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BOB March Mayhem 2003 Logo

That was NOT traveling, bitch!

[Various shots of BOBsters. We head to the ring.]

Tom: Wow! We may be able to MST this card next if we keep getting such amazing details!

Crow: Yeah, yeah, apparently this show was not brought to you with any sort of creativity. BOB kills brain cells.

Tom: In case you couldn't tell, my name is Tom Servo, and I am joined as always by Crow T. Robot.

Crow: And you may be wondering why a couple of bots are doing commentary for BOB.

Tom: You may!

Crow: And you may be wondering why members of the iAd are commentating for a BOB program.

Tom: We're members of the iAd?

Crow: Sure. Aren't we?

Tom: I dunno.

Crow: Oh, right. They tossed us out after that party where we were able to drink more than them, but rusted, so they had to fix us. And their women thought we were cuter than all of them combined.

Tom: But anyway, we're commentating in the EAST REGION of the BOB War For Booking Control tournament thing here because our co-workers, and dare I say, friends?

Crow: I dare you.

Tom: OK, we're all friends. But the REAL reason we're commentating is BOB has no more announcers left. And a lack of long-term planning. But who knows, maybe by next week, they'll have some humans calling this region of this tournament.

Violent Pacifist: Excuse me.

Crow: What was that?

Tom: I'm not sure.

[VP walks up from behind them.]

VP: Hey there.

Tom + Crow: AHH!

VP: I was just wondering if we could get a move on?

Tom: Sure. You can go along. *Evil laugh*

Crow: Yes *evil laugh* get in that ring.

[There is silnece.]

Tom: What the hell?

Crow: Is XXXtreme Machine our fill-in narrator tonight.

[Sorry. My bad. I'll be mopre careufl.}

Tom: Shape up or get out of those brackets!

Crow: And speaking of brackets. It's time to move somebody along in them.

VP: Hey, where's Masked Announcer to introduce me. And my music?

Tom: You're asking us?

Crow: C'mon! We just make fun of you incessantly. We don't care about BOB at all.

Tom: We'd spit on you if we had saliva.

Crow: For sure, buddy.

Tom: And now here comes Urine out to the ring. Man, can't this place afford a ring announcer? Or theme music?

Crow: You gotta love the total lack of any originality in that entrance there.

Tom: Where are we tonight anyway?

Crow: This afternoon? We are in the lovely hellhole called Utah. We're at some high school as BOB's tour of decrepit education facilities continues.

Tom: And here they go in the ring. Ready Crow? *Evil laugh*

Crow: Oh yeah. *Evil laugh*

Tom: Now remember, wait until he puts him in a--

Crow: I know I know! Sheesh!

Tom: Heehee. And Violent Pacifist puts Urine into a headlock. NOW, Crow, NOW! Wait!

[Ding, ding, ding.]

VP + Urine: What the hell?

Urine: Sister?!

Crow: Umm, umm. This match is a time-limit draw. Yeah…a TIME, MINUTE, DRAW!

Tom: (Turning his head away.) Five minutes more! Five minutes more! (Back to normal.) And LISTEN to that crowd. They want a decisive winner in this one. Draws are for sissies.

Crow: You want five more minutes?

VP: Not really.

Crow: Do YOU want five more minutes?

Urine: Hell no, sister! Because I'm gonna get SCREWED, dude. Sister. Uncle. Nephew.

Crow: Enough. (The bell sounds.) Now you have NO control. The bell has sounded.

Urine + VP: But..

Crow: The BELL, has sounded.

Urine: He's got us there grandma.

Tom: And it's on again, though it really should be off and never turned back on again.

Crow: Sorry, Tom.

Tom: You are no Vince McBigBOSS. Oh nuts. VP is putting Urine between his legs.

Crow: Do we NEED to see that!

Tom: I've seen this crap before! It's his finisher thingee! NO! Urine is down.

Crow: One.

Tom: Two.

Crow + Tom: Three!

VP: Woohoo!

Tom: I'm disgusted. Even more disgusted when I saw that dirty bot magazine when one bot was oiling on another bot. Just wrong. Let's go to our next match.

Crow: You still have that magazine?

[We cut to Oklahoma! No, not Ed Ferrera dressed up as Jim Ross, the actual state. Yes, I remember Oklahoma. Do you? Anyway, welcome to the opening MIDWEST REGION game.]

Mike Monroe: Hello everybody. Welcome to March Mayhem 2003! I'm Mike Monroe. Along with my longtime partner, Scotty Whatbody.

Scotty Whatbody: Dude, all I've got to know. How amazing was it to French kiss Kay Fabe?

MM: Don't you mean, Freedom kiss?

SW: What?

MM: Well, French fries are now Freedom fries. So wouldn't--

SW: What was it like to taste the Lesbian's Tongue then, funny man?

MM: Hot and wet.

SW: Yep. Just how I like my women. Woohoo!

MM: Well, let's move along. We've got Masked Announcer on the TinyTron ready to introduce our opening contest.

Masked Announcer: Introducing *bzzzt* first, *bzzt* from Snapmareville. It's SMK! The Snapmare Kid!

[My wrist is cute. My wrist is sexy. My wrist's a sexy boy toy. My wrist's a boy toy. Some disgusting thing like that begins playing as Snapmare comes out to the ring.]

SW: The hell is going on here?

MM: He's the Snap Marer. The Show Snapper. The Snapmarer of Snapmarers.

SW: Will you go back into your cave for another year, like, right now?

MM: Only if you go there first.

SW: Well, you've got a…hey. Wait a minute.

Masked Announcer: And his opponent. From What's A Place? Weighing Fahgettabouti. It's Mr. X!

MM: Who do you think is going to win this one?

SW: Let me consult my Yahoo! Sports scoreboard. I'm gonna guess Mr. X.

MM: Does Yahoo! have a scouting report on our tournament?

SW: Um. Yeah, Mike. Whatever. What the HELL?

MM: Mr. X has a GUN!

[Cut to Utah.]

Styles: OH MY GOD!!!

[Back to, um? What the hell? Where are we?]

Mr. X: Go suck a lemon.

SW: Where are we, Mike?

MM: Ah, crap! If BigBOSS wasn't so lazy, I'm sure we'd fix this blatant mistake.

Mr. X: Fuhgettaboutit.

SW: Will do. We're in Oklahoma.

MM: They can't see you wink, Scotty.

BANG

SW: Oh, right, the gun!

MM: Mr. X just shot the Snapmare Kid! How COULD YOU?

Mr. X: How could I do what?

MM: Shoot SMK with your gun?

Mr. X: Gun? What's a gun?

MM: You're holding it in your hand!

SW: And there's the bell. One. Two. Three. And there's the bell again.

MM: Well, he may have won the match, but here come the police. BOB is on orange alert at the moment, which means there is serious, or, 80 percent, danger for clichéd angles to break out.

SW: I hope we don't go up to a severe danger. It'll be cliché city.

Officer: Alright, laddy, Whatcha think ya doin' with dat pistal?

Mr. X: Pistol? What's a pistol.

Officer: This thing here (he says, pulling the pistol from Mr. X's fingers.)

Mr. X: What? You mean my water pistol that shoots red colored water?

Officer: Nice try. But I heard a gunshot.

Mr. X: If you're so sure, why don't you just try shooting me with it. If I'm lying, may a bullet from that gun shoot me into an undetermined afterlife of some sort.

SW: This is one of the strangest post-match angles I've ever seen.

MM: But will he do it? He's got his finger on the trigger.

SW: He banged your mother!

MM: Scotty! Don't encourage him!

Officer: Alright, laddie, ayem shore you wounnit let me shoot ya unless it was jus a watah pistol.

Mr. X: May a goat piss down your throat while you sleep.

Officer: (He scratches his head.) Will you quit talking in riddles.

Mr. X: Riddles?

MM: Well, we're through here, for now. Maybe we'll be in the right place next time you see us.

[Stop glaring at me. Well, let's go to Styles and Mark Shill.]

Styles: Hello everyone, and welcome to Utah. I can't believe what has been going on so far. It's been a mess. But what else is new with BOB.

MS: You only get messes like this in BOB!

Styles: For the record, the second match was in Indianapolis, and the first match was in Oklahoma. They're just incredibly, incredibly stoned. At least, that's my best guess.

MS: If you're listening to stoned announcers, you MUST be watching BOB! Styles. Without a shadow of a doubt, fans, I never say this, but, I just want to let you all know, that you are watching, the most spectacular March Mayhem 2003 in the HISTORY of SPORTS ENTERTAINMENT!

[The TinyTron lights up.]

MS: Masked Announcers IS HEEEYERE!

Styles: OH MY GOD, Shill, will you STOP IT! Welcome to March Mayhem 2003 fans. It's gonna be EXTREME!

Masked Announcer: Introducing first, Stone Hot Steve Dawson! And his opponent, Coma!

Styles: Both men are coming out, together?

MS: Only in BOB will you see opponents entering the arena TOGETHER!

[We're running a tad late.]

Styles: Oh? Hmm. Want me to help?

[If you can.]

Styles: Comaanddawsongetintheringandstartfighting. ComastartsdancingandconfusesthehelloutofDawsonwhotriesforastonehotstunnerbutComareverses
andpokeshimintheeyeanddawsoncollapses. Onetwothree.

Coma: Poink!

MS: WHAT A MATCH!

[Alright now. Let's head over to Spokane, Washington and keep this party-train rolling on. Or something. Yeah. So let's give over control to Nurse Heidi and--]

Commentator: MY GAWD! MY GAWD! HELLFIRE AND BRIMSTONE!

Nurse Heidi: Um, no... actually, that's just Spaceduck setting fire to a little boy. Yes, folks, I think I've gotten over Spaceduck's shock value, now, and I'm getting used to all of the vile, disgusting things that he and the other one do.

=<>: OH, REALLY?

[Somehow, maybe through my brilliant powers, Spaceduck had grabbed a guitar. Now, don't ask me how he PLAYS the damn thing, because if you do, I'm turning you into a penguin.]

Random Guy In Audience #221: Hey, why does he have a guitar? Can't he, like, not play i-- AIIIEE!!!

Random Penguin In Audience: *waddle*

[Warned you.]

=<>: YO, I'LL TELL YOU WHAT I WANT, WHAT I REALLY REALLY WANT,
SO TELL ME WHAT YOU WANT, WHAT YOU REALLY REALLY WANT,
I'LL TELL YOU WHAT I WANT, WHAT I REALLY REALLY WANT,
SO TELL ME WHAT YOU WANT, WHAT YOU REALLY REALLY WANT,
I WANNA, I WANNA, I WANNA, I WANNA, I WANNA REALLY
REALLY REALLY WANNA ZIGAZIG HA

=<>: IF YOU WANT MY FUTURE FORGET MY PAST,
IF YOU WANNA GET WITH ME BETTER MAKE IT FAST,
NOW DON'T GO WASTING MY PRECIOUS TIME,
GET YOUR ACT TOGETHER WE COULD BE JUST FINE

=<>: I'LL TELL YOU WHAT I WANT, WHAT I REALLY REALLY WANT,
SO TELL ME WHAT YOU WANT, WHAT YOU REALLY REALLY WANT,
I WANNA, I WANNA, I WANNA, I WANNA, I WANNA REALLY
REALLY REALLY WANNA ZIGAZIG HA

=<>: IF YOU WANNA BE MY LOVER, YOU GOTTA GET WITH MY FRIENDS,
MAKE IT LAST FOREVER FRIENDSHIP NEVER ENDS,
IF YOU WANNA BE MY LOVER, YOU HAVE GOT TO GIVE,
TAKING IS TOO EASY, BUT THAT'S THE WAY IT IS.

=<>: WHAT DO YOU THINK ABOUT THAT NOW YOU KNOW HOW I FEEL,
SAY YOU CAN HANDLE MY LOVE ARE YOU FOR REAL,
I WON'T BE HASTY, I'LL GIVE YOU A TRY
IF YOU REALLY BUG ME THEN I'LL SAY GOODBYE

=<>: YO I'LL TELL YOU WHAT I WANT, WHAT I REALLY REALLY WANT,
SO TELL ME WHAT YOU WANT, WHAT YOU REALLY REALLY WANT,
I WANNA, I WANNA, I WANNA, I WANNA, I WANNA REALLY
REALLY REALLY WANNA ZIGAZIG HA

=<>: IF YOU WANNA BE MY LOVER, YOU GOTTA GET WITH MY FRIENDS,
MAKE IT LAST FOREVER FRIENDSHIP NEVER ENDS,
IF YOU WANNA BE MY LOVER, YOU HAVE GOT TO GIVE,
TAKING IS TOO EASY, BUT THAT'S THE WAY IT IS

[Well, folks, it don't get no lower than THAT. By now, a good half of the audience had left for the bathrooms, while two fans actually gnawed off their own legs to save themselves. The rest of them had thankfully ignored Spaceduck. And, uh... I'm going to go vomit now.]

Commentator: BY GOD! SPACEDUCK JUST SLAPPED THE INTELLIGENCE OF MORTAL MAN LIKE A GOVERNMENT MULE!

NH: I retract my statement about Spaceduck's shock value losing meaning. That was an utterly horrible and disgusting display, and I hope God shows us all mercy and strikes down Spaceduck where he stands.

=<>: I DON'T STAND, BITCH. I HAVE NO LEGS.

[The Masked Announcer appears on the TinyTron, and he's wearing a bikini.]

Masked Announcer: Yeah yeah, blah blah blah, I hate you Detached Narrator, blah blah blah. Anyway, I didn't feel like introducing Spaceduck, because it's time for the REAL star of the show! The man who has starred in such fine films as "Tears of Your Daughter", "Bringing Down The Ho", "She-Can-Go", "Cradle 2 The Pussy", and, of course, my personal favorite... "How To Fuck A Bitch In 10 Places"... yes, folks... he is SIR HUNGALOT!

[Sir Hungalot appears and... aw, hell, even I liked him in "How To Fuck A Bitch In 10 Places"... I can't demoralize him.]

=<>: YOU MIGHT NOT, DETACHED NARRATOR, BUT I CAN.

Sir Hungalot: Oh no, baby, you KNOW I can go all night long in this contest.

Commenator: Oh no! Spaceduck is whipping Hungalot like a government mule! Ohh, hellfire and brimstone!

NH: Yes, folks, Spaceduck is really trying to set Sir Hungalot on fire... and that's in the literal sense, and not in any sort of pornographic sense.

Commentator: Now Hungalot's running like a scalded dog, and now Spaceduck is stomping a mudhole in Hungalot's ass!

NH: And not in a gay porno kind of way! He's just kicking him repeatedly trying to put out the fire for some reason... even... though... he... uh... doesn't... you know... have... legs... HELP!?

Commentator: This match is a rollercoaster of human emotions, and MY GOD, the CARNAGE!

NH: SMILEY STUNNER!? Already!??!

=<>: THIS SHOW'S RUNNING A BIT LONG, WHAT THE FUCK CAN I SAY?

NH: There's a cover! One... two... and, yes, three... and I guess Spaceduck advances!

=<>: WELL, I GUESS YOU CAN SAY THAT UCONNROX. 11 TIMES.

NH: Oh, god, insider talk from the immoral creature.

=<>: IMMORAL CREATURE? COMING FROM THE LESBIAN!?

NH: I am NOT a lesbian!

[Can you spell Indianapolis? Guess we're going there. Back with Mike Monroe and Scotty Whatbody for our next match.]

MM: Welcome back fans. It's time for another match.

[The TinyTron lights up. He's on the toilet now?]

Masked Announcer: Before you complain, I didn't get to go anywhere and I'm stuck at home. And I have to take a shit. Eat my dookie. Or sue me. Whatever.

SW: He said dookie! Do you know how long it's been since we said dookie on BOB television?

Masked Announcer: Introducing first, it's Jim of the Kent State Krew.

MM: Scotty, didn't Jim recently lose his Four-Play Tag Team Title, with his partner Brandon, to Trey Vincent and Steve Studnuts?

SW: Is this gonna be on the test tomorrow?

MM: So much for creating any interest in this match.

SW: Match? How about the card?

Masked Announcer: And his opponennnnnnnnnt.

FART

PLOP

PLOP

Masked: Ahh. What a relief it is. Much better. Steve Stunduts.

Studnuts: Hey you fucktard, next time I see you, I'm gonna jam my fist so far down your throat I'll be able to rip your balls off, ya dig?

Masked Announcer: W/E.

Studnuts: W/E?

Masked Announcer: What, EVER!

MM: And Studnuts charges into the ring. But Jim hits him with a dropkick. And look at him stomp away on Studnuts.

SW: He should really stop that if he doesn't want to die.

MM: Jim bounces off the ropes and hits a flying sidekick, knocking Studnuts back to the mat.

SW: What is this? A grudge match or something? Geez, somebody should have built this thing up a bit, Mike.

MM: Could I interest you in a plane ticket to Iraq?

SW: Um, let me think. No.

MM: It's so peaceful. Look.

[We cut to a news shot of the dark Baghdad skyline.]

MM: Look, it's so peaceful.

SW: Oh boy, Studnuts is coming back. Whoo.

MM: They're hitting each other with very solid punches, neither man giving an inch. It's brutal. Studnuts whips Ken to the ropes. Oh, what a clothesline.

SW: The parody stops with Studnuts.

Studnuts: Did I mention your gay boy band sucks, Jim?

Jim: Did I mention your balls hurt?

Studnuts: No they--

MM: Ohhhhh. What a low blow kick by Jim!

SW: Right in his Studnuts!

MM: Small package!

SW: I'm sure it's just the steroi--oh, you meant the move.

MM: Only a two count. Oh no. What is Jim doing!

SW: He's trying to do a springboard move? Is his IQ running low today?

MM: Wow, there was no spring in that board Or the BOB ring ropes. Jim is down. Studnuts is up and picks up Jim. Death Valley Of The Sun Driver.

SW: That's all folks.

MM: One and two and three. The iAd has prevailed once again. God save BOB if one of them wins booking control.

SW: Screw BOB. Give me a raise!

[Alright. Now, where are we headed. To the bar I hope? No. OK. How about to the next match then. In…Oklahoma City. With. Um. Two people. Go and see already.]

Tom: We're back, YAYYYY, WOOOO!

Crow: Alright. It's time for, what? Are you kidding? Fans, we are about to be blessed by the presence of sports entertainment icon Trey Vincent.

Tom: That's right, Crow.

Crow: But here comes Unoriginal Man. Oh man, he has a mic. Prepare for something along the lines of Hemingway.

Unoriginal Man: Here comes the pain. It's true, it's true. And that's the rock bottom because my mommy said I drink Yoohoo. I'm Billy Polar damnit! There is not one counter for ANY of my moves. The ratings are about to change because I'm the king of the world if ya smell what the lesbian is cooking, ya dig?

Crow: Huckleberry Hemingway, apparently.

Tom: And now playing, Trey Vincent's song "Injected With A Poison" by Pragha Khan.

Crow: Look at Trey. Sure, he may be in ultimate slack mode at the moment, but he's a busy, busy man and does more entertaining things with less energy than most boring people can do with all their energy.

Tom: Mmmhmm, mmmhmmm. I see. Very interesting point. And Trey punches Unoriginal Man, who looks out. Completely out. But that's not stopping Trey from continuing to stomp and stomp and stomp on his unconscious body. If not for his amazing charisma, I would no doubt be booing.

Crow: Agreed, Servo. And now, Vincent picks up Man. And there's his move he calls the Glass Ceiling. Most of you uneducated BOB viewers know it as the "pedigree."

Tom: For shame. For shame. Vincent picks up Man again. And there is his finisher, Coming Down.

Crow: I disagree, Servo. For Mr. Vincent is not done.

Tom: No?

Crow: No. Look. He bounces off one side of the ring. The opposite side of the ring. A third side. And the fourth side. Big. Time. Fist. Drop. Pure beauty.

Tom: A hook of the leg. And this 'contest' is all over. Trey Vincent, your future booker, is your winner. Buh-bye then.

[And now we're back at Salt Lake City, Utah. And we're with…]

MS: Heavens to Betsy.

Styles: For those of you who just finished watching all the other matches that came before this, here's the situation. The "Are You Out Of Your Frickin' Mind" Hardcore Title belt is in the ring with the Guy Who Slightly Resembles LBJ. LBJ is on the offensive, He picks up the belt.

MS: WHATAMANEUVER!

Styles: A HOODANCONRANA BY THE BELT! OH MY GOD! COVER! ONE! TWO! THRENO!!!!

MS: Oh, what Action!

Styles The belt and LBJ are BOTH on the canvas, exhausted from the first few grueling seconds of this match. LBJ is getting up first. He picks up the belt and brings it to the corner and lays it on the top turnbuckle.

MS: He's raining down punches. Yes, all TEN of them. Oh, fans, this is an HISTORIC evening of March Mayhem!

Styles: LBJ just tripped coming off the ropes! The belt falls on top of him!

MS: One. TWOOO. THREE!

Styles: ITGOTHIM!!!

[What a rollercoaster ride of screwjobs and short matches. Let's keep going, shall we? Let's head back to Spokane, Wash..]

NH: Well, this one promises to be interesting, as my broadcast colleague is about to go one-on-one with DovE.

Commentator: DovE is a tremendous wrestler, but I have to give this one to the Commentator, as he is a hoss who can dish out the punishment.

NH: You ARE talking about yourself, right?

[He is.]

NH: Okay. Just so long as we're clear.

NH: And now, "Freebird" begins to play, and here comes that idiot, DovE. And... oh God, he's bringing flowers, and he's individually handing them to members of the audience. Luckily, most of them are still in the bathroom after Spaceduck sang "Wannabe".

Commentator: Oh! And a cheapshot by me, as I stomp a mudhole in this bastard's ass! Folks, this one won't be for the weak of heart, as I am continuing to stomp a mudhole in DovE's ass!

DovE: You know, OOF... your downward momentum isn't... OOF... strong enough to do anything more than... OOF... knock the wind out of me.

Commentator: But the Commentator isn't listening to his jive talkin', and now DovE's running off like a scalded dog, as that hoss, the Commentator, is now chasing him around the ring!

DovE: Hugs! Hugs for all!

[Hey hey hey! Stop hugging me, you obnoxious twit!]

DovE: Mr. Commentator, I think YOU need a hug!

Commentator: OH! MY GOD! MY GOD! DovE is breaking me in half! Oh, the carnage! This is not right! This is not right at all! This is the damndest bear hug I've ever been a witness of! Now DovE releases the hold and he strokes me gently, but I come back with some of the damndest punches this side of the Mason-Dixon line! DovE has some hell to pay!

DovE: You know, I used to have some hell to pay, hold on, let me see if I still have it...

Commentator: What's this? DovE is giving me a piece of paper that says "Hell" on it, but I'm on to his cheap tricks! ROCK BOTTOM! ROCK BOTTOM! ROCK BOTTOM TO DOVE! This one's over!

[And I agree, but mainly because I don't feel like listening to your JRisms any more. So, the referee counts the three and gives the match to the Commentator.]

NH: You know, for once, I agree with the Detached Narrator.

[Wanna fuck?]

NH: No.

[Dammit. Well. Creeped out enough? We hope so. BOB is just one big unintentional horror show that happens to take place in a ring. And backstage. OK. Now onto Indianapolis.]

Styles: OH MY GOD! We're back and ready for more EXTREME action!

MS: Oh what a MOMENT!

[The TinyTron lights up again. And here is Masked Announcer to do his pathetic thing.]

Styles: Welcome back, DN.

[Fuck you. I'll show up when I feel like it. I DO have some matches to worry about.]

Masked Announcer: First, coming to the ring. It's Sleazy-C!

MS: My goodness! He's mastered the art, of INVISIBILITY!

Styles: No, he's not here, moron. Remember, a bunch of letter wielding bandits kidnapped him?

MS: I don't remember, ANYTHING, Styles!

Masked Announcer: And his opponent, it is DOOOOOOOOOOOOUJA!

Styles: Nice pop from the few fans who could make it out this afternoon for the all-day wrestling festival known as March Mayhem 2003!

MS: This one should be through the roof! Fans are HANGING from the rafters tonight! Oh, what a spectacle.

Styles: The bell sounds and still no sign of Sleazy.

Fan standing near the entrance: We want Sleazy! We want Sleazy!

Styles: Oh, the fans are going to be disappointed tonight, but what else is new in BOB. The referee is counting. One! Two! Five? Nine? TEN! It's OVER! Douja wins by count out!

MS: Oh, what a dark day in the history of our sport. It's a black mark on our sport?

douja: What you say about blacks?

MS: Um, nothing?

Styles: Fans, let's send this one elsewhere! OH MY GOD!

[Fine. Let's head to Oklahoma for, wait a second…Styles and Shill? THEY WERE JUST. The hell? This show makes no sense! And you're welcome.]

MS: Good luck, Styles! Go fight that powers to be!

Styles: OH MY GOD! I can't believe I'm fighting a wolfman!

MS: Don't forget your microphone.

[The Wolfpac music plays for two seconds, and is then followed by some classical music by Wolfgang Puck. Just enough so we can't be sued and the WWE isn't sure if it was really that song or not. Yeah. Here comes the Wolfenator.]

Styles: OH MY GOD! I've got a weapon! And Wolfenator doesn't know it!

Wolfenator: I do NOW.

MS: OH, Heaven's to Betsy. Wolfenator got him with that one there. Oh what a move! He got him there. Fans, don't forget, coming up later tonight in the main event, The Pope will be taking on DMD! It'll be the religious community fighting against the dental community. Which one is stronger! Stay tuned and find out! Call you friends and let them know another BOB spectacular is ON THE AIR!

[Styles crawls to a microphone he dropped during one of the moves Shill didn't notice.]

Styles: OH MY GOD! I am DEAD. DEAD! There's NO WAY I could have survived that move!

MS: Wolfenator with the pin! One! Two! Three! Heeeee got him! It's all over but the shouting. The writing is on the wall. Wolfenator is going to the next round. And Styles is coming back to join me as merely a spectator for the rest of the tournament. Oh, this has got to be the darkest day in the history of Styles, which just happens to be on the GREATEST SPECTACLE in BOB HISTORY! We'll be back! Don't touch that dial! Or the remote. Or that cousin you're eyeing! You're family, you, sicko!

[So, we cut from Styles and Shill in Oklahoma to Styles and Shill in Salt Lake City. YOU figure out this insanity! I dare you! Sculder & Mully the song is playing as we arrive.]

Styles: Hello everyone, and welcome back to more BOB action. Mully is making her way to the ring as I speak and we are waiting with bated breath to see who the mysterious mystery entrant will be.

MS: You only get unpredictability like this in BOB fans. Don't turn that dial to any of those other so-called wrestling promotions. We are the number one federation in the universe on at the moment!

Styles: Could it be BigBOSS? Could it be someone from BOB's past? Or from the STWF? Or LOL? fWEo? The WWF? ECW?

MS: I've never heard of any of those federations, Styles. BOB is the only--

[Are you ready for the loudest frigging pop of your lives? You better be…sounds of stuff breaking fills the high school gymnasium…POP!!!]

Styles: OH MY GOD! IT'S LUKE WARM! LUKE WARM IS BACK IN BOB! LUKE WARM IS BACK IN BOB! OH MY GOD OH MY GOD, OH MY GOD!!!!!

MS: WHAT A MOMENT! LUKE WARM HITS THE RING!

Styles + MS: STONECUTTER!

Styles: OH MY GOD!

Crowd: ONE! TWOOOOO! THREE!!!!

[More sounds of stuff breaking and a bigger POP!! Somebody tosses a Yoohoo to the thirstiest son of a bitch to ever walk in a BOB ring!]

MS: OH, WHAT A MOMENT!

Styles: IT'S A CAPS LOCK MOMENT IF I EVER SAW ONE! IS THIS BIGBOSS' PLAN TO DEFEAT EVERYONE?

MS: IT COULD BE. ONLY THE BASKETBALL TEAMS WILL DECIDE FOR US! BUT FOR NOW, LUKEAMANIA IS RUNNING WILD!

Styles: For Mark Shill, I am Styles, saying, "OH MY GOD!" LUKE F'n WARM!

[Hmm. Luke Warm? I will drown him in a puddle of Yoohoo! Test me! Bah. Let's go to Spokane for another crappy, poorly produced match.]

MM: OK, we're back for more--

SW: Craptackular BOB stuff!

Announcer Lad: Next match, as if you care, pits (and is it EVER) StreetMime II

Crowd: ........(cough).....

MM: Announcer Lad? Good God, where did this guy come from?

SW: The STWF. I think we pulled this script from somewhere, yet again.

MM: Well, hopefully the author won't notice and sue us. Because we have no money. Just check the bottom of this Web page if you don't believe me. Go ahead, we'll wait.

Announcer Lad: Against Mr. Thursday Night J.C. Long.

Voice: Yay. Go Long. Double 'A' all the way.

MM: The capacity crowd is really divided on this one, Scotty, with half the arena cheering for Long, and the other half absolutely silent.

SW: True... Though the fact that the half that's behind Long is pretty much just Bobo Fiendish - who is sitting by himself because even REDNECKS are only SO stupid - does tilt that otherwise fine assessment of general apathy a skosh. Did I just say skosh? Why did we pick this script of all of them? Sheesh.

MM: And there's the bell for the match to start... StreetMime and J.C. Long circle each other and actually go to a collar and elbow tie-up... But Long trips on his shoelaces and falls, dragging 'Mime with him to the canvas. They're tangled up on the mat and StreetMime manages to free himself and get to his feet... Long starts to do the same, and StreetMime FLATTENS him with a Pantomime Chair Shot!

Bobo: Boo! No fair!

SW: Wait, why is Bobo here?

MM: The script. Remember.

SW: OK. *Ahem* No chair, either... Long very believably 'sells' the imaginary chairshot and crumples to the mat. StreetMime goes into a Pantomime Tribute to La Parka, culminating with a sit-down on that SAME imaginary chair he used on Long. And Oh my GOD! StreetMime is BLASTED in the grease-painted skimmer with a brick flung from the side of the arena that Bobo is in ALL BY HIMSELF...

SW: Did you SEE that? La Parka just came in, threw a brick at that poor mime and then ran away! Call security! Heh.

MM: You folks at home don't really believe that, do you?

Bobo: They'd BETTER.

SW: StreetMime is just wiped out by that alley-apple from La Parka, and -

MM: SCOTTY! C'mon! You can't mean to tell me that you buy in to that nonsense about La Parka interfering... There wasn't even a *Shimmy*

SW: .... Yes I am. Pundits will doubtlessly attribute the attack to La Parka's unstable mental condition since being released from Uncle Ted's Circus, and StreetMime stealing his shtick just drove him over the edge...

SW: Atta boy. Pin him, J.C.!

MM: Long looks a little confused at this 'mysterious' stroke of fortune, but he bounces off the ropes to get up some steam and leaps in the air for a body splash...

CRUNCHY!

SW: Ouch! Looks like Long totally misjudged the distance and lands on his HEAD nowhere NEAR the fallen StreetMime... The referee has begun a count on both men...

Bobo: D'oh! Get up, J.C.! You can do it...

Ref: 4.... 5.... 6....

Bobo: J.C.! You mort! You're embarrassing us! Up with you!

Ref: 8.... 9.....

MM: StreetMime gets a shoulder up!

Ref: 10!

Bobo: Boo! Screw... JOB... Screw... JOB.

MM: Now let's get out of here before Bobo starts throwing bricks at us for ripping the script off his site.

SW: Good idea.

[Say hello to Oklahoma. We're back there once again and the fun just keeps going and going, doesn't it? Wait a second, we just cut from Mike and Scotty, TO Mike and Scotty. This makes NO sense anymore. Just the way I like it!]

Scotty Whatbody: Oh joy, here comes Khan.

Khan: MRGH!

Mike Monroe: Well, he IS the number two seed of the Midwest division of the Bloated 64. And, of course, Mr. Intensity probably would've had a HIGHER seed had he not set himself on fire and got corpse-raped by Festering Death.

[Speaking of: Oh no! It's the Human Torch! Flee!]

Mr. Intensity: YOU CALL THAT AN ENTRANCE?! THIS IS AN ENTRANCE!

Khan: MRGH!

SW: OH! And a chokeslam to Mr. Intensity puts out the flames!

Mr. Intensity: YOU CALL THAT A CHOKESLAM!? I COULD CHOKESLAM MYSELF BETTER!

Khan: MRGH!

MM: And, of course, Mr. Intensity just chokeslammed himself. Now Khan goes for the cover... *yawn* onetwothreeit'soverhegothim.

SW: NEXT!

[Man, another cut from Styles and Shill to them again somewhere else. What an embarrassment this tournament is becoming. Hehehehe. Screw you BOB and screw you BigBOSS.]

Styles: This is the biggest rematch in the history of BOB, fans.

MS: It is a repeat from last year. One year ago, Jean Bannister defeated Death with some basketball trickery of some sort, though the footage is lost. But we swear it happened!

Styles: And here comes Bannister, out to "Rock and Roll Part One." No doubt this will, OH MY GOD! It's the Four Horsmen!

MS: Ric Flair, Arn Anderson, Ole Anderson and Barry Windham?

Styles: NO! The REAL Four Horsemen! It's Death, with his buddies Pestilence, Famine and War! They're all wailing away on Bannister.

MS: And they attacked from behind. What a low down dirty deed!

Bon Scott's spirit: Done dirt cheap. YAAAARGH!

[His spirit vanishes.]

Styles: The hell? The REAL Four Horsemen toss Jean Bannister into the ring. OH! Death cracks Bannister over the head with Mr. Hockey Stick!

Masked Announcer: Introducing first, getting his ass kicked. Jean Bannnister. And his opponent, accompanied by War, Famine and Pestilence, it's DEATH!

Referee: Alright boys, get out of the ring, let's have a fair fight.

War: Wait til he finds his blade.

Referee: Don't argue with me or I'll send you to the locker room!

Pestilence: What did you just say?

Referee: That's it, YOU'RE OUT OF HERE!

War: You can't do that.

Referee: Alright, YOU'RE OUT OF HERE.

Famine: Just for this, I'm gonna go steal all your food from your refrigerator. WHOOOO!

[The three members all vanish.]

Referee: Alright, Death, drop the scythe and let's GET IT ON!

Death: Can we hurry this up? I must get back to Iraq soon.

Styles: Will Death finally beat Bannister here in Indianapolis?

MS: Death with a cover!

Styles: ONE, TWO, OH MY GOD!

MS: I can't believe it! I've never been more amazed in the history of my own existence!

Styles: Fans, can you believe it? Jean Bannister has kicked out of Death's cover!

MS: UNBELIEVABLE.

Styles: I think Death looks pissed, though we can't see his horrific face under that hood, but he's clutching his bony hand in a tight fist. And now he's pounding away on Bannister's hockey-hardened skull.

MS: REVERSAL! ONE! TWO! THRENO! Death JUST barely got out of that one!

Styles: This contest has everything and less we'd expected.

MS: Wait a minute! The rest of the REAL Four Horsemen are back! OH NO! Look!

Famine: Oh, Referee…

Referee: *Gasp* My Cheetos! My turkey! My ice cream! How could you?

Famine: Death wins, or else….

Referee: Or else what?

Famine: You have to go food shopping on your BOB salary!

Referee: NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO! OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO! *Deep breath* OHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH! You bastards! Ring the bell.

Styles: OH MY GOD! What's just happened?

Masked Announcer: The winner, as a result of submission.

Styles: SUBMISSION!

Masked Announcer: DEATH!

MS: Whatwhatwhat have we just seen here, Styles?

Styles: Death and the REAL Four Horsemen have blackmailed the referee into allowing Death to win in a big screwjob. Let's get out of here. Now.

[Back to Salt Lake City. I just don't care anymore…]

Scotty Whatbody: Oh, joy. A Kamikaze Ken match. *looks up at the rafters*

Mike Monroe: Yeah, tell me about it. *also looks up at the rafters*

PFFFFTTTT

SW: Wait, why the hell is Graphic Flatulence up in the rafters instead of Kamikaze Ken?

Graphic Flatulence: I *PFFFFFTTTTT* thought he'd be *PFFFFLLLUUUUHHHH* here! I was going to *FLAAAAPPPPUTHHH* smash his *PFFFFTTTT* guts out and use his *PFFFFTTTTT* guts to hang him from these *PLLLLFFUFUUGHGUHFUHGH* rafters!

SW: Man, that's unusual. Kamikaze Ken? Not in the rafters?

MM: I think it's because he's coming out to the ring, wheeling a giant cannon!

SW: Oh, God, I think I know where THIS is going.

GF: Hmm, I wonder what kind of *PFFFFFFTTTTT* commotion is going on down there? Oh well, I'm just going to pretend I didn't *PFFFFFLUUUHHHH* hear a crazy luchador loading himself in a *PFFFFFFTTTTTTT* cannon aimed straight upwards.

BOOM!!!

Kamikaze Ken: AIIIIIIIIIIIIIEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!!!

GF: Hey, what's that rapidly approaching screaming *PFFFFTTTT* blue thing heading straight for me?

CRASH!

KK: AIIIIIIIIIIIIIEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!!!

GF: AIIIIIIIEE*PFFFFTTTTT*EEEEEEE!!!!

CRUNCH!

SW: My god. Detached Narrator, they didn't land anywhere near the ring! How are we going to end this match if they're both unconscious and can't pin one another?

[What do you think I fucking am? Saint Detached Narrator?]

MM: Please, Detached Narrator, this is a three hour pay-per-view. At least, I think it is.

[Gah. Fine. Through the magics of telepathy, a psychic person in the audience telepathically sends Graphic Flatulence back into the ring, and Kamikaze Ken immediately lands on top of him, forcing the three count.]

MM: Thank you, Detached Narrator.

[Just for that, you're now wearing a tutu.]

MM: Dammit.

[And that's that. We've finally got one match left, and if you're still here, you've just lost a ton of brain cells. We're back in Spokane.]

MM: Welcome back to the main event of the first day of March Mayhem 2003.

SW: And what a weak one it is!

MM: Thanks for the attempted enthusiasm, Scotty. On his way out now, since we understand Masked Announcer is passed out drunk, so we'll just tell you that DMD, the wrestling dentist, is on his way to the rink, coming to the sound of I Fought The (Dentist) by the Dead Kennedys.

SW: Yep. Where he says Law, DMD overdubbed the word Dentist, in most places.

Mike And here comes his opponent.

Boombox: IF YOU SMELL, WHAT THE POPE'S DIAPER, IS COOKING.

MM: And here comes the Pope out to that Beatles song I forget the name of. Who do you like in this one, Scotty.

SW: Both of them suck plenty enough for me, Mike. But wait. Where is God?

MM: That's a question MANY have pondered through the years, Scotty.

SW: No, no, no, I mean, why isn't God coming to the ring with The Pope?

MM: That's a question we've been pondering for about two seconds now. And a good ponderous question at that. Where is God?

SW: The Pope has been forsaken! MWAHAHAHA.

MM: There's no way God wouldn't show up for this far more important world event than that war, would he?

[Cut to God in Iraq.]

God: Okay, Mr. Spacecop, I think thou hast had ENOUGH fun.

=C]: FUCK YOU. WE WENT THROUGH THIS IN HELL MOTHERFUCKER.

God: Blasphemer!

[Back to Spokane.]

SW: Oh man, while we were away, DMD got a microphone.

DMD: Tonight, I will prove that dentist are more powerful than religion!

Crowd: CAVITY!

Pope: GRAVITY!

DMD: And--

MM: OH NO! After completely distracting the Pope with the word 'and' DMD threw the microphone at the Pope! And now he pulls his big hat down over his eyes! OH THIS IS BRUTAL! DMD is punching away on the Pope!

SW: I've seen enough.

MM: What the? You just threw in a white towel?

SW: Sorry. I don't want to stand by and let the Pope get his ass kicked. Because no doubt, I'd have to go to hell and get raped by Festering Death.

MM: Well, on that very sad note, we're done. What a waste of Web space. See you tomorrow! For more MARCH MAYHEM! GOOD NIGHT EVERYBODY!


© 2003 BOB Wrestling! 16 matches and so little redeeming value

 

© BOB Wrestling!

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