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Classix Logo

Guzzle two NyQuils and don't call me if you wake up!

Misty Waters: Hi everyone and welcome to Classix. I’m Misty Waters, filling in tonight for The Commentator.

Trey Vincent: Misty! Hey, what a shock to see you here.

MW: Oh, hey, Trey. What’s up?

TV: (Looks down at his crotch) I think you know what’s up. How YOU doin’?

MW: I’m good. So where is TC?

TV: I think he had the flu or crabs or something. So I gave him the day off.

MW: He has the crabs? Yikes, glad he wasn’t here.

TV: Yep. Can’t endanger that lucrative softcore porn thing you do. You are so beautiful. You’re like the girl next door every kid spied on with binoculars and an elaborate secret security camera system. But perhaps I’ve said too much...

MW: Just perhaps.

TV: Well, anyway, seeing as how I’m Vice President In Charge of Everything, the only person I could find to fill the role of the sexist heel commentator was, me. Even though I’m getting cheered by the BOB fans at the moment for it. Weird fans here.

MW: Say, Trey, think you could get my bio up on the site?

TV: Sure. Think you could come back to my place later on?

MW: Why would I take such a long drive for such a short ride?

TV: Bwahahaha! I like your attitude, honey.

MW: Anyhow. Let’s head to the BOB archives for our opening contest between "Jellicle Cat" Jacob Brent Ripp Ovv.

TV: And I thought the MSTies were torturous. This is a rather strange way to introduce you to our audience.

MW: Your idea, dude.

TV: Yeah. I have strange ideas. But then the ladies get the feeling of ecstasy.

MW: You mean when you spike their drinks?

TV: Huh?

Masked Announcer: The following contest is set for one fall with a fifteen minute time limit! Introducing first, from the back alleys of Manhattan, weighing in at 156 pounds... here is "JELLLLLLLLLLICLE CAT" JAAAAAAAAAAACOB BRRRRRRRRRREEEEEENNNNNTTT!!!

TV: Wow. Masked Announcer announcing his ass off. Too bad it won’t help him in the pay department when his review comes up. I just check adequate all the way down so he only gets the minimum raise. Just like all good bosses.

MW: I’m sure I’ll get a good review from you.

TV: You think?

MW: Yeah. All I need to do is flash you until you give it to me.

TV: Oh, I’ll give it to you good, honey.

[Andrew Lloyd Webber's "Magical Mister Mistofelees" plays through the speaker system as the Jellicle Cat dances down the aisle. A small, lithe man in a black catsuit scattered with rhinestones and fuzzy white trim, plus "cat" face-paint, he twirls a streamer in the vague direction of the fans and earns a small pop. ]

TV: Somebody betta call his momma. I’ll do it.

MW: Do you have any standards?

TV: When it comes to women? I’m a big fan of brunettes with pulses. Which means you qualify.

MW: I feel so special...

TV: As you should. Anyhow. I hope this match is nice and short. The sooner we get done here, the sooner we can go have a fun workout together.

MW: Man, why are you so horny?

TV: You might as well ask the devil that question. It’s just the way we were born, baby. Hey! Don’t interrupt me with a silly promo!



[And with that we return to the ringside. ]

TV: That boy is just bursting with...what’s the opposite of charisma?

MW: Canadian?

TV: Exactly!

MW: Well, at least he’s not as bad as XXXtreme Machine.

MA: And now is opponent, from Kick-Ass Arizona, he weighs 290 pounds and is the unmistakable RIPP OVV!

TV: Unmistakable but quite forgettable.

[Steve Austin's WWF Music plays as Ripp Ovv waddles down to the ring in a black jockstrap and a fishnet body-stocking.]

TV: Oh HELL no. What’s up with that LOL logo there?

MW: This is from one of their shows.

TV: Ahh. I see. Well, trust me dear BOB viewers when I say, we are much, much more entertaining than their commentators. Hell, Trey Vincent IS quality. Top quality. In this generic, black and white boring sports entertainment world, here I stand in living color.

*** DING DING ***

TV: Doorbell!

MW: I guess I’ll be doing the play-by-play. Ripp Ovv runs in with a clothesline, but the Cat dodges, Rip rebounds - and gets hip tossed. Ripp is up and complaining to the referee that Brent pulled his tights, but the ref's having none of it.

TV: All I know is that I hope his tights don’t rip off. I will have to jam my tongue down your throat for at least an hour....what are you doing?

MW: Praying his tights don’t rip.

TV: Sure, Misty, sure. Don’t worry, our tongues will have a little match later on tonight.

MW: They lock up - no, the Cat swiping a paw at Ripp Ovv and then licking it. And a little more... I think he's giving himself a bath?

TV: Is he retarded? Have we sunk this low for characters?

MW: BOB is an equal opportunity employers, Trey.

TV: That’s VP to you.

MW: What about Violent Pacifist?

TV: No, no. Sorry. VPICOA.

MW: Whatever. Ripp Ovv charges again - the Cat dodges and executes an arm drag takedown. Holds on and chainwrestles to a hammerlock, then to a headlock, then - DDT!

TV: Haven’t these losers ever heard of sports entertainment? Punch, kick, punch, kick, finisher. Big crowd pops. Thousands of cheering fans, chanting your initials. TV! TV! TV!

MW: Yeah, I’m sure Ripp Ovv and The Jellicle Cat are used to having your initials chanted at them...Ripp Ovv is on the mat now and the Jellicle Cat scales the ropes. Going right to the top of the turnbuckle. Moonsault.

TV: Quit ripping off my boy, Seth Harker.

MW: Jacob Brent is going up the turnbuckle again, albeit backwards this time... and hits the Journey to the Heaviside! And now he hooks the leg! ONE! TWO!! THREE!!!

TV: That was cute.

*** DING DING ***

MW: What was cute?

TV: The way you put the same amount of exclamation points with the count. Check this out though. Ten!!!!!!!!!! Yeah! Go me! Woohoo!

MW: You are so weird.

TV: If by weird you mean sexy, then yes, guilty as charged. Oops. I just dropped my script into your lap. I’ll just grab that—

MW: You try anything and you’ll be pulling back a stump.

TV: ...


MW: Jellicle Cat celebrates by licking his arm and giving himself another bath...

TV: Please, let’s go somewhere else. Now!

MW: Looks like the producer just granted your wish.

TV: Thanks Tentin! Keep working on those scripts, though. A little less gore, and maybe, just maybe, I’ll let you on the booking committee...amateur...

MW: Paul Player is ready to take on Diablo.

TV: Diablo? Ay carrumba! Holy frehole! Hey, shouldn’t we do an ad first?

MW: Nope. You forgot to write any. So, we have nothing but our usual sponsors.

TV: The BigBOSS Love Doll?

MW: Yep.

TV: *Sigh* This portion of Classix is brought to you by the BigBOSS Love Doll. That’s so Raven nude. And BigBOSS reminds women to be careful when using the BigBOSS Love Doll in cars because there is danger of getting your gigantic boobs caught in the car door.

MW: Ah, great. More inside Web site hit jokes.

TV: Yep. I’m hoping next week we can get Britney Spears Free Drunk And Naked Wrestling Divas Porn to advertise with us. I would love to see that girl get it on with Candy Cantaloupes. Woman on woman, baby. Say...I’d love to see you on Candy too.

MW: I’m sure you would. Feel free to send me a script and pay me a good chunk of cash if you want to see it though.

TV: No softcore crap. We do it hardcore.

MW: Have your people call my people.

TV: ... Tom?

MW: Tom who?

TV: Servo.

MW: He your agent?

TV: He’s my robot—I mean..yes, yes, sure, he’s my agent.

Masked Announcer: The following contest is set for one fall with a thirty minute time limit!

TV: What ever happened to the 30 second time limits? I miss those.

MA: Introducing firstly, he hails from Buffalo, New York... weighing in at 244 pounds, here is PAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAUL PLAYER!!!

["Loser" by Beck plays and the fans give a rousing cheer as Paul Player strides down the aisle in a black, Olympic-style wrestling suit with gold trim. He stops at ringside to plant a kiss on the cheek of an old lady in the crowd, then rolls into the ring to wait for his opponent... ]

TV: I don’t think that’s our usual Masked Announcer.

MW: All those masked people look the same to me.

TV: You’re so racist, Misty.

MW: I am not!

TV: I only see what I see. And you, my dear, are racist.

MA: And now his opponent... from Calgary, Alberta, Canada, and weighing in at 267 pounds... the Evil One, DIABLO!

[Ear-piercing screams sound through the speaker system, and are then supplanted by demonic chanting, and with an explosion of pyro Diablo stumbles out, his sinister dark cloak aflame because he'd been standing too close to the pyro.]

TV: Diablo sure has been on fire lately.

MW: Ugh. Did you write that joke yourself?

[He grabs a bottle of Coke from a fan and uses it to douse the flames, shucking off his cloak to reveal some equally sinister black shorts. He stamps on the cloak to make sure that it's really extinguished, then strides menacingly down to the ring.]

TV: What does supplanted mean anyway?

MW: Usurper.

TV: Ah, cool. Yes. An evil Canadian. What will the booking geniuses of unprofessional sports entertainment think of next?

MW: I figured you’d be a big fan of Diablo, with him being a bad guy and all.

TV: He may be a heel, but he isn’t cool. There are people you mark out for or people you want to stab in the ear with a marker. He falls into the second group.

MW: And we’ve got the bell.

TV: The eternal struggle between America and Canada continues. And oddly, nobody except losers in Canada care.

MW: And you say I’m racist.

TV: That’s not racist. They’re Canadians, not people.

MW: God, I hope none of our handlers are Canadian.

TV: Fuck ‘em if they can’t take a joke. Fine. To be fair. Fuck America. Fuck Canada. Fuck Australia. Fuck England. And fuck New Zealand. You people all suck. I rule.

MW: We’re on in all those countries?

TV: We’re worldwide, baby.

MW: Both men lock up. Diablo forces Player into the ropes. Clean break.

TV: Boring! Cheat you idiot. No wonder he’s the heel. He won’t cheat. Cheating is so much fun.

MW: Remind me never to get involved with you.

TV: Huh? I’m a one-woman man, Misty. Unless I’ve got a couple of chicks in bed at the time. And who are you to talk anyway, little Miss Porn Chick?

MW: It’s not cheating if it’s fake.

TV: Riiight. It’s ‘acting.’ Sure.

MW: Player with a duck-under bo-behind and a waistlock.

TV: *Cough*fayg*cough*

MW: Diablo tries to push him off and gets rolled up. ONE! TWO!!

TV: (The Count) Two exclamation points. Ahh! Ahh! Ahh!

MW: He’s showing of his amateur, uh, sports entertaining background there.

TV: Don’t put over Canada. Or we’ll toss you out of the country.

MW: They tie up. Knee to the gut. Knee to the face. Diablo hits a gutwrench suplex. Cover. One!

TV: Good thing. That would be a really lame finisher.

MW: This from a man whose favorite finisher is a fist drop?

TV: This fist is a lethal weapon.

MW: So’s your personality.

TV: OK, I don’t even get that line.

MW: Diablo with a shin kick.

TV: Yikes. I haven’t seen anyone apply a sleeperhold THAT bad since...wait, he’s Canadian, that explains it. Diablo. Why not talk backwards and make him commit suicide or something? I’d like to apologize to all BOB viewers for having to see this rest hold. Go get a beer or something. Cheers.

MW: Player is down. The fans are chanting for him.

TV: Yeah, those 50 people will wake him up. I recently replaced my alarm clock with sports entertainment fans. I haven’t overslept since.

MW: The ref checks the arm. Raises it. It falls down. He raises it again. It falls again. Up a third time.

TV: And big shocker, the arm stays up. Maybe he snuck a Viagra while he was in the hold?

MW: Here comes Player. Elbow to the gut. Another one. Another one. He bounces off the ropes and hits a clothesline. And there’s a leg drop.

TV: I’m a Player hater, Misty.

MW: Word. Player’s got a second wind.

TV: Ah, is that the noise I heard? I thought it was just a tape glitch...

MW: It’s the spinning toe hold.

TV: Give me an arm grapevine submission and I’ll go home happy. Oww! Hey! Let go of me!

MW: Sorry. Thought I was helping you.

TV: If you want to grab me—

MW: That was as far as I’m going with you, ever.

TV: That’s what you say when you’re sober. I’ll wear you down.

MW: How romantic. Diablo gets to the ropes. And Player doesn’t look happy.

TV: If I looked like him and was in this match, I’d look unhappy too.

MW: Diablo is back up. Another lock up. Player is forced into the corner. Diabol with a Greco-Roman thumb to the eye. Diablo drives his shoulder into Player’s midsection. Snapmare into a reverse chinlock.

TV: Rest spot. Submission. Rest spot. Submission. This has less entertainment value than a Big Show match.

MW: The ref and Diablo arguing. Diablo no doubt promising to bring a reign of fire down on his ass for forcing the break.

TV: I’m guessing it’ll be a cold day in hell before this match becomes entertaining. Seriously. If I wasn’t talking, all our viewers would have no reason to watch. No offense, Misty.

MW: I’m sure you’ve put most of them to sleep already, Trey. Diablo with a brainbuster suplex. This could be it. One! Two!! Kickout. Diablo with a kneedrop. And now he grabs Player’s arm. It’s the Almost Imminent Death, his wristlock submission hold. But Player gets to the ropes.

TV: Gotta protect his wrist for later tonight when he’s all alone. There’s a good movie on Cinemax tonight.

MW: Hopefully it’s one of mine.

TV: I did say a ‘good’ movie.

MW: Dick.

TV: That’s Vice President Dick, to you.

MW: Player reverses a suplex attempt. Bridge. One! Two!! Kickout by Diablo.

TV: You are so damn cute, Misty. I honestly can’t concentrate on the match.

MW: Uhh...thanks.

TV: The way you put those little exclamation points. It’s just so sexy.

MW: Uhh....

TV: It’s like, you’re excited. So I get excited. And I can tell your excited. Either that, or it’s chilly in here.

MW: Don’t make me hose you down. Player pulls up Diablo. Irish whips the Canadian and hits a Russian sickle.

TV: This match just went international.

MW: Leg drop by Player. And he follows up with a bulldog. Player is going for the L-O-eLbow – his dancing elbowdrop finisher. He's dancing... and dancing... and dancing... and dancing... and dancing... and dancing... Diablo is starting to get up...

TV: Player dances... dances... dances...his dancing is eerily hypnotic.

MW: Diablo sneaks up behind him. Kick to the gut. DDT. ONE! TWO!! THREE!!! It’s over. Canada wins. America loses. Oh, what a dark day for our country.

TV: What, that Paul Player was our representative?

MW: Pretty much, yeah.

TV: I have to agree with you.

["Rock A Bye Baby" starts to play through the speaker?! ]

MA: Ladies and Gentlemen, here's your winner... PAUL PLAYER!!!

[The crowd cheers!]

TV: Happy the shitfest is over. Or is it?

MW: That’s not his entrance music. Or his exit music for that matter. It must mean it’s time for a run-in. Four men in supermarket uniforms are coming to ringside carrying a bed. Sergeant Slumber jumps out of the bed.

TV: Leaving a vacancy for me and Misty.

MW: In your dreams.


MW: Sgt. Slumber with a nasty pillow shot.


MW: And there’s a DDT onto the pillow.

TV: Nighty-night, scrub.

Sergeant Slumber: ARRRRRGHHH!! I can't sleep! Where's my teddy-bear, Player... WHERE'S MY TEDDY!?! ARRRGHHHH!!!!!

TV: Try boozing till you drop. Always puts me right to sleep.

MW: Officials are trying to escort Slumber out of here as paramedics rush to Player’s aid.

TV: Let’s move along to our next bit, huh?

MW: Sounds like a plan.

TV: Crap, no commericials?

MW: Afraid not.

TV: Man, this is gonna look like some crappy BSCW show when it gets posted.


TV: Never mind.

MA: The following bout is set for one fall of tag team action! Introducing firstly, hailing from Coney Island, he weighs 512 pounds and stands over seven feet tall... The John! His tag team partner, from Cincinnatti, weighing 243 pounds... Brother John! They are the team of THE JOHN SQUAD!!!

TV: Just when BOB was lacking in toilet humor.

["Splish Splash" plays through the speaker system and the crowd erupt with a _loud_ face pop as the mismatched twosome stride down the aisle. The massive John is clad in a silver leather bodysuit with a silver facemask, pink gloves, pink goggles and a pink cape, while the shorter (but bulky) Brother John wears glasses, a black shirt, matching black cardigan & pants, and has a really bad comb-over. He seems to be shouting something about the evils of Coca-Cola at the crowd, but we can't really hear him over the cheering. ]

TV: Shane, dude, what’s with all the narrating?

[Sorry. It’s the script I’m stealing from. I’m just reading, really, not improvising like usual.]

TV: Brevity is wit, or something.

MW: This from the witless.

MA: And now their opponents... hailing from Cut Bank, Montana, with a total combined weight of 200 pounds... Nelson Muntz and Johnny-boy Ryan... THE PLAYGRRRRRROUND POSSE!!!

["No Remorse" by Metallica plays as the Playground Posse enter the arena to half-hearted boos from the fans. Johnny-boy Ryan is the larger, older boy, clad in a white T-shirt blue jeans, and his head is crowned with buzzed blonde hair. His younger, shorter friend Nelson Muntz is a fat kid with a red t-shirt and blue shorts. Walking a few steps behind are the heavies; Jethro, Billy Joe, and Jimmy Bob. All are tough-looking kids in stained t-shirts and ripped jeans.]

TV: "No Remorse" is off the "Kill ‘Em All" CD. And boy would I like to kill everyone in this match. Nelson Muntz? Why didn’t I just call myself Andrew "Dice" Trey?

MW: Is that who you’re ripping off?

TV: No. Well, not entirely. Though I do know a few poems if you’d like to hear one.

MW: Not especially.

TV: Hickory dickory dock, some chick was sucking my—


TV: You’re no fun. With clothes on, anyway.

MW: We got ourselves a bell.

TV: Hmm, I wonder if it’d be in bad taste to go take a piss on The John?

MW: Just a little bit...

TV: If only I had brought my time machine.

MW: Brother John and Johnny-boy Ryan kicking this one off. Brother John hits a few forearms. Irish whip. Cross body block. One! Two!! Kickout by Johnny-boy. Tag in to Muntz.

TV: The suspense is killing me.

MW: Really? Hey, stop reading that book.

TV: Why? It’s more interesting than this match. I wonder how it will turn out.

MW: (Whispering) The dish runs away with the spoon.

TV: Ha-ha.

MW: Muntz has an armbar locked in. And there’s an elbow into the Brother’s face.

TV: Muntz takes this opportunity to point at the crowd and laugh. Haw-HAW!

MW: Knew THAT was coming ten minutes ago. John kicks Muntz in the midsection. Dropkick by Brother John. The schoolyard bully is down and tries to get to his corner. But Brother John stops him. Uppercut. Whip to the ropes. Leg lariat.

TV: What’s that?

MW: A front facelock.

TV: How do you know all this? I’ve been sports entertaining for years and didn’t even realize all these stupid rest holds HAD names.

MW: Tag in. And the John is laying the crap down on Nelson.

TV: Man, we should bring these idiots to BOB and team ‘em up with Urine. I see a Flushing Meadows street fight. The biggest pissing contest ever.

MW: Irish whip. Big boot. Elbow drop by the John. One! Two!! Kickout. And now a powerbomb. Another cover. One! Two!! Muntz kicks out.

TV: I hope he at least was able to steal his lunch money and give him a wedgie.

MW: The John tags in Brother John.

TV: He’s looking a little flushed.

MW: Can we get a rim shot?


MW: Brother John stomps Muntz in the chest. He picks him up like a child, which, well, he IS. Body slam.

TV: Can we call the child abuse thingee then, get him arrested and end this disaster?

MW: Again, Trey, this match is from 1999.

TV: Damn. Why did my flux capacitor have to die NOW of all times. There just haven’t been any REAL arrest angles in sports entertainment.

MW: Well, I could call about you versus Hardcore JJ...

TV: All I can say to that is...I’m SO glad we’re on at 4 a.m. sometimes.

MW: Brother John with a springboard splash. This could be it.

TV: Don’t give anyone false hopes, honey.

MW: One! Two!! No.

TV: No third exclamation point for you. And here comes in. And the John is overflowing...with enthusiasm.

MW: Double elbowdrop. The John picks Muntz up. Backbreaker. One! Two!! Just two. The bully sure is being bullied around here today. Another quick tag and Brother John heads up top. Moonsault, but right onto Muntz’s waiting shins.

TV: Haw-HAW!

MW: Brother John is hurting. Muntz crawling for the corner.

TV: This is like watching turtles race each other. Can we hit fast forward here?

MW: They’re building excitement. It’s hot tag time.

TV: Or, luke warm tag time.

MW: And Johnny-boy Ryan is in, charging toward Brother John who can’t make the tag. Whip to the ropes. Knee to the gut.

TV: So many Johns and none of them have a pot to piss in.

MW: The John comes in, but that gives the Playground Posse the chance to hit a double knee drop onto Brother John. Another one. And another one.

TV: Of all the lamest move to repeat three times, this would have to be up at the top.

MW: Double elbow drop. The ref is still distracted. Muntz and Ryan step onto Brother John’s chest and start to jump up and down.

TV: It’s the human trampoline. I haven’t seen that move since fourth grade when I was jumping on a kindergartner.

MW: You are a beautiful human being, Trey.

TV: I know.

MW: *Sigh* It’s a good thing they’re only children or they could do some serious damage. Muntz gets out just in time for the referee to turn around.

TV: Woohoo! Here comes G.I. Ho. She’s got some major guns.

G.I. Ho: Hey boys, you forgot your ties!

MW: She’s got some Corporate Express Club ties?

TV: What’s the Corporate Express Club?

MW: I....don’t know.

TV: Man, did you make your way through school on a football scholarship?

MW: Are you calling me fat?

TV: ... No, I was calling you stupid.

MW: Well I’m not. Fat or stupid.

TV: You certainly aren’t fat.

MW: The Playground Posse is confused. I’m confused. Trey’s always confused, so no point pointing that out. Muntz climbs the ropes. Flying elbow. He hits Brother John. One! Two!! Kickout.

TV: Brother John is full of piss and vinegar. Mainly piss.

MW: Johnny-boy tags in. He kicks away at the Brother’s midsection.

TV: I guess their philosophy is kick ‘im til he hurls. I’d hate to have the name John when he goes looking for something to puke on, though.

MW: Leg drop. Cover. One! Two!!

TV: And to nobody’s surprise, a kickout by the monk.

MW: Ryan reaches for a tag but—

Nelson Muntz: Hey lady, we don't wear ties! Only sissies and spoffs wear ties!

TV: I sense an impending Springer like cat fight. Look at me, Misty, I’m finally on the edge of my seat.

MW: Nelson returns to the apron and we’ve got a tag. Irish whip by Ryan. Double bionic elbow. Muntz whips the Brother into the turnbuckles and follows in with a splash.

TV: Muntz isn’t afraid to incur the wrath of God. Good for him.

MW: Muntz tags Ryan back in.

TV: Good lord. We’ve seen more tags in this match than I’ve booked in my life for BOB.

MW: And that, fans, is a shoot. Forearm shots. Kick to the shins. Ryan with an Irish whip. Brother John with a leap frog and bounces off the ropes. Cross body block. One! Two!! Brother looking for a tag. Ryan grabs him. John hits a knee lift and there’s the tag.

TV: Is this show almost over? I want to get you drunk and take advantage of you.

MW: Ignoring you. Scoop slam to Ryan. Muntz runs right into a big boot.

TV: You know what they say about people with big boots, Misty.

MW: What?

TV: They wear big shoes.

MW: Pair of bodyslams. The John picks up both men. Double powerslam. The John covers Ryan. One! Two!! But Muntz breaks the pin.

TV: Damn, next time, I’m commentating on an old STWF show. There frigging shows may have sucked, but at least they were short.

MW: And there goes Muntz flying over the top rope. The John into the ropes. G.I. Ho with a trip.

TV: According to my rulebook, she’d have to take off her top for two minutes. Damn I need to referee a match. That idea is golden!

MW: You’re a mental Midas. The John fell, but onto Johnny-boy Ryan. The John picks him up.

TV: I had no idea he was playing for THAT team. I’ll make sure not to shower near the John. Though I guess that would be hard since most bathrooms have a shower right next to a John...

MW: Sidewalk slam. And Johnny-boy is pulled to his feet again. Inverted piledriver time. But no. Ryan is hitting The John’s knees and the big man may about to be chopped down. And there he goes.

TV: That boy needs to learn how to fall. By gawd!

MW: He...the hell? He has The John’s arms hooked. Pedigree!

TV: That’s not a Pedigree! It’s MY move, the Glass Ceiling! That bastard! I have to call Doc and get my time machine fixed pronto!

MW: Ryan struggling to his feet.

G.I. Ho: Hey, Ryan-o! Hit him with this!

TV: It’s chair time.

MW: He’s going to get it, despite the ref’s warning. Brother John with a missile dropkick out of nowhere, right to the side of the head. The John is slowly dragging himself over to Ryan and covers him with one arm. One! Two!! Thre—NO! Ryan kicked out.

TV: If only I had booked this match, we’d be watching something else right now.

MW: You do have a short attention span.

TV: Sorry, what did you just say?

MW: Nothing. *Sigh* The John picks up his opponent, who dives through the legs to make the tag, but the John stops him. He mimes pulling a chain. It’s the Flush-Away! He hit it.

TV: Was there a tag?

MW: I guess. I can’t really follow the editing in this place. It’s about as easy to follow as a regular BOB show. A trio of dropkicks. Muntz off the ropes. Lariat. The John won’t go down.

TV: Yeah, I hate it when the John won’t go down. Better get a plunger.

G.I. Ho: Just hold him there a minute!

TV: The Ho goes into her purse. Oh, fucking hell. It’s a packet of powder? Is this really a 1999 show and not from like, 1965 or something?

MW: That’s what the copyright said we x’ed out.

TV: G.I. Ho doing a demonstration of what coke dealers do when the feds are at the door. Powder down the John.

MW: (Sarcastic) Ha-ha. But she missed. Muntz has become the victim of the powder of doom. The John picks up Muntz, no. Low blow by Muntz. Small package. One! Two!! Three!!!

[Bell rings.]

TV: Just throw ya gunz in the air! And pump pump like you just don’t care!

MW: WHAT? The fans are booing. Trey is quoting obscure ‘90s rap songs.

TV: That’s what I’m listening to in these headphones at the moment. Did you think I was listening to the broadcast or something stupid like that?

MW: You are the consummate professional.

TV: Damn straight. Whatever that means.

MW: Brother John tried to make a save but Ryan whacked him with a chair to prevent the save.

MA: Ladies and Gentlemen, here's your winners... THE PLLLLLLLLLLAYGROUND POSSE!!!

TV: Alright, what’s up next? I feel like I’m in a MSTie, but without all the bad commentary.

MW: Weird. I don’t have that problem.

TV: Aww, you’re too hard on yourself, Misty. You’ll get more interesting as you get practice.

MW: Excuse me? I’m interesting!

TV: Not as interesting as me.

MW: Argh. Well. It’s time for a Post Office Brawl between Death "The Reaper" Jones and The Enterlectual Postal Worker.

TV: Is that Mr. Claven’s old gimmick?

MW: I think so. Did you think all these guys started their careers in BOB?

TV: I honestly didn’t give a shit, Misty. It’s sad when BOB is the highlight of your life.

MW: From what I understand, the rules to this one are simple enough for even Trey Vincent to understand. The first man to fill a mailing crate with LOL—

TV: BOB, Misty.

MW: Riiight. BOB promotional pamphlets, put the right amount of postage on it to get the parcel to Tahiti, and load it onto a delivery truck will win this contest. There are no pinfalls, there are no countouts. The only disqualifications are from attacking the official, or by defacing/destroying either of the stamps, crates, or...BOB pamphlets. Anything else goes as far as this match is concerned. For this special contest we have secured the post office here just outside of downtown Rintin, Ohio.

[An aerial shot of the massive post office is shown. It is clearly the largest building in town.]

TV: Hey, doesn’t the Kent State Krew live in that little run-down building over there?

MW: Which one?

TV: Why is that referee trying to tear his shirt off?

MW: All I know is I’m glad he’s not having any success.

[Death Jones walks up to him.]

Jones: Hey, have you seen my opponent? Or any of the stamps and pamphlets and stuff? This place is really big. I've been searching the top 4 floors for the past half hour.

Floyd: [looks at his program] The Enterlectual Postal Worker, right?

Jones: No, I'm Death "The Reaper" Jones.

TV: So the referee is Floyd then?

MW: That’s what I gather from the script.

Floyd: Yeah, whatever man. Says here Jones is 7 foot 7 and 573 pounds.

Jones: Well, I am, can't you see?

Floyd: Get real dude! I'm 5 foot 11 and you're like 6 inches taller than me, max! Besides, you don't look much over 250 to me man.

Jones: I'm Death "The Reaper" Jones dammit! Now tell me where the flyers and stamps are!

Floyd: Those? (He points over his shoulder to a crate.) Over there dude.

Jones: Victory!

TV: Yes!

MW: What?

TV: The match is over, right?

MW: Sorry, no.

TV: Blast!

MW: The Postal Worker dives on top of Jones from off from the crates. We’ve got a bell. Postal Worker unloading on Jones with lefts. Worker tosses Jones into the crates.

TV: Just like all mail man, tossing shit around without any concern if it breaks or not.

MW: Worker has a mail bag. He raps the strap around Jones neck.

TV: That could kill Death Jones. Who I understand is a distant relative of Special Delivery Jones, thus setting up the stupid premise for this match.

MW: If you say so. Death Jones has found some life. He falls backward, driving Postal Worker onto the hard concrete floor.

Floyd: Geez man, all this for a stupid little crate. Good thing I prepped it for shipping or these two might kill each other. I got bored waiting, so I prepared the thing for them. The pamphlets, the postage, even wrote the address down... (Points to his shirt.) Ahem, I am the rules here man. Besides, South Park is on in an hour, and these two yahoos took an hour and a half just to find each other. You think these guys could have finished this match by Thursday at this rate?

TV: Who is he talking to?

MW: Oh. He was supposed to be talking to us.

TV: I wouldn’t give him the honor of talking to me.

MW: Both losers crawling toward the crate.

TV: Losers?

MW: I just want to finish this show, Trey. I need to take a piss. Where is your luggage?

TV: Huh? Is Aunt Flow paying you a visit?

MW: No. This is a total other kind of inconvenience I’ll call, oh, Uncle Trey.

TV: Uncle Trey? That makes me sound like a guy who bangs underage girls. Which, granted, is hard to tell these days, but it’s not like I do it intentionally!

MW: That’s not even funny!

TV: But it’s outrageous. I’m the most outrageous sports entertainer alive, Misty.

MW: Jones is tugging the crate toward the loading dog. Postal Worker has the other end. It’s a tug of war.

Jones: It's mine! I got here first.

Worker: No way! I've been waiting for you to show up, it's mine!

Jones: Mine!

Worker: Tell you what. I'll flip you for it.

Jones : Ok.

MW: Jones looking around for a coin. Whoa! Postal Worker punches Jones and monkey flips him into a stack of cardboard boxes.

TV: I know what you’re saying. He knows how to fall. But how do you learn to fall into a stack of cardboard boxes?

[Cut to Commentator]

TC: Quit stealing my gimmick you son of a bitch!

[Back to the show.]


MW: Jones nails Worker with a cardboard box over the head!


MW: And again. Worker is stunned, but I think it's in disbelief. Those boxes can't cause a lot of damage. Jones throws down the box and picks up a steel chair. He swings, but Worker dropkicks the chair into Jones’ face!

TV: Bwahahaha! The chair just hit Postal Worker in the back of the head.

Floyd: (Looking at his watch.) Shit!

TV: I know how he feels. I’m missing some low-quality porn right now for this match.

MW: You’re more than welcome to leave. I’m sure the janitor would be as entertaining as you.

TV: Him? He can’t even speak English.

MW: So?

TV: You are a feisty one, Misty.

MW: Floyd the referee is dragging the crate over to the truck as both guys are still on the floor.

Floyd : Look, the crate is here, they've brawled, I wanna go watch South Park. First guy to get on the truck wins.

TV: I now see why they chose this episode for us. Any chance to advertise the other shows on the channel, eh?

MW: Yep. It’s all about the mighty dollar to the cheapskates at Comedy Central. And here come both guys. They’re heading for the truck.

TV: It’s the Semi-Conscious Sprint. Who will capture the worthless win?

MW: Postal Worker with a tackle, uh, chop block thingee. Postal Worker is gonna win it. But wait! Here comes Jones back from the dead. He dives onto Worker from behind and both men land inside the truck.

TV: The hell?

MW: Both guys think they’ve won. They’re raising their arms in victory. The ref seems confused.

Floyd: I didn't see who landed first! I don't know who won!

Jones: (To Postal Worker.) Tell you what, I'll flip you for it.

Worker: Okay.

MW: Worker reaches into his uniform for a coin. But Jones kicks him. Powerbomb through the crate! Postal Worker fell for his own trick this time!

Floyd: Hey! You can't do that! (He calls for the bell and picks up his Microphone). Your winner as a result of a disqualification, The Enterlectual Postal Worker!

TV: Would this show make more sense if we had dropped acid before we started watching?

MW: I’m beginning to wonder, Trey. I really am. But I do have one bit of good news.

TV: What’s that sweettits?

MW: It’s time for the main event.

TV: Ru. Ahh.

MW: So let’s get to it.

Bell: *BEEP*

MA: The following is a handicap match in which manager interference is legal! By the way, those of you in the first ten rows, you will get wet.

TV: Misty’s already wet. BWAHAHAHA! I kill me.

MA: *Ahem* Introducing first, At a combined weight of around 700 pounds, from Cummoniwannalayyou, Hawaii, G. I. Slow. From Sleepy Willows, California, Sergeant Slumber. Together they are THE REAL AMERICAN ZEROES!!!

[The Zeroes walk to the ring to the tune of the USMC Hymn. Slow is carrying his new manager, Big Mac, who is, well, a Big Mac. As in two all beef patties, special sauce, lettuce, cheese. pickles, and onions on a sesame seed bun.]

TV: Listen to the idiot marks singing.

Fans (Singing): From the walls of West Columbia,
To the floors of Italy.
We will ride on funky mammals,
In Iraq and Sicily.
If the Army or the Navy,
Ever look at magazines,
They'll see that the rats in Bangladesh,
Have been eating too many beans!

MW: I’ve heard worse. Jojo for one.

TV: Jojo? Yo, Misty, you gotta stop doing pop-culture references. Especially when Jojo won’t even be around in a year or two. God, you’re sucking the LIFE out of this show! And speaking of sucking.

MW: For the last time, I’m not getting under the announce table.

MA: And their opponent, from Van Nuys, California, and accompanied to the ring by a huge aquatic pachyderm, weighing 235 pounds, VAN HALENT!!!

["Cum On Feel the Noize" by Quiet Riot blasts over the PA in the Memorial Dome, and out walks Van Halent. He kisses a ton of girls...alright, three.]

TV: Are you sure Van Halent isn’t from the mean streets of Panama?

MW: I’m pretty sure it’s Van Nuys, Trey.

TV: I heard Van Halent used to run with the devil.

MW: ... OK, took me a second. Now, stop. Please.

TV: You are a pretty woman, Misty.

MW: Anyway. There is a black plexiglass box hanging over the ring.

TV: Heh, you said BOX.

Bell: **HONK**

MW: We’re off and running and the Zeroes are double-teaming Van Halent.

TV: I bet he’s wondering, where have all the good times gone?

MW: Slumber holds Halent’s legs. And Here comes G.I. Slow with a splash. We got a cover. One. Two. But Van Halent kicks out.

TV: What an eruption from the crowd.

MW: Will you stop with the songs already?

TV: Baby, you’re no good, Misty.

MW: Ahh! Stop. G. I. Ho is in the ring to turn this into a three-on-one match. Ho with an eye gouge. Halent is whipped into the ropes. Big back body drop by Slow into a neckbreaker by Slumb—no! Van Halent rolled through and hit Slumber with a Stunner.

TV: Halent is on fire!

MW: Halent going after Slow. A left hook. Another. Sleeper hold.

TV: Halent hoping to make Slow a little dreamer.

MW: A ‘little’ dreamer? Slow would be a big dreamer, Trey.

TV: Fair enough. I haven’t seen a sleeper hold this bad since 1984.

MW: Ugh. Are you almost done going through their discography yet?

TV: I haven’t even hit the Sammy years yet. Whoa! G.I. Ho lifts up her shirt! Van Halent can’t resist that beautiful girl.

MW: She’s got drop dead legs, huh, Trey?

TV: Who’s looking at her legs? I’m looking at her knockers.

MW: Halent lets go of the sleeper and tosses Slow into the Ho! Now Slow is slapped into a headlock. And now Slumber is trapped.

Bap bap bappity bap

MW: He’s playing their heads like bongos.

TV: I’m still looking at Ho’s bongos.

MW: Slumber sent into the ropes. Decibilizer by Van Halent. Cover. One. Two. Ho makes the save.

TV: I’d love to dance the night away with her.

MW: Slow chops Halent’s back. He picks him up. Powerbomb to the floor through a table!

Crowd: ECW! ECW! ECW!

TV: Happy trails, Halent. You’re allll done.

MW: Van Halent rolls under the ring. His head must be going round and round, huh, Trey?

TV: I guess.

MW: The Zeroes are eating a salami in the ring. Oh, man. I might as well have just handed Trey a shotgun and pointed him in the direction of a fish barrel.

TV: Speaking of....*Sniff sniff* Say, Misty, I don’t want to be rude, but, uh. Do you smell like fish?

MW: Excuse me?


TV: Good night, Nurse Heidi! Plankton, minnows and a very large squid just fell ouot of that plexiglass cage dealie.

MW: Oh, the hu-manatee!


MW: Hey! You can’t hit women.

TV: Stop punning!

MW: Van Halent has a remote control.

TV: Oh, is that what the joke was? *Pfffft* Some scrub named Hugh Manatee is running to the ring. I apologize, Misty.

MW: Good.


MW: That’s for hitting me.

TV: Fair enough.

MW: Slow is using the squid to fend off Hugh. And now Ranger Lois is making her presence known.

TV: This is a fustercluck of EPIC proportions!

MW: She’s got a tranquilizer gun. She aims toward G.I. Slow.

TV: I’m lost. Is that a man or a manatee?

MW: Damned if I know.


TV: Did we just enter a "Batman" episode?

MW: Lois hit Manatee. Van Halent rushes in to check on Hugh.

TV: Well, it’s no worse than Hugh G. Rection. Or Hugh Johnson.

MW: Slow, Slumber and Ho are taking the advantage here on Halent. Ranger Lois is dragging Hugh Manatee away. What the FUCK? Now three guys in suits and masks are running toward the ring.

TV: One of those dudes is about seven-feet tall. And the freak is wearing a pink tie.

Bell: **TWEET**

MA: The winner of this match, as a result of a disqualification, VAN HALENT!

MW: Aww, what a shame. Outside interference has ended this main event early. Remember, only managers were allowed to interfere. So the DQ, unlike the rest of the events in the main event, makes sense.

TV: I’m surprised Slow hasn’t eaten his manager yet, that fat fuck.

G.I. Ho: The time has come to make our sacrifice... to the Big Y!

TV: Uh oh. Batten down the hatches. Today’s crucifixion is brought to you by the letter Y.

MW: The script tells me those are members of the Corporate Express Club. Van Halent has been spray painted red and now he’s being tied to the Y.

TV: Why?

MW: Why a y?

TV: Yeah.

MW: No idea. It’s no worse than crucifying somebody on a lowercase T though.

TV: And here come more losers!

MW: It’s Bubbolicious Bob, and the rest of his Express Club! We've got an all-out brawl going on in the ring!

TV: When it rains confusion, it pours.

MW: Bob clotheslines Slumber over the top rope. And the Corporate Express Club is getting out of dodge. Bob takes Van Halent off the Y.

TV: Bob hasn’t forsaken Van Halent. Though why has BOB forsaken us, Misty?

MW: Van Halent is gonna sign some autographs, so I guess this one’s over—

G.I. Ho: OK..Enough is enough..It's time for the smackdown to be layed....Bubbolicious .....

G.I. Slow: MMMMMmmmmbubbolicious...Yummy gum!!!

G.I. Ho: Bob.....Van Halent....June 14th is the date....You Two vs My Zeroes!

TV: Remind me to hide in my penthouse that day.

MW: Don’t worry, Trey. This is still 1999.

TV: No, it’s 2004. Are you a natural blonde or something? You must be dying your hair brunette.


[He takes 2 bottles of NyQuil and guzzles them. ]

TV: BWAHAHAHA! Now THAT’s funny! I like that! He’ll be comatose in about one minute, if not sooner.

MW: That’s it! Go to sleep! And don’t forget Send Us Money: Biggest Show Of The Century. Whenever it is!

TV: Peace out bitches!

[Fade to black.]

©2004 BOB Wrestling. We don’t make you LOL, we make you ROTMFFLYMFAOYFCS!


© BOB Wrestling!

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