To the surprise of absolutely nobody, Akitoshi Saito, the puro fake fighter who executed the famed the "Straw that Broke the Camel's Back" suplex is absolutely butt-shook over being the guy who finally pushed over the pro wres equivalent of the Leaning Tower of Pisa. From the new Observer:
The most vivid scene of the night was Saito, 43, who had to be talked out of announcing his retirement that day, getting on his hands and knees to a large framed photo of Misawa, crying and being apologetic. It was actually at that point when fans realized that Misawa died directly related to the move, as opposed to the possibility it was a heart attack suffered in the heat of battle.
We at 6-3-94, while still acknowledging the sheer faggotry of such a moment, would like to absolve Saito of his guilt. Come on, dude, be real. Misawa's neck was to the point where, if it hadn't been you, it would have been the Teacup Ride at Disneyland Japan. The guy was pretty much a Pez dispenser, and you should definitely not blame yourself. And if you absolutely need to apologize, don't fucking cry like a gay bitch (TM Benoit) in front of the last good photo Misawa had done at Glamourshots. WTF dude. Ox Baker killed a man with the heart punch and made a career off of it. Surely you can parlay this into something instead of contemplating retirement and weeping, Emily Dickinson.
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6-3-94 Manifesto
In the days of ancient Rome men tried to best each other physically by imposing their will on one other. Sometimes this lead to the death of one of the competitors. Sometimes it lead to a friendship or brotherhood bond being formed. More often than not it ended with the two dudes fucking the shit out of each other. Faggotry and wrestling have long had a mutually parasitic relationship. Where faggotry is afoot wrestling cannot be far behind. Where there is wrestling you can rest assured that faggotry is nearby, jerking off furiously. This is the way it has always been and the way it shall always be. Though men have tried to change this dynamic throughout the ages they have all failed. Spandex, pyrotechnics, midgets, fake tits and sports entertainment cannot mask the overwhelming scent of gay that always accompanies wrestling. You can always be certain of these three things: The sun always rises in the morning, politicians always lie and wrestling will always be gay as fuck. We are merely observers; scribes charged with the duty of recording, analyzing and mocking this faggotry. These are our words.
Twice killed a man, even. They don't make 'em like Ox anymore.
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