July 14, 2006
John R. Nocero

The 619

Instead of continuing what is seemingly a daily argument, my wife escaped to her parent’s home last weekend. I, under false pretenses of mowing the lawn and looking after her cats (only a pussywhipped man stays behind to look after her wife’s pussies), decide to stay at the homestead. So instead of her loveliness, I cuddle up with a couple Whopper Juniors on Friday night.

To combat my loneliness, and probably sheer boredom with no one to annoy, I pump up the guns for two hours (“Big arms mean big paychecks” – Hulk Hogan to son Nick, Hogan Knows Best, 2006) and go strutting around town in my baggy khaki shorts, white Nike’s, Yankees cap and too tight white T-Shirt, which smells like lifting chalk and my hairy ass.

The reality hits me as I am walking through Wal*Mart searching for the new Dusty Rhodes DVD: I am John Cena, meathead version. No one else would accessorize a big derby with a ratty beard, would they? I am telling myself this in my head as I am walking down the aisle (why couldn’t Howard Finkel have announced that last sentence?) I’ve got problems. I have them, you have them, the people in Casablanca have got them, yours may work out. As my thoughts turn to jerking off to a skanky Missy Hyatt on her Internet porn site…..


Dope that I am, I sink my hands greedily into the orange and white cover, featuring Batista. I head to the DVD’s, plunk down $17.99 for the Rhodes 3-disc set, and hastily head home with the smell of Burger King and excitement resonating through my Hyundai.

I catch glances at various pages while at the stoplights close to the house, flipping through it like a Hustler. I get home, head to the couch, and think of worse ways to spend a Friday night.

The mag is broken into the following sections: Brawl; Grapplers; Big Night; The Knowledge; Features; Reviews; Body Shop; and Insider.

Brawl is by far the most interesting: Nine short pages has a pic of the Fabulous Ones Stan Lane and Steve Keirn. The best way to describe the photo is Chippendale dancer meets Mr. Peanut; an in-depth Q&A with the WWE’s chief pyro tech guy (did you know concussions are used to make those huge on-ramp boomers? Seriously. Concussions, he called them. Insert. any headache, chairshot, Excedrin, wrestling-themed joke here. I myself thought of seven).

I also found out that Hulk Hogan and Brutus Beefcake aren’t really brothers. It is just an urban legend. It must be because Hogan says “brother”: every other word. By my count he has at least 768923903848975847239012393023834784 brothers.

I skim through “Grapplers” like the metro section of the Sunday paper: looking for catchy headlines and good pics but get neither, wait, A high school photo of Snitsky. His folks shop at Don Gage?? Great shirt bro.

“The Knowledge” has scantily clad divas Melina, Ashley and Maria answering questions from lost souls looking for love. I myself preferred Shawn Michaels and Alundra Blaze’s “Advice to the Lovelorn” but that didn’t have Melina’s juicy ass in a purple frilly thong.

I skip over Batista’s feature article and head right to “Pay Your Respects” which details the final resting places of WWE’s fallen heroes. It’s creepy but intriguing. Glad to know Gorilla Monsoon is buried only hours from my childhood home. That is a family road trip waiting to happen.

The neat thing about “Reviews” is its nostalgic spin: video games such as Dead Rising, Urban Chaos and Prey are rated on the Junkyard Dog-o-Meter (five JYD’s = rottweiler, 1 JYD = bad Slammy appearance) and Mr. Fuji gives some veddy veddy good movie reviews.

In “Body Shop,” WWE Superstars become your personal trainers. Lashley lists four exercises to turn your water pistols into cannons. Looking at his manliness, I reach down and squeeze my 19-inchers with a sense of inferiority. These beginner’s exercises can be found in any issue of Muscle and Fitness. What I wanted to know was how many cc’s of deca I need to shoot in my ass each week, be it that I am traveling 250 days a year and never lose an inch off my pipes. Wait, Lashley says its Muscle Milk protein powder and Oatmeal Crème pies that give him that physique. Yeah, and Ozzie Guillen will be a choirboy after finishing his sensitivity training.

The rest is pretty much fodder: although on the back page the magazine’s editor submits to two very real cane shots from Tommy Dreamer. Hats off to you big dawg, you are a better man than most. Here’s some Neosporin.

Overall, this is a cheap rip-off of Maxim or FHM, without the hottest babes (okay, let me go back and look at Melina again..wait a sec), okay without the abundance of hot babes; but by far without the witty banter I find in the other two. In Maxim, I get a story about catching sexual predators on the Internet, how a sheet of Tide can stop nasty foot odor and a couple great one-liners about a priest and rabbi in a rowboat. With this, both my time and the illusion from behind the curtain is yanked from me.

I don’t want a WWE Magazine that explores reality, mine should be a worked-shoot that somehow manages to mix in some, I don’t know, wresting?? Novel concept with a McMahon product, I know. I want grappling, I get a caricature of Finley wrestling an alligator.

Be that as it may, I see London, I see France, I see Trish’s boobies on page 64.


There really isn’t anywhere to start with this week’s Raw. That surprises me with “Saturday Night’s Main Event” coming up this weekend. You would think they would do something to get people talking to improve upon the 3.1 rating they did back on March 18.

The Edge/John Cena hotel room skit was nonsense and just wasted time. I am all for logistical booking, but how in the blue hell does Cena, after being hit with an Edgecution, then a Spear and getting left laying smackdab in the middle of the ring, be in any condition to whip Edge’s ass at the end of the show, much less drive around town trying to find his suite? He must have Onstar in the hooptie, right? Just let them wrestle. I just want wrestling, on a wrestling show.

I thought Melina-Trish was much better than anticipated, and that both of them did a pretty good job, considering Trish has been jobbing a lot lately. I am excited about the Trish-Carlito pairing. There was a time when Trish first came into the E, that she was Jackie Gayda. Those days are long, long gone. Incredible dedication to her craft has turned a MuscleMag International swimsuit model into the best women’s champ of the past 20 years. Joined with Carlito, charisma and potential make them interesting bedpartners. I hope the rumors aren’t true that she is leaving when her contract expires in August.

God, that Ric Flair segment went way too long, didn’t it? Why didn’t the first part of this segment run last week?? It doesn’t make any sense to me to have Flair show up at ECW to get creamed by The Big Show, but then it didn’t make sense that this segment was the highest rated on the show. Why did they even call this “league” ECW? This resembles nothing of the sort, and I myself am pissed off that the WWE product is associated with the old ECW name. I know the legacy behind ECW, but I don’t care. Will they borrow the AWA’s Team Challenge Series. I saw this match 10 freaking years ago on Nitro. I didn’t want to see it again. I would much rather watch flies hump. Yes, there was a bloodbath Tuesday night. Yes, it was the highest rated ECW show since the debut. But at Flair’s age, he shouldn’t be expected to do that to his body.

Some things overheard Monday as my wife meandered about the bedroom as I watched Raw:

Wife: Why is Eugene all wet?
Me: Well, honey, that’s cause Shane McMahon bobbed his head in the toilet.

You know, I felt pretty sorry for Eugene here, but it took his head going in the crapper to make me feel for him? No one’s head should EVER be in the crapper, unless my son’s stepdad gets hired as some firefighting hero. Then I spend the money to hotshot TL Hopper and watch hilarity ensue.

(after the diva segment)
Me: Wow, how about that Diva segment, baby?

Uh, yeah. Speaking of that..

Toolbox of The Week
This is new to The 619 where you and I pick the biggest doofus of the week, a complete embarrassment to wrestling in general. This week’s Toolbox is the Miz and every freaking diva associated with this year’s diva search. These segments have already grated on my last nerve. Every mannequin with implants says the same thing: “this is my dream, please vote for me, blah blah blah blah blah.” The best payoff for this entire 2006 Diva Search is to have my guilty pleasure, Umaga, put each one of these bitches in the tree of woe and slam his big ass into each one of their food-stamp faces. And how in the blue hell can Miz lose his train of thought 5 seconds into a rehearsed speech? God he is freaking dumber than a post. Please end this garbage now, but of course, because no one knows what is good, bad, decent or average from segment to segment, I can’t wait to have this piece of dreck back next week.

I am taking nominations for TOTW, so please send them to jnonyy@yahoo.com and I will be sure to get them in here next week.


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