a smattering of relatively enjoyable bouts on the card, and I simply can't express how freaking amazing the Warrior / Savage match truly is. That's one bout the IWC cherishes that I not only concur with, but actually believe is, if anything UNDERRATED. You know what? Fuck it, I'll say it. The retirement bout from this card is BETTER than Steamboat/Savage. Get that fucker in writing; if you disagree I'll challenge you in a fist fight. Or Rock, Scissors, Paper. Whichever is most conducive to your scheduling.

Hey! Why don't you check out my newfangled YouTube channel over at https://www.youtube.com/user/JSwiftMassMedia? Watch in amazement as I engage in such hardcore acts as INTERVIEWING PEOPLE IN RESPECTFUL MANNERS and RECITING PROSE! E-C-Dub! E-C-Dub!

Oh, and in about a month's time, its happening. You, the TWF audience DEMANDED it. Well, you're getting your ULTIMATE desire. It's a paradigm shift (maybe) in the way you view The Rocktagon. Huh, PPVS on Saturdays? What a novel concept. . .