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Wednesday, March 18, 2015

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WIRTB Review: Mayhem 2000

Holy shitballs, Batman! If Mayhem 1999 struck fear into my heart, its follow-up just straight-up would make me crap my pants...if I were either:

a) incapable of holding my poo or...
b) wearing any pants.

Anywho, now that you know I'm writing this in boxers while eating some of the freshest cereal, I'm SOTB!!! and welcome to another exciting (and excitingly sober) edition of WIRTB Review, the Eyes on the Ring review series where I look at some of the worst PPVs and review the crap so you don't have to...all in an effort to determine "was it really that bad?" So far, I've been batting 1.000 (or would it be 0.000?), as every PPV I've reviewed has been, well, that bad. But, will this one be any different?

2000's edition of Mayhem was tagged as the night where "The Genetic Freak Of Sports Entertainment [was] UNLEASHED," as seen above. So, simply put, we're gonna get Scott FUCKING Steiner! But, this is 2000 WCW, so in addition to Steiner da GAWD!, we've got a slew of jackasses, slack-jawed fatasses, and white trash-being, liver spot-having, bald spot-loving fuckheads that could never measure up to Big Poppa Pump, the GENETIC FREAK. This is going to be fun, and to make it even more so, this review will be reviewed in STEINERVISION (patent pending). It will be in bad taste. So, viewer discretion is advised...and shit.

In Steiner We Trust...Ya Fatasses.

We open with that black (suit-wearing) bastard Booker T coming in and having a bunch of pencil-headed basement dwellers run up to them like he's the second coming of Black Jesus. They're asking for autographs and he obliges. Next, THE BOOTY DADDY with his moundacious beauty comes in with a pipe of some sort, signs in, and starts killing technology. Why? Because COMPUTERS ARE STUPID AND STEINER SIGNS IN FOR NOBODY! 

The show opens and pans around the crowd. None of these flat-chested bimbos can even hold my jockpiece. We get a Ric Flair, CEO promo package. And this old, decrepit, "I'll-bleed-five-seconds-into-the-goddamned-match" son-of-a-bitch tries to put over the event. Afterwards, we get our first match, a Cruiserweight title match between Kwee-Wee and Mike Sanders. 

Kwee-Wee, this pink-pants-wearing, stringy-haired assclown has Paisley on his arm because, I guess, diversity or something. Why is this jerkoff in a dress? Why is he with Paisley? Why is he in WCW (yes, he could "wrestle," but he still kind of sucked at getting people into it, in my opinion). Anyway, Mike Sanders, this midget moron, calls Kwee-Wee a "beeyotch" like some sort of wannabe black kid in 1997. This asinine ineptitude is what is considered quality wrestling material by 2000 WCW, by the way, ya fatasses. Our play-by-play men then state don't wanna hear Paisley talk about nothin' because she's got VERY BIG BREASTS. Yay sexism.

Even though...they are quite nice.
Maybe I can make her scream twice
if she let's the thot form from anger...

This match is atrocious. Mike Sanders seems like what'd happen if you mixed Curtis Axel with Billy Kidman and subtract those one or two things that make even those two fucks watchable sometimes. He eventually gets knocked out the ring and rolls halfway up the walkway. You'd never see BIG POPPA PUMP doing that sort of flippy-do, overselling, overrated, overdone bullshit. This is why Mike Sanders, Mr. "Above Average," is now a stand-up comedian and FREAKZILLA is the greatest wrestler of all-time.

And, OFC, we get a run-in from Sanders' stablemates, because WCW, which leads to Meng coming out and chocking out everyone, which leads to Ric Flair and "security." In other words, everyone in WCW who wasn't booked tonight, these insignificant imbeciles are here to get paid. Looking at this shit, I have absolutely NO SYMPY for WCW's failures. The announcers botch calling Sanders' hold, but Sanders eventually gets the win.

After some backstage stuff--including Ric Flair saying "no more interference" (lulz)--we get our second match of the evening and what's this?! We have a first-time WIRTB Review appearance by...JIMMY WANG YANG--err...I mean Yun Yang and the Jung Dragons. The Jungs are going up against 3 Count and Noble and Karagias (a/k/a the rejects of the Jungs and 3 Count, respectively).

Like ANYONE would've thought "Jamie-San" was Asian.

WOW WHAT DO YOU KNOW?! That midget Jamie Noble was actually pretty good before WWE started using him as Seth Rollins' bottom bitch boy. I've seen this match (and their ladder match) before in compilations, but never this whole PPV. It's SPOTS! SPOTS! SPOTS! That's really all you can say about this match. It's lots of SPOTS, put together in the attempt to tell a real wrestling story. But, the SPOTS just make it impossible. See, this is why little people shouldn't be in grown mens' business and THE BIG BAD BOOTY DADDY gets all the ladies.

"But, who won the match, Speed?"

SHADDUP! It doesn't even fucking matter who won this match. They are inferior to the greatness that is I. Oh, and by the way, 3 Count got the win.

Mancow, this gas-pumping white trash pencil-bodied son-of-a-bitch, is out next.

He's some sort of shock jock and he's brought his entire cavalcade of fuckboys with him to face off against Jimmy Hart. Mancow shits on that hanger-on Al Gore and compares himself to that other hanger-on Dubya and says he's going to kick Hart in his "hanging chad." Jimmy hits Mancow with a crutch, but Mancow's fuckboys come and hit Jimmy. 3 Count comes out for the save...and beat down "Turd the Bartender" and "Freak," while Mancow rips Jimmy's cast off. The cast gets used as a weapon for the win by Mancow. Mancow celebrates by seemingly trying to thumb Jimmy's ass and tossing the cast out of the ring.

More backstage stupidity, including fuckery with Bill DeMott that doesn't involve potentially sexually assaulting trainees and Rey Mysterio with his devil horn foolishness. He looks like a duck. I HATE DUCKS!

Now, remember that crowbar from last year's edition? He's grown up into a real boy who wins the Hardcore Championship. Crowbar, as you've seen in Superbrawl, actually has a pretty sizable part in the lower-midcard over WCW's last year or so, since David Flair and Daffney needed another loon in their stable.

We get a lot of backstage gobbledygook, including Mean Gene looking like an old perv, and we're finally back in the ring for our next match. It's the FILTHY ANIMALS (I always had a problem with that name) featuring that incorrigible small bastard Rey Mysterio versus KRONIK and Alex Wright with Glen--I mean DISCO INFERNO. Apparently, WCW thought it'd be a good idea to have KRONIK be WCW's version of, like, APA and other badass stables. But, unlike Bradshaw and Farooq...KRONIK is chronically meh.

Disco, the stupid son-of-a-bitch hired KRONIK for, get this, seven-and-a-half minutes. So...you're already giving away the time and probably the ending of this match. Why? Because, if we go back to last year's Mayhem and some of the events leading up to this one, Disco is, in kayfabe, kind of broke and has gambling problems and shit (just like in real-life, I guess). So, we know he'll either not be able to pay or KRONIK will walk out on him halfway through the match at the "seven-and-a-half-minute" mark.

Jeezus. Someone get WCW a watch, because six minutes is not seven-and-a-half. So, for a minute or so after the "walk out," we get the Animals stomping out The Wunderfuck. Tony and company, they just give no fucks and it shows. Animals get the win, the duckfaced bastards that they are.

More backstage clusterfuckery ensues, none of it funny. It's like they got the worst parts of Russo, Bischoff, and the 2015 WWE creative team, meshed them together, and let their FAT ASSES run amok for three hours. Next up, we've got MISS JONES and those lovely mammaries...and The Cat. Cat's got a match against Shane Douglas featuring Torrie Wilson.

Long story short, Douglas gets owned by everyone in the ring and out of it. Mark Madden screams until he almost chokes. Cat wins. Miss Jones dances. The End. But, somehow, the Brain Trust backstage allowed this shit to go on for about eight minutes. Eight minutes. You know what THE BIG BAD BOOTY DADDY could've been doing in eight minutes? I could've gotten out some foreplay, but...that's neither here nor there.

Oh God, more backstage shitfests, complete with a GLACIER promo. Glacier. The knockoff, cheap, Made in Cambodia, dollar store, what-the-fuck-were-they-smoking rip-off of Sub-Zero somehow found his way into the 2000s. Luckily, Mark Madden does something right (by doing something wrong): he just straight up buries the living beejeezus out of the gimmick, the promo, Glacier, and the man behind Glacier.

WCW in 2000: Where Burials are Swerves, Swerves are Well-Known, Kayfabe is Dead...except when it isn't, and Nothing Makes Any Goddamned Sense.

We then get some shit involving Bam Bam Bigelow beating SERGEANTTTTT A-WOLLLLLLLLLLLLL which involves BBB botching his finisher. YAWN! This is followed by Bill DeMott's Hugh G. Rection no-selling a knee injury after selling it for five-to-ten minutes, then winning, in a match versus Lance Storm for the US Title (see, DeMott did something right. This is where Cena got his usual selling skills from). THEN, we have Jeff Jarrett and Buff Bagwell circle jerk for eleven minutes over a fucking guitar...or something. I think we already know the answer to the end of this post. Yes, it's that fucking bad. It's poison. This is the PPV you wish on your worst enemies when you want to give them the equivalent of an arsenic and hot sauce-laced enema. But, lo and behold, we've got three matches left to go.

Our next match features one of the biggest pops of the night (that's not saying shit) in The Outsiders versus Stasiak and Palumbo. There's still not much to see here, unless you're looking for Shawn Stasiak's asscheeks. Yeah. Stasiak gets pantsed in this match. He also takes the pinfall from DDP, causing The Outsiders to get the belts.

Next to last, Golddddddberrrrrrg, on another streak (for no real fucking reason), trots himself out to face off against Lex Luger (again). Why? Because WHOTHEFUCKCARESWHY? So, of course, #GOLDBERGWINSLOL because Luger doesn't give two shits. You know who else doesn't give two shits? Me. But, guess who's out for the main event.


Finally, this shitshow is saved by our genetic freak savior. He's in a straitjacket "cage match" (read: Hell in a Cell, but because licensing, we can't call it that) versus Booker T for the WCW title. I think. I forgot.

Anyway, this shit goes back and forth (kind of?) until Steiner gets a chubby for the straitjacket. Instead of pinning Booker, winning the belt, and saying "fuck you Booker, you white trash black bastard," Steiner becomes obsessed with the jacket. He even rips the thing to fucking shreds because why the fuck not? There's something about chairs (no tables, ladders, or stairs, sadly), and then Steiner slaps on the Steiner Recliner for the win and the belts.

In typical Steiner fashion, he just goes apeshit and beats the holy Beetlejuice out of Booker's knee--and a ref. And the crowd. they fucking love it. So, aside from that moment, this pay-per-view was death. I didn't even have a twenty-five percent change of getting through it without wishing death on someone. I did have a 66.6% chance of jumping out the window onto the pavement, somehow popping back up with a 33.3% chance of survival...which gave me a 141.66% chance of having to do another one of these in a couple days.

So, until next time, this is SOTB!!! saying peace and love and remember: I review the crap, so you don't have to.

Ya fatasses.


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