Stephen Rivera's 4th Fall
Session Nine: Blue Kingdom
May 12, 2011
My somewhat beloved brethren; we are living in a period of chaos. Men are celebrating their day of birth with strangers and other men named after dogs. Women are paralyzed by the sight of larger, ethnic women. Some of our greatest warriors have departed without warning, leaving our remaining defenders approved for all audiences. Others lie wounded on their final beds of rest, often punching the chicken knees on their chicken legs just to feel something. Even through the rosiest of stained glasses, the blind claim that this land is barren. I am inclined to agree.
I look to the horizon in search of the towering fortress that once was. In its place sits a pile of rubble which continues to collapse under the weight of our tears. The flags of a better time still fly in the breeze, but for whom exactly? A gentleman with two first names who stole the face of another? A darker gentleman who always looks confused, and confused about being confused? They are no leaders of mine. New blood is needed, O mighty one. Embrace the unknown.
Who will rise up and return this fallen empire to prominence? Will it be newcomer John Cena, the fearless soldier who encourages the people of tomorrow to colour-coordinate? Could it be promising prospect Randy Orton, the sly stalker whose facial hair suggests that he may or may not be competing in the second round of the Werewolf Hockey League playoffs? How about this John Cena fellow, a magical lyricist with rhymes that would inspire Dr. Seuss to question a ham's sexuality? How about Randy Orton, the calm and calculated follower of none, spouting words fast and powerful enough to pierce you like a bullet of molasses? Finally, what about you (assuming that you are John Cena or Randy Orton)? The options are numerous, yet only one can save us all.
Whoever will call the throne his own, may his youthful exuberance jumpstart the heart of the old man's land. Henceforth, may he be our champion, then not our champion, then our champion again, then not our champion again, and repeat this innovative pattern of rule until his last breath.
- Melina needs to go to charm school. I count at least three possible points of entry in a regulation wrestling ring, yet she takes the one closest to the gutter by entering under the bottom rope. During medieval times, that was the type of entrance used by a sewer rat stricken with the bubonic plague. Others know it as the entrance of the town tart in a limbo contest, trying to win medicinal cocaine for her intimate rashes.
For goodness sake, act like a lady for once. If I was to lay my coat over a puddle like any chivalrous male should, you would probably lift the coat, swim through the puddle, then count it as an hour-long bath. Your peasant flexibility disgusts me. I will not let you soil my red carpet, Melina. I shall furl it.
- Dolph Ziggler's old look was my security blanket. Without it, the world seems much scarier, bleaker, and imperfect. In the absence of Classic Dolph, I must adopt his look as my own. Don't be afraid if you see a man walking around with a mound of undercooked spaghetti on his head. He will flip back first into steel steps. He will be indecisive about wearing vests. That man will be me. In the event that an abrasive woman with stylish mom hair starts following me around, so be it. I'll be too busy turning my skin beet red for no apparent reason to notice.
- Certainly, I'm not alone in thinking that Impact Wrestling is a fantastic name. What a catchy and multi-purpose title for a promotion whose sole flaw was name-related. Impact Wrestling can stand for many things, such as the impact of a finishing move on an unsuspecting opponent, the impact of a fresh face appearing on screen for the first time, or even the impact of the entire promotion itself on an industry and culture. Best of all, Impact reminds me of a woman's no-no places. I like that.
- A wrestler's post-match confetti celebration should be proportionate to the average star rating of his match. Someone who amazes the audience with a dynamic and dramatic outing deserves a lengthy shower made up of all colours of the rainbow. Conversely, a wrestler who tests the crowd's patience with an underwhelming and tedious performance should receive a one-piece confetti drizzling. After he has finished celebrating his victory, he must return the piece by blowing it towards the rafters with his mouth. He cannot leave the ring until he succeeds.
- Attention wrestling fans who are about to watch WWE Films' newest release, That's What I Am: This picture will inspire you to treat others with respect and not be prejudiced against individuals with red pants. However, you will have no idea which characters deserve your cheering and jeering. At no point in the film does Randy Orton or any other actor or actress wear a t-shirt that signifies which side they are on. For two of the three acts, I thought Randy was the female principal. The curves gave it away, though. The female principal had too few curves to be Randy.
- Kharma has brought great shame upon the Internet Doll Head Depreciation Community. I thought she came into WWE to destroy the Divas' valuable doll collections, not take ten lifetimes to take off fancy epaulettes. Are you telling me that every single one of those well-produced, ominous vignettes were lies? If she is not going to deliver the goods as advertised, can she at least open these Mason jars for me so I can finally start peach preserving season? No? Fine. I am done with wrestling for the maximum amount of time that a normal, disenchanted fan would be done with the entertainment sport. I can't take this anymore. See you next Monday.
- My belated Cinco de Mayo/Mother's Day gift to WWE is a revised blindfold match. A typical blindfold match involves two men boring the audience by flailing at the air for forever. My blindfold match involves two grown men wielding long sticks. Scattered throughout the ring and ringside area are several life-sized, piñata versions of both wrestlers. Whenever a wrestler hits a piñata, a group of kids must trample through the debris and consume the candy before he can continue. The first wrestler to hit his actual opponent wins.
Starting next RAW, I want this match to become a weekly staple of WWE programming. Wait, what? Three special guests will be attending Monday Night RAW? Wonderful. Who are they? The Red, Yellow, and Green M&Ms? And you're saying they're going to referee the match? Oh no. What have I done?
- Dear, tag teams; do not tug on the turnbuckle tag rope too hard. I am not even certain that it's actually a tag rope. Maybe the ring is having one of those heavy-flow days and needs that dual-tampon action. If you want to make the ring happy, don't ignore it to watch a football tripleheader. Rent that Colin Firth movie it likes and ask how its day went. Be there for the ring.
- Forget about little people like Hornswoggle. I have grown tired of his Looney Tunes antics and Leprechaun-Forced-to-Live-and-Work-at-the-YCMA appearance. I have moved on to babies now. I am currently in a desert setting, holding a picket sign with an arrow pointing to the general location of babies. My decision is final. Hornswoggle is so 2000 and late.
Toddlers would make excellent sports entertainers. They already have that "wrestler" look, what with being bald, stocky, and prone to showing up to various events in an underdressed and cranky state. Their mothers or fathers could act as their managers, dictating when, where, and how they should unleash the infantile fury.
Just wait until the baby incarnation of Kane debuts. His bib will hide his physical and psychological owies. He should've let Mom or Dad hold that heated bottle for him, but it's too late. He is raising his arms up in the middle of the ring. Once those baby arms come down, four televisions will emerge from the ring posts playing Baby Einstein videos. Welcome to Hell on Earth.
- Wrestlers who talk about busting their bottoms to put food in their kids' mouths and clothes on their backs should be commended. People who make an honest day's pay are rare in today's society. On the other hand, they really shouldn't brag about their blue-collar work ethic this much. Supposedly, they have been working so hard that they have been unable to teach their children how to feed and clothe themselves. Give them winding sections of Hot Wheels tracks that can send the food from the plates to their mouths. Get them two pieces of cloth and a stapler or Velcro footed pyjamas. Do not let these children suffer any longer.
- During their marriage, Jeff Jarrett will ask Karen if she would like to go mountain biking with him. I hope Karen never agrees to do so. Mountain bikes are expensive. Plus, if Jeff's guitar-playing skills are any indication of his bike-riding skills, Karen and her noggin are better off staying at home. Personally, the only activity I would be comfortable doing with Jeff is making balloon bowls. Jeff is a poor balloon bowl maker at best, but check out Karen's new balloon hat.
- Every time a wrestler — usually a legend who is not used referring to the company as "WWE" — messes up his promo and says, "WWF," I picture a angry panda watching at home. He slouches in his leaf recliner before taking a drag of his bamboo cigarette. In the company of silence, he shakes his head, then uses his arthritic, worn-out paws to claw yet another notch into the wall of his hut. At this point, there are so many notches that he cannot recall the pattern of his Asian wallpaper. Perhaps it resembled inner peace.
His alcoholic panda wife tells him that dinner is ready, but he can't hear her slurring through the blinding white rage that boils within him. Maybe he'll have dinner when he is ready. How about that, Xiao-xing?
Stephen Rivera is the creator of The Swerved (2006-2010), Neon Ropes, and this column. As children, Stephen would often provoke his readers to fight each other. He thought it would equip them for the challenges of life. He also believed that footage of the readers fighting would be a big hit in the burgeoning home-video market. He soon franchised the concept with such titles as Left Books, Write Hooks, Raining Read 'Bows, and Construction Paper Horse Race: The Summer Reading Challenge of No Return.
THE TWF "MENTAL WELLNESS TEST!"
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.).