Sleazy TV
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.”