Best: Damien Sandow Doing Anything
Did You Know? I enjoy Damien Sandow segments.
Watching Damien Sandow have to deal with Zack Ryder interrupting him to be all, BRO, WHY DO YOU LIKE, NEED TO LEARN WORDS BRO, YOUTUBE, then watching him beat Ryder with authority was pretty gratifying. It’s like watching someone stop a mugging. You were imagining all these horrible things, but it worked out okay in the end.
I don’t ever want them to wrestle again, and not just because nobody’s bothered to teach Zack Ryder an additional wrestling move in the last two years. The idea of Sandow losing to Zack Ryder terrifies me. I know it’s probably the least serious thing that could happen on Raw (including someone’s snake glove being stolen), but it represents almost everything evil I can imagine in the world. A stupid guy getting one over on a literate scholar and having 10,000+ people be super happy about it. It’s exactly like [political joke].
The only thing I didn’t like about this was the announce team acting too good for the victory cartwheel. The victory chartwheel OWNS you, anybody seeing it.
Worst: This Whole Pink Thing
Here’s what should happen when John Cena wears pink:
1. A video package highlighting every time John Cena’s called somebody gay for wearing pink/having a non-buzzcut haircut/looking ugly/being his opponent.
…and that’s it.
This is not the place for a discussion about what I think about human rights or whatever, but it’s not super surprising to see WWE come out in support of breast cancer when they find out Susan G. Komen Foundation is operated by a bunch of right-wing nutbags. I’m the type who thinks charity work should be charity work, and not something you put on a pamphlet about yourself to show the world how great you are. But yeah, WWE does a lot of charity work, and breast cancer awareness and support is a good cause that needs as many eyes and dollars on it as possible.
That all being said, how terrible is it from a wrestling fan point of view that all the guys who normally wear pink for heel heat (because pink = gay to the WWE Universe, assuming pink does not also = Canadian) don’t get to, because the guy who never wears pink decided to wear pink? Cena puts on a pink hat, so suddenly Dolph Ziggler’s t-shirt is the black one nobody should’ve bought and Damien Sandow’s trunks are purple? That’s terrible. Can pink ONLY exist as a breast cancer thing now? If Bret Hart shows up to wrestle again, does he have to wear the old Hart Foundation blue? And furthermore, what’d be so terrible about me thinking about how much cancer sucks when I look at Damien Sandow’s hips?
You guys are weird.
Best: I Kinda Liked Orton/Tensai, I Guess
The only thing I remember about this match is the finish, with the RKO reversed into a shove into the corner, followed up by a charge into a dodge into an RKO. That’s what Orton matches should be. He should come to terms with being the DDP of the WWE and just Frankenstein walk around the ring in jeans and wrist tape until he can think of some convoluted way to grab somebody’s head and fall down.
Tensai should probably wrap up this run. Somebody on Twitter mentioned that he breathes like a pug. That’s really all you need to know.
Jack Swagger Of Mars
Jack Swagger looked up at the stars.
They reminded him of the lights in the Allstate Arena, or the Quicken Loans Arena, or any of the tens of thousands of arenas where he’d lied silently and stared up into lights. As the remaining oxygen drained from the crack in his space helmet, he imagined if only for a moment that he could see Earth. He imagined it like you see it in maps … green land, bright blue seas, a perfect marble hanging effortlessly, miraculously in the vacuum of space. He closed his eyes and smiled. When he opened them again, the Earth was gone, and all he could see was darkness.
He tried to roll over onto his side, but the sand around his body held him still. He wasn’t sure what’d become of the Swagger Soaring Eagle. The explosion knocked him hundreds of yards across the surface of the red planet, but he’d never seen the machine go down. “Maybe it’s still operational,” he thought. “If I could just crawl to it, perhaps I could still reach the descent shaft in time and…”
His thoughts drifted away as those final precious drops of air left his helmet. He could feel curved glass against the back of his head.
Life began to flash before his eyes. Just over 30 years ago, his daddy had celebrated his greatest achievement — the birth of a picture-perfect, 15-pound, 2-ounce, blonde haired, blue eyed, future World Champion. “You win, you always do.” Five years later after being born, he’d won his first youth state wrestling title. “Way to go there, champ. Pound it.” He was better than all your children. He thought about his time in the Order Of The Arrow and The Eagle. He doesn’t suck. He’s from Perry, Oklahoma. A third state wrestling championship. Greatness was his neighbor and success was his best friend.
Swagger dug his taped fingers into the red sands. King of high school. Ballroom dancing master. Leading his high school to its first football championship in over 50 years. Staying true to the one thing that mattered. Having a delicious sandwich named after him. He could taste it still. Like freedom. He tried to remember the other championships he would’ve wanted to touch on, but images of his WWE career began to swirl and congeal against the front of his brain. ECW Champion. 2010 Money in the Bank Winner. World Heavyweight Champion. United States Champion. Then, Vickie. Her clapping. Her voice. Dolph Ziggler’s face. The dreams and accolades continued to swirl as if they were being sucked down a drain … as if the devil himself, here represented by a gigantic fat guy with a goatee in a camo singlet, had shown up to break these accomplishments in front of him.
“I need to help them,” he uttered. These were his last words as the All-American American American. His hands went limp, and Jack Swagger of Mars lay silently under dark skies.
From high at his position on Ceraunius Tholus, General Ryan could see the smoking remains of the Swagger Soaring Eagle.
“A direct hit,” announced the radio dispatch. “Jack Swagger of Mars is down. Mission accomplished.”
General Ryan turned to address his troops, but it was in Welsh, so I’m not sure I can type it. The men had their orders: they were to move in immediately, take the final descent shaft, make their long-overdue descent into the great Martian city of Hellas and slaughter every Martian Superstar, Diva or universality standing in the way. This was to be Earth’s greatest victory. President Barack Obama Impersonator would be pleased.
The news of the explosion could be heard across the great valley, and as the mumbled worlds of the Earthling announced the falling of Swagger, Kaa’orri lowered her head and clutched her slender hands across her chest. Her eyes closed as she longed to be with him, lost there in the Martian sands, staring up at the darkness.
“So it’s done,” Sachie uttered, his gills quivering. “The city will be taken. We must make our peace.”
Kaa’orri shook her head in denial and opened her mouth wide, hoping the right words would come and that the same divinity that had brought Jack Swagger of Mars to her would grant her the gift of reason, hope and inspiration. They couldn’t. She closed her mouth and sank deeper into the shadows of the Descent Shaft’s control room and cried, silently.
Sachie stared down at the self-destruct button.