Raw

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Miz’s new habits--wearing hardly any clothes and staring adoringly at a Big Show-- are rather enchanting. And thoughtful lad he is, instead of tooting his own body-oiled horn, he runs down the highlights from Extreme Rules since no one bothered to order it last night.

Not that anyone missed much. He and Show were forced to half-ass it through not one, not two, but three under-advertised matches. And that thing with the Hart Dynasty is still dragging on. Can’t Bret put his legend foot down and declare this angle over?

With a new posse composed of Colonel Sanders, Foghorn Leghorn and the remaining living members of Designing Women, Bret is set for some serious declaring. Lawd, he do declare Showmiz to be the best tag team ever. He do declare a taste of lemonade would do a body good right now. He do declare half this roster act like they ain’t got the sense god gave a nickel.

Why, in his day, wrestlers just shot each other. There wasn’t any bag-shitting or If he recalls rightly, and he knows he do… This brings out the Hart youngins. Uncle Bret is on a tear again, and that means the good cussin’.

No cussin’, but lots of fussin’ and feudin’. First between the Hartfield and McShows, then after the ever-selfless Miz takes the pin so no one else will have to, between Miz and Show. Old hurts resurface and dirty looks are cast to and fro, and then during a commercial break (those annoying 2-4-6-8 Denny’s ads could cause a monk to start swinging) Show pops Miz.

Recap: when Sheamus see orange, he kicks it.

Backstage, Swagger tells John Mathews and my panties that he has a degree in FINANCE. YOU DREAMY BASTARD. Quick to harsh my numbers nerd squee, Edge stumbles in . At first, everyone thinks he’s just some tweaker there to panhandle change. Then they’re like OMG, it’s Edge! Mentally, everyone picks the number of seconds that will pass before Edge says “Spear!”

Ringside, Steph tries to make up for McCool by granting us a mini-catfight between Eve and Maryse. Until she remembers she is Steph The Great Rooner, Overlady of the Ditch, Daughter of the 5-headed Goat, Chosen Consort of the Orange One, Bringer of Night and the OTPCHATFICLOL. Joy is an abomination unto her. McCool wins. Shrieks fill the air; the marrow of all shrivels. Kelly Kelly is engulfed in a haunting blue light as she is drafted to Smackdown.

Tomorrow on NXT: Skip Sheffield pretends to start a lawnmower.

In a hallway, Punk struts. I’M STILL DIRTY, BITCHES.

Once he gets to the ring, his strut slows. When, Punk wonders, will he get to wrestle people taller than Serena, but preferably smaller than Gallows? Fun match between he and Bourne. Kicky shit is like flippy shit without the need for stalling while someone climbs the ropes. Towards the end of the match, Punk’s secret admirer shows up to cheat then flee. Punk wins. Smackdown gets Big Show. I fear Show vs. Khali all over Friday nights. Thanks a lot secret admirer.

Now it’s Sheamus’ turn to bore us. He totally dicked over Triple H last night, and he can’t wait to dick over Cena tonight. With the power of the OTPCHATFICLOL behind them, there’s one he can’t dick over.

Out comes Orton. So oily and so angry. Turns out he thinks the OTPCHATFICLOL!pipe is bullshit. You don’t hit dudes with a pipe. You handcuff them to the ring and mack on their wives. That’s how real men fight. And, who’s bag does he hafta shit in to get Taker to go all non-conny on M. Hardy? They’ve been on the same roster for six-thousand years and they haven’t feuded since NEVER. Also, what the fuck is up with Jericho having a butler?

Cena, Captain of Truth, Justice and OTPCHATFICLOL, shows up to talk on his imaginary phone. Bologna, fudge and mustard, he says. Butterscotchy semi-turgid cocks, say I. Orton and Sheamus have to wrestle each other later because Cena says. At least, Batista isn’t in the mix.

In perhaps what was the very same hallway Punk strutted down earlier, Team Smackdown trudges toward their inevitable loss. They’re in matching jerseys, sorta like they’re the Bradys headed to a talent show in an attempt to win Alice a typewriter. Kane couldn’t be more pissed about the whole thing.

Typical, throw-away battle royale clusterfuck. Red is not Teddy’s color. Raw wins. They gain John Morrison (DAMMIT), R-Truth and Edge. Teddy looked v. pleased about Edge. Daddy gets so angry -- new Corvette angry--when he fucks hobos in the rec room.

Jericho vs. Christian. Heath , the pool boy, is there; the butler is the backstage, pressing shirts. Fun match, the only thing better than Jericho and Christian wrestling is Jericho and Christian tagging. Jericho won, Kofi goes to Smackdown.

Swagger vs. Morrison. Awesome match, like really, really awesome. Hard, believable, looked like an actual fight. Flippy in the right spots, brutal when it needed to be. Side Russian leg-sweeps and standing moonsaults. I love it. Then, glorious then, Christian to Smackdown!

Reader, I clapped. Clapped like Shannon Moore, lit on moonshine, keeping time for a jug band.

Backstage, Teddy is butler-shopping. Carlito says hell no! This tears me apart inside. The Tropical Bon-Bon sticking up for himself = YAYZ, but The Bon Bon as manservant to Teddy would be more wiggle pants than I could possible bear.

Having struck out with the Bon-Bon, Teddy moves onto R-Truth. In WWE’s yearly nod to continuity, they name-drop Virgil. Which dozens of VP writers choose to mishear as virgin. I dread the fic, Will Teddy ever get his butler?

Hornswoggle and Ziggler go to fisticuffs. Ugh. And worse, it leads to Jericho being drafted to Raw. THIS IS UNACCEPTABLE. It re-united Jericho with Regal, yes. But I wanted Regal to Smackdown. I like things how I like it.

While I complain to Moe, Batista somehow gets involved with the Sheamus and Randy match. Cena announces something that I could not hear for all the bitching. Going off of what came after, apparently Cena ordered Sheamus, Orton and Batista to wrestle each other for 38 hours.At hour 39, Edge interferes and gets Batista the win.