Archive for March, 2000

HATE is Enough

March 31st, 2000
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(We see Bobo Fiendish going over the ‘tentative’ card, and he seems somewhat bemused by it… He twirls the Infamous Sock-o’-Swag as he considers the card, and then brings it down sharply with a thunderous slam. He leaps to his feet as he starts twirling the sock afresh…)

Bobo Fiendish: Hello, my intended…

Well, well, well… Seems I’m to be part of an eight man scramble… This pleases me. As I proved at Full Court Press, no matter HOW piteous my ersatz comrades, the Angel of Death MOST EXALTED shall prove more than mighty enough to dispatch these that foolishly consider themselves worthy of being in the same VENUE as such as I. First, let us consider what the Boss has saddled me with THIS time…

Homicidal Hank. Ah, a crazy… With a murder bent, as well, if his name is any indication. Fine. It’s nice to see that I can help such a lout understand how a Psycho-Killer is SUPPOSED to act, and send him packed with knowledge back to whatever back-alley indy fed he sneaked out of to learn at the feet of the Man, the Myth, the MONSTER that is Bobo Quite Fiendish. This pleases me. I’m always happy to help the lesser creatures improve themselves… Heh.

The Amazin’ Inbreds. ……Must…. Not… Laugh…. Cousin Junior and Uncle Pa are without a doubt from so far back in the hills that after seeing the likes of Hillbilly Jim and Uncle Elmer during the Rock and Wrestling Era, they left immediately to seek their fortunes in ‘rasslin’ – and are just getting here NOW. Talk about a country mile, eh? Heh. No matter, even such two-legged pig-sloppers as these shall achieve victory when firmly grasping the coattails of the Angel of Death MOST EXALTED. What’s that old saying? Hitch your wagon to a STAR? Fine.

This leads, inevitably, to what those in the know call the ‘jobbers’… We already know that Doc Plants couldn’t lead ants to a picnic, and wrestles about as skillfully as Grover from Sesame Street – and that may be giving him too much credit, since Grover can turn into Super Grover and be less pathetic. Doc, I hope you’ve got a new face picked out because I don’t think there’s going to be enough of your OLD ONE LEFT to reconstruct. You’ve got a harsh lesson coming, and if you think the likes of your buddies are enough to protect you then you’ve got TWO harsh lessons coming. Study up, because I teach a HELL of a CRASH COURSE in knowing your PLACE.

Behind him are the unlikely trio that form Chollie’s Angle. Heh. Normally, one could say that the team of Patty O’Furniture and Sum Dum Goi – under the adroit tutelage and direction of Mr. Chow Min – could rise to the top ranking… Sure, it’d be a LIE, but one could SAY it.

When I consider the only other Tag Teams are the Fabulous Bleeders and One and a Half Inc., I realize the truth… Contemptible Ethnic Reliance, or whatever you try to call yourself in the King’s English, couldn’t be considered the top ranking at anything but odor. We’ve got some moron with Lee Press-On Fingers with a Full Nelson for a FINISHER? It is to laugh. His partner is just some drunk brawler who couldn’t make the A List with divine intervention and all the Lucky Charms IN General Mills. And this little pea-pickin’ weasel manager whose prior wrestling experience consists of squashing some midget in a rubber suit with the fat can of the Generic Ref? And they face a team that Bobo Fiendish is part of? Doesn’t look good, does it? No, clearly not.

So, what does that mean? Well, since the Bad Accent Squad has slighted the Inbreds; their manager annoys everyone, so I guess Hank hates him; and Doc Plants still holds that marker for a Damn Fine Beating courtesy of the Angel of Death Most Exalted. On the other side, The Bad Accent Squad is eager to show they’re a worthy tag team… Doc Plants is eager to ‘stop’ the juggernaut that is Bobo’s Wild Ride… And Chollie is just there to make four. Presumably, all that hate and intense drama will generate some heat to accompany the mayhem. Let’s give the fans a nice match to make up for the PITIFUL undercard, and maybe they won’t ask for ALL their money back… Good idea.

To my comrades for this match, I say this… If you do EXACTLY as you’re told, you will have a nice little check in your victory column… If you DON”T, you’ll have a nice little check in at the HOSPITAL. Simple, isn’t it? Spiffy.

You’re welcome. See you SOON.

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The Champion Speaks

March 21st, 2000
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(We cut to the locker room, where the Angel of Death Most Exalted is gathering up his gear – among which is the Pan-Galactic Championship Belt, and an icepack. He tosses the PGC Belt over his shoulder and examines the AYOOYFM Hardcore Belt around his waist. The camera zooms in and the boom mike picks up Bobo saying something to himself…)

Bobo Fiendish: This pleases me.

(Bobo then turns to see himself in the mirror, and he strikes a stunning ‘Shoot the Moon’ pose that shows his bristling musculature to great effect. He turns to the camera, and tosses the AYOOYFM belt over his shoulder like a candy wrapper as he fastens the PGC around his waist.)

BF: Hello, my intended.

Well, here I am. The Pan-Galactic Champion. Interesting. Now, regarding the end of that match…

There I was… Sitting in the corner, lulling that big goof Voss into a false sense of security after ‘playing up’ that ridiculous Gen-X ripoff move… And here he was, getting ready to do that pathetic ‘Bronco Buster’ that the 1-2-3 Kid still uses as a Finisher, and he starts in on me… Now, there I was, waiting until the last second to bring up the big boot and save us all from future generations of Voss, and someone yanks me out of the way… Voss slams into the ringpost crotch first, so I suppose the effect was the same as I’d intended, and I pretty much dump him on his head for the win… Now, personally, a piledriver is hardly what anyone except Paul Orndorff would call a Finisher, and since he’s got Alzheimer’s he don’t count. Just a little setup move for the astonishing bone-wrenching wave of offense that Voss was due for his hubris…

Here’s the rub, though… I grab his leg for a nice ankle twist or knee wrench, and someone counts a three… Odd, I think, but the referee isn’t known for his SAT scores, so I look to the side and there’s the Big BOSS handing me the belt and raising my hand… Also odd, I think… So I took a look at the tape…

Lemme tell ya… This did NOT please me. Bobo Q. Fiendish does not win via swerve. He doesn’t need to… There isn’t a man-jack in this – or any OTHER promotion – that possesses the raw power, ring generalship, and martial prowess that raise the Angel of Death to his Most Exalted status. I prove this time and again as those that are too stupid to fear such as I get their heads handed to them, and everyone else runs for greener pastures. Niege-13? Ran away. Doc Plants? Jobbed a gimmick match to be SENT away. Voss? Well, he got his head handed to him, didn’t he? Somehow, the Boss thinks that such as I should be rewarded for bringing the more difficult prima donnas to heel, and I’d normally agree… However, this…

(Bobo unbuckles the PGC and holds it in front of him.)

Is hardly what I would consider reward. I mean, really, it’s 18-karat electroplate… In short:

Bobo Q. Fiendish will not accept this belt. Period.

Voss has shrieked and shrilled about this… injustice, and strange as it may seem, I have to agree with him. Voss couldn’t beat me on his best day – with all four of his friends – if I had the flu, and we all know it. This belt suggests otherwise, and for that reason I will not – CAN NOT – accept it. Give it to Voss if you want… Burn it if you want… When I choose to take it away from him, precious little in his repetoire will dissuade me. He hits like a girl. Or, more to the point, like all the OTHER girls. But I digress…

(Bobo drops the PGC on the floor and then picks up the AYOOYFM belt and puts it on.)

BF: THIS is my belt. I EARNED it. More to the point, it’s FAR better descriptive of the champion that wears it…

Now to business… It seems that Doc Plants has crawled back into his part-timer position, and has further chosen to align himself with Chow Min and Booze Kelly. This pleases me. Some folks might wonder why the good doc did such a strange thing, but it’s clear enough upon reflection. After all, if I said the sort of things to Bobo Quite Fiendish that the Doc did before his banishment, I’d look for all the friends I could get when I came back, too…

However, I note that there is precious little voice possessed by the others in the locker rooms – the chaff, as it were, but I digress – and the powers that be are at a loss to understand their thunderous silence. Allow me to enlighten you… Were it anyone BUT the Angel of Death MOST EXALTED girded by that Pan-Galactic Belt, there would be scrambling amongst these lesser beings to vie for it. Sadly, since it IS the TRUE Dark Angel that is so bedecked, and so honored AFTER annihilating what was considered the best – if not brightest – this fed had… Well, you can’t expect alot of volunteers for a suicide mission, can you? No, clearly not…

So what does that leave you? A champion nobody is foolish or deluded enough to think they have a lottery-level chance against. A Swiss Army Belt, and this ludicrous Pan-Galactic rubbish… Sure, some people try and puff up and make noise and whatnot, but it’s all vanity… Your troops are demoralized, Boss… THEY know they can’t beat me. I always knew they couldn’t beat me. The only one that seems fuzzy on the issue is you… Why? Even the lowbrows and mugwhumps in the STANDS know that there is no equal for the horrifying splendor that is… The Angel… of DEATH… MOST EXALTED. Listen to them when I come down the aisle once in a while… I get more cheers than your Super-Face – much to his guitar swinging chagrin, I add, but deign to digress…

(Bobo picks up the Famous Sock-o-Swag and twirls it non-chalantly.)

BF: Now, some in the offices might think that this is wrong… This pleases me. Mayhap the powers that be will grow pensive regarding the dawning ramifications of opening one’s doors to such as I… Possibly even seek to retake their ‘power’ through force…? Well, the sad truth is that such people who are used to things going as planned are reluctant to even seemingly relinquish their power. In short, they fear change… And with good reason…

(Bobo brings the Famous Sock-o-Swag down on a stack of cinderblocks, and they shatter into dust under the apocalyptic force of the dreaded calf-high three-striper. Bobo then turns the sock upside down, spilling an eclectic grab bag of assorted coins onto the rubble.)

BF: Change can be painful… Heh.

Consider notice served that any attempt at reprisal for refusing this belt will be met with a belt of a much more drastic nature… Tell you what… Since nobody in their right mind will face me, let’s have a tourney. Top seed, let’s see… Since Voss ALMOST won, we’ll toss him a bone and give him Number One… Who’s Number Two? Easy. The man whose very existence makes you think nothing BUT Number Two… Dr. Plants. Number Three? Hmm… I guess Viet Enarian or whatever the hell his name is will do, considering he’s an ex-champ who was beaten by both the top seeds… Number four? Hmmm… Roster’s lookinga a skosh thin here, so I’ll take a shot in the dark and give Number Four to Paddy O’Furniture… Everyone else can bicker about where they stand from five to ten – assuming they’ve not already fled to someplace safer by comparison… Say, Libya, for instance… Heh.

Now, Boss, we can play this one of two ways… You can have Cooperation, or you can have Opposition. Cooperation will mean I won’t do my level best to turn whatever meatbag you toss into the ring with me into a thick, red paste… Opposition will mean that the next place you lead this ragtag mob will be from the front of the Wheelchair Convoy. Hope you make the right decision…

(The phone rings, and Bobo seems surprised. He walks over to the phone and picks it up.)

BF: Hello, my intended….

Ah, Big BOSS… Glad you called… Nice bit about ‘spending half the profits’ on stuff I brought with me from home. Nah, go ahead, you could use the deductions – as long as you cut me in on the profits. Deal. What? Dressing rooms bugged are they? I see. Come again? Don’t wanna do the Angry Solitary Fighter of the Brass bit, huh? I disagree… No, it’s not played out, it’s just been mishandled big time… Yes, I can carry it. Oh, come on… I made people think Voss had a chance to win, didn’t I? I should get an Oscar for putting that weakling over like I did… I mean, he hits like a wet noodle in a steamroom – and that’s with a run-up… No, I haven’t heard… Come again?

Voss said what? He what? Well, I’ll just trot over and twist his head off then… No, huh? Lotsa heat having Voss hate the both of us, you say? I dunno, he’s no Steve Borden… Fine. Okay, we’ll try it your way… But I still don’t like having that punk mouth off when he couldn’t back it up on a Playstation. No, I won’t just trust you… I could smash that Smilin’ Moron with one-hand tied behind my back, and use his midget for a mop to clean up the mess any day of the week and twice on Sundays, and it doesn’t sit well pretending otherwise… Alright then… Fine. Yeah, I guess I can do that… Suuuure. Doc Plants has an ass-whippin ‘ on order anyway… No, no problem, I can carry them… Just run ’em through a car-wash or something first, okay? Yes, I have smelled worse in prison, but I’m not THERE anymore, and don’t like reminders… Deal.

Bobo takes off the AYOOYFM belt again and puts the PGC belt back on.

Oh yeah, picked out who should get the Hardcore Title, yet? No, not HIM. Gimme a break, that’s lamer than Screamin’ Norman… Oh, okay, I’ll send it over to you with the Turtle Wax for my ‘partners’, but I think it’s a mistake. Okay, then…

You’re welcome… See you SOON.

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Where am I?

March 17th, 2000
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(A shakey camerashot of a thin, dusty street is shown.. the focus wobbles in and out for a while.)

Voice: Is it working?

Another Voice: The little red light is on.. I think it’s going.. right, you go first..

(Kamikazie Ken appears in front of the camera, brushing red dust off his cape.)

KK: Howdy, BOB Fans! Kamikazie Ken coming to you LIVE from Zimbabwae! Soon to be the scene of the greatest Developing Nations Streetfight in history!

(The camera begins to list to the side.)

KK: Cliffy! Straighten up.. Cliff! What are you doi..


(The camera flicks back on. Ken is now standing in a tiny, dusty bar. He raises a glass of “Old Wildeebeast” Lager to his lips and “notices” the camera.)

KK: Oh, hi BOB fans! It’s pretty hot out there, but that’s nothing compared to how much it’ll heat up when Mr Claven and I meet again..

(The camera zooms in so far that the bulls-eye on Ken’s mask fills the screen.)

Voice: How do I zoom out again? How DO I ZOO..


(The camera flicks on again. Ken opens his mouth to speak, a little red “BATT” light flashes twice.)


(Fade out)

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Different IP, but the real damn DEAL!

March 15th, 2000
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(The camera pans around a house show in Austin, Texas, just after ANDE.  We hear “Are you smiling mother f*cker?” before “If You’re Happy and You Know It” plays and the crowd pops big-time.  Justin Voss steps out from behind the curtains looking very p*ssed off.  He has his Swiss Army belt over his left shoulder and he puts his middle finger to his cheek and sticks his tongue out.  The crowd mimic him.  He walks down to the ring.  The pop is tremendous.  He gets into the ring and calls for the mike.)

JV: I’m gonna make this plain and simple, you f*cked with the Big Bad Voss-Man for the very last time BigBOSS!


JV: Listen up, bub, this is very clear and you damn well know what it’s gonna be about. ANDE perhaps?  Well, you came into the ring the Voss built…


JV: ..and you pulled away the Stereotyped Face’s foe, Boobo, and now you’re gonna go……DOWN!


JV: It’s seems that I have not made myself clear to you in the past, it seems that to you I’m as clear as Bobo’s semen all over your upper lip.  Can you say semen?


JV: Quit it!  This time it’s going to be crystal clear, like your belly button, coz your head’s so far up your own as you needed a crystal BELLY BUTTON!


JV: Listen really hard, coz here comes the big one.  You and me at the next PPV to settle this damn VOSS vs. TOSS thing, did I say “toss”?  I meant “boss”, really!  And that’s the bottom…whoops.  I slipped.  Get it, got it, go…did it again.  So your going to wish the only time you heard of ki…FOCUS!  So there ain’t nuthin’ you can do ’bout it-


JV: Capische?  Now onto Boobo.  I would congratulate you for your win if you weren’t giving the executives the *ss…


JV: …so I ain’t gonna do that.  You see hear, Bobo, I don’t appreciate women bashers, like yourself.  You come and attack the Grinning Guru for no damn reason only because he’s BOOKED into a match with some hideous deformity known as Barbie Banner.  And you go on at ANDE and pound two women, two WOMEN!  Where I come from, that’s just not cricket.  It’s time for the dozens of-


JV: Of me, myself and I to climb aboard that freight train known as the Puffin’ Billies, to get so high on our horses and kick you in the teeth, and I ain’t talking about the ones in your mouth.


JV: Sick and damn tired of your f*cken ways and it’s all gonna end because I can beat you at your own game.  I will beat you at your own games and baby, I will beat you.  Even harder than you do your monkey.  Coz Toto, were not in Kansas anymore…


JV: Hit my tunage, maestro!

(The camera fades out and back in to see Andy, Sky and Bunny and someone else who we can’t make out.)

AS: Yo, ladies, wassat as good as yo’ thought dat dis mudda here would do yo’?

Sky: They don’t call you the Little BIG Man for nothing, Andy.  Tee hee hee.

Bunny: Now I can fit a wine bottle!

AS: Where, yo’?

Bunny: In the picnic basket.  I took out that cheese nobody likes.  Where did you think I meant?

AS: Oh baby, I is leavin’ dat alone, yo’.

Voice: Well don’t leave me alone, give me more of your crucifix, Andrew!

(If we don’t fade out now, BOB will get in trouble.  So move it or lose it, punk.)

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Justin Jarrett, now?

March 14th, 2000
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(We cut to a locker room in Deth, Texas as Bobo Fiendish stews angrily on a bench with an ice-pack on his head. He sees the camera, and quickly tosses the ice over his shoulder as he puts on his ‘game face’.)

Bobo Fiendish: Hello, my intended…

Well, I know Voss is at the end of his rope now… Look, already planning a career in another fed with the guitar shots. Sadly, that assumes you’re going to be able to wrestle for them after our match. Mayhap you can trot to Vinnie Mac and try on the ‘Double J ‘ neon suit? Mayhap you can roll to Atlanta and get some ‘stroke’? Mayhap you can roll to ECW and become PJ Walker’s kid brother… Justin Competent? Heh. The fans are finally catching on that Justin Voss is a pitiful pansy, and are showing remarkable intelligence of late by cheering for the Angel of Death MOST EXALTED. This pleases me. Naturally, much like any other con man that finds he’s not fooling the marks anymore, he panics, and a perfectly good guitar pays the price for his hubris…

Now, some old business… Allow me to congratulate you on your earlier ASTUTE choice of musical interlude… See, Bohemian Rhapsody is the story of a young man – not unlike yourself, that did something STUPID – ALSO not unlike yourself, and is now going to be put to DEATH for it – EXACTLY like YOURSELF. Now, I know the closer you get to our match the more desperate and irritable you seem to get. This pleases me. Of course, if you’d rather have the parting memories of those closest to you be in a bad light, who am I to judge? Heh. You assume much, Voss. First, you accuse me of actually SAVING your interviews for something besides birdcage lining, and THEN reposting them to make you look bad. It is to laugh. Voss, I ALREADY make you look bad. Every time I speak. And, more importantly, every time YOU speak. Such tactics are beneath me, and always will be.

You’ve got to ask yourselves… Does Voss really have a CHANCE? No, clearly not. I know it. YOU know it. And from the way Voss is acting lately, he’s JUST starting to put together the same conclusion… Talk about slow on the uptake, eh? But what do you expect from someone that hires pugnacious dwarves with speech impediments so he can be both a good speaker and handsome by comparison? Someone who retains vacuous hookers from the roadside so he can be the brains of the group? Such a thing as this is more suited for a carnival shill than a the poor approximation of a wrestler he attempts to be. ….And that’s just sad.

I can understand your concerns, really… In the awesome splendor that is the luminance of the Angel of Death MOST EXALTED, people will know you as the guy that REALLY goofed up signing this match. And when the match starts, people will know you as the guy that’s doing all the screaming. Heh. Mind you, I can see that you’re worried that after I use you for a mop to clean the ring of your blood, people will remember you as a mop. Allow me to be the first one to say that that will not happen. Why? BECAUSE NO ONE WILL REMEMBER YOU, PERIOD.

Look at the evidence, Voss… I’m taking over your spot. The fans are cheering for the HEEL. I bought your midget… The price? Nun, but I digress… Heh. And since nobody managed to capture the Barbie Bounty, I have several hundred bucks with which to buy your bimbos. Your world is collapsing, Voss… And soon your CHEST will MATCH it! The guitar shot was cute, kid, but it doesn’t put you over as a dangerous anti-hero any more than it does Double J or the Honkytonk Man. Come to think of it, you have alot in common with them even BEFORE the El Kabong… None of you can match your own frantic hype without someone in the other corner following the SCRIPT… And by the way, I got the script your people sent… Makes for some fine kindling… Heh. Now, if only I had something to fry up… Oh, wait… I do. Or, more accurately, I WILL.

So, before you become a vague sense of deja vu for an old Morris Day video, let me remind you that there’s no shame in losing to me… YOU are a measly speck of insignificance in the Grand Scheme, and it falls to me to see to it you learn your place in the world. And learn you SHALL. I PROMISE.

You’re welcome… See you SOON.

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In the dressing room at ANDE

March 9th, 2000
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–“Charlie” is preparing for his upcoming match with Andrew Spink at A Near Deth Experience by taping his thumb on his right hand. He’s never put “The Tet Offensive” on a midget before and the anticipation is killing him. He paces around the room frantically as Viet Kong tries to help Blackjack Hooligan out of his Saint Patrick’s get-up.–

“Charlie”: HELLRO! STOOPID PEEPOLE! Mee gonna may-ke diss shor an’ swee…juss rike Androo Speenk. Him shor an’ swee, too. SOOKIE! Him rearry shor an’ eet gonna bee swee too stickee mee thoomb eentoo him neek as far as eet can go! Speenk, YOO STEENK! Yoo shoold bee cawoled ANDROO STEENK! Mee kickee yoor ah-soh RONG TIME! MEE SOO HORNEE!

Blackjack Hooligan: Aye…lahdie “Charlie”. You messin’ oop again you are. Don’t tell the lad you’re horny…OUCH! Kong, watch tha jimmy will ya? You’re smashin’ my doob you are.

(Hooligan takes a big swig of “Stinky McNasty’s Irish Holiday Green Beer In A Bottle.”

“Charlie”: Sorree…me geet carry away sumtime. Speenk, yoo nev-a geet reffee too seet awn mee fay-ce. MEE KIWOLE YOO FIRSS! AN’ WHOO GEEVE DOSE REDNEEKS FRON’ ROW SEETS?! How mee posed too splain dat too Vietmese govenment?   

Blackjack Hooligan: Sorry. Dat was me it was. I’ll pay foor tha tickets oot of me oown poocket I will.

“Charlie”: Pay wit what? BEE OH BEE pay yoo wit beer an’ awlkeehowole!

Blackjack Hooligan: Aye, you right…laaaaaaaaahdie. Maybe it time I ask foor a raise it is.

(Hooligan gulps down some “Vietnamese Tequila with Leech.” He takes the leech, holds it a second between his teeth, then swallows it. Wipes his chin.)


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getting ready for ANDE

March 1st, 2000
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–Clive starts rolling with “Charlie” sitting in his gold, velvet recliner at the undisclosed-highrise-furnished-by-Vietnamese-government. He’s staring at his 98 inch television screen. Viet Kong stands behind “Charlie” with his massive arms crossing his own chest…Blackjack tries to mimic Kong’s stance…–

“HELLRO AWL YOO STOOPID PEEPOLE! Mee juss sit heir an’ wha-chee wot dat stoopid meejet coom oop wit fur steepoolashuns. Reffee seet awn fay-cee? AWR YOO GAY-EE?! Dat’s eet, yoo gay-ee, Speenk! YOO BEE DOOKEE DODGUR! YOO BEE TOORD BOOGLA! Mee noo rike man haff too sit awn mee fay-cee, soo yoo gonna geet beetin’ awf RIFETIME! Dere NOO WAY-EE mee gonna ret yoo poot reffee awn mee fay-cee an’ soof-o-kate MEE! NEV-A! An’ ploos mee goot too wheir SOOMO STOOF? DAT’S REETARDEED! Yoo soo stoopid, Andoo Speenk, mee hate yoo moor evereeday! An’ fur dat, mee gonna kickee yoor rittle ah-soh tiwole yoor rittle bodee can tay-ke NOO MOOR! SOOKIE DAT! Sayee soomding, Brackjack…mee goona geet mee anooda ceegar han’ wrappee buyee COOBAN!

Ahhhhhh, oo-kay lahdie. It be a lookin’ like Kong an’ I have a fight a BREW-in’ it does. Some poonk by tha name of Phoobic an’ a little lass called Natural Booy. Well, it looks like we a gonna have a go in a streetfight it does. An’ I see tha BOSS had to draw you WOOSIES out of a hat he did. I doon’t blames ya for noot woontin’ to have a go with me an’ Kong an’ have to be pulled oot of a hat…boot that’s tha way it gonna be I guess. I also see a coople of lahdies that can’t tell where tha family tree be a branchin’ to, an’ are havin’ prooblems keepin’ tha roots froom poolenatin’ tha same tree ova an’ ova. Listen Ahmazin’ Inbreds…you to lahdies are gonna have a go with us soon enoogh you will…an’ we’ll shoow you a place to stick dose tails ya got udder than your sistas. Why doon’t you two pick oop a coople of ringside seats for ANDE coourtesy of The Unethicals an’ witness what you got a coomin’ to ya? Go ahead, pick ’em oop you will…an’ Kong and I will shoow you what we do to Phoobic an’ that udder looser we will. Say soomthing Kong, I gots to get me a beer ‘o two. Maybe three. Perhaps nineteen. AYE!

(Kong just stands there, his arms still crossed)

–Fade out–

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