John Cena Must Die

Oh, John Anthony Cena. He went from Ruthlessly Aggressive to Edgy Wigger to Safe Wigger to Marine to Cornball. As he’s careened headlong through the sewers of respectability, the entire business of professional wrestling has seen fit to ride the fecal wave with him.  I, for one, have reached the end of my rope. If I am ever to order a WWE PPV again, or lay off the FFWD button on my PVR during Raw, John Cena…must…DIE!

The WWE CEO is a toddler 

Yep, wee ones but months removed from routinely waking to soiled sheets are the driving force behind the creative direction of a multi-million dollar corporation.  Despite having no responsibilities outside playing lookout while their mother’s Puerto Rican boyfriend steals lotto tickets from the 7-11, the livelihood of grown men are laid bare on the whims of these children. True, they have no buying power themselves, relegated to lifting $5 from Daddy’s wallet after he falls unconscious after Happy Hour. But, said fathers, in an attempt to rid their hearts of a gnawing thirst for infanticide, are more than happy to buy Junior any D-X foam finger, John Cena camoflauge hat or Jeff Hardy commemorative meth pipe, so long as  Daddy is left to drink in peace once they return home. And so the machine churns on, each comedy segment trumped in sheer stupidity by the next. There has been no bigger beneficiary from this horror than John Cena, who has become the mascot of a PG-friendly WWE. These latchkey kids crumble into hysterics each time Cena calls Randy Orton a “poopy head” and convulse with joy as he reduces what should be a life or death, high stakes match to little more than an orgiastic play date, complete with overexaggerated facials not seen since the last minstrel show played to a packed Alabaman house. There they sit, preternaturally silent as two ring generals are given 30 seconds to put on a cohesive bout, yet shriek like hyenas when Cena mugs, shucks and jives, desperately reaching for the laughter and approval of society’s future criminals, dead beats and rapists; for if there is one thing the supple mind of a child will take away from a wrestling show, it is that woman are to be rubbed, groped and piledrove when they speak out of turn.


But this is where society seems destined to turn. Gone are the days when children were to be neither seen nor heard. Now, in houses across North America, these little shits run roughshod; throwing pant-pissing tantrums in the grocery store line, screeching in the shrill voice normally reserved for Chinese kitchens, swallowing a daily assortment of drugs that would put Robert Downey Jr. on his ass, all to avoid the truth that Junior does not suffer from ADD but is simply a stupid, poorly disciplined miscreant. Fine, if parents want to allow the shadow of an impending tantrum loom over their household, so be it. Frankly, by the time Junior is slipping his first roofie into a barmaid’s drink, I’ll be too old to give a shit. But when I turn on my television and see Cena scuttling another promo, or missing shoulderblocks in the main event, I start to lose faith in our future.


John Cena is the next Rock, whether you like it or not

For some reason, be it childhood trauma or haunted whispers of repressed homoerotic longings, Vince is helpless in the face of rippling biceps and rock solid abs. Ignore his desperate habit of turning Raw into a shrine to his Christian heterosexuality (groping skanks 40 years his junior), these women are but trifling distractions. It is the towering goliaths – ripped, coarse and rugged – who are the true object of Vince’s affections, and they are pushed accordingly to the stiffness in which they render his cock. Cena, all arms, lats and baby oil, is Vince’s most prized charge. Unlike Batista, who, despite being even more chiseled than Cena, possesses not a single quality that would qualify him as enhancement talent, Johnny Boy is quite a serviceable wrestler/entertainer. He rode a tongue-in-cheek white rapper gimmick (which  accidently went far off the rails, culminating in an abominable CD) to prominence on Smackdown.  Cena, despite losing a prematurely granted title shot to Brock Lesnar, had established himself as a rising star in the company. He went on to win the United States title from the Big Show at Wrestlemania XX, further entrenching himself in the upper hierarchy of WWE Superstars. In came Vince McMahon, who took it upon himself to bypass the wrestler’s typical path to stardom, and thrusted John Cena to superstardom. In a frightening sign of a sure mental breakdown, McMahon anointed Cena the next Rock and would stop at nothing to see this come to pass. It was of no importance that Cena’s wrestling ability, while energetic, was limited and that his promos were inconsistent; alternately serious and goofy. Vince was mesmerized by Cena’s granite-like physique and would not be deterred. Thus followed one of the more bizarre years in wrestling. Kids, being the malleable fools they are, accepted Vince’s directive and cheered Cena as superman. Older fans, or “wrestling snobs” as they are derisively called, saw Cena for the exciting upper-midcarder he really was and rebelled with a fury I’d never before seen. Vince, stubborn as always, was prepared to match the torrent of Cena hate with even more rigid resolve. For the next year, Cena didn’t lose. Ever. WWE’s formula was to stack the odds against Super Cena and have him, inevitably, overcome them. Chldren gleefully chased their tails after the three count echoed, but the rest of the audience booed. So, Vince turned to a different tactic to get the masses to accept him. Kicking his manipulation into overdrive, a heel was dispatched to the ring to disparage the local sports team or some such nonsense, after which Cena would charge out from the back to defend the city’s honor. When not even this worked, Vince had heels start beating up women, so Cena could come to their rescue, in the process wetting the panties of the six women in attendance and playing upon the guilt of the abusive boyfriends who accompanied them. Most disgustingly, Cena began dressing in marine camouflage, hoping to illicit the knee-jerk tenderness one feels for the “heroes” currently invading Iraq and slaughtering its people. Eventually, the manipulation gained ground. After several months of white hot resistance, the masses gave up, and began accepting Cena as a once in a generation talent– much as one accepts sure death following the hasty, suicidal downing of a jar-full of Tylenol.


Can he throw a dropkick? No? Good. Put him in the main event.

Only the most selfish (and religious) think the world should be catered to their preferences. As I hold no qualms about being one of world’s most meglomanic creations, I believe WWE should be catered to my specific tastes. Yes, I am one of those internet writers who have the audacity to think (and incur the electronic wrath of Matt Hardy for not willingly dropping trou, grabbing ankles and taking whatever the WWE throws my way) that a wrestling program should be headlined by the people who wrestle the best. Much like sport teams are built around people who best play the sport, so should a wrestling company be. This is under the assumption Vince McMahon had any interest in running a wrestling company; which it appears he does not. The WWE is no more than an entertainment company, and we are never to forget it. Once we pass from sport to “entertainment”, I’ll admit I’m out of my league, as even culinary entertainment has eschewed merit, building its flagship channel around those with nicest asses (Rachel Ray) and most succulent tits (Giada De Laurentis). Nevertheless, if I have to play the cranky old man and decree from the hilltops that the end is nigh, then so be it. Why must I be subjected to the sloppy, pathetic application of a Cena STF in every main event?


I would like to believe this is a just world, if only so I can resist the ever-present temptation to put a bullet into my skull. Yes, I can overlook rampant starvation and disease in Africa; can turn a blind eye to corporate exploitation; the no-lube rape of Latin American resources; but when I turn on my TV, the only place left to hide oneself from the horrors of a deceitful world, I want to pretend there is some semblance of a meritocracy. Is it too much to ask to keep the title on Chris Jericho for more than a month? To give Shawn Michaels (piece of shit that he is) another run with the gold? To banish Batista to the bodybuilding circuit? Worst of all, Cena has succeeded, proving to the WWE brass that they can throw whichever failed bodybuilder, or C-List celebrity into a main event and still make money. Why should they push workers above HHH when we will keep buying the product? And before anyone says anything about the WWE finally giving way to the younger generation, Cody f*cking Rhodes doesn’t count.


As much as I pray for torn quads or broken backs to befall the WWE’s main event scene, I know, in their absence, Vince will simply find another tall, chiseled, tanned body to fill that slot, even if he has to go to the local Gold’s Gym to find it. It will be business as usual; guest hosts, comedy segments and plodding main events, Cena’s goofy face serving as the logo, a harbinger of the horrors to come.

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