I don’t need a subject, bitch!
~~~ There you were, minding your own business and enjoying (?) another episode of Mystery Sports Entertainment Theater 3000, when all of a sudden…
… there’s a bit of static across your screen. You pray to God the cable went out, or a thunderstorm has shit canned your satellite feed, sparring you the evil and boredom that is the iAd.
But alas, your stupid ass is not so lucky. You must endure more:
You see the inside of a lavishly decorated, stucco walled mansion, one ridiculously too large for a single man. But this is no ordinary man. No it’s not. Money spent on shit he didn’t need… simply to impress some chick into spreading her legs and giving up that holiest of holies sooner than later.
A muscular individual enters into view, so tan he makes Maven look white. His short, jet black hair is gelled neatly into place, a follicle not astray. His goatee is precision trimmed with laser surgeon accuracy.
The man is not wearing a shirt, proudly displaying his Scott Hall inspired hairy chest. Faded blue jeans and a pair of black Doc Marten’s complete his garb.
Following him is a striking redhead. The woman appears to have the genetic makeup of a supermodel potpourri… the offspring of an orgasmic lesbian tryst between Sarah Michelle Gellar, Cindy Crawford, Angie Everhart, Tara Reid, and a vial of donated semen. She’s wearing just enough to cover her beaver, a Daisy Duke cut pair of jean shorts that’d make Daisy Duke call her a slut… and a halter top that struggles with every spandex fiber to harness her marble like, erect nipples. Really hard… like “hang a coat on ‘em hard”. Go ahead, hang your coat on ‘em… she doesn’t mind. Her ruby locks are tied into a pony tail and secured with a pink scrunchie.
Next is a dirty blonde. Not Christina DIRRTY, but trampy nonetheless. She’s wearing less than the redhead, if possible without being naked, and her peroxide mane is frizzed out with a 1980’s hairdryer meets lots or hairspray look. Think the dude that used to sing for Whitesnake. Or Winger. Or Poison. Or any of those other gay looking metal guys from the 80’s. Except for Motley Crue, cause those guys would kick your ass even if the did wear makeup and high heeled boots, and they weren’t gay, either. The blonde’s shorts are the eye candy here… a nice pair of spandex hot pants and she has upgraded from camel toe to moose knuckle.
All three sit on a polar bear fur covered sectional. PETA is still looking for them… ~~~
Steve Studnuts: What’s up, you faggots in BOB? Trey, Seth. how they hangin’? Hey, dudes… my arm’s all better and I’ve finally fully recovered from that kidney thingee you guys pulled. I’d love to talk longer, but Connie and Jizz are about to slob on my wang. Heh.
Connie Lingus: Steve? Do you have to say stuff like that? And I thought you were finished with wrestling…
Studs: Now, now… my horny little redhead. Wrestling’s my life. Besides… I’ve pissed away a lot of dough and I need to beat the shit out of some guys to beef my account back up. That porno gig didn’t quite work out like I thought it would, Hungalot fucked that all up with his donkey dick…. fuckin’ Dirk Diggler mother fucker. I mean really, have you seen that guy’s dick? It’s a wonder ANYBODY can get into porn after that guy showed up.
Jizzabelle Cummings: Oh, come on… it can’t be THAT big.
Studs: Bullshit. The guy can pole vault without the fuckin’ pole, okay? He uses a windsock for a condom…
Connie: * snicker * I know.
Studs: But enough about that shit… I ain’t here to talk all day about Sir Hungalot’s giant schlong….
Jizz: You could…
Studs: Rent a video, you ungrateful hussy. But before you do that, why don’t you wash some fuckin’ dishes and fix me a turkey pot pie? I’m hittin’ the road again and I want this place fuckin’ clean when I get back…
Trey, Seth… crank up the Tour Bus, boys….. the band’s back together.
(glances at Connie and Jizz) You bitches don’t catch nothin’ before I get back, either. Took me three months to get those warts off last time. Ya dig?
~~~ Steve winks at the camera. Static ensues. ~~~