Back So Soon?
by Matthew Damascus
Newsier News Flash: HLA?? HLA? Hot Lesbian Action?? Two hapless indie valets playing at the most stereotypical girl-on-girl roles ever (“We’re the lesbians!”), and then being beaten up just for the leering masses? What the fuck was that out there? Where’s the wrestling? Where’s the athleticism? Does fucking Vince McMahon think I am a hormone-crazed monkey? Will I jerk off over his fucking stupid vision of misogynist WW”Entertainment” until I die? Will I cheer? Will I buy tickets? You’d better fucking watch out, you stupid bag of shit, I’m about done with your personal playground of degradation, and so are a WHOLE lot of other people. You’ll hit the bottom and I’ll be there to laugh. FUCK YOU.
News Flash: A gay wedding? On Smackdown? Thursday? Billy and Chuck? What about the ultra cool Rico? Will WWF’s Cro-Magnon handling of this cause me to stop watching Smackdown? Hope not! Will it suck? Certainly will if the ham-handed proposal is anything to go by! More later!
So, um, the guy who wrote a wrestling column for the local paper, some really crap affair called “Laying The Smack Down,” or some shit like that, he just got canned. Oh man I sure am gonna miss his insightful pieces on how successful the WCW Invasion is/was, or how a month ago he put his foot down and heartily protested all of the anti-woman violence in the WWF (this was, mind you, over a year after 70-something Mae Young was put through a table by the Dudley Boyz) — he had an eagle eye for the business, that kid. Maybe he’s a booker now. Plus his “insider” news was always like five weeks out of date. Sayonara, sucker. Now that he’s gone, I feel like I can go back to writing a wrestling column in peace without being menaced by my own daily goddamn paper.
Yes, I was waiting for him to go away all this time. Oh, and I was in England for awhile, where the only wrestling show at the time was WWF Jakked. Ha! Hack! There weren’t even any WWA shows running. I missed seeing Triple H swell up like a musclebound toad! Which brings me to my next point…
Nothing can make an ordinary Sunday errands excursion extraordinary like going to a thrift shop, no, no, wait that’s for a different identity… Here now, nothing can make an ordinary Sunday errands excursion extraordinary like, at the end of it all, gathering all your leftover sheckels and assorted change from buying shampoo, dryer sheets, and nectarines, pocket change in other words, and heading over to the clearance section of the local Toys R’ Us and splurging $2.00 on a bargain basement Triple H figure. How sweet it is! Most of them are from about a year or two ago, back when he still looked pretty cool. Wasn’t he sporting that rocking (no sarcasm) combination leather jacket with sleeveless denim jacket and HHH sigil just a few weeks ago? That was pretty fucking ace. I always wanted to write about that jacket, but I never got around to it. Or maybe it was just the figure that looked cool. I surely know that the salmon polo shirt that he was wearing last week wasn’t cool AT ALL. What an odd change. Which brings me to back to the point I was trying to make a paragraph ago…
Justin Credible sure has fucking sucked since they took his denim shorts (which he layered over his tights back then) away, hasn’t he? It took away any bit of a visual edge he had, all the white trash glory was unceremoniously stripped, leaving us, the fans, with only a skinny bald guy in long black tights. I swear to God, he lost like half of his musculature the day he came out in only tights. The wind just went out of his sails. Sad. I read somewhere that he hasn’t won a single match since returning. Harsh. Strange too, a simple pair of shorts can be the key to a man’s character. I never wear shorts.
Oh my god, I got sidetracked again.
As I was trying to say several paragraphs ago, Triple H sure has changed since the last time I wrote about him hereabouts in Bladejob. Remember that one about his weird Nine Inch Nailsy entrance video for that one pay per view? It was around the second iteration of his “big heel run,” right after he was revealed as the driver who ran over Steve Austin. Holy shit, that was the ppv where he was in the car that got smashed by a forklift! Oh my god, so silly. So, so silly. I have it on tape somewhere… No, I won’t watch it again.
Anyhowz, I turn on Raw this Monday and HHH is all over my television, whatever, nothing new. Shall I cry? You either get used to it or turn off the television. Like I was telling hischeapmoves the other day, I think I watch wrestling more out of reflex instinct than anything else these days — I couldn’t turn it off if I wanted to. I’m a junkie… but not a STEROID junkie. Oh, these sidetrack(mark)s are just insidious. But back to HGH, see — I like him a lot of the time — that entrance pose is pretty metal and epic, very rock. I have a huge soft spot for him. Against all odds. So what I’m trying to get at is that… damn it’s rough watching Triple H just kinda fall apart right in front of my screen. The freak injuries — bone chips in his elbows, all manner of sprains and who can fucking forget the quadriceps muscle that rolled up like fucking window blinds in the middle of a damn match? Or the every present tape, elbow pads and knee braces, part of the outfit? Maybe. I doubt it. The acne on the back is always jarring. The worst of all, I think, is that in about two years he went from this mane of thick blond hair (that I was sooooo jealous of), awesome rokker hair, to, on Monday, this scraggly mop of washed-out hair that was the same color as his too-tanned skin, and the scalp was just totally shining through. So I thought, well, it’s probably just because it was wet. Here’s the thing though, throughout the whole night, IT NEVER DRIED! Not even during the matches. Scraglly and limp. Then there’s the weirdness of watching his musculature wildly fluctuate between the too-pumped-to-move-the-shoulders look when he returned from the quad injury at the beginning of the year, to a relatively leaner physique now — it makes his skin look otherworldly and plastic. Almost… like… an… action… figure. I’m scared. Hold me.
Next time: Sometimes Change Can Be A Good Thing. But The WWF’s Version Of A Gay Wedding Can Never Be Anything But Soul-Crushing.