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Sunday Morning Chloroform Logo

As we turn 16, we're anything but sweet

Caption: Earlier today.

[BigBOSS is seated at his desk...a piece of very fragile looking plywood on top of four steel folding chairs.]

BigB: My office is hardcore.

[... Anyway ... Just as he was about to finish up the outcomes for tonight’s long, long, long, looooooongly awaited television show spectacular, a couple of men walked in. One man had a sign on a string around his neck which read: I Work For Comedy Central. The other fellow had a sign around his neck which read: I Also Work For Comedy Central.]

IWFCC: Hello, Stuart.

IAWFCC: Stewie, baby!

BigB: What is it underling. Z-z. Underlings.

IWFCC: Actually, you work for us. Check out the signs.

IAWFCC: We work for Comedy Central.

BigB: What’s that?

IWFCC: The channel BOB airs on every week. Well...not every week. Kind of about as often as a woman gets her smelly visitor.

BigB: I see.

IWFCC: Anyway. The executives have been a bit concerned. The target audience — drunks and insomniacs between the age of 18-35 haven’t been tuning into your show. Thus, we’re losing advertising.

IAWFCC: Yep, definitely a problem.

BigB: And what do you want me to do about it?

IWFCC: We need ratings or to slash your budget by about $50 million a year.

BB: Cut my budget, I can’t deliver ratings. I may be a realist, but I’m not a surrealist. Wait a second. Isn’t that the amount you gave that...guy?

IWFCC: That Guy?

BigB: No, not That Guy. That...guy.

IAWFCC: He means Mr. Chappelle.

BigB: Mr. Chappelle? Why don’t you call me Mr. BigBOSS?

IWFCC: Because that sounds retarded.

BigB: Don’t call me Stuart then.

IWFCC: ‘Fraid we gotta. Stuart is such a funny name.

BigB: Well...so’s your face!

IWFCC: Did you just go there?

IAWFCC: Oh, he went there.

BigB: Alright. I’ll have the budget done in about five minutes. You know, your timing couldn’t be worse.

IWFCC: You could shut down BOB.

BigB: Shut down BOB? Wow. Then I’d have time to do what I always wanted to do. Write my novel. "What The Heck Happened To Manners and Slavery?"

IWFCC: Slavery?

BigB: Before you start worrying, I mean, I’d take white slaves. Black. Brown. Hell, I’d even taken green or gray if I can, if any aliens watching this wanna work for BOB. Since I’m sure they get Comedy Central in space. Tentacles or three fingers, I’ll give them work at no cost to me.

IWFCC: Good doing business with you.

IAWFCC: Later, Stuart. *Chuckles*

IWFCC: *Snort*

SW: Hello brain-dead insomniacs and welcome to Sunday Morning Chloroform. We are live in the Locked Arena in Aloha, Washington. I am Scotty Whatbody, along with the totally futt buckable, Nurse Heidi.

NH: Excuse me?

SW: And one total sock cucker, Mark Shill!

MS: HELLO!

SW: And what an osspisseous start to the show.

NH: Osspisseous? Can't you read above a sixth-grade level? The word is auspicious.

SW: Who uses that lame-ass word anyway? Why can't we just use the tried and true, and what a suck-o way to start our show. I wish BOB could afford a decent hack writer.

NH: Oh, this is being written by a hack, all right. And he's working for free. Thus, the reason why the show's have been so far and few between lately. BigBOSS so needs to get reliable help.

SW: Compared to BigBOSS, anybody is more reliable.

NH: True.

MS: WHAT IS THE MEANING OF THIS?

SW: You're insane yelling fit? I don't know. What?

MS: IT'S TOTALLY HEEL!

SW: Hey, you're right. It's Violent Pacifist, the ONLY WORLD CHAMPION THAT MATTERS. Massive Man Rendition First. Jim. Sir Hungalot. Jean Bannister. What the hell? Why are Hardcore JJ and J.C. Long walking out with them? Aren't they feuding, leading up to the next BOB Pay-Per-View, exclusively on Pay-Per-View, the Biggest Show Of The Century?

NH: They're not even coming out to some hot boy-band track. This is weird to say the least.

SW: Weird, and boring. The wrestling industry just has no surprises left anymore. I've seen everything. No doubt, JJ and Long are just coming out here, they're gonna pretend they're joining up, get a few boos, then reveal they were just kidding and kick everybody's ass and get a few cheers.

MS: This is a horrible day for the fans of BOB!

SW: What day isn't a horrible day for the fans of BOB?

MS: Long and JJ joining up with their enemies, all in an attempt to take over BOB!

NH: Yes. Because takeovers haven't been done to death, resurrected, done to death again, resurrected again and done to death again so badly that they become self-parodies and a pathetic reflection on the entire lack of creativity of management.

[Cut to BigBOSS.]

BigB: I knew I shouldn't have let Trey hire those sWo guys. That's it. They're all FIRED! And hey, Donald Trump. Get your own line! I invented YOU'RE FIRED! Dick.

[Back to ringside.]

NH: BigB's in a bad mood today.

SW: Well, his salary was almost cut this morning.

MS: VP's got the stick!

VP: As your ONLY WORLD CHAMPION THAT MATTERS you'd think I have some loyalty to this company. But guess what? My only allegiance is to the almighty dollar bill. BigBOSS, Trey Vincent and the cow that is really running this promotion, have all conspired to not give all of us new contracts after our olds ones expired. We've been working for the last several months on expired contracts. And tonight...enough is enough. It's time to get paid. So BigBOSS, as of right now, Totally Heel is totally....on strike!

SW: They can't strike. VP is our world champion. And the other guys...well, they kill time that otherwise would be dead air or infomercials.

Hardcore JJ: The last line is this. We're going on strike. WHAT? We're going on strike. WHAT?

Crowd: You're shtick is boring. WHAT? You're shtick is boring. WHAT?

NH: Harsh crowd.

SW: But honest.

MMR1: Boys. Hold up your signs. And let's go take some seats in the crowd. Because from now on. We're only spectators with signs.

[VP's sign reads "Four More Dollar$!" JJ's sign reads "Unfair To Illegal Child Labor!" Sir Hungalot's reads "My Penis Is Large...Enormous, Actually...But My Bank Account Is Small." Jim's sign reads "We Got More Strike Than A World Series." Bannister's sign reads "No Celery Cap in NHL, No Celery Cap In BOB!" Poor boy. All those head injuries...Long's sign reads "No Contract, No Bad White Rapping, Yo." The group files out of the ring, one by one, and hops the Flimsy Guardrail© to take third row seats.]

SW: A cow is running BOB? That's no way to talk about Mrs. BigBOSS.

NH: Scotty! I'm sure it's a real moo cow. It's probably another BigBOSS loophole he learned from "The Simpsons."

SW: That's udderly shocking to me.

NH: *Sigh*

SW: This must be what it was like for NBC to negotiate with the cast of "Friends." Except Totally Heel is collectively much dumber. And poorer.

MS: Fans, without a shadow of a doubt, this segment, was the most shocking in Chloroform HISTORY on the GREATEST Sunday Morning Chloroform in BOB HISTORY!

MA: This is a generic, pre-taped tag-team contest, scheduled for a confusing, screwjob non-finish!

SW: Um. Yay?

MA: Introducing first....

Voice-Over: TRAIN!

2nd Voice-Over: POINK!

3rd Voice-Over: ONETWOTHREEFOUR!

[Rancids' cover of "Sheena is a Punk Rocker" erupts over the cheap, crappy speakers of whatever low-rent arena we hired for this pointless match. Coma and Hallucination Boy run out, dressed in ski parkas, deerstalker hats and 80's-style ultra-ripped stonewashed Levis. Hallucination Boy stops to peer at the ground with a magnifying glass.]

HB: Gosh, Watson! More breadcrumbs! The game's afoot!

Coma: And so's my foot! Hooray for the Amazing Flying Munchkins! Huzzah!

[Hoo boy. This match is going to be as much fun as a berrel of monkeys. And that's no fun unless the monkeys are beating baby seals with clubs.]

Outraged Greenpeace Member: BOO!

[Oh, go boo yourself, you stupid tree-hugging hippie.]

MA: And their opponents! Introducing first, hailing from Phoenix, Arizona and representing the iAd... STEVE STUDNUTS!

Voice-Over: KILLING IN THE NAME OF!

[A Rage Against the Machine song plays at high volume. Guesses as to which one can be sent on the back of a postcard to "Killing In The Name Of Contest", P.O Box 006, Nonesuch, Ma. The judges decision will be final. Oh, and Steve Studnuts and Connie Lingus enter while it's playing. Connie's fashions by MuffDivers Dental Floss and Swimsuits Ltd.]

SW: Humina humina humina humina...

[Whoa, drool city. Cleanup required at the announce desk! Better bring a mop, boys.]

MA: And his partner... also representing the iAd... SETH HARKER!

[Cut to the back.]

SH: No way, BOSS... this ain't happening. I'm still injured, remember?

BB: I've told you before, Harker... Apathy is NOT an injury! Besides, you're a cruiserweight... injuring yourself is in your contract! Now, get out there and maim yourself in an entertaining fashion for the fans before I have you flogged, jobbed, humiliated and made to wrestle XXXtreme Machine in a tutu!

SH: Fine. (Leaving) He's still better than Russo...

BB: And somebody change my caption to "BigB"! I sound like a stripper!

[Pause]

BigB: That's better.

[Cut back to the quote-unquote "arena". Bextas' "Rising Sun" is playing as Seth enters. No sign of Kay, though. I guess the schlubs that come to these cheap-ass tapings only deserve ONE hot babe in skimpy clothing per show.]

SH: Studs, you wrestle. I'll be standing on the apron looking cool and interesting if you need help.

SS: With these two jerkweeds? Unlikely, bro. REALLY unlikely.

[Okay, Whatbody, you want to do play-by or color commentary?]

SW: What? I'm not commentating with you, Disembodied Narrator!

[Why the hell not?]

SW: Well, we're both heels! It'll be confusing for the viewers!

[What, both of them? *sigh* Fine... the things I do for this show.]

*PLINK*

Fans: SCOTT-Y! SCOTT-Y! SCOTT-Y!

SW: Wow! You can do that?

[Reality is a crutch for the weak-minded, Whatbody.]

SH: Deep. Should have been one of MY lines, I think.

[Get bent, Chosen Dork.]

The Flunky: Can I ring the bell yet?

[Yeah, knock yourself out.]

*WHACK! THUD!*

[That guy takes everything I say so literally! Right, this travesty of a match is underway... Hallucination Boy is in the ring with Steve Studnuts...]

HB: HOLY CRAP! Look at the size of that guys HEAD!

SS: Yeah, and check out the size of my fist while you're at it!

*THWACK!*

SW: And he's DOWN! It's the Tyson fight all over again! And unless you're my bookie, that's not a good memory! Coma runs in to help!

Coma: MILDRED! Drop that aubergine, you've got no idea where it's been! Parlez vous El Poinko?

*THWACK!*

SS: 0 for 2, boys.

SH: I'm not even taking my shades off for this...

[Good God, this match is going to suck! How can we liven it up?]

SW: How about... *whisper whisper whisper*

[Hmmm. Nice.]

SS: Count 'em out, Generic Ref. I can't be bothered pinning them.

GR: One! Two! ASS-RAMMING MONKEY FUCKER! Three!

[Heh. Tourettes' Syndrome... the best friend to the low-brow comedy writer.]

SW: Can't beat the classics. WHOA! Hallucination Boy is up! What the hell?!

HB: OW! The ring is so spikey! OW! Ouch!

SW: He's leaping around like a bullfrog with a string of firecrackers up it's ass!

[BOB does not condone the explosive insertion of firecrackers up amphibian asses. But I personally suggest illegal Mexican M-80's for maximum splatter radius.]

SW: Studnuts can't believe what he's seeing. He rears back to deliver a punch...

Coma: BALLOON! GEDDIM DOWN! Duck Mr. President!

*SMACK!*

SW: And Coma takes the punch!

Coma: You'll never catch me, I'm on a unicycle! Whoops!

*THUD!*

SW: And he's down! Hallucination Boy uses the momentary distraction to seize the advantage!

HB: You have a spot of grit on your lapel, Mr Bonaduce! Let me get that for you!

SW: Headbutt! An actual, honest-to-God-almost-a-real-move-maneuver from Hallucination Boy! Clotheseline! Another clothesline! Studnuts is being driven back!

SS: You can't do that to me! Who the hell do you think you are!

HB: I AM NOT A CROOK!

The Guy Who Slightly Resembles Nixon: Hey! He's stealing my gimmick! Only I steal gimmicks around here! And I don't steal, because I'm not a crook!

[Everybody get that?]

GBH: Duh. Yur.

SW: Would you part-timers get out of here?!

GBH: Duh. 'Kay.

Kay Fabe: What? I didn't think I was even supposed to be here...

Little Good: You're not. Neither am I. Bloody hell... Who gave Coma booking rights again?

A Line of tap-dancing Policemen: Gimmie a B! Gimmie an I! Gimmie a G! Gimmie another B! What's that spell?

GBH: Duh. Bilge?

BigB: Hey, it's in his contract, okay! Let's just get this stupid match over with before something REALLY random happens!

*THUD! THUD! CLANG! THUNK!*

SW: Is it raining tinned sardines?

BigB: *resigned sigh* I'm going to go lie down for a while.

[Okay, I'll try and sort this out as best as possible. GBH, Kay and Little Good, get lost.]

*POOF!*

[Cut to the middle of a dense forest in Canada.]

Little Good: Where the hell are we?

[Cut back to the ring. Everyone's in the ring for the traditional Pier Six Brawl.]

GR: Hey, who's legal? You, get out of the ring! One! Two! DOLPHIN-RAPING PUS-FUCK! Three!

[Bullet Time. Seth leaping in slow-mo, cartwheeling in space, up and over the ropes. Real-Time as he hits the ground, cat-like, trenchcoat flaowing around him like black liquid. Fucking poser.]

SH: Too cool.

[He stands.]

*THUD!*

SH: OW! Stupid beer-spilling fans!

Coma: ASSAULT OF THE PARTY NERDS!

SH: Geez, Coma get off the top rope, you're going to hurt someone!

*KA-THUD!*

GR: Ow! He landed on my GORILLA-MOLESTING SHITEATER foot! You're disqualified! RING THE BELL!

The Flunky: No can do, they've got three more minutes to fill before the screwjob ending!

GR: Fine! Coma, you're disqualified. Hallucination Boy, you're on your own!

SW: SENSATIONAL! This has turned into a handicap match!

[Oh, please. ANY match with Coma in it is a handicapped match.]

Coma: I'm not handicapped, I'm special. NURF-BALL!

Hallucination Boy: Gosh, my jet-skates are malfunctioning again! HELP!

SS: Stop running around the ring, you moron and let me pin you! I knew I should have let Trey wrestle this match for me...

[Cut to Trey Vincent, lying on a huge waterbed, watching a big-screen TV. Connie Lingus can be seen in the background, re-applying her makeup.

TV: You wish, Studs.

[Cut to the All-Pro Mime Boxing Championships in Que Macho, Colombia.]

Announcer: GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOAAAAAALLLLLLLLLL!

[Cut to the ring. Bullet Time. The camera rotates around Seth, revealing a randomly-thrown steel chair, hanging frozen in space before him. Seth turns to address the camera directly.]

SH: They're not paying me enough for this gig.

[Real Time.]

*CLANNNGG!*

SH: FUCK!

GR: Who threw that?

HB: Not me, Cobra Commander! I was just watering this enormous cacti!

SH: It was one of the guys in the front row! Son of a BITCH, that hurt!

GR: Right, that's a DQ! Ring the PORK-STROKING BALL-LICKER bell! You're all out of here!

SW: Did Nevvile just DQ the fans?

[I think so. That's gotta be a first.]

GR: Are you questioning my judgment? Fine, you're DQ'ed as well, Disembodied Narrator!

SW: Okay, he's fucking flipped...

GR: Gratuitous profanity! You're PUSSY-EATER DQ'ed too, you potty-mouth!

SS: This is fuckin' trippy.

GR: DQ, Studnuts! Ring the bell!

TF: If I do, are you going to DQ me?

GR: Don't talk back, Flunky! You're out of here! And so am I! And as for the scriptwriter, he's DQ'ed as w...

[CUT TO BLACK]

[This particular scene opens to the sight of the parking lot. Which parking lot? Who knows? It doesn’t matter as a cement mixer’s looming figure comes into sight. Beneath it quivers a potted geranium named Spike. The usual Drudley goons snicker in the background as Joel Bertner and Pearl Heymon speak to the camera.]

JB: Well, well, well. It is I, the quintessential stud crumpet, Joel Bertner. I’d also like to introduce our special guest here this morning, the inanimate manager time wish he’d forget, the geriatric geranium, Spike.

[Sign Dude Drudley holds up a sign reading ‘Spike soils himself’.]

PH: Now we thought long and hard about what we were going to do to Spike, after all he had gone through a lot of emotional stress ever since he was ran over way back in the sands of time. We thought about digging out the footage from BOB’s poorly organized video archives and forcing him to re-watch that traumatic event. We thought about re-enacting the incident, hiring out a rickety old cart and scaring the crap out of this pathetic pansy. But surely all this would be too much and such torture would make us bad human beings.

[The camera pans out from Pearl to show the cement mixer above Spike.]

PH: As you can see we went an entirely different way, we’d rather by God damn awful human beings. And now we demand that Homicidal Hank come out here and Do The Right Thing. And if he doesn’t Do The Right Thing then our unfortunate flower here will meet his cementy demise.

[Suddenly there is a booming sound. The camera spins to see a figure coming forth through the mist. Being pushed on a trolley by four BOB interns is… Unit 5!]

Rubba Ray Drudley: YOU?! WHAT DO YOU WANT?!!

Unit 5: *The heroic sloshing about of water*

RRD: You son of a bitch.

D-Van: Unit 5… the SAVIOUR of the wrestling industry. You have sinned greatly, attempting to poison and destroy my brothers… and you will know my name is D-Van when I lay my vengeance upon thee for breaking the 17th Drudley Commandment!

RRD: YEAH! YOU FUCKING FAGGY FRUIT!

Small Tyke Drudley: Woooah… the geranium’s trying to talk dudes.

PH: No it isn’t you fucking moron.

STD: Wooooooooooaaahhh… the sky is… melting, dudes.

PH: Shut the hell up, you were supposed to stop him doing that shit Grampa.

[Grampa Drudley just shrugs.]

Unit 5: *rumble rumble rumble*

RRD: YOU’LL PAY FOR THAT!

[Rubba Ray and D-Van try to punch Unit 5, but end up on the floor holding their hands in pain. Sign Dude, Geoff Gones, Grampa and Tyke don’t have much more success.]

PH: That’s it, forget Hank, Joel pull that lever!

[The interns push Unit 5 towards the plant in peril. Joel reaches for the lever but gets an eyeful of suds for his trouble. The interns then reach around and save the beloved potted geranium.]

Intern #1: Ummmm… guys.

Intern #3: Shut up Larry, you’ll get us all fired if you mess this up!

Intern #1: But guys…

Intern #2: What?!

Intern #1: This isn’t Spike.

[The camera zooms in on ‘Spike’ only to reveal that it is in fact a plant made of plastic, it doesn’t even look like a geranium.]

PH: D-Van, pull that lever quickly!

[D-Van, only just on his feet, dives and pulls down the lever. As the cement pours down the interns push Unit 5 out of danger… well, all except Intern #2 who gets buried underneath the gray matter.]

Intern #1: Aghhh, run!

[And as the two remaining interns push Unit 5 into the distance as fast as they can Pearl Heymon begins to laugh.]

RRD: The plan backfired, shit!

PH: Now now Rubba, I think it worked perfectly.

D-Van: But Homicidal Hank didn’t even come out here, we were supposed to make an impact!

JB: Oh we made impact.

PH: Sure, Unit 5 saved a fake flower from impending doom, but we buried a pimply-faced intern in cement and said a load of cuss-words. And isn’t that why we all got into pro-wrestling in the first place?

D-Van: Oh TESTIFY!!!

[‘Mexican Stuff’ hits the PA system as a mysterious masked man makes his way to the ring. Oh wait, it’s just Insano Mano.]

MS: The greatest Luchadore in BOB’s HISTORY has just entered the ring and has now got a MICROPHONE in his HAND which he pulled out of his costume!

IM: ¡Hola, usted cerdos Americanos que apestan! ¡Soy Insano Mano y estoy aquí!

MS: We need a translator out here, STAT!

SW: Why bother? It’s not like any of this is interesting or anything.

IM: El Mano dice esto, allí tiene sido muchos de asnos caaaandy del roody-poo que funcionan alrededor aquí de tirar a sus bocas de sobre cómo es el hardcore ellas. ¡Soy dammit de Insano Mano! ¡Soy hardcore para el motivo de cielo!

NH: I guess there isn’t a word in Spanish for ‘hardcore.’

IM: Así pues, probar mi hardcoreness, desafío a gente superior del hardcore aquí en Brawler's en un Presupuesto a un excedente la batalla superior del hardcore de la cuerda real. Seré victorioso indudablemente.

SW: Shill, any idea what he’s saying yet?

MS: Well, I’m getting some pretty confusing results here.

SW: Using Babelfish again?

IM: ¡Así pues, Kamikazie Ken, Sharc, Kevin el Pyromaniac, viene en abajo y consigue en este anillo... si usted tiene los huevos!

MA: The following contest, for all who didn’t understand that confusing version of Spanish, is an over the top rope hardcore battle royal. Introducing first, already in the ring, Insano Mano!

MS: A match?! Now?! This isn’t on my schedule!

NH: It’s in my script.

SW: Mine too, you need to relax a little Shill, seriously.

MA: Introducing next, also already in the ring, from Boston, Massachusetts… Sharc!

Sharc: Huh? How’d I get here?

[The crowd laughs.]

MA: You have a match stupid.

Sharc: The fuck?

[The crowd laughs.]

MS: Sharc is HERE! I am so excited it’s unbelievable. People, call your neighbors! Call your family and friends! Call your dog trainer and that woman at work who smells of cabbage! SHARC is on the AIRWAVES!!

Sharc: What’s wrong with him?

[The crowd laughs.]

NH: He’s just like that.

[‘Enter Kevin’ by Vietallica plays as Kevin the Pyromaniac runs through the audience with a flaming plank of wood raised above his head. He jumps the flimsy guardrail with Bruce the Kleptomaniac following behind.]

MA: Introducing third, from Nashville, Italy. Being accompanied to the ring by Bruce the Kleptomaniac and a flaming piece of 2x4… Kevin the Pyromaniac!

MS: Kevin is here, and that 2x4 WHICH IS ON FIRE is used against him as Insano Mano DROPKICKS it into his FACE!

NH: Sharc is just standing there, he still looks confused.

SW: I don’t think he understands why a neon bright Luchadore trying to set a teenager’s shirt on fire has anything to do with him. He had better do something though, what is this just a three-man battle royal?

[No sooner does Scotty speak than a mysterious figure begins to move about high up in the rafters.]

MS: GOODNESS GRACIOUS GREAT BALLS OF FIRE!!!

[Kamikazie Ken does a backflip 540 plancha from the rafters whilst he has a chair clutched to his chest. You can understand Shill’s reaction.]

SW: YES! That’s what I like to see.

MA: And the final competitor, falling his way to the ring from Banzai Falls, Georgia… Kamikazie Ken!

NH: I guess someone should just call for an ambulance now.

SW: Shill already has.

MS: These guys are NUTS! They put their bodies on the LINE here every WEEK for Sunday Morning Chloroform!

SW: Ahem. *Cough* Yes, every week.

MS: Kamikazie Ken, Kevin the Pyromaniac and Insano Mano are all down! Sharc has a steel chair in his hands!

Sharc: Meh, why not?

[The crowd falls into a fit of hysterics.]

MS: SHARC JUST HIT KEVIN WITH THAT STEEL CHAIR!

NH: He did, and now he goes for Kam…

MS: AND KAMIKAZIE KEN GETS A CHAIRSHOT FOR HIS TROUBLES!

NH: You stole my line again Mark.

MS: AND ONE FOR INSANO MANO! SHARC IS ON A RAMPAGE! SHARC IS ON A RAMPAGE!

NH: Just stop it Shill, please, my ears can’t take any more of this abuse.

SW: Want me to lick them better?

NH: Don’t you start!

MS: Sidewalk Slam!

SW: Well done, Shill. After that ‘Sidewalk Slam,’ which looked oddly like a suplex, Kevin doesn’t look to be moving for a while… he is crap after all. Insano Mano and Ken team up against Sharc and poke him in the eyes, but he just no-sells and pushes them both to the ground.

NH: It seems pretty obvious who’s going to win this one.

Sharc: This is too fucking easy.

[The crowd laughs.]

MS: FIREBALL!!! FIREBALL!!! FIREBALL!!! Kevin just sent a huge FIREBALL right into Sharc’s FACE out of NOWHERE!

SW: Sharc tries to no-sell and takes a sloppily executed dropkick from the fire obsessed teen that barely makes him wobble. Bruce reaches in and grabs him by the leg, pulling him under the ropes to the outside.

NH: He’s not eliminated though, as he went under the bottom rope.

SW: And as Sharc knocks Bruce into next Thursday, Kamikazie Ken is climbing to the top rope. Insano Mano helps him wrap himself up in barbed wire, oh dear, I’d better take a few steps back from Shill for this.

MS: PLANCHA SUICIDA WITH THE BARBED WIR… wait, Sharc moved out of the way. Kamikazie Ken hits the unforgiving concrete and has eliminated himself!

NH: Ouch, that’s gotta hurt.

SW: I may have given him props if he had actually hit that move, I mean eliminating yourself from the match just to mess one of the competitors up is cool, but he hit the damn floor.

MS: The man’s LIFE could be at risk!

SW: Relax, Kamikazie Ken puts himself through the table after a meal at restaurant, he’s just like that.

NH: That’s why I never went out with him a second time.

SW: I can’t imagine Ken going on many dates with anyone. Besides the senseless destruction of property, his body is just covered in scars and severe burns. He’d get screamed at as soon as he undressed.

MS: Sharc gets back in the ring where he finds Insano Mano hitting a corkscrew satellite headscissor takedown into a pile of rusty thumbtacks.

NH: Where are all these weapons coming from?

SW: Ask Mano, he just got a potted cactus out of nowhere and waffled Sharc with it.

MS: Sharc’s face is COVERED with cactus THORNS!

NH: Mano goes for a hurracanrana, but Sharc’s just powerbombs him onto those gross thumbtacks.

SW: And now Kevin is up top, he has a steel chair tied to his body with string. He begins dowsing himself in gasoline as Shill takes a long, deep breath. He takes a match and lights himself.

MS: PLANCH… good GRIEF Sharc just POWERSLAMMED the flaming Kevin, who had a STEEL chair tied to himself, on top of Insano Mano and all those thumbtacks! This is the most insane hardcore battle royal we’ve seen all night!!

NH: That Bruce moron just got a flimsy table out from underneath the ring, along with some ring equipment and a stop sign. While the rest goes into his pockets and up his shirt, the table is covered in gasoline.

MS: THAT TABLE IS ON FIRE!!

SW: Sharc throws a chair at Bruce, and knocks him out cold. He then lifts Kevin up over his head and throws him out and through the table.

MS: Kevin is ELIMINATED through the FLAMING TABLE!

IM: ¿Usted desea intensidad? ¡Conseguí La SU DERECHA De la INTENSIDAD AQUÍ!

SW: Insano Mano hits a, ugh, I hate this script, Quebradora de la Muerte Reverso Intensidad with a Twist on Sharc. He then hits him with a steel chair before going to the top rope.

MS: That’s his move! The INSANO SAULT CONNECTS!

[Mano stands back up and raises his arms in celebration, certain of his impending victory. Suddenly Kamikazie Ken slides into the ring with a tool box.]

MS: Ken just hit Mano with a monkey wrench!

SW: And Mano fails to hide his blade efficiently.

MS: Kamikazie Ken lifts him back up and PILEDRIVES him onto that damned STEEL tool box. Sharc is up!!

NH: And the most obvious winner of the year is…

MS: Sharc lifts up a DECIMATED Insano Mano and leans him against the ropes, he lifts up a chair and SMACKS him with a thunderous blow that sends him over the top and to the outside. Sharc wins! Sharc wins!

SW: That was very obvious.

MS: Ken goes for Sharc now and hits him with a foreign object, souring this glorious victory for him! He has that toolbox open and spreads nuts and bolts everywhere!

SW: The last thing I want to see is Kamikazie Ken tossing his nuts about, bwahahaha.

MS: Mano comes back in and all the competitors are BRAWLING in the ring!

NH: Mano surprises Ken and DDTs him right onto those nuts of his.

SW: So he…

NH: Shut up, you know I was referring to Ken’s toolbox.

SW: Ken’s tool box? So you w…

NH: Stop it!

MS: Sharc levels Kevin with a chair, he then grabs Mano and hits THE SHARC CAGE! That’s his move and he just did it onto those damned nuts and bolts! Sharc is the only one left standing here this morning!

SW: Unsurprisingly.

[The scene changes to that of a beautiful tulip field. Some people in clogs clomp into view and smile merrily, kneeling to pick a few of the flowers. We then cut to a clip of a newsreader reciting her lines from a teleprompter into a camera, she has flowing auburn hair and too much makeup.]

Newsreader: A table tennis tournament has ended in violence here in Utah. A player from Holland became so enraged that he lifted his opponent up onto the table where they were playing and piledrove him through it. The notorious five-time gold medal winner Klaus Krisoijn Vandenberg has been banned by the International Ping Pong Committee for extreme violence and assaulting several officials with his racquet as he was removed from the tournament.

[The clip deteriorates into static, followed by the sight of a middle-aged gentleman with a fuzzy gray beard and a beret atop his head roaring as loud as he can through the bars of a jail cell. A table tennis racquet flies towards the screen as flames rise up from behind.]

Deep Voice-Over: The Horror of Holland. The Tables Tennis Terminator. He’s coming to Brawlers on a Budget… soon!

["Suck It Up" by hed(pe) played over the speakers, bringing out Dustbuster Boy, the reigning Swiss Army Belt holder.]

NH: Where are his fellow Suck-Ups tonight? Leary and Skeeter?

SW: Probably telling each other how brilliant they are. Or breaking Playstation 2 joysticks over Madden Football.

DB: Hello, loyal BOB fans. I've got some more bad news for all my dust mites. You see. No longer will you hear me telling you to throw your Dustbusters in the air and rev 'em like you just don't care. Because. I. Am. Leaving. BOB.

SW: What?

NH: Is this a rats fleeing a sinking ship type of deal?

SW: Could be. Though we've been sinking lower and lower for five years now.

DB: Why am I leaving BOB, you ask? Well, I'm leaving parody wrestling for the lucrative world of fantasy football. I just need more time to manage my team. I can't be pretending to be working out to stay in shape for BOB. Frankly, I just need more time to manage my team. I need to surf the Web and see who's injured every week. And I can make more on that job than I make as the BOB Swiss Army Belt holder.

["Better Days" by Tadpole hit.]

MS: It's THE DISTORTED ICONS!

SW: Brilliant, Shill. The other two members of the Suck-Ups are on their way down the aisle to confront their leader.

SL: I say, Skeeter. I just had an idea out back. I thought, we can't let Dustbuster Boy leave BOB without the requisite double beatdown.

JS: A double beatdown as he's heading out the door with his dustbuster inbetween his legs? Brilliant!

SL: You didn't think we were gonna just let you leave without a bad beating, did you, Dusty?

DB: I think you'll let me leave.

SL: Well, we'll just have to see about that then, won't we?

DB: I guess we will.

NH: Leary and Skeeter get into fighting position. Dustbuster Boy turns around and climbs out of the ring. He hops to the floor and walks around the ring, staring up at Leary and Skeeter, who are still in fighting position, daring Dustbuster Boy to get back in the ring.

SW: A segment where a faction breaks up, on a wrestling show, without a fight? The hell is wrong with this place?

NH: DB waves goodbye to his boys and the fans.

Fans: You sold out! You sold out! You sold out!

SL: You know what I just realized?

JS: What's that, Leary?

SL: By not attacking him just now, we saved ourselves from hurting our knuckles on his face.

JS: You're right! Our non-attack helped us avoid injury! Brilliant!

SW: What's next on the card?

NH: Let's see... Queen Mylisiv vs. Britney Smears in a leather strap match.

SW: WHOOHOO! Wait... who the hell is Queen Mylisiv?

Zeno: My girlfriend, you pig-headed subterrestrial. Now move over...

MS: THAT'S MY CHAIR!

Zeno: Not anymore.

SW: And it seems Sir Zeno is taking a guest commentator slot!

MA: The following contest is a Leather Strap Match, wherein the winner is the first person to touch all four turnbuckles! First up, from Dimension G-4, weighing in at... at... What the hell is that?

Zeno: Dimension Z numerals. Skip over it.

MA: Queen Mylisiv!

[Britney Spear's "Toxic" plays over the speakers as the blue-skinned woman in the red dress strides up to the ring. Wait a minute... blue-skinned? In red? Good God, I'm a disembodied voice and even I know that just isn't right.]

SW: Wait a minute. You called me dumb!

Zeno: Live with it.

MA: And her opponent, from somewhere, somehow, Britney Smears!

[As she wanders to the ring, "Make 'Em Say Uuuhhh" by Master P fills the air.]

MA: Both contestants extend one foot for the leather strap.

SW: And it's about to get under way!

NH: The Masked Announcer is rummaging his pockets... don't tell me he forgot the strap?

MS: THIS IS THE BIGGEST SCREW-UP IN BOB HISTORY!

MA: Damn it, I think they're in my other pants! Does anyone have a belt they can give me!

SW: WHOOOHOOOOO!

Zeno: And Scotty throws his belt into the ring, and if those pants move an inch I'm eating your stomach for brunch tomorrow, Whatbody.

SW: *Gulp*

NH: And the belt goes on, and the girls look a little disgusted. Can't blame them.

***

Zeno: And the Scotty Whatbody's Belt Match begins.

SW: A quick one-legged spinning jumpkick from Mylisiv, followed by a wishbone leg-snap!

QM: You're a joke, you know that? It's people like you that make me wish we were back in the '70s!

BS: Like, what do you mean?

QM: Back then jobbers like you would still be mixing batter at Hot Dog On A Stick!

SW: Mylisiv's full of righteous anger! Knee to the ribs and Smears is down!

Zeno: And now she's going for the turnbuckles... One! And- Damn it, Smears is back on her feet!

BS: Y'know, you're, like, one to talk! You're only in this fed 'cause Zeno's your b-f!

QM: B...f... Bullfucker!?! He is NOT a bullfucker!

Zeno: Note to self, teach her Dimension E slang.

NH: And that's a choking headlock from Mylisiv! Smears is down again... But she's back up quickly enough!

MS: YOU CAN'T KEEP SMEARS DOWN!

SW: She comes back with a headbutt! And frankly, it hurts her a lot less than Mysiliv!

Zeno: That's My-LIS-iv. Let me remind you: Stomach. Brunch.

NH: I think she's stunned... Smears touches the first turnbuckle, and then the second, and... Mylisiv regains her footing and knocks Smears down!

[Bon Jovi's "Lay Your Hands on Me" begins playing.]

MS: HERE COMES CHRISTINA GAGUILARA!

[Suddenly, the song cuts off and the Fixx's "Are We Ourselves?" plays.]

MS: AND MR. PARADOX AMBUSHES HER!

Zeno: What?!? But he hates Mylisiv!

Paradox: This is for ruining my favorite radio station!

SW: And a big boot to the gut from Paradox to Christina! Now he's strangling her... The ref is distracted, and Mylisiv pulls a scepter out of nowhere!

NH: Zeno, get back in your seat.

Zeno: Sorry...

SW: Smears is down for the count! One... two... three... four...

***

MA: The winner, Queen Mylisiv!

NH: Alright then. What’s up next?

MS: The END!

NH: The end of what? The show? That was our main event?

SW: Apparently. Considering most of this crap was taped back in September and it’s now, what, February? Then we get a call out of the blue telling us that BOB is being restarted yet again soon. Just great. If only BigBOSS didn’t have those photos of me working for BOB, I’d be able to not work here anymore.

NH: So, this is it?

MS: This...is IT! Except for —


©2005 BOB Wrestling. It only took six months, what are you bitching about?

[Cut to BigBOSSes office. He is drawing red X’s through the BOB budget. Still.]

BB: Turnbuckle pads? That’s a luxury. Gone. Ring hammer? *Pffft* The Flunky can just use his head like he used to. Color film for our show tapings? Black and white is much cheaper! Argh. So much to cut, so little time. I know one hardworker who deserves a raise though.

[Fade out on BigBOSS slashing more from the budget. Who will survive the budget axe? Come back sometime and find out!]

 

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