Best: The Greatest Mental Mismatch In WWE
This match wasn’t anything to write home about (although “CoBro” is pretty cute), but I’m sharing it for one very big reason: THIS GIF.
ASSISTED CARTWHEELS. ASSISTED CARTWHEELS, YOU GUYS. The announce team can condescend on it all they want, but Damien Sandow found a way to make his victory dance even more infuriating … by having his tag team partner arm-whip him into it like they’re ballroom dancing. Please stay a tag team forever, guys.
That video clip starts with that terrible moment of conversation where JBL says he spent the day talking to Damien Sandow about Columbus Day, which is a great, great premise, only for Cole AND JBL to totally f**k it up. Cole ruins it in his Michael Cole way by saying “OH THAT SOUNDS BORING“. JBL ruins it by saying he talked to Sandow about how Columbus was a thief who got lost by 5,000 miles, as if THAT is the reason why we shouldn’t have Columbus Day. I mean, yeah, I guess you can’t talk about the genocide of a race of people and that Manifest Destiny bullshit on Raw, but the way he said it (“5,000 MILES”) made it sound like nobody who was THAT bad at nautical navigation should have a holiday.
Although maybe that makes the conversation better.
Best: An Now, An Encore Presentation
Pop Quiz: Did Brandon enjoy Heath Slater, Jiner Mahal and Drew McIntyre jumping Santino, doing individual dancing taunts over his body, reiterating the “Encore” stable and acting out an actual encore by showing up after the match was over to add additional match?
b) ALSO YES
c) WHAT ARE YOU, STUPID, YES OF COURSE
I haven’t decided yet if Jinder’s total lack of rhythm makes it better or worse. Is he doing The Bird? If Jinder’s really committed to that “The Maharajah” nickname, he should end their attacks with a really weaselly version of Elton John’s ‘Our Song’.
Best: After 5 Years In The Company, Eve Figures Out That She Should Probably Use That Jiu-Jitsu She Knows
A new clue has emerged in the mystery of Who Attacked Kaitlyn! Just kidding, we forgot about that already. It was Beth Phoenix, probably.
As much as I love Kaitlyn, she’s not exactly Meiko Satomura in the ring. Asking Eve Torres to carry a match is like asking Jinder Mahal to carry the Step Up franchise, but I’m legitimately proud of her for finally, after all this time, remembering that many of her real-life hobbies involve FOR REAL FIGHTING, and that looking like you know how to wrestle and fight could come in handy WHEN YOUR JOB IS WRESTLING.
Eve applying a simple, for-real submission hold on Kaitlyn’s ankle is the most I’ve enjoyed Eve … possibly ever. That should be the next stage of her character development. She went from “bland semi-ethnic pointing lady” to “hoeski” (or whatever), and now she’s become a backstage manipulator who may or may not have a personality disorder. The next step should be that she is also, I don’t know, A F**KING JIU-JITSU MASTER who just toys with the Divas because they are fake underwear fighting and she is heel hooking the shit out of them. That’d make the Divas who could step up and give her a fight look legit.
Yes, I’m suggesting you build the Divas division around Eve doing MMA. Shut up.
Worst: Larry King’s Wife, Because Seriously
Daniel Bryan did his best to calmly and clearly feed Larry King his cues, but trying to get Larry King to perform complex WWE backstage humor is like trying to get your cat to walk around on a leash. Larry King’s only remaining talents are “sit still,” “nail the Real Housewives Of Wherever” and “remind us of how funny Norm MacDonald is”. He did fine, though, and was a solid Buzz Aldrin on a scale of The Muppets to Jeremy Piven Saying Summerfest.
The horrible part of this segment was Larry’s wife, who managed to say she didn’t make a habit of hooking up with “trolls who sleep under bridges” while her 78-year old Hubert Farnsworth-looking crypto-husband was standing RIGHT THERE. Tell her you don’t have a habit of hooking up with failed musicians with plastic surgery face, then show her that picture of Brie Bella in your Jill Thompson “YES” shirt.
Jack Swagger Of Mars
World Wrestling Entertainment
C.O.O. wait, C.O.O., right? C.E.O. Vincent Kennedy McMahon stared incredulously at the cabal of soap opera writers and secretly-obsessed-with-wrestling man-children assembled at the table around him. His eyeglasses had slipped to the end of his nose.
“Creative team,” he mumbled.
One of the men, a bright-eyed man in his late twenties, spoke up.
“I’ve got a great idea … starting with tonight’s Raw, we try to tell cohesive, easy-to-understand stories. We treat our wrestlers like television characters, give them consistency, give them consequences. Make it feel like they’re fighting to become the best in the world at their job, the champion. Give it a real sports feel without sacrificing the suspension of disbelief that makes pro wrestling such an integral part of peoples’ lives around the world. Craft true heroes people can look up to. Craft true villains who make the lives of those heroes miserable. Pit the heroes against the villains, and tell compelling, interesting stories with this incredible, physical, visceral medium.”
Vince’s face scrunched. His voice bubbled up from deep within him.
“Whooo do youuu thiiink you areeee,” he growled. “WHO DO YOU THINK YOU ARE, DAMMIT. GET OUT, GET OUT OF MY OFFICE, GET OUT DAMMIT, GET OUT DAMMIT.” He continued barking orders as he rose to his feet, his limbs appearing to move independently of one-another, as the writer fled the room. Pencils, loose change and DVD copies of Dreamslam 2 fell out of his cargo pants as he ran through the hallways of WWE Headquarters, never to be seen again.
“Who else has an idea?” Vince asked. The room was silent. Eventually, another of the men spoke up.
“We have, um, the leprechaun guy, um, Hornwaggle, we get Hornwaggle to to dress up like the guy from The Hangover, we have him carry round a baby, right, because it’s littler than him, and then Mike Tyson shows up with a tiger like in that movie. We do it backstage. An um, later they do a tag team match.”
Vince considered the idea.
“Well, it’s not quite there, but it’s a start.” He wrote “dress up leprechaun guy” on the dry-erase board, between DIVAS #1 CONTENDER BATTLE ROYAL and IS KHARMA DONE BEING PREGNATE YET. “One question, what’s The Hangover?”
“It’s a movie.”
“When did it come out?”
“2009 maybe, I denno.”
“Haven’t seen it. The last movie I saw was 1998’s Deep Rising, dammit, and I feel as though I never need to see another. So let’s see … Divas battle royal … dress them like firefighters for no reason. Call it HOT N’ SPARKY DIVAS BATTLE ROYAL. Yeahh. We need Sheamus to wrestle. Tell you what, forget about the new ideas for now, let’s just do what we always do.”
The men at the table looked at each other with confusion. “Who said anything about new ideas,” they probably thought, because they have the short-term memory of an aquarium full of hamsters.
“We need somebody to lose,” gutturally uttered. He wrote the words “Jack” and “Swagger” on the dry-erase board in blue marker.
The room looked at each other once more, this time with a purposeful confusion.
“Excuse me, sir?”
“HOW DARE YOU,” Vince responded.
“I know, sorry. But, uh, Jack Swagger’s not here.”
Vince’s ears perked up.
“Not here? Did we fire him? Did I forget about that? WE DIDN’T F**KING HIRE RAVEN AGAIN, DID WE”
“No, we didn’t fire him. He … he took an extended leave to figure out what was wrong with him, why he kept losing.”
“HE KEPT LOSING BECAUSE WE WROTE IT SO, DAMMIT.”
“Yes sir, I’m aware of that, but to be a wrestler you have to convince yourself that wrestling is real, and … well, long story short, Jack Swagger went on a trip to find himself. He’s been gone for several weeks now.”
“WELL, GO FIND HIM, DAMMIT.”
“It’s not that easy, Mr. McMahon. He’s … very far away.”
“Oh no,” Mr. McMahon coughed. “I’m not going to f**king Oklahoma again. Weren’t we just there? Ugh, okay, fine, Oklahoma it is, somebody write a skit where Jim Ross sticks his arm up my ass to the elbow.”
Pencils skittered. Unfortunately, the man who’d spoken up this final time wasn’t finished.
“It’s actually much farther than that, sir. It’s … Jack Swagger is …”
He looked around the room. Vince had already gone into an almost semi-crouch.
“Jack Swagger is on Mars.”
The room fell silent for several minutes. Vince McMahon tried hard to understand what he was being told. This is the first time he’d been told anything by anyone in almost 14 years.
“Well, then go get him, dammit.”
“GO GET HIM ON MARS I SAID.”
“How do … I mean, I can’t just GO to Mars. That requires billions of dollars and a world of manpower and unlimited resources and …”
Vince interrupted the man with a scream.
“I HAVE BILLIONS OF DOLLARS AND THOSE OTHER THINGS YOU SAID. DO WHAT YOU NEED TO DO, GET TO MARS AND BRING ME JACK SWAGGER SO I CAN HAVE SOMEBODY LOSE TO SHEAMUS TONIGHT WITHOUT HAVING TO THINK TOO MUCH ABOUT IT. DESTROY MARS IF YOU HAVE TO. DESTROY OUTER SPACE IF YOU HAVE TO, WHO CARES, IF WE CAN’T OWN IT WE’LL BUUUUURRNNNN IT TO THE GROUND” Vince was enraged. “DAMMIT,” he added.
The plan to retrieve Jack Swagger had been hatched. In its infancy, the blinking, terrified eyes of that WWE Creative Team member could not fathom the destruction that would be wrought in the name of the mission. The bloodshed. The scope of it all. The man left the room in a stupor, becoming more and more aware that the most powerful man in the Universe had commanded him to orchestrate a trip to the distant Red Planet to find a man who, for all he knew, didn’t want to be found.
He fumbled in his pocket, looking for a phone. Almost subconsciously he dialed, and brought it to his ear.
“Uh, yeah, hi, this is Mark… yeah, connect me with the Executive Vice President of Talent Relations, please. What’s this about? You won’t believe me if I told you. Ask him if Mason Ryan is booked this weekend.”