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Archive for May, 2002

King of the DEATH match

May 31st, 2002
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Death stood at the top of a snow-covered mountain.

Death chuckled.

Death: Everyone in BOB is going to learn a lesson very soon. There is only one thing in this world you can’t fight and win. Death. Some may think that’s cocky, but in my time, I’ve killed billions. Billions and billions of souls. Some of them put up a good fight. Some of them avoided me, hid from me, ran from me. Some just accepted their fate and waited for me to come.

Death: Those people were so boring.

Death: You know what I wish I could find (he said, leaning on his scythe, then scratching his ass with a white, bony finger). Somebody who could actually fight me. I don’t work for God. I don’t work for Satan. Well….I do work for God I guess, but….it’s not like I’m God’s hit man.

Death: Or maybe I am.

Death: Maybe…I am…

Death: Let’s go talk to God.

[Heaven.]

Death: Hey God.

God: Yes Death.

Death: Am I your hit man?

God: Yes.

War: Hey Death!

Death: Hey War, how are you?

War: Not bad. Little busy, but, what you gonna do?

Death: How’s Pestilence doing these days? Haven’t seen him in ages.

God: Famine and he went off somewhere. Expect something quite interesting in the coming months.

Death: Sweet.

God: Bwahahaha.

War: So what are you two up to?

Death: Well, I’ve started wrestling in BOB.

War: No kidding. I’m working in baseball. Let me tell you. Things will never be the same in the MLB when I’m done.

God: Strike?

War: Oh yeah!

God: Thank me.

Death: I thought War did it?

God: Oh, it’s just an expression.

Jesus: Ye, Dad, when are we gonna play some football?

God: Are the holes in your feet completely healed?

Jesus: Um, ye. Kind of a spirit now. That was only funny when I was a human. You’re so uncool Dad.

God: Kids. What ya gonna do with them?

Death: I can’t kill him again, can I?

[God was silent.]

Jesus: Dad!

God: Just kidding. OK, let’s go play.

[Jesus and God go elsewhere in Heaven.]

Death: Well then. To all the people who are unlucky enough to be in the King of the Death Match Tournament, at least some of you might be lucky enough to be up here when you die. As for the rest of you? Guess we’ll have to wait and see where you end up…

War: Wanna play chess?

Death: I’d rather play checkers.

War: Oooh, idea. How about some global thermonuclear warfare.

Death: Now that’s a plan, War. Let’s go….

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Whoza dummy?

May 31st, 2002
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[Sleazy-C’s Studio, “Jobber, Jobberland, Bizatch”]

Trey Vincent and Sleazy-C are sitting at a mixing board. Sleazy-C looks a tad bit confused. He takes off his black sunglasses and raises his eyebrows. He flips his LA Dodgers hat around so it’s on backwards now. Then he shoves a hand deep down his baggy jeans.

“Hmm,” C wonders. “Play button, play button, play button.”

“You don’t know how to work this thing?”

“Sorry TV. I usually have some bitch ass I pay to do this shit, man. But TV-man, you know it ain’t like filling pot holes, if you know what I mean.”

They high-five.

“That was so clever, I bet nobody got that reference to filling a hole. I bet they wouldn’t even recognize it was a sex reference!”

“Well, phuck, they’all will now, Mr. Icon.”

Sleazy-C hits a button.

“Niggaz. Bitches. Blunts. 40s. Suck my dick. Big screen TV. Doggy style. Ho. These are among the words you will need to master if you want to be a master rapper.”

Sleazy-C hits another button and the tape stops.

“Hip-hop for dummies? On audio tape?” Trey asks.

“Sheet, man, do ya know how hard it is ta get old-schooled? It ain’t like there’s courses out there teachin ya how to be down, ya dig?”

“Stop saying that or I’m gonna kick your ass.”

“Phuck you man.”

“Fuck you JD.”

“Stop calling me that!”

“Or what?”

Sleazy-C stands up and pulls out his PP-47.

“Or I’ll shoot you with my squirt gun.”

Trey stands up. He spies something on the floor and picks it up.

A dustbuster?

“What da phuck are you gonna do with that?” Sleazy-C askz. “Suck on theze nutz, bitch?”

VROOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOMMMMMMMMMM!

Trey throws the dustbuster away. “You spray me, I’ll stop paying you. I’m bringing you to jOlt. I can get you national TV time. Maybe if you piss me off, you won’t be on Intense!”

“Fine. Wuzn’t gonna shoot you anywayz.”

They sit back down and Sleazy-C looks back over the buttons again. He pushes another one.

“I want to hear how our tune came out,” Trey says.

“I wanna start working on sum new shit, bro. When the boyz gunna git here? And why you alwayz treatin me like sheet.”

“Because it’s entertaining. To me.”

“You’re just jealous that I got juzt az much charizma az you but in a much smaller package. I may not be Mr. 6-foot-4, 265 poundz of sportz entertainment icon, but I am 5-4, 150 poundz of pure jobba, homez.”

“And if you just do what Trey Vincent tells you, you won’t be a jobba for life. You might actually get to win a match once in a while.”

“Man, I’ma be a jobba for life. Jobbaz my height don’t fight right. I ain’t no luchydore suicidal muthaphucka. I’m just a bump-taking, my-bonez-are-breaking and my bodyz achin scrubsta.”

“See, this is why you’re dumb. In 2002, you don’t need height to win. You don’t need talent to win. All you need is a weapon. Your precious PP-47.”

“Hmmm.”

“Get it?”

“No matter how tall, them bitchez all gonna fall, when I start unloading from the chamber of my PP-47.”

“God-damn! See. Fight dirty. Pull out the plastic and pee special. Then cheat, damn you. Cheat!”

“Dizamn, Trey. You damn right. Now wherez that engineer guy at? Why we gotta do theze for so long, man? Back in my prime, my longest RP wuz five wordz. The first wuz Somewhere. The second was you, the third was suck and the fourth was dark. Damn, I guess my longest was four words.”

“Dumb ass.”

“Phuck you Trey.”

“No fuck you C.”

“You wanna throw down,” he sayz pulling out his PP-47 again.

Trey rolls his eyes and looks up at the ceiling.

“What you see up there, brutha?”

“Just play ‘Fuck The LB.'”

“Can’t now. This RP is too long and we’re out of tim

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Sleazy TV

May 27th, 2002
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JWA: In BOB, it’s not about salary, it’s all about reality!

This thing opens in a luxurious private room in a restaurant somewhere in this great country of ours. Vague enough? In this room, custom-made for all rich snobs, are two men. Since everyone seeing this is no doubt rich and has at plenty of times in their life been in a room like this, you sure as hell don’t need me to explain it, now do you? Didn’t think so.

Oh, right, this is for BOB. My bad. Well, OK, leather couches and chairs, glass tables, rugs so thick you could swim in them, great pieces of art (paintings, sculptures), and, of course, the longest bar in the world. It’s the sort of place old bastards go to get away from their wives and get fit shaced. Then try to drive home on the highway and crash into a street light or something.

There is also a large projection TV in one corner of the room. We head over there to find jOlt superstar and iAd member Trey Vincent. Sitting with him on one of the leather sofas is the man known as Sleazy-C.

“Aight. I gots the tape here brutha. Word to tha muthafucka.”

“Alright J.D., listen up…”

“Whoa, hold on there blood. JD? Whoz thiz JD crap homez? You know my name iz….”

SLEAZY!

“How did you do that?” Trey asked, perplexed by the loud chorus yelling his ‘name.’

“Eazy duz it.”

“Whatever. Listen, C.”

“I hear dat.”

*CoughcoughJDKoolcoughcough*

“Hey, man, why you be wreckin my gimmick for, fool?”

“Because kayfabe sucks.”

“Does she? I feel like bustin a nut in her. Kinda bitch that makez you wanna get AIDZ, know what I’m sayin?”

They high-five.

“Can we get to tha point of dis thing now?” Sleazy-C asks.

“I’ve been waiting.”

Sleazy-C pops the tape into the VCR. Trey pushes play and on screen comes the scene of a small, dimly-lit Irish bar.

“OK, so we need to hook you up with four other jobbaz so we can have an A-team and a B-team. If you see anybody you like, let me know.”

“Just chill out Mr. Sportz Entertainment Icon. Man, your ego iz about az big az my nutz.”

[The Dsylexic Avenger: Career I have to used a. Me look now at! Bob, art wherefore Bob, thou, Bob, Bob!]

“Even, brutha can’t speak. Man, I’m sposed to be the character in this gang. Fuck that muthafucka. He can be a underling. One of tha many underlings we’ll need. We need too much posse. So much posse we can’t even keep track of it all.”

“I think he can rap though.”

“Fine, Mr. TV. Put him in the maybe character file. Or whateva you’re keepin track usin.”

[The Fire Chief: Heap big paleface grappler speaks the truth. Heap BigBOSS deserve whack with totem pole for despoling ancestoral hunting grounds of Havoc, West Virginia? Besides, the palefaces think Fire Chief “Culturally Insensitive.”]

Trey and C both agree: “No.”

[Bruce, The Evil New Zealander: Does anyone know what these dickheads are rabbiting on about? I can’t understand a bloody word, mate!]

“I dunno ’bout this jobba. Points for sayin’ dickhead and all, but, he probably smells like kangaroo shite,” C sez.

[XXXtreme Machine: of corse i can undrestnad thm breuc whaat r ua moron ort soemthnig ]

“Do I even need to say no?” Sleazy-C axed

[Kamikaze Ken: STAGE-DIVVVVVVEEEEEEEE! …….. OW!

Insano Mano: [Off-Screen] {Spanish} Yeah, not bad, but can you do THIS?]

“Man, what is this, super lucha jobba muthafuckas? No way to both theze boyz.”

[Super Mollusc: Hey, at least you guys are still on the quote/unquote “payroll”. Try making a living doing shows in Nome, Alaska on the “BOB: LEGENDS OF LOW-BUDGET” Tour…]

“Now that boyz gut sum attitude,” Sleazy-C sez. “That jobba knows what its like to be held down by da man.”

“Goldberg?”

“No! Da man. Not by some bald Jew. Put him in the yes side, brutha.”

“Got it,” Trey says.

[Bivalve: Yeah. We did a show in Canada, and they paid us in salmon! At least we ate that week… but still…]

“Ditto dis boy.”

[Mr X: You think you’ve got problems? Hell, the BigBOSS ran out of ideas for my character a week after my contract was signed. I tried to sell him on the idea of a Freebirds-type thing with The Agency, but guess who got screwed over in the deal? ME!]

“All this untapped talent. We’re gonna have us one pissed off group of jabroneys when I’m done. B-Teamers 4 life.”

“Fast forward this Mully and Sculder stuff. It’s not Kool.”

“Quit that shit, man!”

[Ffwd.]

[StreetMime: “…… …. ……. ……” ]

“Maybe he could be our DJ?”

“I dunno. How’s he supposed to tell them what they’re doing wrong? And can he even hear?

“Fek him then,” Sleazy-C decides.

[….stuff left out here…thus the ellipses….]

[The Man Who Looks A Bit Like Nixon: Whatever. I tell ya, we’re being used, fellas. Look at me! I wrestle Bobo Fiendish, take… what, eleven, eleven and a half moNths off to recuperate… and what happens? The BigBOSS decides I need to wrestle in Havoc Valley Wrestling for a while because of “ring rust”! I can wrestle as well as the next man! ]

“Put him in the yes pile boy.”

“Got it.”

[The Snapmare Kid: WHAT?]

“No. He’d probably just rhyme everything with snapmare. And that wouldn’t be fair. He’s less hip than square. And the kid axes his bitch momma what he should wear. So Sleazy-C sez he can kizz my small white ass. Cuz Sleazy-C can out rap any kid future, present or pazt.”

[Xenomorph: C’mon, guys! we can’t just sit around here feeling sorry for oursleves while watching Ken and Insano Mano hurt themselves!]

“This guy does nothing for me,” Trey says.

“Word,” Sleazy agreez. He shutz off the tape. “I think we gutz ourselvez sum good boyz. Letz invite them to da studio. And we can test em out.”

“So it’s Super Mollusc, Bivalve, The Man Who Looks A Bit Like Nixon and The Dyslexic Avenger.”

“The new kingz of that hardcore jobba-rap shit. Bow down to the kingz!”

“So all those other guys are the J.W.A. posse?”

“I guess so. Good for protecting the iAd and whateva else you needs them for.”

“Kool.”

“Man, stop that shizat!”

“I’m paying your ass, I’ll call you whatever I want.”

“Well, all I hope iz that thoze boyz can rap. And write. Cuz God knowz I need someone to write my lyricz. I’m only good for butcherin the language and puttin some zs into wordz, if you know what I mean.”

“I’ll call my lawyer.”

“What? What for man?”

“So we can sign those four scrubs to exclusive J.W.A. contracts.”

“Well, just make sure they get screwed financially and any money I make, I make off their work. Ya dig?”

“Will you quit stealing other people’s lines.”

“Whose line is this anyway?”

“Steve Studnuts.”

“Who? Whatever happened to that jerkweed?”

“He’s got more money than he needs. I think he’s probably gonna do some good icon work. Get drunk, have tons of doggy-style sex, get blown multiple times a day, become an alcoholic, drug and rape some hot celebrity, get acquitted, find God, then get addicted to some sort of drug, go into rehab, threaten somebody with a gun, go to jail, go back into rehab, get off on trial since he’s famous, throw a party, go back into rehab, then die post-orgasm in some sort of cool group sex act. Well, I know that’s what I’d do if I wasn’t sports entertaining. I can only assume great minds think alike. By the way, beautiful job knocking out Sarah.”

“I’d love for her to suck on my Italian hoagie. And though I’m not into eating kitty, here’s is one kitty I’d sure love to lick a bitty bitty bit.”

“Ah well, Sarah. It appears the BOB world is changing. The landscape is changing. The iAd is causing big changes. Well, I am at least. Those other two dead weights! (he yells, standing up.)

“…..1….2….3….4. OK, I’m calm.” He sits back down. “Sarah, I know it was supposed to be you and TV hooking up for the big pay-per-view, but guess what? Since Steve Studnuts has better things to do right now, the main event has Trey Vincent’s name written in there. Against that fat blob and that nerd. And you? Well, it looks like you’ve got to deal with the KSK. Funny how things work out….

“Anyway, next time, we’ll have the Jobbaz With Attitude assembled in the studio to begin work on the masterpiece I wrote, ‘Fuck the L.B.’ For Sleazy-C, this is TV. Until next time, stay tuned.”

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A new enemy

May 22nd, 2002
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We open on a milk carton with the logo of BOB HardXcore Polarvision. Over the logo is the line: Have you seen HardXcore Polarvision 4?

Oddly enough, the milk carton is sitting in the middle of a ring. A Brawlers On a Budget ring. Not surprisingly, none of the roster is around working. Just like the Rant Zone! But I digress….

As the camera pulls back, we see a little boy with a sad look on his face. A tear runs down his face. He is wearing a blue flannel shirt over a black T-shirt, a plain black baseball cap and big blue pants.

“I’ve been waiting sooooo long for this show,” the boy said. “I had hoped to see it before the cancer completely eats up my insides. I was given six months to live.” He sniffles. “Damn you BOB. You’re all gonna go to hell. My cancer has only gotten worse since those guys in the iAd came to BOB. Now I just don’t care about this place anymore. Screw it, I’m gonna go check out my grave site.”

“I don’t believe you,” a woman’s voice said.

The boy gasped. He got up and came face to stomach with the beautiful Sarah “The Jobber Slayer.” She was wearing a black belly shirt, white skirt and knee-high black boots. Sarah looked down at the milk carton in the ring and picked it up.

“Yeah. I’ve been looking everywhere for it. But I’m sure it’ll turn up someday. And you know it’ll be good since I’ll be on it. You’ve got to see what I do to the iAd.”

“Can’t you just tell me?”

“No.”

“You’re denying a dying boy his wish?”

“Yes.”

“You’re cold.”

“Well, being dead will do that to you.”

“You died?”

“Three times.”

“Really?”

“The first time, it was at my senior promo.”

“Don’t you mean prom?”

“No. Since I’m a jobber Slayer, I didn’t get a senior prom. Instead, I had to do a promo. But that’s not the point. The point is, I show up to the set, and Kay Fabe and I were wearing the same blue backless dress. I died. Of embarrassment.”

The kid rolled his eyes.

“It happened a couple more times. Once when Little Good and I got caught…well, I probably shouldn’t tell you that one. And then there was that whole thing where somebody who shall remain nameless claimed he killed my career. But I came back. Granted, to BOB, but I came back. And I’m sure you can beat whatever’s wrong with you.”

“I’ve got cancer.”

“Cancer? Aw, I’m sorry kid. I had no idea. I thought you were just dying of boredom, not dying, dying. My bad.”

“No big.”

“Hey, that’s my line. But that’s OK,” she says messing up his hair with her right hand. “With you dying and all, you can use all my lines you want.”

“Hey, since I’m dying and all….I was wondering. I had one wish I was hoping maybe you could make come true. I fell in love with you the second I saw you wrestle. You’re so hot. And I’ll never get to be with a woman. So, I’d never ask to sleep with you, but I could die a happy boy if you would do me the honor of seeing your boobies.”

“Well…”

“Or your HEY NOW.”

“Ummm….well….I guess I should. I mean, you are dying and all.”

“Yeah I am.”

Sarah looks at the camera and then turns her back. She lifts up the front of the shirt as the cameraman rushes around trying to get a glimpse. But alas, it is over too quick. Unless there was somebody in the shadows taking a picture from the other side. Wouldn’t that be just perfect timing? And that might explain that bright blue flash. Uh oh.

The kid starts laughing.

“You’re one dumb bitch.”

“What did you say?”

“Nice tits and all, but now I’ve got ’em on film. Ha ha!”

The kid pulls out brass knuckles and punches her in the face! Sarah falls down and is unconscious.
The kid looks at the camera.

“Hmm. That was easier than I thought. All you losers couldn’t stop the Slayer. But a little 12-year-old kid has knocked out the bitch. What the fuck’s wrong with you idiots out there. Now I can have my way with this ho. Word to the motherfucker. Now get the fuck out of here!”

The kid pushes the cameraman down and takes out a gun.

“Let’s play race the bullet.”

The camera falls to the floor and we hear racing footsteps get quieter and quieter. Then a door opens and tires squeal.

The kid picks up the camera and turns it onto Sarah.

“Sleazy-C is in the hizouse! Now let’s film a porno movie and sell it over the Internet! Oh yeah. You see Sarah, I am the jobber who will take your ass out. I am the boy who is going to end your Slaying career. I am going to poke you, pin you and laugh all the way to the bank. And I am going to lead the Jobbers With Attitude to the top. As Executive Producer, beyotch.”

“Sarah!”

It’s Little Good.

“Bloody hell,” he said.

“Hey man, why you wreckin’ my shit? I’ll fuck you up bad, man,” C said. Sleazy-C raised the barrel of the gun and lined it up with Little Good’s head. Little Good stopped dead in his tracks.

Sleazy-C squeezed the trigger.

And Little Good was left a yellow, smelly mess. The camera then flew through the air, crashed, and the promo ended abruptly.

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The good die young, but the great die whenever they feel like it

May 14th, 2002
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[A television screen is filled with gray static. Then it explodes. Through the magic of computer animation, pieces of the set fall onto the floor to spell out The Trey Vincent Show. Oh yeah, he’s going talk show on your ass.

We fade in on a screaming crowd of slack-jawed yokels, hot sluts and fat, drunk bastards. They are all chanting the Icon’s name: “TV, TV, TV, TV.” As long as you ignore the dyslexic one yelling “VT.”

Yes, the man who rules in jOlt, and with the iAd in BOB, the greatest television and sports entertainer ever to evolve from the magical mingling of semen and egg, Trey Vincent. He steps out onto the stage, which has green carpets and a few of those talk show-style black chairs. He’s holding a wireless microphone, walks to center stage and smiles at the camera.]

TV: Hello everyone and welcome to the debut of “The Trey Vincent Show.” Starring none other than Trey Vincent, the next jOlt International Champion and next holder of whatever title I feel like winning in BOB, since we make the rules and break the rules. But, enough about Trey. Tonight’s topic: Sluts Flash The Crowd.

[The crowd cheers.]

TV: Aren’t I a heel? Oh well, not here. Now, as I do my rant, for those of you who don’t give a flying flurk about sports entertainment will at least be entertained. Because you will all be treated to the lovely stripping acts of three lovely local girls who are being paid, what, $500? Not bad. But we do have to promote their agency. It is called, X-Rated Realities, and today’s ‘talent’ consists of the lovely Kelley, a thin bleach-blonde goddess, Britney, a thin red-headed beauty with the biggest fun bags of the bunch, and Zoe, a brunette who is of the highest class and tighest ass. Let’s get this show started.

[Trey goes to the middle chair and stares straight ahead. Kelley walks out from the side, wearing a short black dress with so much cleavage and leg showing it would probably make an Afghani-man’s head explode (and I think you know what I mean). She walks to Trey and begins a lap dance. Slowly stripping down as Trey rants.]

TV: Yeah. Um. I have to address The Geek for some reason. He’s challenged me and Bohemoth to a triple threat hardcore match. And speaking of hardcore, TV loves it hardcore Kelley. Perhaps after the show, we can have a sports entertainment match in bed? Anyhow….where was I?

[The fans erupt and a big CENSORED block covers up some naughty areas. Trey looks around her body and pulls off the CENSORED block! Oh yeah! Nudity! Frontal nudity! But the evil censors have another one up their sleeve. The CENSORED block Trey holds suddenly shatters.]

TV: What the f*ck? Damn the man!

[The fans erupt as Kelley has now lost all her clothing. As for Trey’s rant? Huh? You were still expecting one when he’s got a naked chick dancing and bending in all the right ways right in front of him. Chyeah. OK. Maybe during the break, before the next girl loses her clothes. Stay glued here.]

TV: Oh baby. I may not believe in love at first sight, but I do belive in love at first feel. What do you say? Is love in the air?

[Kelley sits on his lap so they are face to breast. Guess who is which. Of course, that pesky CENSORED thing blocks all the good parts, but Trey’s got the best seat in the house. On his lap no less! Then she gets up, grabs her clothes and walks off stage to a multiple standing ovations.]

TV: Kelley, everyone. Boo-ya. Anyway, The Geek. How’s this for a deal. If you can get Sarah “The Jobber Slayer” to go out with you on a date, then I’ll have some respect for you and I’ll give you the match you so badly want. But….we won’t have to wait until the PPV. Because PPV is for 5-star matches. And the only way we can have a 5-star match with Trey Vincent is if the lovely Sarah accepts my challenge to fight me at Wrestlestarrmaniacade, or whatever the hell it’s called.

[Fans cheer loudly as Britney appears, wearing only a towel! She seductively walks toward Trey, giving him a private show while she teases the audience with some bare shoulders and back, and a little bit of ass cheek. The rant? Yeah, he forgot again. But hell. There are more important things than INTERVIEWS! And you’re looking at it! The crowd erupts into “TV, TV, TV” chants again as she drops the towel and bends over to pick it up. But you miss it because of the CENSORED block. Unlucky bastards. Why isn’t this show on pay-per-view? Hey, idea….forming….]

TV: This is entertainment! Damn!

[And Britney leaves the stage to a few less standing ovations. Some people have no endurance.]

TV: Oops, I see a question.

[Trey runs up to a hot blonde in the front row with his microphone. He puts it to her lips and then starts sliding it back and forth, back and forth. She grabs it and holds it still.]

TV: Sorry, old habits are hard to break.

Girl: I just wanted to know if you’re single.

TV: Yes, I am. Why?

Girl: Well, I see you doing all this escort stuff, meaningless sex, drinking binges, I mean, why don’t you settle down and get a girlfriend?

Crowd: BOOOOOOOOO!

Some guy: Show your tits and shut your mouth!

TV: Bwahahahaha. Darling, there’s this old saying that only the good die young. Which probably means you’re gonna live a long, long time. Anyway, the good die young, but the great die whenever they feel like it. There are probably exceptions to the rules and differences of opinions of what is good and bad. All I know is I’m great. Now, unless your favorite position is on your knees, well, I got no use for ya. Now, will you show your tits?

Girl: No.

TV: A girl with morals. Darling, this isn’t the family entertainment show. This is “The Trey Vincent Show.” My rules, my life, my way. There ain’t no time for regrets or morality in this world, so let’s bring out a girl with no class, Zoe!

[And here comes Zoe, dressed in sheer underwear. Trey goes back onstage and waits for the beautiful one to dance. Dance. Dance!]

TV: We’re all about the lowest common denominator! We’re all about controversy. Usually, we’re about apathy, but tonight, there are more important things. Specifically, in my pants, to worry about.

[Bye bye bra. Bye bye panties. Hello CENSORED. Trey steals the CENSORED blocks and throws them behind the couches, but the censors see it and quickly cover her up. And with her naked, the flashing portion of the show is over. Now it’s time for final thoughts.]

TV: It’s now time for, a time for us. First of all, Trey Vincent loves to screw people, whether it’s in the bedroom, or at work. You see, there are two different kind of screw jobs. One is physical. The other is political. Both are great in their own way, though there is usually no orgasm with the political screw-jobs. But smoking a cigar afterward is pretty sweet. But that’s not the point of this rant.

TV: No, Geek, Trey Vincent cannot keep the iAd away from ringside. He will make no such guarantees. But if you’re so scared of interference, we’ve got ourselves a new challenge. A rubber tipped barbed wire hardcore match. Trey’s face is to pretty to risk being sliced and smashed in hardcore rules. You are looking at a sports entertainer, not a hardcore bush-leaguer. Hell, just to make it interesting, let’s have a last blood match. Which means, two people have to blade, er, bleed, for the match to end, last man with his face in tact wins the Hardcore Title.

TV: The iAd doesn’t want you in its group, as far as I know. Maybe Seth likes you, I don’t know about that boy sometimes. But still. I am so confident I can beat you, I’ll accept that stipulation. You can be my bag boy. OK, fine, you know what, I accept your stupid ass challenge. But will you accept mine beyotch? Until next time….I don’t give a f*ck what you do. Just stay alive to give me ratings next time. I’m Trey Vincent. And I know you wish you were. Good night.

[The crowd cheers and the girls come out for one last naked wave to the crowd as we fade out.]

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