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The scripted world of professional wrestling is nothing short of sheer entertainment. Big beefy galoots manhandling each other, all the gushing blood and showboating rage you can handle; it's all so American it makes you wanna cry in your 32-ounce Pabst.

But when the night's card calls for the talent to define facial hair, the script is apparenty thrown out the window. 

The lesson here? Apparently impromptu crumb catcher bragging is harder than it looks.

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