Best: As Always, Tyson Kidd Is Briefly Fantastic
The Montreal crowd was terrible. They had an excuse for the second half of the show, but all they did was sit silently between “whats” and hockey chants. Even Tyson Kidd barely got a reaction, in an environment where “you are from here” is the biggest and easiest source of applause. These are the people who lost their minds when John Cena spoke a sentence in French. It amazes me how people pay so much money to not enjoy wrestling.
Anyway, like the boldface says, Tyson Kidd, as always, was briefly fantastic. He’s a great opponent for Del Rio, because he’s the best non-One Man Band wrestler in WWE at compellingly selling an injury (for more than five seconds) and breaking out (and cleanly hitting) bouncy moments of hope. Del Rio’s all about causing quick, sustained injury and getting caught off guard by guys springboarding at him, or whatever. The truth is that Tyson Kidd’s probably a good match for anyone, because Tyson Kidd is great, and he’d be a huge star already if WWE wasn’t so dead-set on helping Evan Bourne work through his crippling weed addiction.
Worst: I Still Care About You, Kaitlyn, Whether Everyone Else Has Forgotten About You Or Not
There’s a moment during the six-Diva tag (featuring heel Alicia Fox, because why not) where Cole explains once again how Kaitlyn won a battle royal to be the #1 contender to the Divas Title, and how everyone thinks it was a fluke. You know why he mentioned it again? Because that’s the only thing that has happened in the Kaitlyn storyline involving Kaitlyn during this ENTIRE CYCLE.
Seriously, that’s it. Kaitlyn won a fluke battle royal, and you thought there were gonna do a new kind of story about an up-and-comer with connections to the Raw GM getting her first big shot at a “legendary Diva”, but all they’ve done is focus on Eve picking up unimportant wins and pretending to be everybody’s friend. As good as character development for Eve is, why is that happening now? Why is Kaitlyn an afterthought in a six-Diva tag on the go-home Raw for the pay-per-view featuring her big challenge? She’s getting Chris Jericho’d in a feud between Stephanie McMahon’s dog and Triple H. Maybe on Smackdown she’ll jump Layla backstage and drive away in the Paul Heyman/CM Punk clown car, but yeah, maybe not.
Best: Kaitlyn’s Ring Gear
I enjoyed Kaitlyn’s ring gear for a variety of reasons, including but not limited to:
1. It accentuates the positive, and doesn’t make her look beefier than she is.
2. No animal print, which is a positive thing for any pro wrestler who isn’t the f**king Barbarian.
3. Do you remember Viscera? Remember how when he’d wrestle he’d spend the entire match trying to pull up his pants, and how funny and awful that was? Kaitlyn’s top was pulling a Viscera here, and it was easily the best ever interpretation of Pulling A Viscera.
Worst: CM Punk Is A Paul Heyman Guy, Which I Guess Means Getting Counted Out On Purpose
Being a Paul Heyman Guy seems a lot like being an A.W. Guy.
Jack Swagger Of Mars
All-American American American American Jack Swagger awoke from hypersleep to find the U.S.S. Rhadamanthus motionless, dark, and eerily thilent. Silent.
“HULLO?” Jack bellowed, stepping out of his chamber with his arms held out to his sides, fingers spread wide, taking big stomps across the starship’s cold, metal floor. “Is anybody OUT there?”
Swagger fumbled his thick, taped fingers across the control board, looking for the vessel’s auxiliary power switch. Perhaps if he could bring light into this empty space, he’d open his eyes and find himself backstage at the Bell Centre again, removed from this nightmare exile, looking upward and slightly to the right as Vickie Guerrero, a voice long-gone from his life, muttered explanations of a United States Championship match under her breath and cackled. In his mind, Jack wiped his hands over his face and jogged in place. “Tonight will be the night,” he imagines himself saying. “I’m going to defeat Santino Marella or whoever and win back the United States Championship, a belt that belongs to the All-American American American…”
The voice in his head drifted away as his fingers laced their way through the control prongs of the ship’s antiquated control mechanisms. With images of a cheering crowd and the Swagger Soaring Eagle flashing through his brain, he pushed the stick forward, bringing up the Rhadamanthus‘ bridge lights. The fluorescent lights suddenly illuminated the room, popping with a loud fizz, blinding Jack as if he were opening his eyes on a bright new morning. Swagger moved his arm away from his eyes, and as his sight adjusted he found himself far, far away from the smart, sexy and powerful world of WWE Superstars … he was alone, alone on the U.S.S. Rhadamanthus, lost in God knows where. The light switch then lurched forward, sending Swagger stumbling forward into the ship’s middle turnbuckle.
Jack collapsed to the ground, waiting for the hypersleep tube or whatever to tip over and pin him so he could end today’s 30 seconds of work. He covered his face. How long would this losing streak last? That’s when he noticed something peculiar: the ship wasn’t moving. After staring up at the lights for several minutes, Jack sprang to his feet and Frankenstein-walked to the nearest shuttle window, expecting to find himself lost in a distant starfield. “The engines have stopped, I’m dead,” he thought. “Maybe the hypersleep chamber malfunctioned. Am I out of gas? How long have I been out?” Fear overcame him.
When he made it to a window, and after taking a moment to wipe the glass because his weird mouth-breathing had fogged it up, Jack’s eyes bugged out. The ship wasn’t lost in space at all … it had landed! Jack shook his head and wiped his face with his hands. This was the most surprising thing to happen to him since losing to Evan Bourne those five or six dozen times in a row: the Rhadamanthus had crash landed in a great sea of pink sand.
“Marth,” he whispered.
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