Oh joy, Shawn Michaels is back! Oh boy oh boy oh boy…..oh shit, he’s just gonna talk isn’t he? Yeah, he’s just talking, and frankly he is hard to listen to. That gravelly voice, the smarmy delivery and the false intensity just doesn’t work for a guy you know isn’t getting back in the ring to perform. I’d rather he stayed home, but I’m in the minority. He told us all about how he’s the “Show Stopper”. Well he’s got that right. He completely stopped the show formerly known as RAW. And then Triple H came out to a huge ovation…ZOMG! The reformation of DX. Again. Wait. No, no it’s not, we got a half-assed, half-hearted “X” sign and then we got to the meat of the matter.
Basically, Triple H said he wasn’t fighting Undertaker again. That it was a business decision and that he’s got to protect the “last of a dying breed”. Apparently, only Triple H, Undertaker and Shawn Michaels are left from the graduating class of the Attitude Era. Hell, I thought Kane was still around, Cena, Mysterio, Jericho, Mark Henry, Big Show, et. al. But I’ve been wrong before.
Shawn Michaels then calls Triple H a corporate sell out and a coward. Them there’s some fightin’ words Mr. Hickenbottom, but luckily it wouldn’t be good for business if Triple H gave you a pedigree right now. But he will take off his jacket angrily and stare at you while flaring his nostrils for five or more minutes. I’ll tell you folks, this is absolutely the exact opposite of what I would call “compelling” television.
Finally, the Undertaker shows up on the Jumbo Tron with another video package of Triple H being projected onto his bedsheets. All the while, Undertaker is so focused and full of fury that he decides to take a straight razor to his wig and shear it off. Nicely done WWE. Now we’ll all understand why he’s nearly bald when he finally meets up with Triple H for the third time at Wrestlemania.
This “storyline” is worse than the plot to a Three’s Company episode full of wacky hijinks. At least with Three’s Company you had the opportunity to see some nipple through their cheap polyester shirts, and dammit if John Ritter didn’t have the nicest set of man nipples I’ve ever had to pleasure to witness.
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