Archive for the ‘Random’ Category

wrc,rh,brutusJoelton, TN – In a sudden announcement by the day-shift Floor Supervisor of SuperCuts, Brutus “The Barber” Beefcake was relieved of his hair cutting duties, effective immediately.

“I don’t understand what I did?” a sad Beefcake was quoted as mumbling as he exited the salon, dragging his over-sized shears.

The Supercuts’ Supervisor would not offer this reporter the specific reason for the former Tag-Team Champion’s termination, but I discovered that many complaints had been lodged in Mr. Beefcake’s tenure, most involving incapacitating neck hugs on customers, some of whom awakened with unwanted, uneven haircuts or multi-colored streaks in their locks.

According to one anonymous source, “The Barber” was last seen at a local airport, booking a flight to wherever Hulk Hogan is, to resume his previous post as the Hulkster’s driver.


A few months ago, I came across a great article at Modern Drunkard Magazine entitled: 40 Things Every Drunkard Should Do Before He Dies.

It’s funny, informative and enjoyable and the website itself serves as a glossy-eyed reminder of a time when drinking was a normal, everyday activity for millions of people, free from the cyclical demonization it endures every few decades.

Eons ago, mead helped create civilization; a few decades ago, Bogart swaggered and Dean Martin crooned while both delightfully under the influence; and last night, 50 people with bad taste in music danced to EDM & they all made it home safely. But that doesn’t get headlines.

My father didn’t live long-enough to become a drunkard and though it’s been a couple of years since I’ve sipped anything more than a Sunday-brunch Mimosa, it occurred to me as I read the list that – in my younger, drunk(en) days – I’d completed roughly 90% of those 40 Things.

So, for your enjoyment/mockery, I’ll post an article on my site every once in a while, where I write about my experience doing one of the things from the list (or, at least, what I can recall of it).

#20: Sit in on an AA Meeting.

SIDE NOTE: I’ve attended 2 AA meetings in my life; this article is (mostly) about the latter.

The 1st – when I was sixteen – was back in high school with a friend named “Troy”; he asked me to go with him for moral support.

Troy had the type of upbringing where the only thing he had in common with his dad was the drink. One night (after 10-too-many), Troy Sr. hopped in his old, beat-up pick-up truck, passed out behind the wheel and woke 7 hours later…to the discovery that he’d sped-slept through a red light, jumped a curb onto a sidewalk and mowed down an elderly woman 3 blocks from home.

Despite the strain it caused in his relationship with his dad, Troy Jr. quit drinking the morning after the accident, determined not to end up like his father (in more ways than one).

His dad’s reaction to the atrocity he’d just caused and the imminent jail-time he was facing:

sober t shirtI attended the 2nd meeting for the same reason as the first: Moral support.

However, the friend for meeting dos never showed up, and I was tired & hungry and the place offered donuts & coffee. Score!

The first thing that struck me about this meeting – because I remember it so clearly from the 1st one – was how many AA Members smoke. All of them. I found it difficult just to sit in the room.

SIDE NOTE 2: And I’m no pansy who can’t take a little unfiltered, 2nd-hand, Camel smoke; I lived with my maternal grandmother for a year and 4 of her cats died of lung cancer.

There was so much smoke at each meeting that whoever was at the podium was guaranteed to be Anonymous.

But – looking back and comparing both – there were some stark contrasts:

  1. At 16, everyone at that meeting seemed really, really old. And not just old, but broken-down, defeated. As I sat solo at the 2nd meeting (roughly a dozen years later) everyone was well…my age. Sure, some were much older, but most were creeping up on middle-age, even if they could only see it on the horizon.
  2. At Troy’s meeting, 95% of the adults did their best to stifle their snickering & incredulous disbelief that a teenager could truly be an addict.

At meeting #2, a mother sat with her thirteen-year-old daughter…giving her offspring emotional & parental support as other (formerly) hard-livin’, hard-drinkin’ men & women nodded in agreement as this teenage girl recounted how her addiction had taken over – and then just took – everything important in her life.

Everyone seemed genuinely interested in the welfare of others at both meetings, even if a few people (at both) took a bit too much pride in how much of an alcoholic they’d been.

Eventually, someone stood at the smoke-shrouded podium (circa 2003) and asked if any of the new faces wanted to get up and say anything.

I took the opportunity to explain my appearance…then spent the next half-hour disagreeing with fellow-attendees about why I was really  there.

SIDE NOTE 3: The general consensus was that I was an alcoholic & my being there was proof that, deep down, my life was in shambles & I was reaching out for help. When I disagreed, everyone nodded their heads silently, having collectively-decided that I just wasn’t ready  to hear the(ir) truth.

I replied that I respected the path they had all chosen for help with their problems, but that if I ever thought I needed assistance, I’d simply use the brain, willpower & common sense their God had surely bestowed upon me to resolve my issues.

They all insisted that before I could make any progress as an alcoholic, I first had to realize (and admit) that I was powerless over my addiction. Then, I could turn to their God for salvation solutions.

When I responded that they were all weaklings who belonged to a Buddha-less cult that – historically & statistically – suffered from a 97% failure rate, and that maybe they all just needed another drink (and a few drops of Visine), I was given my coffee & donuts early and no one said goodbye.



…Intercontinental Champion of All Time!”’mj, wrc

In a statement sure to earn the ire of The Honky Tonk Man, Ricky Steamboat, The Ultimate Warrior & many other belt-holders of the illustrious title, “Rocker” Marty Jannetty has claimed himself to be the Greatest Intercontinental Champion of All Time.

“Without a doubt,” he assured this wide-eyed reporter backstage at a local Indy event in Booger Holler, Missouri.

Bret Hart, Pat Patterson, Randy Savage, Tito Santana,” he continued. “They were all pretty good. The Rock was probably the closest to being in my league, skill-wise,” Jannetty stated with no trace of sarcasm.

In 1993, Marty had a controversial win over his former tag-team partner Shawn Michaels (with interference by Diesel) before losing the belt back to the Hall of Famer just a few weeks later.

We reached out to a couple of former Intercontinental Champions for their opinions on Jannetty’s boast.

“Marty who?” asked perennial champ Pedro Morales.

Mr. Perfect Curt Hennig offered no rebuttal, simply rolling over in his grave.

That Cost You Time and/or Money:

With people nationwide being so broke that their spouse spitting on them counts an evening cocktail, it’s amazing that there are jobs out there that people get PAID to do that are completely unnecessary.

And I’m not talking about important gigs like Chinese kids making iPod cozies or Merkins.

No, I’m talking about people being paid to “perform” jobs that can either “perform themselves” or don’t need “performed” in the 1st place. 

SELF-PERFORMANCE:But why should it matter to you?  2 Reasons:

1) Time: We all have a limited amount of time on this Earth before the machines rise up & punish us for what Paulie did to that house-bot in Rocky IV.

2) Money: Paying someone for an arbitrary job means higher prices for the consumer. That’s why that 65-inch flat screen you dream about isn’t $12 & why your favorite stripper gets tips (besides to support her 5 boyfriends, 6 kids, coke habit).

These “jobs” cost us every day, yet we just accept it. We accept that we need people to be paid to do things like be a:


WHO THEY ARE: The elderly who “greet” you near the entrance of the store (Walmart).

THEIR “JOB”: Greet you; roll you a shopping cart; wave.

WHAT THEY DO INSTEAD: Talk to their friends; relax on the Amigo scooters; be absent.

A) Besides our love as a nation for Morgan Freeman, no one likes old people.
B) If you’re already at the store, it means you need to buy something. You don’t need “greeted” (read: bothered) while searching for your vodka & pixy-sticks.
C) Most of us already know where they keep the shopping carts.
(It’s the bathroom, right? No? I don’t do much shopping outside of Amazon.)

Time: No store greeter ever has any idea where the item you’re looking for is actually located within the store and in the time it takes to explain what the item is – since the Greeter is old or “special” – you could’ve already found it or something else you didn’t need. (Hey, is that a baseball and toothbrush in one?)

Money: More employees = higher overhead = higher prices.
The gentle wave of that frail old lady at the door just raised the price of Congress Vodka by a buck. Fuck that, man.

Do you have hands and/or feet? 
Mission accomplished.


WHO THEY ARE: A middle-aged man with a pedophile smile or a busty young woman wearing clothes completely inappropriate to the weather of the city she’s reporting from.
(Women from Florida, California & other sunny states should be wearing bikinis while reporting the weather, just as men wear raincoats when reporting from inside the eye of a storm.) 
That didn’t sound as sexist in my head.

THEIR “JOB”: Within reasonable expectations they should be able to forecast the weather 10-days out, so you can make your beer museum visits & pillaging plans.

WHAT THEY DO INSTEAD: Ever notice how – for two or three days – it seems like weather reporters know their shit? But by day four, they can’t correctly predict that their own piss stream will hit the toilet/the floor/their spouse.

You also probably noticed I didn’t call them “meteorologists”.  2 Reasons:
A) –ologist implies (to Me) a degree of some sort; not just big tits or a toothy grin.
B) Meteor– implies meteors. There’s no meteor channel.

DOUBLE D-CLASS METEORS:WHY THEY ARE OBSOLETE: The Weather Channel’s “Local on the 8’s” or, if you’re interested in meteors and not your local weather: A telescope.

Time: Ever spent an hour trying to get your girlfriend to pack for a weekend getaway, but she’s been listening to whoever your local Brick Tamland is, so she can’t decide if “Partly Cloudy with a 10% Chance of Precipitation” means 3 suitcases filled with nine different shades of gray coats or 4 suitcases full of glass shards? (My girlfriend has drinking & recycling problems.)

Are you homeless or have a window? 


Satan’s Helpers…err…people, who call you at dinner.

THEIR “JOB”: Sell you products or services you don’t need or ask you questions for a survey you care nothing about. (The surveys aren’t about boobs, robots, explosions, or Robot Boob Explosions, so who cares?)


WHAT THEY DO INSTEAD: Interrupt your micro-waved burrito-fest dinner for one; interrupt you while you’re yelling at the kids/beating your spouse/spanking your monkey; interrupt your attempted suicide.

WHY THEY ARE OBSOLETE: 25% (or 52 million people) of U.S. households have dropped their land lines (home phones) in favor of cell phones. Suck on That, Ma Bell! I mean…telemarketers.

Time: You just missed that save-point while fumbling around to answer their call and now have to traverse through the 3 levels of the Timid Forest of Avalon again.

Money: That is, if you’re dumb enough to buy something from someone who calls you out of the blue and asks to speak to the head of the household (your spouse), then asks you to please slow down as you give them your credit card info.

Actually, they’ve (mostly) replaced themselves by automating.
Now, instead of unwanted calls, you get unwanted texts & spam.
Thankfully, ignoring them is easier than ever with the simple press or click of a button.  


WHO THEY ARE: Pimple-faced teenagers & ninety-year old’s who don’t mind low-pay & smelling like urinal cakes & artificial butter. In olden-times they carried a flashlight, but hey, bad economy, budget cuts and the like, I guess.

THEIR “JOB”: Inspect your movie or theater ticket while you’re trying to enjoy Die Hard 7: Out of Toilet Paper at The Retirement Home; chastise you when you’re being “Rowdy” like Roddy Piper and…there is no “and”.

WHAT THEY DO INSTEAD: Have sex in the projection room? I don’t know. I haven’t seen an usher lately. There’s the person who tears your ticket before you go into the theater, but an usher?

WHY THEY ARE OBSOLETE: If you’re going to pay to see a movie, then you’re the kind of person who stands in line to buy a ticket. If not, you’re just gonna sneak into the flick & when the usher comes by to check your ticket, you’ll simply tell them your significant other has it but is in the bathroom (or any other excuse since an usher only has imaginary powers).

Time: If you spent a few seconds arguing with one about where your ticketis. 
Money: They have to be paid. Guess where that money comes from?
An usher is the reason a small bag of popcorn is $14.

We already have…by doing nothing (and through Netflix, Hulu, Amazon Instant Video, streaming, etc.). Their very existence and purpose are meaningless and as each Usher discovers this, they simply fade away. That’s why we see less of them every year.(Career over; OMG indeed.)


WHO THEY ARE: Prudish, spectacles-wearing women in their 20’s (who look 40) or confused senior citizens who think a Kindle is for fire.

THEIR “JOB”: Find books; take our money for books purchased and (hopefully) give us correct change; try not to fuck either of those up.

Depending on their age, it can be any of these things & more: Stand around whining about how much their no-pressure/no-responsibility job sucks; complaining their kids never visit or call; bother us with the details of the epic novel they’re writing (but don’t tell anyone); forget to take their arthritis medication; have sex with other employees at the coffee bar inside the bookstore.

(Surprise, that’s not soy milk in your low-fat latte, but those are sprinkles in your whipped-cream…Shit Sprinkles!)

Amazon. Plus, if you ever actually go into a brick & mortar store, they usually have a computer database where you can easily check for yourself if Jenna Jameson’s “Cooking with Chlamydia” Pop-Up is in-stock.


Time: You don’t need them staring at you vacantly when you mention any book not on their current bestseller list.

Money: The pay they receive to (barely) function at their jobs, drives up the price of books.

Did I mention the Kindle? Or Nook? The iPad? Purchasing books online? Libraries? 
We’re also getting there through our current trend of nationwide illiteracy and living in a country too poor to buy books unless they’re also edible.


WHO THEY ARE: (I’m NOT referring to surgeons here. Surgeons are a necessary part of life for when you get a light bulb stuck up your ass & need to be cut open to have it removed.)

No, I’m talking about the average M.D.: The chain-smoking, obese, middle-aged grandpa or the 8-year old Hindu you call your general practitioner.

THE 2 TYPES OF DOCTORS IN ONE: THEIR “JOB”: Diagnose illnesses; prescribe meds; refill prescribed meds.

WHAT THEY DO INSTEAD: Make you wait for an hour to see them for 3 minutes; look at you suspiciously when you tell them you need 5,000 Vicodin for your twisted ankle; make you wait more.

WHY THEY ARE OBSOLETE: Web MD and trips to Canada.


Time: Average (in the U.S.) amount spent waiting to see an emergency room doctor in 2012?

Over 4 HOURS.

Money: Average U.S. Emergency Room Visit cost in 2012? Over $1,400.

If you stop going to the doctor for every broken wrist, seizure and birth, doctors will be forced into other worthwhile professions, like Escort or Assistant Ass-Wiper or Copee Edtior.  

1-2-3 Kid:

Posted: 12/21/2013 in Random

“Sorry For How I Turn Out.”

In an exclusive interview, the anus-tearing 1-2-3 Kid apologized to his fans, fellow wrestlers & humanity in general, for the way in which his future unfolds.

After debuting in the WWE (then-WWF) in 1993, the Kamikaze Kid made quick headlines by defeating such ring veterans as Razor Ramon & the Million-Dollar Man Ted DiBiase.

“I’m really on my way,” the Cannonball Kid told fans & pundits that summer.

When informed that he’d soon co-win the tag-team championship twice & then be narrowly defeated by then-Heavyweight Champion Bret Hart, the 1-2-3 Kid responded enthusiastically.

“Really? The Hitman’s a master technician. Even losing to him would be cool.”

The Kid was surprised to learn that he left for WCW shortly thereafter.

“Seems odd I’d leave when I was so close to the top of the mountain,” he commented. “Did I change my in-ring name with the jump?”

When Syxx was told that once in WCW he joined a revolutionary faction called the NWO with Hulk Hogan, Scott Hall & Kevin Nash, he could barely contain his excitement.

“Wow. I mean, just WOW. The Hulkster? Awesome.”

This reporter then shared with Syxx how – while in WCW – he earned the Cruiserweight Championship & also battled legends like Ric Flair, before eventually going back to the WWE and rejoining DX under the moniker X-Pac.

“So what’s the problem?” he asked.

“Well, everything was good for a while,” I replied.

“You won the European Championship before Triple H turned on you and you even had a couple tag-team championship runs with The Undertaker’s brother, Kane.”

“Sounds great,” X-Pac responded.

“But,” I continued. “After several injuries, backstage problems & drugs—”

“—Drugs?” Syxx-Pac interjected.

“Yes, drugs, Syxx-Pac. So–”

“—Wait,” Syxx-Pac interrupted again. “Syxx-Pac?”

“Yeah. Another name change. Anyway, after all those issues you got divorced–

“—Divorced? Terry left me?”

“We’re not sure who left who, but you got divorced and then parted ways with the WWE as well. Then you bounced around Mexico, the independents and an upstart promotion called TNA.”

“T&A?” he asked. “Seriously?”

“Yes. T-N-A,” I clarified.

“Your drug problems & injuries got worse. You kept working – even winning championships wherever you went – but you never fully recovered from your issues or had the career your early successes indicated you’d achieve.”

The Kid sat motionless for several moments. After wiping his tear-soaked eyes, he looked earnestly at me and inquired:

“Is that all?”

“Well, in 2011 you were back scouting talent for a WWE development territory as X-Pac, but there are trips to rehab & you attempted suicide in Mexico. Oh, you’re also still getting arrested for drug offenses.”

“WTF!?!” The Kid responded angrily.

I nodded my head, knowingly, sad for him.

“I had my whole life ahead of me,” The 1-2-3 Kid lamented.

“What the hell was I thinking? What else happens?” he asked. “How much worse does it get?

“I mean, do I have sex with some hormone-riddled she-man on tape and that gets released to the world? Do I get hepatitis? Do I end up on some TV show with a bunch of washed-up celebrities?”

I didn’t have the heart to acknowledge The Kid’s startlingly accurate predictions.

A few months ago, I came across a great article at Modern Drunkard Magazine entitled: 40 Things Every Drunkard Should Do Before He Dies.

It’s funny, informative and enjoyable and the website itself serves as a glossy-eyed reminder of a time when drinking was a normal, everyday activity for millions of people, free from the cyclical demonization it endures every few decades.

Eons ago, mead helped create civilization; a few decades ago, Bogart swaggered and Dean Martin crooned while both delightfully under the influence; and last night, 50 people with bad taste in music danced to EDM & they all made it home safely. But that doesn’t get headlines.

My father didn’t live long-enough to become a drunkard and though it’s been a couple of years since I’ve sipped anything more than a Sunday-brunch Mimosa, it occurred to me as I read the list that – in my younger, drunk(en) days – I’d completed roughly 90% of those 40 Things.

So, for your enjoyment/mockery, I’ll post an article on my site every once in a while, where I write about my experience doing one of the things from the list (or, at least, what I can recall of it).

#26: Give a Hobo Twenty Bucks

I live in Branson, Missouri.

For those of you who like fun, you’ve never vacationed here.

Branson is like Vegas…without the gambling…or women…or fun. Our biggest “star” is Boxcar Willie (who died about 10 years ago):
rhm, boxcarThis small town of 10,000 residents hosts around 7 million tourists each year. We’re not really affected by the economy; there are never enough people to work at all the restaurants, hotels, shows, theme parks, etc. The unemployment rate hovers around zero for the 9 months the town is open for business (and 100% for the 3 months it’s not).

And because our city covets those sweet, tourist greenbacks, the streets are clean, safe and – unfortunately for my goal – you have as much a chance of finding a Hobo as you do of finding a woman who still has more than 2 teeth.

The only reason I’m able to cross #26 off my list is because back in 2004, I was dating an attractive, wealthy woman (from Not Here) who had severe self-esteem issues (but all of her teeth) and a cynical view of Hobos and the homeless population in general.

If memory serves, her philosophy on such folks went something like this: “They’re too stupid and/or lazy to work & some of them just prefer to live outside, so they can pee wherever they want.”

She also insisted that any homeless person who suddenly came into even the smallest amount of money would immediately spend it on booze, drugs or both.

With a tank full of gas and (some) hope in my heart that a Hobo preferred a sandwich to whiskey – or a cheap pair of winter boots to a small baggie of smack – I hopped in my car, determined to find an Honorable Hobo. The woman I was destined not to marry came along so I could prove that you can’t (and shouldn’t) judge a book by its cover.

We knew we wouldn’t find a Hobo within city limits, but there are a dozen little towns that surround the place 80’s Russian comedian Yakov Smirnoff calls home.

At some point, I just knew we’d spot someone at an intersection or off-ramp with a pan-handlin’ sign.

3 hours later, we hadn’t even discovered anyone off the side of the road with car trouble.

After stopping for lunch about 30 miles north, I decided we would just try again tomorrow. It seemed obvious that we needed to expand our Hobo-hunting Parameter.

On the way home, we stopped at a liquor store centered in a small strip mall, so I could grab a bottle what used to be my favorite Vodka (Jean Marc XO). One mission postponed, one successful, I slide back inside the car.

As She-Who-Should-Not-Be-Named complained about the overcooked Chilean Sea Bass working its way through her digestive system, I pulled to the edge of the parking lot as my ex farted loudly.

I slammed on the brakes, rolled down the windows and opened my door, trying to suck oxygen into my lungs.

A few moments later, I closed my door & stared into the rear-view mirror, checking to see if the putrid stench of overcooked, fish shit had eaten my pupils.

It had not.

But in the corner of my reflection – sandwiched in the alley between one end of the strip mall and Home Depot, with his back resting against the outer brick wall of a party store – I spotted him: My Hobo Hero.

Without a word to my fragrant partner, I jumped out of the car, rushed back into the liquor store, pulled twenty bucks from its ATM and darted back out. After passing two stores & a corner, I was in the alley.

I slowed my gait as the Hobo came into view & approached cautiously.

My Hobo was in his late 60’s, unkempt & covered in grime like a mechanic. He looked like he’d been sleeping for half the year and still needed another 6 months. I opened my mouth, but realized just then that I wasn’t sure what to say or how to say it. I hadn’t really thought about the conversation. I just assumed he’d have a Styrofoam cup; something to make the whole transaction smooth & non-verbal.

After 20 or 30 seconds of me staring at him with my mouth agape, he spoke:

“What the fuck you starin’ at, Mister?”

I searched my brain for my…the…any explanation as to why I was invading what now felt very much like his territory. His eyes narrowed. I felt my throat tighten & though he seemed to having nothing but time, I felt like I was wasting it. I glanced down at the money and extended it toward him, not saying a word.

I hoped I wasn’t drooling.

The Hobo eyed me suspiciously, but when the green hue of the money caught the sun, his face lit up and wobbly, he stood. Just as he reached for the crisp twenty-dollar bill, the horn of a car out on the highway blared like the inhale of a donkey. I glanced over my shoulder to see what was going on and the paper left my hand. I turned back and my Hobo had already charged around the corner.

“Enjoy!” I called out to the trailing fumes of whatever he’d recently eaten (engine oil and dirt-sprinkled butter from the smell of it).

I strolled back to my car, not knowing which store he’d entered.

My girlfriend was curled up in the passenger seat, sleeping; stereo on, my door still open, keys in the ignition, car still running.

Branson is a boring (wondrously-safe) place to live.

I plopped down in the driver’s seat, turned off the radio and stared into my side-mirror, hard & intensely. I felt like if I could stare intently, with enough purpose, enough want, enough power, I could will My Hobo to exit from the electronics retailer, the bicycle shop or Taco Palace; any business except the liquor store.

I nudged my smelly sleeping beauty awake.

“Look out the back,” I said.

“Why?” she yawned in response.

“Because I’m about to prove your Homeless Theory wrong,” I snapped back, gaining confidence that my Hobo would be appearing soon with a fountain drink and stack of tacos or a bag of burritos.

We both turned around in our seats, gazing out the back window. A few moments later, my Hobo exited Taco Palace…counted his change & entered the liquor store. He emerged less than a minute later with 1 cheap bottle of whiskey tucked under his left arm, guzzling from a 2nd bottle with his right.

He sat on the curb in front of the liquor joint and unwrapped his bean & cheese feast. He devoured most of a burrito with one chomp, then spit half of that onto the pavement of the parking lot. He unwrapped a taco, sniffed it, recoiled in disgust and hurled the remainder of his meal toward the wrong store.

Finally, my Hobo stood, took another long swig of his whiskey to wash the taste of food from his mouth and disappeared around his corner.

I shook my head silently.

“Told ya,” my girlfriend said.

I dumped her 2 weeks later.

What a bitch.


I’m a Columnist at and links to my articles can be found on the Hulkamania page. One of the sections I contribute to is called HeadLies; it’s like The Onion, but for Pro Wrestling.

Here’s a HeadLie that’s Here, instead of There:

 Linda McMahon’s Shocking Confession! “They’re really the size of grapes.”

Contradicting Vince McMahon’s repeated assertion that he has “balls the size of grapefruits” comes his wife’s admission that years of steroid use & abuse has rendered the WWE Chairman’s testicles the size of grapes.

Just grapes. 

“Sadly,” Mrs. McMahon added, staring longingly into the distance.

While Mr. McMahon still defends his original statement, this new confession brings into question other WWE claims of hyperbole:
1) Were there really 93,000+ people at the Pontiac SilverDome for Wrestlemania III?
2) Was Black Saturday really a success?
3) Are Shane McMahon’s balls the size of pomegranates?

Mrs. McMahon was asked to verify the latter question’s veracity, regarding her son.

“How would I know?” she replied. “What am I, some kind of pervert?”

“Yes. Yes, they are,” Stephanie McMahon-Helmsley answered.