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Classix Logo

Stereotyped, Retarded and, uh, Borrowed. Yeah, borrowed.

[Fade in on a large BOB logo. Panning back, Styles and The Commentator come into view.]

Styles: Hello everyone and welcome to BOB Classix Number 9! I’m Mikey Styles. And we are coming to you live from the ILostMyMoneyOnDotComs Dot-Com Arena in downtown Cloudydale and most definitely NOT in my basement.

The Commentator: And Styles, what a hellacious ride we’re gonna take our seven viewers on this morning. So buckle yourselves in and get yourself a vomit bag. This one’s gonna be a bumpy ride.

[We cut to the ring.]

Masked Announcer: How am I here? Isn’t this an STWF show we’re trying to pass off as our own?

Styles: It’s called creative editing.

TC: Something we just failed big time at. *Sigh*

MA: What ever. This contest is scheduled for one fall. Currently in the ring to my right, the man they call FOUR.

[Four steps onto a turnbuckle and raises four fingers. A piece of popcorn his him in the forehead.]

TC: I hear Four and Syxx used to be tight.

Styles: What happened with them?

TC: Five came between them.

[And there’s a collective groan from all our readers. Thank you.]

MA: That was atrocious. Mentioning Syxx on a BOB show like that. How low must we sink.

TC: Just announce the match, Masked Announcer.

MA: Fine. And his opponent, from Hollywood, California, weighing in at 232 pounds, quite possibly the biggest head in sports entertainment today, Tentin Quarentino!

["Stuck in the Middle with You" by Stealers Wheel plays over the PA. Tentin emerges, notable with his black shades and fake Baretta. He swaggers to the ring like he was the shit or something. Minimal crowd pop. The bell rings.]

Styles: Four gets the upper hand early with some EXTREMELY vicious right hands. OH my GOD.

TC: He’s using those educated knuckles. But if he isn’t careful, he’s gonna break his hand on Tentin’s huge head.

Styles: Might want to be careful. I hear Trey Vincent’s close to making him Executive Producer of BOB programming.

TC: Like I give a rat’s ass. I’m commentating on shows from five years ago. Can my life get any worse?

Styles: Vincent could kidnap you, dress you up as a hooker and lock you in a room with Albert DeSalvo.

TC: Fair enough.

Styles: Just keeping perspective. Tentin retaliates with some elbows. And there’s a SNAPmare.

TC: Hope Tentin won’t be cutting off anyone’s ear in this match or setting anybody on fire.

Styles: Then he’d have to walk through hellfire and brimstone or something.

TC: Oh my god. You did NOT just go there...

Styles: I went there. Tentin with a resthold. But Four counters with his own resthold. The camerawork sucks here, TC. I can’t tell what that is.

TC: *Snort* Why don’t you just look at the ring. It’s so close.

Styles: It is no—ohhhh, riiiiight. Uh...PLANCHA!

TC: Planchas are not restholds.


TC: Where?

Styles: Not a person, the hold. Where did you go to commentating school anyway?

TC: Your mama’s house.

Styles: Why I oughta...

TC: We’ve got action in the ring. Tentin Quarentino is now pounding away on Four using his gigantic skull as a weapon. That educated noggin is doing some big time damage on Four.

Styles: Four might not even be able to count to four with all the brain damage that massive head could do. Tentin heads to the top rope. DIVING HEADBUTT CONNECTS! OH MY GOD!

TC: Tentin may have just wrapped this one up. He sure gave him some head there.

Styles: Who are you trying to be, Scotty Whatbody?

TC: I’m edgy, Styles. Really.

Styles: Why don’t you go flash your nipple for the viewers.

TC: Gladly. Can we get a closeup?

Styles: Please! Tentin doesn’t even bother trying to hit his finisher, the Reservoir Dog, instead going for the cover! One! Two! Three! Four is defeated.

MA: Here is your winner, Tentin Quarentino!

Styles: He’s grabbing a microphone. TC, prepare to see edgy.

TC: Kiss a government mule’s ass, Styles.

TQ: Alright, I just gotta say, like, you oughta pronounce my name in all-caps from now on, cause I'm like the fuckin' man, okay? I can get all my fuckin' friends to, like, come in and fuck you up bad, okay? And I'll get a film crew too cause it sounds like a great premise for a movie. Gives me a chance to show the world that when it comes to acting, I'm the shit!

TC: Ah, that’s why it stinks in here.

TQ: I just need that breakout picture...


Styles: Crowd isn’t that wild about Tentin. So hopefully he will indeed stay behind the cameras.

TC: Yeah, his films are violent and horrifying enough without having to look at his big head.

Hurry fans, time is running out. That’s right, there are only about four weeks until March Mayhem airs live on pay-per-view! Hurry and order now before we release the show on DVD at half-price in May! Why wait and get it cheaper when you can buy it NOW and see it SOON and talk about it with all your friends at the water coolers or whatever other contraption you people gather round these days.

March Mayhem. A shot at glory. A chance to fight for the ONLY WORLD TITLE THAT MATTERS. Plus, a hastily put together undercard match of some sort for the company’s most prestigious title!

March Mayhem 2004! April Something-Or-Other Live on Pay-Per-View! We need to pay off our credit card bills! Order now!

Styles: And we’re back.

MA: Up next, Brawlers On a Budget and NOT the STWF, is not-quite-proud to present. Mirage versus Invisblo – wrestling as performance art.

["Invisible Touch" by Genesis plays. Mirage walks to the ring in a black Speedo and does an Elvis point to an empty space behind him. He then enters the ring and takes off a cloak that isn't there, handing it to a ring official that also isn't there. He slaps his shoulders and gets ready for the match, whatever it might be. The bell rings.]

TC: Are we actually going through with this? Mirage is fighting someone who may or may not even be there, all the while having hallucinations that someone really is there. I don't know if that's a blessing or a curse. Maybe the two will coincide and he'll have a victory.

Styles: If he did, how would we know? Mirage locks up. He puts a waistlock on whatever might be there. He tries for a German suplex but receives an elbow in the head, nice reversal by Invisiblo.

TC: Assuming it was him. This is heinous.

Styles: What, the match?

TC: No, the fact that we’re blatantly ripping off the commentary for this match.

Styles: Oh. Yeah. *Ahem* Mirage getting set up for the ride, he's in the corner, and OH MY GOD! There's what we can only guess was a vicious kick to the head.

TC: Those educated invisible feet are quicker than Styles in bed!

Styles: Mirage is down and he turns over, or is turned over. The leg is hooked: Mirage gets up, he's chopping away, and whoa! He just got a dropkick from behind, he didn't see that coming at all! Mirage now complaining to the ref, who shrugs as he sips his coffee.

TC: You can just see that coffee being used offensively, can't you?

Styles: Why, no, TC, how would that be accomplished? Please explain.

TC: Never mind. It's very 1998.

Styles: Well, that's before my time. I’ve only been commentating since 2002.

TC: Obviously...

Styles: Hey, I graduated before you, pal. Mirage with a Russian leg sweep. He's now leaning over the apron, presumably for some guidance from the Space Coyote.

TC: Space Coyote, one of the greatest managers of all time.

Styles: Really?

TC: Sure. Cheap to employ. Easy to clean up after. Doesn’t talk back. He’s perfect.

Styles: Charismatic managers are at an all-time low that's for sure. Someone just threw a chair at Mirage. OH MY GOD! MIRAGE on the receiving end of an INVISIBLONATOR! The crowd's going wild! OH MY GOD!

TC: Since when does Invisiblo have a signature maneuver? He might not even exist!

Styles: Don't ruin my fun, it's just performance art.

[Cut to audience. Some pale members in black berets and small goatees are snapping their fingers in applause and discussing the deeper meanings of the match over their espressos.]

TC: Mirage, it seems, has no hope left. He's going to the top rope in a last-ditch effort.

Styles: Wait, he may be going for it. YES! ONE-AND-A-HALF-STAR FROG SPLASH! He hooks the leg of Invisiblo: 1...2...3! Great match!

MA: Here is your winner...MIRAGE!

TC: Go to commercial. After that I think we all need a break.

[Cut to an ordinary kitchen. A woman, dressed in a bath robe, is sitting at a table, sipping from a cup of coffee and reading the morning paper. Slowly, from behind, the kitchen window opens. In walks a man dressed in all black, including a black ski mask. He pulls out a bottle of ether and a rag and slowly creeps closer to the woman.]

Trey Vincent: Hey, buddy!

Guy In Ski Mask: What the? Where did you come from?

Trey Vincent: Say, why would you want to Chloroform that girl, kidnap her and rape her when you could just CHLOROFORM YOUR TV!

Guy In Ski Mask: Uh...huh?

Trey Vincent: *Hearty laugh* That’s right. CHLOROFORM YOUR TV! Every Sunday Morning when we air one! Usually once a month. Come on, it’s fun!

[Trey grabs the rag and the ether and runs into the living room as the woman continues to read her paper, oblivious to the stupidity going on behind her. The man in the ski mask scratches his head, shrugs and crawls back out the window.]

Voice Over: Brawlers On a Budget! Sunday Morning Chloroform! Only on Comedy Central at 4 a.m. every week! Because we know comedy!

Styles: Alright. Moving right along, it’s now time for some March MOOdness! It’s the Mad Cow!


TC: He’s getting a heavy dose of heat from the crowd tonight.

Styles: They’re not booing, TC. They’re mooing. Mad Cow is a huge fan favorite.

TC: Funny, I’ve never seen him wrestle in BOB before. How do these "BOB" fans know of him?

Styles: It looks like Mad Cow will be facing a challenge tonight from one of BOB’s biggest potheads.

TC: douja?

Styles: No.

TC: Sleazy-C?

Styles: No.

TC: Maui Wauie?

Styles: No.

TC: Nurse Heidi?

Styles: No...Heidi’s a pot head?

TC: Sure, why not?

Styles: I was actually referring to slater.

TC: Slater? That dude from "Saved By The Bell"? Well I’ll be damned. Steroids, I could see, but pot? Man. Somebody better tell Zack and Kelly about this!

Styles: No, it’s not that slater. Cow facing a big challenge here.

[Bell rings as slater gets in the ring.]

Styles: OH my GOD. What a start for slater as he knocks Mad Cow off the top turnbuckle! slater locks in an armbar on Mad Cow, dragging the big bovine down to his knees.

TC: I don’t think anybody wants to be drinking the Mad Cow’s milk. Just trust me on that one, fans.

Styles: slater lets go and drops an elbow on the Cow’s head.

TC: It’s not the size of the fight in the dog, it’s the amount of marijuana in the system that will determine the outcome of this match.

Styles: Very true in this case. I think. But Mad Cow fighting back.

TC: What’s Mad Cow’s finisher? Anthrax?

Styles: It very well could be. I haven’t looked too far ahead in the script.

TC: You really should start coming to rehearsal. Xamfir does a great impersonation of you.

Styles: He does?

TC: Yeah. He’s all OH MY GOD! And EXTREME! And PLANCHA!


TC: Belly to udder suplex, Styles.

Styles: Cover! One, two, and slater kicks out.

TC: He must think he’s stoned, fighting a cow and all...

Styles: Life is just one big drug-induced haze for slater. Both men up and exchanging punches. But slater takes control and now the Cow is begging off into the corner.

slater: (To crowd) You want to see the Mad Cow lactate?

TC: What in the blue hell does THAT mean?

Styles: I don’t even want to know. And neither does the crowd.

TC: What the hell is that? It looks like a propeller behind the ring.

Styles: I think Mittens is hiding under the ring, hard as that is to believe. But there’s no trap door in the ring. Mad Cow sees him and tries to say something, but slater is totally oblivious. The ref is trying to get slater off the ropes. And here comes Mittens! He grabs slater by the throat. CHOKESLAM—


Styles: Mittens is making an escape as Mad Cow takes advantage. One. Two. Three. Mad Cow gets the win!

TC: Why did he interfere?

Styles: Oh, Mittens is a heel.

TC: But isn’t Mad Cow a face?

Styles: I didn’t book it, I just call it, TC.

TC: Badly, at that.

MA: And here is your winner by Pinfall, THE MAD COW!

[Fade in on a drive-thru window. Smoke is billowing out through the open windows.]

Dude 1: Dude, it’s almost time for Sunday Morning Chloroform!

Dude 2: Dude, I know. I really needed this taco supreme though.

Dude 1: Hurry up dude. *Cough cough*

Dude 2: Dude? Wait. *Coughcough* What time is it?

Dude 1: It’s 3:55 a.m. *Cough*

Dude 2: Is that why the restaurant is all dark? Dude, I think they’re closed? I must be hearing voices.

Dude 1: Let’s hurry up and get home to see BOB, dude!

Dude 2: Dude!

[Slowly, a small, innocent girl wearing a helmet rides by on a bicycle in front of their car.]

Dude 2: Dude, look out!


[The tires squeal as the car runs over the girl and her bike and peels off down the road.]

Announcer: BOB. Don’t let anything stop you from watching our shows!

DISCLAIMER: No innocent children were harmed in the making of this promo. The little girl was an arsonist, a drug addict and possibly the Antichrist. Thank you.

Styles: Oh my god! Who wrote that ad?

TC: Bwahahaha. Great stuff. That’s just like that marijuana ad!

Styles: That was utterly disturbing. But a great transition into our next match.

TC: It is?

Styles: Sure.

MA: And now, fresh from his recent stint with Zack's No Talent Soldiers, here comes the recently de-institutionalized BILL!

[Collective groan from the crowd.]


MA: And taking him on here, THIS MORNING, on a SUNDAY, in this very ring, is the Violent Pacifist!

["Closer" by Nine Inch Nails belts out the speakers, causing several people in the audience severe pain. The native of Seattle, Washington comes out of the corridor to a round of boos, VP smiles broadly, it seems he's a heel at last.]

TC: BILL is giving up almost a hundred pounds here.

Styles: We could be in for a big upset here tonight, fans. Assuming, of course, that God is in one of his humorous sorts of moods.

TC: BILL is absolutely leveled by a big forearm smash by VP. He drops an elbow on BILL’s face. And now he kicks him in the ribs. He’s taking him down into the basement here, folks. Telling him to take it like a man. To open up his purdy little mouth and—

Styles: OH MY GOD. BILL is up and kicks VP in the midsection. BILL bounces off the ropes, trying to catch VP’s neck with that recently broken arm of his. But VP grabs the broken arm and twists it. BILL screams in pain.

TC: And now VP working on that arm like BILL is a prostitute and VP is a Mexican pimp.

Styles: Umm...

TC: The Violent Pacifist's violent tendencies are really coming out these days and BILL is paying the price.

Styles: I’m guessing BILL got his name from all those hospital bills he gets.

TC: Could be.

Styles: VP grabs BILL and hits an arm jam, dropping him to the mat. And VP keeping up the attacks, brings him over to the turnbuckle and kicks him in the stomach a couple of times.


Styles: ALL RIGHT ALREADY! VP hit his finisher. Once, for the record. The piledriver connected. And there’s the count. One. Two. Three!

MA: The winner of the match, Violent Pacifist. And most definitely, not, BILL.

TC: As if there was any doubt about the outcome of this one. But VP isn’t done yet beating up on BILL. The referee tries to get in-between them. But VP punches him in the head. GOD DAMN YOU TO HELL YOU SONOFABITCH!

Styles: Way to put over VP.

TC: What? No, I was talking to you, Styles. You just spilled your water all over my pants.


TC: ...

Styles: ...


Styles: I said. Who will save BILL from this beating?

[Grieg's "In the Hall of the Mountain King plays.]

Styles: OH MY GOD! It’s Big Bo! BOHEMOTH is out! He hits the ring. He grabs the ringsteps and bounces them off Violent Pacfist’s skull! OH MY GOD! VP is down. Bo climbs up the ropes.

TC: The propellor is back! It’s Mittens by gawd!

Styles: Mittens grabs Bo’s legs and Bo falls headfirst to the mat, knocking himself silly. Mittens grabs Bo’s legs and gives him a taste of the Glove!

TC: VP is back up and he pounds on Bo now too. BILL is up!



Styles: And BILL goes back down. Mittens lets go of Bo’s leg and VP lays the chair over Big Bo’s leg. The Gloved Giggler steps back and, well, giggles. It looks like Bo’s going to need some extra big crutches in a minute!

["Intergalactic" plays, and the crowd goes completely nuts.]

TC: SMP! SMP! SMP is here!

Styles: SMP grabs VP and Mittens and it’s a meeting of the minds! Mitttens and VP head for lower ground, the floor. They’re in full retreat. Bohemoth grabs a chair and throws it at VP.

TC: He ain’t gonna cause no brain damage where that chair hit him.

Styles: No siree. But now SMP and Bo are staring at each other. SMP extends his hand to Bohemoth.

TC: Careful, Doc, he might eat it!

Styles: Will you stop? Bo takes the hand and shakes it. Lariat by Bo!

TC: BY GAWD, what a swerve!

Styles: How could he? SMP just saved him?

TC: That’s crazy, huh?

Styles: Bohemoth leaves the ring, leaving Plants cursing in the ring. With BILL.

TC: They just don’t like each other Styles, OK? Let’s just leave it at that.

Styles: This one is going to get...EXTREME!

Wrestling league for sale. High mileage. Poorly maintained. Very dirty. Runs bad. Fixer upper. Contact BigBOSS. $32 or B/O.

MA: The following contest is scheduled for one fall with a 10-minute time limit. Introducing first, already in the ring from the streets of Cloudydale, Connecticut!

Crowd: Yay.

MA: "Ratgirl" Diane Kronson.

TC: Ah, she’s a Cloudydale hooker, huh?

Styles: I don’t recognize her...I mean...yeah. She must be. *Ahem*

["Heigh Ho, Heigh Ho" starts to play over the speakers.]

MA: And now, led to the ring by the lovely Snow White, THE DWARF!!!!!!

[Bell rings.]

Styles: And here we go. Kronson grabs the Dwarf and tosses him into the turnbuckles. She gets him and tosses him into the other side of the turnbuckles. It’s gonna take a really big effort from the Dwarf to overcome these odds.

TC: Too bad the Dwarf is so little then. He may be forty-five pounds of pure guts, but those guts are gonna get the crap kicked out of them completely in this one.

Styles: Kronson hits a leg drop.

TC: That must feel like a tree falling on that little bastard.

Styles: One. Two. Kickout.

TC: She came up a little ‘short’ on that pin.

Styles: Yes indeed. She picks him up. Gorilla press slam! EXTREME!

TC: And now she tosses him out of the ring. I bet he looks like an ant to her from that position.

Styles: She’s going out after him. Wait a second. Somebody is heading into the ring.

TC: Some goofball fan. I hope security whoops his ass!

Goofball Fan: He’s COMING!!!

Styles: Who?

Goofball: I don't know, HE's coming.

(Goofball fan leaves)

Styles: I don’t get it.

TC: Neither do I.

Everyone else: NEITHER DO WE!

Styles: With the goofball fan conveniently out of the ring now, Kronson rolls the Dwarf back inside. Running splash off the ropes! COVER! One. Two. Noooo.

TC: Kronson whips the Dwarf into the corner and follows in with an avalanche. He is a broken, twisted little man.

Styles: The Dwarf is down, but the Ratgirl climbs the turnbuckles. Here comes the Kabash! She leaps!

Styles + TC: OH MY GOD!

Styles: SHE JUST WENT THROUGH THE RING! The ring is DESTROYED! And she isn’t moving!

[The bell sounds.]

Styles: What happened? Did she get counted out?

TC: Yeah, or maybe counted ‘under’.

MA: No, it was a time limit draw.

Styles: That was ten minutes?

MA: Sure. Time flies when you’re having, uh...hmm...never mind.

Styles: Well, next, we’re going to be heading over to a local McDonald’s jungle gym for our next match.

TC: A jungle gym? Ohhhkay. This should be a whopper of a mistake.

Styles: Burger King has the whoppers.

TC: What are you, knowledge guy?

Styles: Well, yeah. Anyhow. Fly Girl and her manager Pigeon Foot are about to wage war for a PigPen collector’s card from the Charlie Brown series. The first person to slide down the Mayor McCheese slide wins the match and the card. They’re both in position in the restroom. And there’s the bell.

TC: And they’re off. It looks like Fly Girl has the upper hand as she's got a lot more speed than Pigeon Foot. Man, this is a travesty to the word 'running.' They need somebody to show them how to run.

Styles: Oh my God! A Big Mac under the foot of Fly Girl slows her down. Nice throw by Pigeon.

TC: Pigeon Foot has caught up and passed Fly Girl now, and she's entered the Playground room.

Styles: Fly Girl busts her in the head with a pickle! What an EXTREME PICKLE SHOT. And I can’t believe I just said that.

TC: Neither can I. But Pigeon foot is down. Fly Girl is making a run for...THE ROCKING HORSE! She's going buck wild on that horse! Is retarded a strong enough word for this match?

Styles: Could always say EXTREMELY retarded. That’s a bit stronger. Classix is going down the crapper faster than a meal from McDonald’s.

TC: Nice mental picture, Styles.

Styles: Onto the gym. Pigeon is climbing the stairs into the jungle gym. Fly Girl sees this and is in hot pursuit. She's taking the opposite route....the pole! She's climbing up that metal pole to get into the jungle gym. Once inside, it's hard to find the Mayor McCheese slide. They're both in there, and they're looking all around. They are running through the gym.

TC: Now they've run into each other at the top of a slide! They are fighting as they roll down the slide! They both rolled down at the same time and tumble into the ball pit!

Styles: I understand that wasn’t the Mayor McCheese slide. Pigeon Foot dunks Fly Girl in the balls.

TC: And Fly Girl is gagging on the balls.

Styles: And I’m leaving THAT LINE alone.

TC: Pigeon Foot whips balls at her, hitting her across the nose. I bet she hasn’t seen this many balls hitting her face since—

Styles: Needless to say, Fly Girl is in trouble. Pigeon leaves her for DEAD as she climbs the ladder back into the gym. Fly Girl wants to replace the taste of balls on her lips with the taste of revenge.

TC: It’s not about that PigPen card anymore. It’s personal. She’s out for blood.

Styles: The pursuit is back on. Fly Girl on the trail of Pigeon Foot. They go around the big steering wheel and over to the bench on the side...

Fly Girl: Where'd she go?

Styles: It seems that Pigeon Foot has lost Fly Girl! Fly Girl is running trying to find Pigeon. Pigeon is running to avoid Fly Girl.


TC: They just met up in the middle of the suspension bridge! FLy Girl is up, but Pigeon is in bad shape. Fly Girl powerbombs Pigeon off of the suspension bridge to the floor! By gawd the carnage! And now she's spotted Mayor McCheese!!!

Styles: Fly Girl slides down out of his mouth and we’ve got a winner.

[Bell rings.]

Styles: Fly Girl gets the PigPen card and she’s standing over Pigeon Foot now. OH MY GOD! She’s tearing up the card! I don’t believe it!

TC: She walked through hellfire and Keystone, and now she doesn’t even want the card? Damn that Jezebel to HELL!

Fly Girl: I didn't want that card anyway.

TC: What a shock. Fans, never in my two years in this business have I seen such a shocking end to a match.

Styles: Well, let’s see if we can top it with this next one. It’s time for a Rebel Without A Cause Golf Card Chicky Run of Death Match between CarpetBurn and Crash Test Charlie.

TC: So both of these guys will be driving those carts towards the edge of a cliff and whoever jumps out first loses?

Styles: That’s what I understand.

TC: What an auspicious way to continue Classix this morning, Styles.

Styles: Auspicious. And extreme.

TC: This is gonna be a wild golf cart of a ride. Those things can reach high speeds of about 10 miles per hour fans. Did I say 10? I meant 40, fans!

Styles: Both competitors are revving their engines, about ready to get this thing started. And there is Smack Daddy, dressed up in "Rebel Without A Cause" style with a poodle skirt and ribbon in the hair. She’s holding up her handkerchief.

TC: Once that hanky hits the ground, it’s ON!







TC: By gawd, the anticipation could be cut with a sharp object on that rocky cliff!

Styles: The hanky has been dropped. And they’re off. They’re going about 40 miles an hour toward that cliff. Charlie in the lead.

TC: If he doesn’t keep up, CarpetBurn could be in some trouble. If he isn’t going top speed, the race will be suspended for five minutes and the slow-poke will get the Rodney King treatment.

Styles: Interesting rules. But no worries, as CarpetBurn catches up. They’re halfway to the edge.

[Cut to Seth Harker.]

SH: What?

[Back to the race.]

TC: And they’re driving. And they’re driving. I suddenly realize there will never be an e-NASCAR federation.

Styles: That would be pretty damn stupid. E-NASCAR.

[Both men laugh at the stupidity of people building a hobby around a sport based over the Internet. Cut back to Seth Harker.]

SH: No, really, what?

[Back to the race.]

TC: The edge is getting closer and closer.

[Cut to Seth at the concession stand, a cold beer in hand.]

Seth: look, leave me alone!

[Back to the race of death.]

Styles: There’s so much dust, it’s hard to see what’s going on now.

TC: Where is Dustbuster Boy when you need him.

[Cut to Seth Harker. His fist moves toward the camera in super slow-motion. Static. Back to the race.]

Styles: I think I just saw a body go flying from one of the carts. Crash Test Charlie has leaped to safety. But CarpetBurn appears to be caught in his golf cart! It’s a runaway golf cart!

TC: It just went over the edge! BY GAWD THEY KILLED HIM! FANS, HOW DO YOU LEARN TO FALL OFF A CLIFF INTO A ROCKY CHASM AND THEN SURVIVE A FIERY EXPLOSION? I’LL TELL YA... YOU DON’T! CarpetBurn is being burned alive! The carnage, the carnage!

Styles: Man, who would’ve thought tragedy could happen at a wrestling event. This is no doubt a sad day for all of us. Except for Charlie, who gets a big win! Moving right along!

[Cut to Kamikazie Ken, Stunt Driver]

KK: Owwww...

["Reading Rainbow" plays over the speakers. The fans start waving their arms back and forth in the air, almost as if they just don't care.]

Styles: I rather doubt they do.

TC: Say what?

Styles: Care.

TC: What?

Styles: Never mind.

MA: Introducing first...being led to the ring by Levar Burton, Man With Wheelbarrow and Dead Man Not the hell do I pronounce this name? It’s... aixelsyD. Man. I’m glad I have cut and paste.

Styles: These guys are quite popular.

TC: If you say so. Say, you think any of the fans noticed that this building looks totally different from the first half of the show?

Styles: Oh my god, will you stop talking please? Quit these vague jokes already.

TC: Fine. Yes fans, before there was the Dyslexic Avenger, there was aixelsyD.

["One" by Metallica bangs through the arena, as the crowd goes bananas.]

TC: I could go for a banana right about now. Where’s your Slayer at?

Styles: You son of a bitch!

MA: And his opponent. Stubb Rock!

Styles: Stubb Rock, the man, the myth, the vegetable. No arms. No legs. But does that stop him from coming out here and putting his body and soul on the line?

TC: Yep. He just can’t put his mind on the line at this point.

[Event staff begins wheeling Stubbs down to the ring. He puts him up into the ring, and the crowd goes insane.]

TC: Rock is covered in red, white, and blue body paint. He's a patriotic little bastard, huh?

Styles: He sure is, TC. As you can see, the crew has put a piece of plywood over the big hole that was made earlier in the night. And it looks like Stubbs has some sort of new contraption on the back of his wheelchair. What is that.

[Bell rings.]

TC: By gawd, it’s a giant bell on the back of his chair!

Styles: ... No, that was the ring bell, genius.

TC: Oh. Well, aixelsyD is ready. Look at him.

Styles: Stubby has sparks coming from the back of his chair? What the? OH MY GOD! Those are rocket engines on the back of his chair! The brake is released and he speeds toward aixelsyD! He hits the plywood in the ring, and the FALL OUT OF THE WHEELCHAIR SPLASH! OH MY GOD!


Styles: HE DID IT! I don’t believe it! What an amazing ending to an amazing night of stupidity!

[Cut back to the "announce position." Styles frantically is shutting off a VCR and television.]

TC: It’s amazing how much crap we have in our archives, Styles.

Styles: Well, for The Commentator, I’m Mikey Styles saying...good morning!

© 2004 BOB Wrestling. If you’re gonna pull a show out of your ass, stand up.


© BOB Wrestling!

Brawlers On a Budget is an online fantasy parody wrestling sports entertainment federation (or e-fed) designed to be somewhat funny.

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