opera142: (Default)
Triple H trudges to the ring, refusing to meet my eye. Even though I wasn't at the PPV, I KNOW WHAT YOU DID LAST SUMMERSLAM. Punk's fall, I kindasorta expected. Good angles gets stepped on like roaches. But Christian too? WHY. Give me one non-butterscotchy, non-ranchy, non-semi turgid reason why.

HHH isn't saying. His wife He wants to talk about Cena. He wants to apologize to Cena. OMG, he wishes he could strike out his eyes. How could his miss Cena's noble foot lolling so majestically atop the rope--- why, it was as though he was pinning the whole damn ring. And anyone who doesn't think so can sit in a ditch in the rain.

Also, omg, never ever leave tickets at will call for Kevin Nash. First off, THAT GOATEE, rite. Did he dye it with a magic marker? What shade of Just For Men Beard and Mustache is that? Snidely Whiplash Umber? Day-Old Coffee In the Bottom of the Pot In the Breakroom Dun? Leaked Oil On the Driveway Chestnut? Second off, he'll think he's still relevant and try to squash the hot guy in the main event. Third off, much like annoying e-mails from Groupon, he just keeps showing up. You can label him JUNK all you want; he still weasels in.

Nash better tell the truth tonight, or Triple H will think twice about letting him have 15% of Raw's airtime next week.

And now to continue with the re-butterscotching of Raw, Alberto SANS BUTLER scurries out to gloat about destiny and no longer getting hassled by airport security when he tries to carryon the MitB briefcases, and Steph totes wears a size 4. He can hardly wait to sign autographs and take pictures with the least ugly of the children in the audience, and convince the telecommunications industry to do away with the 619 area code.

R-Truth, bent on elevating some of the butterscotchy turgidness of the night, rushes out for a Falls Count Anywhere match against John Used-to-be-HHH's-body-servant-but-Opera-liked-that-so-it-got-kyboshed Morrison. Brutal match with flippy and abs bouncing faceplants and slithering and John crawling around injured. A little on the low end of their usual homoerotica, but considering how much butterscotch they had to wade through, it worked. Also, the finisher involved John suplexing Rtruth into an office chair.

It's been nearly 30 minutes, and a size-12 someone is feeling peckish. Miz get sent out to pester Subway Jared for a sammich and BBQ chips. Jared protects his sammich with the desperate clinging of an orphan in a Dickens novel. Miz, Fagen-like snatches that shit up. He's all "Hey Subway Execs, How do you like me now?"

Then he dooms himself to forever feuding with Mark Henry by taking a bite of the sandwich destined for She Who Wears Size 12.

The Bella and Kelly Kelly and Eve wrestle while Beth and Natalya lurk like cyborgs from the Can't-Come-Soon-Enough-Sexy Future.

Kevin Nash has an Ed Hardy t-shirt and totes knows how to text on the Twitter. He stumbles through a voice-over on The Most Enduring Friendship Ever Beside Trips and Shawn's. Then bores us by reading he and Steph's latest OMGOTPCHATFICLOL. “No matter what happens, stick it to the winner.”

Stick, as in butterscotch is sticky.

Most butterscotchily of all, Punk IS WEARING PANTS. THAT'S HOW DEEP THE BUTTERSCOTCH RUNS TONIGHT. He calls bullshit on Nash and his goatee, and winning all the smark ribbons by saying, "If Triple H told you to jump off a bridge, would you? Because that would be good for business.”)

Punk, like EVERYONE ELSE WHO DOESN'T WEAR A SIZE 12, knows Nash has no idea what is actually good for business. Nash wants Punk to watch his pretty, pretty pierced mouth. Punk says Nash needs to watch the goddamn show.

Nash offers to show Punk the TRUFAX text, but instead Punk makes up his own OTPCHATFICLOL. OMG KEVIN NASH WTF LOL.

Lots of delicious, snarky, smarky burning of Kevin Nash ensures, and whee. Security steps up, lest Kevin Nash break a sweat. Punk just smirks, and says if anyone needs him, he and Trips will be otpchatficing backstage.

Post-commercial, Nash tries to cockblock HHH (and me, by proxy), but all that happens is Laurenitis hits on him.

Jack Swagger is awesome. A-rods bores me. Dolph pwns Lawler, and my least favorite of all wrestling cliches occurs-- stealing of a hat as precursor to feud. Total Butterscotch.

The ending of the match was size-12 ugly. Either my precious Swagger flubbed like whoa or A-rod sandbagged his end of the powerbomb. Guess what I believe. Backstage, Swagger hits on Vickie. Excuse me, delicious.

DON'T GO IN THAT OFFICE PUNK. Punk barely has time to wonder aloud, why does it smell like butterscotch in here? When a size-12 shadow descends upon him. That smell is not butterscotch, it is the stink of "precious". Get ready to job like it's your job.

Evan Bourne & Kofi Kingston vs. Mike McGillicutty & David Otunga. Nothing semi about it. Just flat out turgid.

Finally, the butler. Oh the disapproving side-eyes. The disgust, he must shout. Los pantelones, porque Punk porque? No es una size quatro, es una size 12. ES VERDAD. No me gusta butterscotch!

ME: Alberto tags with destiny against Rey and enduring popularity. Okay enough, match with a pretty sweet top-rope kick by Alberto. Post match, Alberto goes for the beatdown. Cena runs out because this segment needs more whitey.

Alberto bails con butler. Cena sets to lecturing us allabout dignity and wrestling with valor. He barks that someday Alberto will have to wrestle. You mean LIKE WHAT HE JUST DID? And that Cena will get to win 'cause that's Steph likes.
opera142: (this shit is bananas)
opera142: (bleach)
I watched A Clockwork Orange on Thursday. Maybe I'm interpeting it wrong, or maybe I'm reacting exactly as I'm supposed to; I'm surprized by my disgust with it. Alex, the main character, rapes two women to death, beats people weaker than him, and sponges off his folks. This is presented as v. terrible, tsk tsk. Then, while in prison he's given aversion therapy (which he volunteered for to get out of prison earlier), one of the side-effects is that he gets sick when hearing his favorite song, and it's like WHERE HAVE WE GONE WRONG AS A CIVILIZATION OH NOES.

The whole second act of the film is poor, poor Alex conditioned to not fight back. His parents have a new life and have rented his room out (because you know, their son who lied and sponged off of them has been sentenced to prison for 40 years for raping and killing an elderly woman), and I guess, I'm supposed to feel bad that they won't let him live with them anymore. Outcast and on the streets Alex then gets beat up over and over by chance encounters with people from his past (it felt sort of Charles Dickens-y). When he was the one given the beatings, it was glorified. When he gets beat, it's all isn't it a pity he can't fight back. Wasn't it a pity the eldery woman he raped to death fought back tooth and nail, and it wasn't enough.

Then, in the end, his "cure" is reversed to avoid bad publicity, and he gets to get off on raping again. Yay?

Too bad, "you and your droogs are committing the old ultra-violence" isn't as pithy as omg~edgy, or I'd have a new sarcastic catchphrase.
opera142: (this shit is bananas)
WTF Punk? What's with this new ugly Nexus? Diet Batista, Michael McGullifugly. Geez, Punk, Geez. Is it an insecurity thing? Do you have to be the prettiest? I don't get this.

David Otunga, when I plug my ears against the hum of his douchy vibe, is pretty enough. Husky Harris scratches some latent white trash itch that no amount of Creme de la Mer can soothe. But neither inspire long term wigglepants.

Here is what you must do, Punk: Gather J. Gabriel and J. Morrison. Doff clothing. Don towels. Shave those beards. Shower. Play lots of grab ass. Rinse. Lather. Repeat. Apply body oil, daisy chain style post-shower. Wear the tiniest, angriest trunks ever. Smirk as Young Randall glares with burning jealousy.

It's the only way to save the new Nexus.

That hair.

Jan. 10th, 2011 08:42 pm
opera142: (crayons)
Okay, so my dealing with/grieving over M. Hardy's hair will have 3 stages:

1. I will pretend very, very hard that Undertaker has lurid and creepy and overly detailed Bo Derek in Ten fantasies.

2. very, very hard.



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