By Tony Ramos, Chief Editor | WrestlingChimp.com
There’s a dangerous myth that All Elite Wrestling has been spinning since the day it was born — that “the best wrestlers wrestle here.” But let’s be honest. That line has aged worse than a steel chair shot to the head in the PG era. For every promising indie star AEW builds up, there’s a legendary name walking through those Forbidden Doors only to kiss their career goodbye the second they sign the dotted line. It’s time we talk about the AEW curse — or what I call the Kiss of Death.
Let’s start with Ricochet, the man once dubbed “The Future of Wrestling.” Remember when Ricochet was flipping across the ring in NXT, making jaws drop and redefining athleticism? The sky wasn’t even the limit — he was orbiting the moon. But now? He’s reportedly AEW-bound, and I can already see the headlines two years from now: “What Happened to Ricochet?” Once you cross into AEW territory, the hype vanishes faster than one of their Wednesday night ratings spikes.
Then there’s Edge — sorry, Adam Copeland. The Rated-R Superstar returned to WWE in one of the greatest comeback stories of all time. Royal Rumble pops, main events, drama with The Judgment Day — it was magic. And then? He vanished into the shadows of AEW, feuding with Christian Cage (again) in a program nobody asked for. Edge went from being a God-tier comeback king to just another “veteran presence” putting over talent nobody will remember in five years. It’s not just sad — it’s insulting to his legacy.
Chris Jericho was supposed to be the elder statesman who helped build AEW’s foundation. Instead, he became the poster boy for bloated storytelling, dad-bod brawls, and matches that belong on cruise ships, not national TV. I respect Jericho’s legacy — but he hasn’t had a meaningful feud in years. His matches are sluggish, overbooked, and often feel like vanity projects. The Jericho who stole the show at WrestleMania X-8 is long gone. What we’re left with is a karaoke frontman trying to relive the Monday Night Wars.
Don’t even get me started on Paul Wight (formerly The Big Show) or Ric Flair. These men were legends — were. But now? They’re walking punchlines. Flair should be enjoying retirement with dignity, not cutting weird promos while slurring through the ropes. And Paul Wight being trotted out for “big man credibility” in AEW is like wheeling out an old VCR and trying to convince us it’s the next-gen console. No disrespect to their contributions — but AEW uses these guys as nostalgia bait, not serious athletes.
The issue is bigger than just individual names. AEW markets itself as the future of wrestling — but keeps going back to the past like it’s a security blanket. They load the roster with aging ex-WWE talent, push long-winded promos that go nowhere, and book matches that feel more like cosplay than combat. What was once supposed to be an alternative has become a retirement community with fireworks.
Look, I’m not saying AEW doesn’t have talent. Guys like MJF, Swerve Strickland, and Will Ospreay bring the fire. But the company has to stop pretending that everyone who walks in their doors is “the best in the world.” Because the truth is, the moment someone signs with AEW — especially after leaving WWE — it’s usually the end of their peak, not the beginning.
So let’s call it what it is. AEW is no longer a proving ground — it’s a graveyard for wrestlers who used to matter. And every time they parade another former WWE name around like it’s the second coming of Stone Cold, they’re not building the business — they’re burying it under false hype and broken bodies.
AEW isn’t where careers thrive — it’s where they go to die.
And that, folks, is the kiss of death.
