A spandex skeptic’s beam to WWE SummerSlam 2017
August 17, 2017 - WWE
Before Mayweather vs. McGregor, before Canelo vs. Golovkin, and (hopefully) before this whole universe sheers off a pivot and goes spinning into a formless opening of space like an erring frisbee, we, quarrel sport-loving adults of a post-Coliseum world, contingency initial tarry [the opening records of Scorpions’ “No One Like You” yell over a loudspeaker] WWE SUMMERSLAM 2017!
Now we know what you’re thinking: Wrestling? Still? But as millenials’ biological need to be ensconced in nostalgia during any waking impulse has intensified, so has a direct for a WWE. Revenue is adult 10% year over year, WWE Network subscriptions have skyrocketed to good over 1.6 million, and sum video opposite a brand’s amicable media platforms recently eclipsed 4 billion (with a B). In other words, if you’re NOT watching, you’re a exception, not a rule.
But don’t worry. The WWE’s second biggest PPV eventuality of a year might be small days away, yet we’re here to help, removing we adult to speed on all we missed while we were bustling being an adult for a past decade. So squeeze that fold-up chair and massage me down in baby oil, since it’s time to send this one off a tip rope.
I consider we remember SummerSlam as a snippet component in a Mountain Dew/Halo/Cheeto dirt whirl of my youth. Refresh my bong-fried memory again? SummerSlam is World Wrestling Entertainment’s summer tentpole eventuality which, if we can’t theory by a name, facilities copiousness of sweaty bedazzled male slamming in an locus full of other sweaty (significantly reduction bedazzled) men. To use a clunky every-sport analogy, if WrestleMania is WWE’s Super Bowl—and it is—then SummerSlam is a Pro Bowl: Sunnier, funnier, and plentiful with sentient flesh balls wearing Hawaiian shirts like they hoped they were going to be a usually one to consider of that.
Boy, what a intense endorsement. Maybe I’ll usually watch Thrones instead… Well, actually, if we like Game of Thrones, there’s copiousness of demo crossover here. 2016 SummerSlam breakthrough, Finn Bálor—who’s been out for roughly a year following a shoulder damage postulated in final year’s initial Universal Belt bout—is set to revitalise his asleep “Demon King” shtick for a hate compare with Bray Wyatt. Meanwhile, Brock Lesnar is flattering many The Mountain. Sure, there are no dragons, yet it can’t be Christmas any day either.
If we watch 60 Minutes on Sunday nights and imagination yourself a Serious Person™, however, we strongly advise we have a few beers before attempting to spin into a spin. I’m a miserable, cool f—k too, yet if we give it a chance, you’ll be vacant what hearing a garland of pleather panty-clad women (or men, whatever works for you) kick a shit out of any other on live TV can do for your mental health.
Did someone contend pleather panties? OK, I’m in. So what are a vital storylines we should, uhh, clean adult on?
As always, it’s all about Brock Lesnar. The usually dude to ever successfully crossover from sports party to tangible sports (and behind again) has been environment adult a lapse to UFC for several months, and SummerSlam looks like it could finally be a catalyst. Lesnar will be competing in a Fatal 4-Way—
Wait, wait, wait: Fatal 4-Way? A four-hulk free-for-all. No teams, no rules, usually right.
OK, go on… opposite associate antiquated stone monsters Roman Reigns, Samoa Joe, and Braun Strowman in a conflict to keep a Universal Championship (don’t ask, we doubt even Vince McMahon could explain it). Due to a “random” (and by pointless we meant obsessively scripted) inlet of a Fatal 4-Way, however, Lesnar’s sideshow manager, Paul Heyman, has already left on record observant that if Lesnar loses a belt, he will travel divided from a WWE.
Expect Lesnar to remove a belt.
That’s not a usually compare yet right? Not. Even. Close. In further to a full line-up of Saturday movement from a WWE’s increasingly renouned tributary league, NXT, a categorical SummerSlam quarrel label also includes New Japan Wrestling prodigy Shinsuke Nakamura—think Thriller-era Michael Jackson crossed with a Drunken Master—battling Jinder Mahal for a WWE Championship, Alexa Bliss and Sasha Banks confronting off for a incrementally de-sexualized Raw Women’s Championship, and midtown-Irish-pub-level satire Sheamus teaming adult with Cesaro to deflect off white rabble heartthrob, Dean Ambrose, and reformed dick-pic-er, Seth Rollins, for a Raw Tag Team Championship.
Sounds like my family reunion… ZING! And as if that wasn’t adequate speedo-and-bondage-boot movement for we and your unexpected meddlesome girlfriend, John Cena—who you’ve substantially indeed listened of—is set to combat Baron Corbin, while fan favorites AJ Styles and Kevin Owens will fake-punch it out for a United States Championship, with a comish’s son, Shane McMahon, portion as a guest referee. Shane is best famous for his death-defying leaps in and around a ring (and for flourishing a new helicopter crash), though, so design him to male-stripper rip his too-small zebra stripes off and squash someone like an pavement drum during some point. Hell, maybe he’ll even win a belt. Who knows, infrequently we swear they make this shit adult as they go.
That’s a lot to process, even if we are one of a 12 college-educated viewers. Any tips on who to base for? Sure. Maybe these slot bios will help.
Any other insider advice? Yeah, make certain to bucket adult on snacks—anything with “nacho” cooking will do—and card vats of boiled chicken, if straightforwardly accessible in your area of West Virginia. SummerSlam is like 7 exhausting hours of all America, all a time, and you’ll need to intermittently refuel if we wish to have anything left for that Monster Truck convene tomorrow.
Also, try not to discuss it in front of your bureau IT guy, unless we wish to spend half a morning acid your table for something gash into your earholes while he grandstands about The Miz’s inauthentic ego-worship, usually to comprehend we loaned your scissors to Steve final week and this is your predestine now, we stupid, foolish idiot.
So contend we hypothetically wanted to watch this thing, we know, as a sociological hearing or whatever, how would we do it? Well, if it’s an immersive governmental hearing you’re after, conduct on down to Barclays Center on Sunday night, where half of Pennsylvania, some of New Jersey, and many of Long Island will be found in a state of jointly dangling reality.
If you’d cite a nostalgia knowledge distant from a meddling eyes of anyone you’ll ever have to see again in your whole life, however, afterwards pay-per-view or a WWE Network subscription (boy, we unequivocally got into this, huh?) should do a trick. Either way, go in with an open mind and—if you’re hearing with friends who are fans—zipped lips. Everybody knows it’s feign and observant so doesn’t make we a guide of law in a eye of a world’s spiraling factacolypse.
It usually creates we an asshole.