SUPERMAN
RETURNS.
A.K.A. THE PLIGHT OF JEFF
HARVEY.
YOUR ROYAL RUMBLE 2008 QUICK
& DIRTY.
01/27/08
By Sean Carless.
[The Following was written whilst
under the influence. Only spelling and grammar have been
changed to protect the
not-so-innocent.]
Hey there,
Rasslin' Nuts and those
few enraged pay-per-view viewers still
picking shards of TV glass from your knuckles as I
type this, I am Sean
Carless, and this
is your Royal Rumble quick and dirty. Now 100%
quicker and dirtier. Or Neither.
Whatever.
Anyway, there will be a full
detailed Rant forthcoming by one Anvil's
Swagbag, but for now, I thought, since you all seem
like gluttons for punishment anyway, I would give you
my two cents on the Rumblus Y2KVIII. Only not
literally. You see, I can't spare them, because I
rolled my last bit of change earlier this
evening in a fledgling attempt to somehow
purchase a dimebag with said currency. And yes, I might
be the only man alive on Earth who's ever attempted to
purchase marijuana with a series of rolled pennies.
Ain't I something. The best part, though? If in
fact I get busted, well, I can just use them
1980's evil-heel-style and just knock out the
arresting officer. If it's good
enough to take the title from Nick
Bockwinkel, by gawd, it's good enough for John Law.
That's what I say. While in Jail.
Anyhoo,
as for the Rumble, it was a pretty good little card over
all, with one definite surprise. That being the return
of one John Cena. You read that right, John
Cena, whose actual surname must be umm,
Christ?, because I'll be damned if that wasn't the
fastest recovery from a muscle tear in history. Who does
he think he is? Vince McMahon? Hell, the real Jesus
would probably say "holy shit, this guy was back from
fucking grievous bodily injury fast!". Only you know,
minus the blasphemic swearing. All I know is, Triple H
could learn a serious lesson from this guy as it
pertains to recovery time. Although, I heard
the *real* reason Trips took 8 months to get back into
the ring is because he made a point to go around and
stick post-it reminder notes on all the people he had
planned to pin upon his return. And well, ya, that took
8 months. You would too, if you had to track down
everyone in the entire industry. True
story.
The Rumble began in glorious
HIGH DEFINITION. Things were crisper.
Things were clearer. For example, thanks to HD,
you could actually see Jeff Hardy's broken
spirit through his omnipresent day-glo
paint-covered wifebeater if you looked hard enough. You
just can't witness the true anguish and
pain of being deprived a deserved opportunity in
favor of a painful status-quo in regular standard
definition. I'm telling you.
We opened up with Ric Flair,
who tells us that he remembers the *very first
time* he was in this historic spot. It was the latter
1800's. He chopped Bill The Butcher in the chest and
started an unfortunate turf war. Some people thought
that a 60 year old man, back then, couldn't engage
and hold his own in gang-warfare all
while leading a ragtag group of disenfranchised
Irishmen into battle, but he proved them wrong. In fact,
beneath the historic Madison Square Garden, lays the
bodies of many of those who paid the price. Well, until
Vince dug them up, so he could have a place to bury all
records and proof that Chris Benoit and
Randy Savage ever existed. I'm just paraphrasing
here.
MVP then interrupted Flair,
wearing a sweet one-piece orange unitard, that was
likely a throwback to the mandatory bathing suits men
were forced to wear when Flair first broke into the
business in the early 1920's. What a nice tribute. The
two did battle, but the U.S. Title was not at stake.
Because, as we've learned with the Intercontinental
Title in the last year, it's much cooler and
hipper to just wear it around like a badass
shiny belt buckle, and never defend it on pay-per-view.
I don't make the rules.
At one point MVP actually
pinned Flair, after a MAFIA kick, but Flair had his foot
on the ropes and the match was continued. I love the
Mafia kick. The other day, I went up to some Wise Guys
and called them out hoping they'd unload some of their
patented running kicks on me, but instead, they
just shot me, rolled me up in a carpet, bound it with
chains, and dumped me in the Hudson river. Strange.
"What kind of Mafia was this?", I thought. "Where were
their famous kicks?", I asked. Wrestling would never
lie.
Eventually, MVP tried for his
"Play of the day" finish, but Ric was all like "You
know, it's probably not the best idea in the world for
me to just keep my head lowered like this
whilst this guy awkwardly tries to balance on one leg
while wrapping his other precariously around my
head, before I ultimately roll with it and do
all the work". So he instead just put MVP in the
Figure Four and won the match. Good thinking. Beware
Booker T. , with this revelation, wrestlers
may soon figure out that staying bent over for
35 seconds while you bounce into the ropes is also
a bad idea. You've been warned.
So,
ya, Flair wins and carries on. Until Wrestlemania
anyway. And it's not a moment too soon. Flair is really
looking rough out there. He seems to be physically
disintegrating as week's pass. Kind of like how Spock
got all ravaged by radiation in that Chamber in Wrath of
Khan. Maybe Naitch suffered that same fate? I can just
picture him, in his last dying gasp, pressing the
Horsemen hand-sign against the glass to a bewildered Arn
Anderson. I'd mention the mind meld and
the transferring of his essence to HHH, but
Hunter kicked him off once it got to the part
where Flair put people over and created new
stars.
Vince
McMahon gives his son,Hornswoggle, a pep-talk backstage.
Come on. Seriously. As if a
midget could ever win the
Rumble. A masked midget? Definitely.
Booyaka.
JBL and Chris Jericho was
next. It ended in DQ. That's right, they both shared a
delicious glazed chocolate ice cream cone, and wondered
why they ever started fighting in the first place. Or
maybe it was a disqualification. I can't
remember. All I know is, it took Chris Jericho long
enough to remember that the guy tried to strangle the
life out of him and basically threatened his children.
But why, I don't know, kill a guy like that, when
you can just apply ARMBARS. Yes.
That's the equivalent of Charles Bronson tracking down
the guy that murdered his family in Death Wish, and
challenging him to a game of Paper, Rock, Scissors.
"PAPER COVERS YOUR ROCK! REVENGE IS MINE! FEEL MY
WRATH!".
The match though was decent for what it
was. Jericho got busted open. Possibly hard-way. That's
right, JBL's fist warned him they could have done it the
easy way, but his head just would not listen
to reason. Now look at him. That said, God bless High Def. Now, you can
conclusively prove to those annoying nay-saying family
members that the blood is indeed real. And here they
probably thought High Definition would FINALLY expose
the random dude secretly scurrying to the ring and
squishing a packet of ketchup on Jericho's forehead.
SCORE ONE FOR REALITY IN WRESTLING! Well, until
Khali wrestles later. Maybe try telling them that
the reason people are *still* falling over despite his
moves missing by a foot, is because since he's so big
and stuff, the sheer velocity and trajectory behind
the strikes causes people to just blow over. 60% of the
time, it works all the time.
Anyway, Y2J gets disqualified
for using a chair on JBL, then strangling him with a
microphone cord, which the crowd popped for. Up until
then, they were actually siding with JBL. Likely on the
prospect that JBL pretends to be from New York
City.
Jericho:
"Come on, guys, what gives? I'm really from New York! I
was born in Manhasset,
remember?!"
NYC
Crowd: "I think we know what a *real* New
Yorker looks like, asshole! That cowboy hat? Those
longhorns on the limo? The cool folksy sayings like
"stacking people like they was cord-wood!" It
don't get much more authentic than that!
YEE-HAW!"
Jericho:
"Jesus Christ".
In the back, Ashley tries to
convince Maria to pose in Playboy. But Santino refuses
on her behalf. Come on, Maria. It's "every little girls
dream", if you believe the hyperbole. They just leave
out the part where you then spend the next 3 years doing
nothing but feverishly avoiding guys like Verne "Mini
Me" Troyer trying to blow their load on your tits in the
Grotto. Maybe that's for the best.
Edge and Rey Mysterio met
next. Rey was wearing a little Centurion helmet.
Huh. Maybe that's why there's no more Centurions. I
mean, how hard would it be to vanquish any army of
tiny mask wearing children? Just saying.
Before the match, Teddy Long
wheels Vickie Guerrero to the ring. I could make a joke
that I'd rather they wheel her out on one of those
Hannibal Lecter platforms, complete with mask, so we
wouldn't have to see her face, but oh shit I just did.
I'm just kidding. Kind of. Ok, not really. I hope Edge
and Vickie never have any children, because based on
their respective teeth, that kid would be able to
fully protract his mandibles like the creature in
Alien.
WAIT, THERE'S A MATCH GOING ON
HERE. The Edgeheads get ejected from ringside. Wait.
What? Vickie is the G.M., couldn't she just overrule the
Referee? Man. This is as bad as Heel special
referees not just ringing the bell right away, and
insisting on counting full 3 counts, then getting mad
when the babyface kicks out.
In the end, Rey has Edge set
up for the 619, but Vickie sacrifices herself and eats
the move, and likely a few other things if her shape is
any evidence, and Edge eventually counters a
Rey springboard into the dreaded and feared, but
mostly by his family because it feels like dying,
VAUNTED FLYING HUG. Spooning has never
been more dangerous.
Edge wins. And Rey gets what he deserves.
I mean, doesn't he remember the solid
Vickie did him in 2005 where she held down Eddie so Rey
could scale a ladder and regain his non-biological son
that Eddie ever-so-graciously provided the sperm
for so Rey Mysterio Jr., could have a Rey Mysterio
Junior, junior of his very own? You forgot about that,
didn't you? And here we thought a Leprechaun
paternity suit was fucking clown
shoes.
Ric Flair is seen getting out
of the shower. You read that right. Thankfully, unlike
the Stewardesses aboard the Flight From Hell, we didn't
get an eyeful of the non-Charles Robinson "Little
Naitch". "What an amateur this guy is when it comes
to not accidentally exposing his genitals on national
TV!" said William Regal. Maybe. I don't know. Truth
is, there was a lot of dudes randomly showing up,
all hovering around this semi-nude 60 year
old. It was like the opening scene to the most
horrifying porn film ever.
Maria
comes out next for a Kiss Cam. Holy shit, a
*pay-per-view exclusive* Kiss Cam?!!!
Man, I bet all you fools who didn't order this are
kicking yourself now! These are PERKS only allotted
to those of us paying money to watch ugly strangers make
out. Ahem. Ashley then comes to the ring, to
surprising apathy. And she's from New York! Although,
2/3rds of her reconstructed plastic body were
likely molded and created overseas, hence the
disdain. Or something. All I know is, Ashley does not
really translate well to High Definition. She kind of
looks like someone put a pair of those gummy red
candy lips on a mannequin. I find that hot. They
can't move or talk! My perfect woman. She once again
tries to convince Maria to pose in Playboy, stating that
Hef gave her the call. Ya, that's what
happened. You see, Ashley holds so much
stroke (instead of just being hired so you can), that
when companies want new models to promote their
magazine, they call HER FIRST to see if it's
okay. "Hi, random plastic whore we were
forced to shoot nude by WWE last year, this is Playboy
magazine calling. We need more bare titties. Make
it happen. I'm Hef by the way. Bye."
That's exactly how it happened.
Santino however comes out and
saves the segment by being awesome. Then it gets ruined
again by Big Dick Johnson and Ashley fighting over a
Rubber Chicken. I think. Truth is, it's kind of hazy for
me. Probably because I beat my head against my coffee
table until I drew blood. HAHA, a fat guy in a thong is
dancing! And now that girl is hitting him with a rubber
chicken. That's so funny. It's as if Sports
and Entertainment are coming together in perfect
harmony to create something this is like
totally irreverent and hilarious and worth money.
Someone should have dropped shit on him too or called
him a fag. That's the only thing that could have
improved it. My sides would have
definitely split as in the famous example of things
being that funny, you see. I hate
everybody.
Up next was Jeff Hardy vs.
Randy Orton. Excuse me, JEFF HARVEY, as
called by new announcer Mike Adamle of AMERICAN
GLADIATORS fame. (Good thing Bobby Lindsay and Bret
Clark aren't here to see this travesty!). Maybe if
Jeff had a really cool name like "FYRE", "ICE" or
"NITRO" Mike would have remembered it. Quick, someone
grab some fucking giant rubber Q-Tips and start
hitting each other. Let's shell-shock this poor
bastard.
Anyway, the crowd seems to be
behind Jeff Harvey here in his attempt to take the
title. But alas, nothing. In a gamble between the fuck
up who fails drug tests and blows booking plans and the
other guy who FITS THE EXACT SAME DESCRIPTION, they
chose to stick with the devil they know, Randy Orton.
And yes, if Hell truly is about punishment, the
Devil would be Randy Orton. Unending Chinlocks >
burning sulphur and torture. HELL IS REPETITION.
And chinlocks.
Anyway,
Hardy looked to have things well in hand, but Randy
countered a Twist of Fate into a fantastic RKO and
got the clean pin. Poor Jeff Harvey. He can break
through tables but not glass ceilings. I can just
picture HHH looking down on him, spit-shining the roof,
and then blowing him a raspberry.
Just then, Joey Styles &
Tazz materialize at ringside and put the Rumble over.
Well, that was definitely worth the airfare it cost
them.
Rumble package filled with
cool little Rumbley statistics airs.
1: the number HBK drew when he won
the Rumble in 1995. 3: the number of
Rumbles Steve Austin won. 2: The number
of black-eyes Steve dealt out in a
solitary evening to Debra. 0:
The amount of charisma Bobby Lashley has.
27: The luckiest Rumble number of them
all. Discounting all the dying, strokes and personal
tragedy. Some of these I may have made up.
Maybe.
It's now time for the Royal
Rumble, and holy shit, here's Michael Buffer! WWE really
is turning into WCW, after all. This truly is the
greatest night in the history of our sport. Until
the next one.
Undertaker and HBK draw
number 1 and 2 respectively. That's awesome. We get
to start with the same great Tête-à-Huge
Receding-Tête that finished last year. And
we're off in the Forehead 500. If only we could add
Sinister Minister to this thing, we'd truly have a horse
race. I don't even know what I'm talking about
anymore.
Anyway, I could go through
every single elimination, as I know you're just dying to
know how The Miz and Default Man CAWdy Rhodes fared, but
umm, too bad? That's right. If I really wanted to
write a recap, I'd... write a recap? This was
supposed to sound a hell of a lot more poetic. Anyway,
all you need to know is it was a great Royal Rumble.
Hell, they even carted out RODDY PIPER
and JIMMY SNUKA for this
thing. Although, if the stupid fucking lucha mask wasn't
covering his tear ducts, I'm pretty sure someone
like Charlie Haas would be crying at his misfortune of
being left off the card in honor of the corpse
of Jimmy Snuka and Rowdy Roddy Piper who's FUCKING
GIGANTIC NOW. Hey, I thought you were supposed to
get thinner when you get cancer? Just when you
think you have all the answers, Piper eats the
questions. And then washes it down with a bagpipe filled
entirely with heavy chicken gravy. He sucks it
through the pipe nozzle like a straw. But hey, I
still marked out. What can I say. Even though it
looked like your Fat Dad was tackling somebody's ethnic
grandmother in her bathing suit. CM Punk must have
noticed, too, because he was laughing his ass off on the
mat. Maybe he should get Roddy addicted to
that competition instead of whatever it is that's
made Roddy look like he stepped on a jelly fish
whilst simultaneously being stung by 10,000
bees. Dear god, Motherfucker's built now like
Optimus Prime.
Batista
was this year's Iron Man. Seriously. Despite, you know,
him physically being the complete opposite of that.
(zinc man?) Hey, you get these labels when
you trip and tear all your muscles
while jogging (that's why he only walks
now) through a pit of danger. But it was impressive
nonetheless. The only thing that could have made his
performance more memorable is if a BASKETBALL drew
number 30, then ominously rolled down the Aisle. Big
Dave would then rub his eyes in disbelief, leap over the
top rope, and reevaluate his entire stance on
whether sporting goods are forgiving.
There was also a lot of people
who hung on for a long time. People like John Morrison,
who was out there for almost a half hour. My theory is
that he saw everyone moving in slow motion bullet-time,
and thus was able to easily avoid their attacks. I'm
sticking with that.
Also Hornswoggle hid under the
ring, but was eventually saved by Finlay when Mark Henry
and Big Daddy V looked to assault him. We then learn
that Finlay and Horny are thus DISQUALIFIED from
the Rumble. Who's booking this thing, Vince Russo? Hey,
let's make up some more rules in mid-match. Let's stick
a pole in this thing. Or electrify the ropes. Or have
everyone throw each other from the floor over the top.
Hell, maybe Hunter should come in
and just start fucking pinning people out
of nowhere. Actually, I'm going to shut up now. I don't
want to give them any ideas.
Speaking of the
aforementioned Big Daddy & Henry. They seem to
be working as a tandem here. Which surprises me. I
always assumed that since V looks like one big
half-digested milk dud, that Henry would forget he's a
human and try and consume him. Normally he'd cook him
first, but Henry ruined all the frying pans backstage by
bending them in half because, damn it, that's what
world's strongest people do! Need to make a phone call?
Fuck you. He tore the book in half. How dare it be
all dense and thick and not ripped in half. Weaklings
make phone-calls. It had it coming.
Hey, look, there's CHAVO
GUERRERO, the ECW World Champion entering the Rumble~!
Holy shit, I'd love it if he won this thing then
challenged for his own World Title. Imagine the
promo: "Chavo, we've got the belt. Well,
we want it. And we're coming for it at
Wrestlemania. Tell me to bring my A game, because we
promise a show we won't soon forget. At
Wrestlemania, we promise us, this will our last
night as champion, and our first."
Makes total sense to me.
And the irony is, it's still a more credible
title program than Lashley vs. Vince last
year.
But seriously, this should be
the death knell for ANY of the apologists out there who
desperately think that this company cares about the ECW
title. I'm sure right now, if he was
watching, Shane Douglas would be crying. You
know, if he wasn't already busy re-stacking
lawn-chairs at Target. "CUT THE FUCKING MUZAC. I've
got to do a price-check. Be right back.
Kthanx."
Oh, and for the record, Punk
was eliminated by Chavo. So, CM Punxsutawney's chance of
finally ESCAPING the perpetual Groundhog Day that is ECW
has gone up in smoke. Marijuana smoke. You know, because
he's straight edge and that'd be like annoying to him or
something.
By the way, Mick Foley was
also in there, and came in to a HUGE pop but was
ultimately obliterated by Triple H. I however marked out
more for his sweet leopard print vest. It looked like
something a horny 45 year old woman who wears
way too much make-up would wear whilst prowling for
20 year old men at a club. It was awesome and terrifying
at the same time. Maybe next time I'm at the bar, some
cougar will choke me out with a sock then ravage my
unconscious body whilst I slumber, just to create a
karmic balance.
Undertaker
and HBK go out one after the other, soon after. HBK
super-kicked Undertaker out. Taker was then all like
"Good one, dude!" Then remembered who he was, and
then was like "Umm, I mean, REST IN PEACE or
something!". It happened exactly as I said, minus
the lies. Immediately after though, Mr.
Kennedy snuck up behind HBK and dumped him out. If
*I* was Shawn, I'd have just gone and amputated one of
my legs at the knee backstage, that way I'd have had to
win by proxy. I mean, why not? It's not like the thing
isn't going to probably fall off anyway. Eventually,
he'll be wearing knee braces so fucking
big it'll necessitate some
custom made HBK Hammer pants just hide them. The bright
side though, is that one day, when he's being
chased by bad-guys, the braces will suddenly fly
off and he'll be able to run incredibly fast. RUN, HBK!
RUNNNNNN!
HHH is in at number 29. I
think he should just piggy back Lemmy to the ring whilst
he sings his theme song. That's how fucking cool this
guy is. Once Triple H got to the ring,
he obliterated everything that stood in his path.
The first victim was CAWdy Rhodes. But not before
yelling out "You need to unlock a new move-set and
costume already! You can do so by purchasing experience
points in your custom locker room!". It was hard to
hear, sure, but my HDTV caught it.
Number 30 was of course the
returning John Cena. Turns out he wasn't injured,
but rather on a whim, he flew to the
original destination of his destroyed hometown
of Krypton Massachusetts to see if it was still there,
but alas nothing. He was then tentative about
returning at all after that, because he feared fan
backlash, but his nameless father, Mr. Cena
actually convinced him otherwise....
Mr.
Cena: "They can be a great people, John,
if they wish to be. They only lack the
light to guide the way".
John
Cena: "WORD."
That's how it went down. Trust
me. Anyway, Cena, The Mariniest Marine ever with
otherworldly powers, immediately tosses Carlito, who
once again doesn't somehow utilize his spongy hair to
catapult back into the ring and avoid elimination. That
fool. Chavo goes next. And right now, there's
probably somebody on a message-board I won't mention
that is saying "I hope Cena goes and challenges Chavo
for the ECW title!!!!!11 That proves right there he can
beat him!!!!". That person then goes right back to being
spoon-fed pureed vegetables by a nurse for their own
protection.
From there, to make it a
hat-trick, a hat likely turned on
a jaunty angle so to please the throngs of white
kiddies who think they are black, Cena tosses out
the Silverback, Mark Henry. GORILLA WARFARE~! I always
promised I'd use that line one day, and that day is
today.
From there, Kennedy goes out,
and Batista and HHH dump out Umaga, and his
horrifyingly bright red tights. A pair for the
record that even had his name "Umaga" embroidered
on the ass. I guess, so he knows which pair in the
back are his. Which is hilarious. Isn't he a
savage? Do they even pack luggage? And how'd he
even know what it said? What's the point? I'd prefer if
it was just "Ah Blah Blah Fa Samoa!" written on there
instead. I've at least heard him say
that...
HHH then tosses Batista out
after he tried a Batista bomb on Cena. So much for the
EVOLUTION reunion. HHH must have decided on
Intelligent-Design instead. I can't say I blame him.
Batista's living proof that Evolution is a
falsehood. He is after all still the same shitty
wrestler he was 5 years ago. Shouldn't he have evolved
by now? Natural selection should have upped his move-set
to at least 3 holds by now. Ah, I kid. I just
wanted to use an Evolution joke and the only other one I
had involved the coincidence of HHH naming his bulldog
Lucy. What do you want.
So, this just leaves Triple H
and John Cena. It's just like Warrior and Hogan in 1990,
only involving people you hate and are not at all
interested in seeing clog up the main event scene. Other
than that? Identical. The two circle each other, and HHH
points up at the Wrestlemania sign. Cena nods
accordingly. Then HHH says, "Of course, even if I
lose here, I'm still going to be in the main
event. Did you forget where I put my
dick?". John Cena's then all like "You
mean, Shawn Michaels? I saw him in the back". They then
laugh and laugh. I know this, you see, because I'm
a lip reader.
The two then put on a pretty
good little short counter-fest, but Cena ultimately
prevails, by flying quickly through MSG's roof, and
through Earth's atmosphere, just enough to soak in the
rich rays of the yellow sun of the earth, then he
quickly flies back, and throws Triple H out with an FU.
Truth, Justice, Hustle, Loyalty, Respect and the All
American Way, yo. And he did it all with a broken
freakin' pec.
FINAL
THOUGHTS: Never eat a Meatball sub after you've
drank and smoked up for 3 hours straight. Trust
me.
Oh, and a GREAT Rumble. Some of the
booking was suspect, but I was entertained. At least the
guy who went over gets pushed because of reaction, and
not because his penis could give you an eye-witness
account of what Steph's vital internal organs look
like. So, I'm good. Normally, I'd further endorse it
with a hearty two thumbs up, but my extremities are too
numb and I've apparently lost most movement in my body.
Will you settle for some blinking and then me
falling asleep fully clothed where I sit? Good
enough.
And hopefully, Anvil writes a
Recap that doesn't leave you saying "What the fuck just
happened here?!". You know, like this one just
did.
Send Feedback to Sean
Carless
Sean Carless is a man of many hats.
And he wears those hats to cover an ever-increasing bald
spot. Sean's various scribblings have been read at Live
Audio Wrestling, 411 Mania, Honky Tonk Man.com, The
Toronto Star.com, Wrestlecrap, and Lethal
Wrestling. He has also cured
AIDS.
