An Obsession With Depression
[We open at ringside with a sobbing crowd. They didn't bring signs. Just pills and nooses. And you ask, this is different from any other BOB show, how?]
Styles: Hello everyone, and welcome to Brawlers On a BUDGET! We are coming to you live from Depression, Washington.
Scotty Whatbody: Ah, that explains it.
Styles: What's that, Scotty?
SW: Why Korn songs are playing everywhere you go. It sounds like "Falling Away From Me" is on now. But where are the frigging speakers, Styles? WHERE??
Styles: The music is coming from your headphones, Scotty. That's our opening music this week since nobody associated with Korn will ever know we used it.
SW: Oh...that explains it.
Styles: Man, this place must be getting to you already.
SW: It makes me want to write depressing songs and smoke weed.
Styles: And that's different from every other day of your life, how? Fans, tonight, we are joined by The Commentator, since Shill had a previous engagement
Scottty: And he missed his train.
Styles: Take it away, Masked Announcer...
This portion of SMC is brought to you by Best Buy. As seen on TV's "Cheaters." That was our sign in the background when those two people were fighting about shoes and cheating. And we're so very proud. Best Buy: Where all cheaters go for good prices on car stereos!
Best Buy: When you're done beating up your lover, come in and get a new TV!
Styles: Now, is it time to go to the ring?
[The basement of the Depression something or other. Yeah. Little Good and Sarah "The Jobber Slayer" are there. Or are they? Both! Wait, what? Rewrite! Now!]
Little Good: I've been seeing things with my eyes, that I couldn't feel with my hands, you know? Like, I'd try to grab your bloody breasts and make it look like an accident, but then they weren't there. It's like your boobs were taunting me. Now when I look at the sky it's like all the stars are nipples.
Sarah: Little Good.
Little Good: I'm in Jeopardy.
Alex Trebek: We're ready to start the next round. Hey! What are you doing here?
Sarah: (To Alex) Ummm...(to LG) I can help you.
Alex Trebek: Oh no, you can't. No cheating on Jeopardy!
Little Good: Bloody hell. I can't ask you for help.
Alex Trebek: You'll have to ask that in the form of a question.
Sarah: What is, you're different, I'm different. Everything's different. Everybody's different. Look. They're all green now.
Alex Trebek: What a disturbing development.
Little Good: What is, I could never ask.
Sarah: Who is, Little Good, it's me, it's you. And you are beautiful. In every way. No matter what they say.
Contestant 2: Who is Christina Aguilera.
Little Good: Some bird I'd like to shag.
Different Sarah "The Jobber Slayer": Little Good!
Little Good: Who is, me? *Laughs maniacally*
Sarah: This basement is killing you.
Little Good: That's not why I'm laughing.
Little Good: That's right.
Sarah: You need to get out of here. You have a puppy? Fine. Show me!
Little Good: Oh, nice, now you've pissed off J-Lo.
Sarah: J-Lo? Your cow is named J-Lo?
Little Good: You can name your banana Mr. Lovetool, I can name a cow J-Lo. So, where we gonna go?
Sarah: Want to go shopping?
Little Good: I think I'll stay insane down here.
Masked Announcer: Ladies and gentlemen, WELCOME, TO THE GREATEST SUNDAY MORNING CHLOROFORM, EVER!
SW: The hell?
["Faget" by KoRn hits the speakers. Crowd begins to weep.]
Masked Announcer: Introducing first, weighing in at WHAT A MOVE and from HEAVEN'S TO BETSY, please welcome, the Snap Maarrre, KID!
SW: I don't think that's the Masked Announcer.
Styles: Oh my God! Why's that?
SW: I think Mark Shill is doing the announcing!
Styles: Are you sure...
Mark Shill: And his opponent.
[A Dustbuster vrooms over the sound system, briefly replacing Korn, then "Daddy" plays.]
MS: He is the NEXT BIG THINGEE IN THE HISTORY OF BOB, raise the roof, for DUSTBUSTER BOY!
Styles: You're awfully quiet today, Commentator.
Styles: You have laryngitis? Then why are you here? If anybody is listening in the back, we need a new third-wheel.
SW: I can carry the show, you goof. Unless it's a woman, then I'm all over her.
Styles: The idea, you mean?
Styles: OK, let's see if there are any ladies who will join us. Thanks for stopping by, Commentator. Good luck with that thing there.
SW: YEEEEEESSSSSSS! WHHOOOOOOOO-HOOOOOOOOOO!
Styles: Hello Candy, welcome aboard.
SW: Please, sit here!
Styles: She's not going to sit on your lap.
Candy Cantaloupes: Down, boy. Good morning everybody.
SW: Without a doubt, the top BOB diva that I'd want to screw.
Candy: Well Scotty, I have a secret for you.
Candy: Of all the announcers, you're the top one I'd want to screw.
Styles: I think Scotty's head just exploded.
Candy: Which one?
Styles: You're also my favorite diva.
Candy: Oh? What are you doing after the show, Mikey?
Styles: I, uh..well..
SW: I thought I was your favorite.
Candy: Men are like lollipops. You can't lick just one.
Styles: And the match is underway, by the way. Dustbuster Boy has SMK on his shoulders. Oh my, that looked almost like a Death Valley (Of The Sun) Driver. Cover. One. Kickout.
Candy: He's the snap marer. The show starter. The I can't. The first event.
Styles: Kid reverses a boot by Dustbuster Boy with a snap mare to his leg. That was innovative. SMK picks Dustbuster Boy up. Snap mare! Picks him up! Snap mare. And another snap mare. Uh oh! SMK is going for his finisher! The Snap Mare Music! The snap mare from the top rope! He has Dustbuster Boy hooked! But Dustbuster Boy lands on his feet. He has SMK up! The Big Suck! He hits it!
Candy: Run-in alert.
SW: (Singing) I, love candy...
SW: Candy's Cantaloupes...
Styles: Scotty! Billy Polar is in the ring. Ending this match in a no contest. There's something new for BOB.
SW: And he's got friends!
Styles: Nurse Heidi, XXXtreme Machine and, yes, it's the Detached Narrator! As usual, he's draped in the American flag and has two little kittens and a bunny strapped to his body. And now they're attacking both competitors and toss them out of the ring.
[The crowd cries. XXXtreme Machine got on the microphone first.]
XM: u rt lkign at teh nwe lgehnd killre fo BOB
[The crowd wept and wailed.]
XM: adn ur futbawl teem skcus so y dotn u al syut yr mpoths n lissn 2 teh ownlee wuhrld chamep tht matqerts
Styles: Billy Polar cheating his way back to the top, as usual. He attacked everyone with a bat at BaseBrawl and won.
BP: That's right, damnit! I'm Billy Polar, one and now twice, better than all of you. You are looking at the greatest world champion that never defends it anywhere else but in BOB and the United States. Damn BigBOSS. I want to go to France! I love the French people! They're so cool. Parlez vous Francois? Huhhuhhuh!
Styles: Polar just rubbing his success in our faces.
BP: You people need to remember that I'm Billy Polar, damnit. And I'm from Harvard, damnit. You are looking at the emperor, your dictator, your lord and god, because, well, I've got the Detached Narrator, who can make me whatever I want. Shall we show them?
[He vanishes. Oh, hey, pops! What's up, kid? Not much. Should I go get a soda. Sure, thanks. OK. Now, Billy.]
[Anything I can do for you?]
BP: Hmm. Nah, I'm good at the moment.
BP: Anyhow, what you are looking at--
[Yes, I'm interrupting. Billy, remember when we chatted before we came out here about you mentioning that you should ask me for something so we can put ourselves over as the unstoppable force we are?]
BP: Oh yeah. I remember that. Sorry, Narry.
[OK then. Now, Billy...]
[Is there anything I can do for you?]
BP: Hmm. Nah, nothing popped into my head. I'm good. Now, I have a message for Massive Man--
[Billy. Listen, I know you want to diss Massive Man and that silly robot, but, let's just show everyone why they should be scared of us. Devolutiøn.
BP: Well, we do have that scary "o." That usually scares everybody.
[*Sigh* OK, here comes Atomo The Robot. And if he showed any sort of emotion, no doubt he'd look upset. He slides into the ring and knocks down XXXtreme Machine with a punch. Polar pulls Heidi in front of himself.]
BP: Um, help, please?
[Would you like some invisible shields?]
BP: Would I?
BP: OK. Yes. Bring me invisible shields.
BP: C'mon, Atomo. Hit me!
BP: (From the mat) Hey! Where are my shields?
[Will you give me a second? Damn. StreetMime? Why are you there?]
SMII: " "
[What new gimmick?]
SMII: " "
StreetMime2K3: " "
[Yeah, that's more happening. But why do you want to help Billy Polar?]
BP: Uh, Narry?
[Oh, right, the shields. Annnnnd there you are.]
BP: Hit me now, Atomo.
Atomo: *Swing and a stall*
BP: Now, to the naked eye, it would look like Atomo is just pretending to not punch me. But if you look really closely, you'll know that isn't the case. What? You want proof? Fine. StreetMime, try and get out of this invisible shield!
[StreetMime 2K3 walks forward and reaches up and begins patting the invisible box. It looks a bit like doing 'vogue' if you remember that. That should end all doubt. Right, Billy? You're invincible! Nothing can touch you. Shane? Come on back and take over. It's time to get high, lie and die. Or something. Catch-phrase in progress.]
BP: Oh, hey, welcome back.
DN: Good to be back, Billy. Hey, look at Atomo. He's trying to peel open the shields. Silly bot, there's no way in!
XM: hwo ded u gte n
Nurse Heidi: Wait. If there is no way in...is there a way out.
DN: Sure there is. Let me just...
NH: There isn't a way out, is there.
DN: That is some strong shieldage right there...er...um...uh...Shane?
[What's up, pops?]
DN: Can you get us out of here.
[I'm working on it.]
Styles: Hmm. Well, while we wait for them to get out of there...uh...
BigBOSS: SHOW THE MATCH FOR GOD'S SAKES!
Styles: IT'S TOO EXTREME FOR TV!
BigBOSS: I DON'T CARE, WE NEED TO FILL TIME! SHOW IT!
Styles: Fine. The boss wants to see Festering Death take on NASCAR. I hope you enjoy it. It's gonna get us thrown off TV forever...
[Fade to black.]
[And then fade to light.]
Styles: OH MY GOD!
SW: Yeah, I know. We just got this card that said that Spaceduck and Spacecop have arranged a NASCAR Challenge, and...
Styles: OH MY GOD! A new card!
SW: Yes, they've corrected themselves. It's a "RAPECAR" Challenge, now. Gee, I wonder what this will entail. Could it be... rape?
MS: THIS WILL BE THE GREATEST RAPECAR CHALLENGE IN THE HISTORY OF RAPECAR CHALLENGES!
SW: I can't believe you can still sound excited after what happened the last time Festering Death arranged a sports challenge.
[And now you can hear Testicles In A Box, as we cut away from Depression, Washington, to a quaint little town outside of Depression, called Oppression, Washington. In the background, you can see slaves. For Oppression is all about oppression. Hey, fuck you, I'm the narrator.]
=<>: GREETINGS TO ALL OF YOU FUCKERS. WE ARE CALLED FESTERING DEATH. NOW, SIT DOWN, SHUT THE FUCK UP, GO FUCK YOURSELVES, OR WHATEVER YOU OPRESSIVE FUCKERS TO AROUND HERE. WE HAVE KIDNAPPED SOME NASCAR PARTICIPANTS YOU'VE PROBABLY NEVER HEARD OF, AND WE WILL COMPETE AGAINST THEM IN THE BLOODIEST, MOST BRUTAL RACE IN THE HISTORY OF BLOODY, BRUTAL RACES.
=C]: THAT'S RIGHT. OUR NASCAR DRIVERS HAVE LINED UP AT THE STARTING LINE. THEY DON'T HAVE THEIR CARS, BECAUSE THAT'D BE LESS COOL. WE'LL GIVE THEM A TWENTY SECOND HEAD START, AND THEY'LL RUN FOR THEIR LIVES IN OUR FENCED-IN, ELECTRIFIED, BARBED WIRE CIRCULAR TRACK. THEN, WHEN THEIR TWENTY SECONDS TO LIVE ARE UP, WE WILL CHASE THEM IN OUR BLACK CHARIOT THAT BRINGS DEATH AND RAPE TO THEIR VICTIMS. ARE THERE ANY QUESTIONS?
NASCAR Driver, Phil Phuckhead: Um, yes, I was to understand that there'd be cake and ice cream here?
Styles: OH MY GOD!
SW: That sound effect can't really describe what happened. Detached Narrator?
[I'm not your fucking slave. Go to hell.]
=<>: ARE THERE ANY QUESTIONS FROM SOMEONE WHO ISN'T A FUCKING MORON?
[Crickets don't even bother to chirp.]
=<>: THEN LET THE FESTIVITIES BEGIN!
SW: Those are, by the way, the most horrible rules I have ever heard in my entire HISTORY, and I have heard some really fucking horrible rules. Like the 24-7/16-6 thing.
Styles: Now our competitors are getting set for their EXTREME footrace of death! Now that Spaceduck has killed one of them from the getgo, they're down to nine competitors! What will the winner get?
MS: The satisfaction of being in the greatest Rapecar Challenge ever!
SW: I hate you so much right now.
=<>: RACERS, GET ON YOUR MARKS, GET SET, AND GO FUCK YOURSELVES!
Styles: OH MY GOD~! The race is under way! Our racers have exactly twenty seconds to get out of the way of the Black Chariot!
[By the way, the Black Chariot has so many blades attached to it that one has to wonder how someone's supposed to be inside it. It's also painted red with the blood of virgins, just to fuck with people. The horses aren't really horses, they're mechanical horses with jet power. In short, you'd have to be Superman to outrun these guys on foot, but the faster people would likely live longer on account of the fact that it's designed to stop so Spacecop can rape the corpses.]
SW: Why do we put up with these guys, again?
[Because I enjoy watching you guys look all squeamish.]
=<>: HEY, DID YOU EVER LEARN HOW TO COUNT TO TWENTY?
=C]: I KEPT RAPING THE TEACHER, SO I DOUBT IT.
=<>: OH WELL, IT'S BEEN LONG ENOUGH. START IT UP.
[Uh oh, and it looks like fatass at the back is going first. Ooh, I can't watch, and yet, it's so hypnotic!]
SW: You're disgusting.
Styles: OH MY GOD!
SW: And we're off to a bloody start, because the Black Chariot just beheaded AND bisected the fat guy from the get-go! Now the Black Chariot is stopping and... WHY DO I GIVE PLAY-BY-PLAY TO THIS!?
SW: Hey! It's only be five seconds!
MS: THIS IS THE GREATEST THING WE MIGHT HAVE EVER SEEN!
SW: Yeah, if you're Detached Narrator over there.
[I heard that.]
Whatpuppy: Woof woof.
Styles: OH MY GOD! Change him back! He's peeing on my lap!
[*sigh* You ruin all of my fun.]
SW: I'd like to see you do that again, you rotten ba--
SPLATTER AND RESPLATTER!
Styles: OH MY GOD!
[Yes, while I was busy turning Whatbody into various amusing shapes, the Black Chariot just ripped apart two more NASCAR drivers, thus adding to the body count of the match at four dead people.]
Styles: You'd think someone would miss all of these people.
[They don't know us very well, do they? Oh, I guess I'd better change Whatbody back again.]
SW: Ugh. I have this incredible urge to find a ball of yarn.
NASCAR Driver: Fuck this, man. I'm climbing the fence!
=<>: YOU KNOW, HOW COME WE HAVEN'T BEEN SHOCKED BY OUR OWN FENCES? I MEAN, IT'S NOT LIKE WE INSULATED OUR OWN CHARIOT OR ANYTHING.
=C]: OH, WE'RE BEING SHOCKED. WE'RE JUST NOT SELLING IT.
=<>: OH. RIGHT. CARRY ON WITH THE BLOODSHED AND RAPEAGE.
=C]: RIGHT! *RAPE!*
Styles: OH MY GOD! I am absolutely revulsed by this team!
SW: I don't think you're alone in this opinion.
Styles: OH MY GOD! We agreed on something!
SW: It's the end of BOB!
Styles: Oh, we wish.
NASCAR Driver #3 (to NASCAR Driver #4): ren.
NASCAR Driver #4: dev
Dev: Damnit, where's the period? :-\
Ren: I apologize, the period went to feed hungry kids in Somalia.
Dev: Screw those kids, I want my period.
Ren: Now there's a statement one NEVER wants to hear ANYONE say.
=<>: OOH! DID YOU SEE THAT, SPACECOP? THAT WAS ENOUGH BLOOD TO FILL OUT NANCY REAGAN'S TAMPONS!
SW: Oh, God. I think I'm going to puke. *pukes*
Styles: My shoes!
MS: My hair!
Whatbody & Styles: What the hell?
[And, meanwhile, as I sit here enjoying this, eating popcorn, watching 'the Best of Kobe Bryant's rape scenes', and generally reminding all BOB fans exactly why I'm the greatest thing since sliced bread #2, I will have to point out that the Black Chariot keeps running into the walls, on account of incompetent steering.]
=C]: THAT AND THE FACT THAT WE DON'T REALLY HAVE HANDS.
=<>: BUT WE DO HAVE MASSIVE SCHLONGS!
SW: Jesus mother of Mary Christ on a wheelchair, this match is reaching new lows. How could this match possibly get any lower?
Kobe Bryant: Hi!
SW: ...Why do I keep invoking Murphy's Law?
[Suddenly, a spaceship arrives, and out walks out...]
[However, this guy's just an alien with a Jesus puppet. A twenty-tentacled alien with a dildo on its head.]
Jesus: Want to come to Gaflagaraitro-- I mean, Heaven with me?
[And so, Kobe Bryant was abducted by an alien posing as Jesus. What? I'm not making this shit up. Go away.]
SW: Styles, did we do any drugs before we got here in Depression? This is the most fucked up thing I've ever been a part of, which has to say quite a lot for a guy who's worked HERE for as long as he has.
=C]: HEY, SPACEDUCK, I THINK THE BRAKES ARE STUCK ON THE ENTRAILS OF THE LAST GUY WE RAN OVER.
=<>: OH, THAT'S NOT FUCKING GOOD.
Styles: OH MY GOD! Now Spacecop and Spaceduck are chasing the last NASCAR Driver! The Driver is so close to the finish line, will he make it?!
SW: HE DID! Yes!
NASCAR Driver: *gasping and breathing* Yes! Whoo! I've won! Now I don't get to be killed!
=<>: SINCE WHEN WAS THAT IN THE RULES?
[Spacecop flipped through the official "RAPECAR CHALLENGE" handbook, which is fifty pages which all state, "STAB AND KILL EVERYTHING UNTIL THEY STOP MOVING".]
=C]: IT ISN'T.
=<>: WELL, THAT MAKES THINGS CLEAR, THEN.
NASCAR Driver: Uh oh.
*SMILEY STUNNER ON A KNIFE!*
SW: Well, dammit.
Styles: That was anticlimatic.
SW: That was wrong.
Styles: That was...
MS: ...THE GREATEST SPECTACLE IN THE HISTORY OF BOB!
Styles: Dammit, someone gag Shill already.
MA: Fans, call you friends and neighbors, because, the following tag team contest will be fought under HARDCORE RULES! Yes, it is a hardcore HOT DOG EATING CONTEST!
Candy: Isn't hardcore fun, guys?
Styles: Unless it's Festering Death. Yuck. I never want to see anything resembling that again.
SW: I'm hardcore! I'm hardcore!
Styles: I'm EXTREME...ly hardcore.
SW: Did you know when you put your initials together, they kind of look like your big love balloons?
SW: Yeah, see. CC.
Candy: I guess they sort of do, without any nipples and if you were looking at me from a weird angle.
MA: Introducing first, Insano Mano and "Mr. Thursday Night" J.C. Long, the Hands of Fate!
[The pair walks out to "No One's There."]
SW: Is that really their name?
MA: That's what it says here, lame, uh, Scotty.
SW: Well it sucks!
MA: Take it up with DETACHED NARRATOR.
Styles: OH MY GOD! A fan just hung himself in the back row!
MA: THEY'RE LITERALLY HANGING FROM THE RAFTERS, fans!
SW: It wasn't THAT bad of a team name. Why are we here, damnit! You know what might lift their depression, Candy?
Candy: What, Scotty?
SW: Lifting your top.
Candy: Hmm, are you saying I could help people using my breasts?
SW: YES! I mean, yes, exactly.
MA: AND THEIR OPPONENTS! KAMIKAZIE KEN AND THE ARE YOU OUT OF YOUR FRIGGING MIND HARDCORE TITLE BELT, THE FRIGGIN' KAMIKAZIES!
[They come out to "Clown" A gunshot is heard in the audience.]
SW: I guess the good news is that they're not shooting us.
Styles: Not so loud!
Candy: Am I the only one who gets hot when people eat hot dogs?
Styles + SW: ...
Candy: I sure could go for a hot dog, myself.
SW: I--mmmpphh mppffhh
Styles: I'm covering your mouth for your own good.
Styles: OK. In the ring is a table. On that table are about 200 cooked hot dogs.
SW: Wait a second. They have to eat the hot dogs? How is that hardcore?
Styles: Well, there are no rules. Whoever has eaten the most hot dogs by the end of about five minutes will win. And if any member of a team vomits, they are automatically losers.
Candy: Save one for me, boys! Keep 'em hot and juicy!
SW: Humina humina humina.
Styles: And here we go. Kamikazie Ken and Insano Mano to start.
SW: His hands better be insane tonight for him to scarf down the dogs. Say, why don't they call them hot pigs? Since they're not made from dogs. Or are they?
Candy: Dead doggies?
SW: I'm sorry, Candy. They're just pigs.
Candy: Oh, OK.
SW: You a big dog fan?
Candy: Oh yeah, I love doggies.
SW: You like doggy styles too?
Styles: Scotty, if you keep this up, I'll have you replaced with...with...Mike Monroe!
SW: *Huge gasp* I'm adding COLOR, man, that's my job.
Styles: Yeah, you're adding blue for sure.
Candy: Blue is my favorite color.
SW: We have so much in common.
Styles: Ken and Mano punching each other. Mano runs to the ropes. Asai dropkick. He takes a seat at the table. And he's chowing down.
Generic Ref. Mano and Long lead 1-0.
Styles: Kamikazie Ken is up. He takes the folding chair right out from under Ken.
SW: And Mano is down and out. Ken climbs to the top rope with the chair.
Styles: OH MY GOD! CHAIR SPLASH!
SW: Now Ken is down and looking to eat. This must be a new experience for him, eating something other than hosptial food. Freak.
Candy: Scars are sexy.
SW: Oh? I have a scar from when I had chicken pox as a kid on my stomach, here...
Generic Ref: Tie, 1-1.
SW: Should HE be keeping track of scores?
Styles: It's OK, the Masked Announcer is also keeping score.
SW: Didn't he flunk math?
Styles: Eddie B. is also keeping track.
[Cut to the sound booth.]
Eddie: I am? Sheeeeeeiiiiiit. *He blows out a big puff of smoke*
Styles: Well, there is Dennis The Interviewer, who really has nothing to do anymore.
Dennis: Righteo, 1-1, dear chaps.
Candy: You're bad.
SW: To the bone, baby.
Styles: Insano Mano is up. He grabs a bottle of mustard. Oh my, squirts it in Ken's eyes.
[Here comes Dennis out. He grabs Masked Announcer's microphone.]
Styles: But Ken managed to eat a hot dog just before the mustard got shot in his eye.
Candy: I hate it when things get shot into my eye like that.
SW: *THUD of his head hitting the Flimsy Announce Table.*
Dennis: I say, the score is tied 2-2.
Styles: Insano Mano is up. He bounces off the rope! Suicida dive over the table! He clotheslines Ken onto the mat. Insano Mano gets on his knees
SW: That remind you of anything, Candy?
Styles: This is the bluest show on television. In the bluest town in the world. Aside from Baghdad.
Dennis: Insano's team up 3-2.
Styles: Ken is back up. He grabs the mustard. Oh no! He's stabbing Insano Mano in the head with the nozzle!
Styles: Easy, Scotty. Insano Mano falls face first to the mat and puts his hands up to his forehead...Ken grabs two hot dogs! Now THAT'S EXTREME! Two more!
Dennis: Ken's team goes up 6-3.
Styles: Insano Mano is bleeding! He's wearing the crimson mask!
SW: The mustard top sliced open his mask and cut his forehead?
Styles: Right. Insano Mano gets the tag to J.C. Long.
SW: Oh, he's demanding the Title Belt. He's calling him in.
Candy: A battle of man and metal.
SW: Well, tin at least.
Styles: Both men tag out. Ken hurls the AYOOYFM belt at JC Long. CONNECTS! Long is face down on the mat.
Styles: JC Long is wearing the crimson mask now!
SW: Through some fluke, the belt landed on the table. Uh oh! Problem! How is that belt going to eat?
Styles: This is a shocking development.
Candy: JC Long sits down at the table. One hot dog. Two hot dogs. Three hot dogs. Mmmmm, another...
SW: Keep eating, JC.
Styles: Ken is reaching out his hand. He wants the tag in.
SW: Ahahaha. JC Long and Insano Mano are going to win.
Dennis: The score is tied 6-6.
Styles: Time is running out on Ken and the AYOOYFM Title belt.
Candy: JC swallows another hot dog. And another.
Dennis: 8-6, Long and Mano.
SW: I wonder when Ken will realize this is a hardcore match and you don't have to tag in...
Styles: I'd guess right about now, since you just told him.
Dennis: 10-6 Long and Mano.
Styles: Ken is in. He picks up a hot dog. Oh, he pokes Long in the eye with it. Mano is on the top rope. Springboard, corkscrew, somersault plannnnnchaaaaa! OH MY GOD! Ken and Mano just DESTROYED the table! Hot dogs go flying everywhere!
SW: This is like Candy's dream.
AYOOYFM Title Belt: ...
Ken: No way, I'm not gonna eat the hot dogs. They hit the mat. It's all sweaty and bloody. Ewwww.
SW: A guy who will destroy the outside of his body is scared to eat a hot dog that fell on the mat...Ohhhhkay, NOW, I've seen everything.
[Cut to Billy Polar and Detached Narrator slow-dancing as XXXtreme Machine sings "straynlrs n hth nite."
SW: OK, NOW, I've seen everything.
[Cut to Scotty Whatbody, burning a big pile of money.]
SW: NO, make it stop, make it stop! The only thing I haven't seen, actually, is Candy Cantaloupes naked.
Candy: Well, sometime soon, you will have seen, everything.
SW: Humina humina humina...
Candy: Stop drooling.
Masked Announcer: The winners of the match, JC Long and Insano Mano! IN THE GREATEST MATCH IN NIT--, I MEAN, CHLOROFORM HISTORY!
[Kay Fabe was walking down the hallway when she noticed Jeannie, Xamfir's love slave, walking down a long hallway to Kay's right. She paused, as Jeannie pulled a large trenchcoat around her body.]
Kay: Hey, uh, Jeannie? How are you?
Jeannie: Lovely. You?
Kay: What are you doing here?
Jeannie: BOB's having a show, in case you forgot, silly goose.
Kay: I know that. But why are you--
Jeannie: Look, I really need to go (she said lifting up her arm to scratch her nose.)
Kay: Hey! Isn't that Sarah's top?
Jeannie: What? No. No! Of course it isn't!
[She tried to run away, but Kay put a foot on the trenchcoat. Kay spun Jeannie around. Kay gasped and did an overacting type of shock-face. A WHAT? Who is writing this shit? An overacting type of shock-face. Bloody hell...]
Kay Fabe: That IS her white top. I remember fantasizing about her in that many a times.
Kay: And those are her jeans. The ones with the STJS monogram on them?
Kay: And aren't those her stylish but affordable shoes?
Jeannie: Oh that...
Kay: And those are her socks too!
[She lifted up Jeannie's shirt.]
Kay: And oh my god, that's Sarah's bra!
[Then Kay started unbuckling Jeannie's jeans.]
Kay: And the panties? Sarah's Victoria Secrets? Oh...Jeannie.
Jeannie: I know this looks bad, but there's really a good excuse for all this. And it's--
[She runs away.]
Jeannie: What the?
[She turns around. There is a spider in a corner of the ceiling. Just a regular, normal size spider. Not a monster spider. Not even a tarantula or black widow. Just a little house spider. Jeannie cocked an eyebrow.]
Jeannie: We really need better script writers who can figure out how to end a segment properly.
Masked Announcer: The following match is a bloody mattress match. To win the match, you must put your opponent on the bloody mattress that Albert DeSalvo was nice enough to loan us, and wheel him out of the arena. The mattress has been put on the Big F***in red wagon to make it a little easier to pull.
Styles: Radio Flyer has upgraded.
SW: It's the SUV of the wagon industry. And by the way, this match is brought to you by Dial-A-Bloody-Mattress. Call them up at 1-800-BLOOD-BED. Take off the 'y' for yen.
["Kill You" by KoRn hits and out comes Albert DeSalvo.]
Masked Announcer: Here is, the BOSTON STRANGLER!
Albert: Dude, I'm not the Boston Strangler. I'm Albert DeSalvo.
MA: Wasn't Albert DeSalvo the Boston Strangler?
MA: Then what's the problem?
Albert: Because my name is Albert DeSalvo.
MA: YOU ONLY GET CONFUSION LIKE THIS ON SUNDAY MORNING CHLOROFORM.
["Dead Bodies Everywhere" plays and here comes...]
MA: DEEE EMMMM DEEEE!
Styles: Boston Strangler puts the boots to DMD as he gets in the ring. There will be no pins or submissions, you just gotta knock out your opponent and drag them backstage.
SW: Your mattress doesn't look like that, does it Candy?
Candy: Not at all, Scotty. I take care of myself.
SW: That's what I like to hear.
Styles: DeSalvo whips DMD into the corner. He charges in. Choke! DMD knees DeSalvo in the groin.
SW: I'm sure he learned that one from angry patients.
Styles: The wrestling dentist, DMD. And right you may be, Scotty.
SW: I'm sure you'd never do that to a man, would you, Candy?
Candy: Sure I would. If he bit my lips, I would. I don't like biting.
Styles: More a fan of licking, eh?
Candy: You can bite candy, but it's more fun to let it mouth in your mouth. Lick until you get to its creamy center.
Styles: DMD with a chin breaker on DeSalvo.
SW: Looking for some extra money with DeSalvo there. Look. He's giving him a card.
DMD: If I chipped one of your teeth, or do later, give my office a call.
Styles: DeSalvo punches DMD. Put DMD retaliates with a punch of his own to DeSalvo's mouth. DMD scoops DeSalvo up. Drops him face-first on the top turnbuckle.
SW: DeSalvo with a deserpation punch. Oh, and he takes DMD's business card. He just gave him a papercut on his finger!
Candy: That's gotta hurt.
Styles: Oh, and another paper cut. DeSalvo clotheslines DMD over the top rope. And he follows him out. DeSalvo has DMD. Here it comes. POWERBOMB onto the mattress! Oh my GOD! DeSalvo is pulling the mattress up the aisle. But DMD is back up. He charges at DeSalvo. Oh no!
SW: He just pulled out one of those tooth-scraping thingees.
Styles: OH MY GOD! DMD just ripped DeSalvo's face wide open. And the blood is flowing down Albert's forehead.
SW: He's got the little mirror. OH NO! He just put it in DeSalvo's mouth and hit the top of DeSalvo's head like Moe Howard.
Styles: OH. My. GOD! He's got glass in his mouth! Little tiny pieces of glass.
Candy: He's spitting out blood now. That's not sexy at all.
Styles: He has one last trick up his sleeve. It's dental floss! Oh my, he has it wrapped around DeSalvo's throat.
SW: Time to take a nap. Speaking of which, Candy...
Candy: Not yet, Scotty...there's still a couple of matches left.
SW: That's cool, but I can tell you what happens. *Sounds of pages flipping.*
Styles: Scotty! Put the script away. DMD is pulling DeSalvo up the aisle. He's out! DMD wins.
Masked Announcer: The winner of the match, DMD!
SW: I don't know whether to cheer DMD's antics or hate him. Is he a heel or what?
Styles: Of course he's the face.
SW: I said is he the heel?
Styles: Oh....my god.
SW: Let's move this show along, shall we?
Masked Announcer: The following match...um...is...here's BVD!
["A.D.I.D.A.S" plays and out walks BVD.]
[Looks at depressed crowd.]
MA: And his opponent. Graphic Flatulence.
SW: And here comes Graphic, great, he has a can of beans. How many of those do you think he's had.
Styles: That's odd. He hates farting.
SW: Maybe he's gonna use it to his advantage?
Styles: Hey! I'd recognize that fart anywhere! Stinkbutt Nastyass is in the ring!
SW: BVD is wobbling.
Styles: That's gonna waft over here pretty quickly. GF is in the ring.
GF: You *PFFFFTH* *PTHWACK* *PLUEEEEECH* BVD. Smell my farts!
Styles BVD is down and out.
SW: These two could start their own gas company.
Styles: GF makes the cover? One, two, three! They're calling for a microphone.
SW: Hahahahaha, it just hit Nastyass on the head. Ahahahaha.
GF: Say hello to *FFFFTHWACK* Chemical Warfare!
SN: Or, The Thunderclaps!
GF: How about Fart Deco?
SN: Fart Blanche?
GF: The Pop-Farts?
SN: Chocolate Frappe?
Styles: How many more do you guys have?
GF: That's it you impatient *FFFFTHWACKFEEE* Hmm, juicy one.
SN: Which one do you guys like the most?
SW: I'm rather partial to Fart Blanche.
Candy: Yep, though Fart Deco is a very close second for me.
MA: May I present to you, the winner of the match, Graphic, FLATULENCE. One-half of Fart Blanche!
Buy our Pay-Per-View! It's the last one! All supplies must be sold! Be the only one to have a genuine BOB Pay-per-View on your television! ORDER MOTHERF*****!!!!
Styles: Only one match left to go, and you know what that means.
SW: Me and Candy can go make out in her car?
Candy: My car?
Styles: Actually, it's main event time was the answer.
[The KoRn megamix overwhelms everybody. Jean Bannister, Sir Hungalot, Violent Pacifist, the Undietaker (new), Randy Handi and Khan are all pushed out. The music dies down once they get to the ring.]
Styles: That was...
Styles: And it's broken down at the opening bell. Everybody is brawling. VP is taking on Khan, Bannister has Undietaker and the Big Sir has Randy Handi. It's pure bedlam, the crowd is crying their guts out at the beauty and pain. Everyone from the Undie side gets whipped into the ropes. TRIPLE DROPKICK.
Candy: I like boys who have flexibility and vertical leap.
SW: You want to see vertical leap?
Styles: Whatever happened to professionalism...I know this is BOB but still. Oh no! Undietaker has Bannister undies. No wait, that's a jockstrap!
Styles: Undietaker tosses the jockstrap away in disgust. CHOKESLAM time! CHOKESLAM FROM HELL. VP has Mr. Baseball Bat. Sir Hungalot using Mr. Hockey Stick. They are clearing the ring of Undietaker and his Handis. Whoa! More run-ins on the way. It's DEATH and the REAL FOUR HORSEMEN! Famine, War and Pestilence. Death butt ends Sir Hungalot with his scythe. War and Famine gang tackle VP. On the floor, Pestilence is kicking away on the stomachs of Undietaker and his Handis.
Styles: Undietaker fighting back. He knocks down Pestilence. He's in the ring. The Three Guys are getting a second wind. They're fighting back against the REAL Horsemen. It's absolute hell breaking loose in the ring. Everybody is fighting---oh, NO, here comes the 1600 Club. Clinton, LBJ and Nixon are in the fray now and attacking the Three Guys. And the Handis. There are NO sides here. Who's THAT?
Styles: The OTHER Undietaker. Ah hell, it's starting again. Wedgie aided CHOKESLAM on the floor on the Handis. And there's one for pestilence...two of the three guys, WEDGIE AIDED CHOKESLAM! OH MY GOD! Undietaker tosses everybody out of the ring but the Undietaker. Could this yearlong on and off buildup to something finally be starting to go somewhere?
Undietaker: Undietaker. On the next BOB show. I challenge you to. A Loser. Leaves. BOB. Match. For an unspecified amount of time. Next show. Somebody will DRESS...IN...FLEECE. (eyes roll back in his head.)
[Creepy Pipe Organ music fills the arena and the fight breaks out again.]
Styles: Fans, for everyone, good night!
[Cut to walking footage.]
Sarah: How many were there?
Kay Fabe: Nine.
Sarah: She was wearing nine of my things? Including my trench coat!? I never thought it would come to this.
Xamfir: Come to what?
Kay Fabe: She's gonna kill your Jeannie.
Xamfir: What? No! What? No!
Sarah: Let's face it. She's bad news.
Xamfir: Why don't you just wait a week. She'll apologize. Things will be back to normal. When people start being evil, we don't turn our backs on them.
Kay: Hello. Sitting right here.
Xamfir: I mean. Let's help her. Get her some of her own clothes. Go shopping.
Sarah: It's beyond that point now, Xamfir. I'm sorry.
[Cut to the ladies locker room. Jeannie has changed her clothes. She's not in Sarah's anymore.]
Xamfir: Look at me. In a women's locker room. with three hot women, and one of them is a lesbian. I'm gonna have such wet dreams tonight.
Xamfir: Jeannie. I thought we might find you in here. Granted, I thought there would be more nude ladies, but...
Sarah: Jeannie. You thought you could get away with it.
Xamfir: Did everyone eat their Insan-O's today.
[Insano Mano walks into the shot with a box of cereal.]
IM: Hey cabritos. Consiga el cereal nuevo más fresco. ¡Insan-OS! Sillas dobladas. Tablas quebradas. Tableros del alambre de púas. Anillos llameantes. Y piezas de cuerpo sangrientas. ¡Condimentado artificial! Insan-OS. ¡Consiga su Mano en esto!
[Sarah punches Jeannie, who flies across the room and smashes into a locker.]
Xamfir: Is this way you solve everything? By poking things?
Sarah: Isn't that how you solve your problems? Poke her?
Xamfir: Well...that's not the point!
Jeannie: I said I'm sorry for wearing your clothes. Look. I washed them all and put them back. I just wanted to be, you know, a cool Jobber Slayer.
Sarah: Oh, really?
Jeannie: Yeah. I actually scared Bivalve.
[Sarah helps Jeannie up.]
Sarah: I owe you a banana split.
Jeannie: As long as it's not Xamfir's.
[Everyone laughs. They walk toward the exit.]
Xamfir: Well, this was a particularly pointless parody, Kay.
Kay: No duh. And what a weak closer.
[We fade out with the following words on the screen for the remainder of the time slot (about three minutes)]
Buy our pay-per-view!
© 2003 BOB Wrestling: The crap just keeps coming, and coming and coming!