Archive for September, 2005

The posthumous inequities a youth faces in hell…

September 26th, 2005

Kevin the Pyromaniac

[We open to the stairway to heaven, Kevin the Pyromaniac is there being egged on by Kurt Angel.]

KA: Go on, off you go.

KtP: But I’m too young to die!

KA: You’re already dead.

KtP: I guess I can’t argue with that, I suppose I’ll be fucking supermodels and pornstars 24/7 in heaven.

Death: Actually…

[The stairway parts beneath Kevin’s feet and he falls down into the agonizing pits of hell. He is in whatever circle it is that Dante wrote about that is all ice and shit. Kevin tries to light a match but gets nothing. All is unflammable.]


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September 25th, 2005
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Wig Show

[We open to a generic locker room at a BOB house show. There is a miniature American flag in sight to show that we aren’t in that cesspool called England anymore as The Wig Show sits staring blankly at the You Gotta Be Kidding I Ain’t Doing That Are You Out Of Your Frickin’ Mind? Hardcore Title Belt.]

Wig Show: Did I do a good job last week aiding you in winning yourself again, master?

The YGBKIADTAYOOYFM Hardcore Belt: …

Wig Show: Thank you, sir. You are the greatest title to ever hold itself. And with you in my corner nothing can stand in my way of becoming the Only World Champion That Matters!

The YGBKIADTAYOOYFM Hardcore Belt: …

Wig Show: Well that’s not very nice.

The YGBKIADTAYOOYFM Hardcore Belt: …

Wig Show: There’s no need to use that kind of language!

The YGBKIADTAYOOYFM Hardcore Belt: …

Wig Show: I am NOT a bitch!

The YGBKIADTAYOOYFM Hardcore Belt: …

Wig Show: I’ll go get your sandwich.

The YGBKIADTAYOOYFM Hardcore Belt: …

Wig Show: Mayo!?

The YGBKIADTAYOOYFM Hardcore Belt: …

Wig Show: Ok, I’ll go make it.

[The Wig Show leaves for baffling reasons. We fade out with a shot of the new YGBKIADTAYOOYFM Hardcore champ, the YGBKIADTAYOOYFM Hardcore Title Belt as it stares coldly into the camera.]


Stronger Than Me?

September 18th, 2005
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Heaven. 3:33 p.m. Death was on his way to see the Big Guy, when he bumped into somebody in the waiting room.


“Oh, hey, buddy. How’s it going?” Satan greeted.

“Not too bad. Gonna be winning a title soon in sports entertainment. Yourself?”

“Ah, the usual. You know. Corrupting the innocent, whispering lies into every human’s ear. The usual fun stuff. Just had to stop in to talk to Mr. “I’m God.” I’ve been looking for Kurt Angel everywhere. He owes me for some good weed I sold him.”

“Aww, Satan. Don’t you ever give up?” Death said, shaking his head in disappointment.


“St. Peter off today?”

“I guess so. It is football season. So…have you seen lately?”

“No,” Death said, sounding intrigued. “Why?”

“Oh. No reason. Say, I’ve got to get going. Give me a call sometime. We’ll go out for drinks like the old days.”

“Sounds fine. See ya.”

“Later, bro.”

Satan headed out, shutting the door behind him. Death was about to go knock on God’s door, but paused, noticing that St. Peter’s computer was on. Tempted, Death took a seat and clicked on Internet Explorer and typed in the WWE Web site. He saw the usual stuff there, but there was a rotating advertisement for this evening’s pay-per-view. Then, something came on that made Death say:

“God damnit!”

Death heard the door creak open behind him.

“Who shalt take your Lord thy God’s name in vain?” God demanded.

Death slowly turned around and looked at God.

“Death?” God queried. “What could possibly makest thou take your Lord thy Employer’s name in vain?”

“Matt Freaking Hardy.”

“Oy. Your Lord thy God was afraid thou wouldst see his T-shirt.”

“Stronger Than Death? Who does this punk think he is?” Death asked.

“Was that a rhetorical question?” God asked.

“Matt Hardy, you little jackass. You think you’re so great? You’re a moron, Matt. Were you not working for those idiots during the amazing invasion angle a couple years ago? C’mon, Matt! You couldn’t even finish a match last month, you pussy! Yeah, I’m scared of you, you punk ass bitch!”

“Oy, a shoot promo in your Lord thy God’s office. Come in when thou is finished yelling at the computer screen.”

“Your federation has handled this farce of a storyline as good as a virgin would have handled a porn star. Your company is a joke. That’s why I won’t even go work for those idiots. Well, that, and I’m a fictional character, but that’s not the point. The point is, you are going to be seeing me real soon, Matt Farty. Oh yeah, I went there. Bring your real ass to BOB and we’ll see who will not die then. That’s right, I’m calling you out Matt Farty. Bring your ass to BOB and we’ll see who the man is. You’re pathetic. And you have a lazy eye! And your brother Jeff has two modes: crappy and crappier!’

“Is thou done yet?” God asked from his office. “I have dinner with my son in an hour.”

“Umm…I guess. Coming, Boss.”

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September 1st, 2005
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Rob Van Spam

[This scene begins with nothing but smoke billowing towards the camera. Behind the gray fog we see the silhouette of one of BOB’s latest rip-off gimmicks, Rob Van Spam. He has a bandage over his chin and is, as to be expected, smoking a joint.]

RVS: Heyy dudes.

[He takes a few more tokes.]

RVS: I’m here on my own today because I wanted to get a few things off my chest about this dump I’ve just signed to. Brawlers on a Budget, you guys have no sense. I don’t know if you guys are totally incapable or just fucking drunk all the time, but you guys are totally missing the point.

[He puffs the last of his spliff and blows that smoke at the camera.]

RVS: Last sunday at, uhh, sunday morning chloroform… this happened.

[Rob points to his chin.]

RVS: Some bitch attacked me during my match. Afterwards I asked some guys backstage who he was. ‘Luke Warm? Who the hell is that?’ I asked.

[He pulls a bong out from behind his back and takes a few hits off that.]

RVS: You dudes can’t have guys messing up my matches, I’m the whole frickin show for fucks sake! Mr. Sunday Morning!

[A door opens to the side, but you can’t see it for all the smoke. A whistle is blown at a loud volume and Bill Alfalfa walks into view.]

RVS: Tell ’em Alfie, these guys shouldn’t be fucking around with the whole fudging show!

BA:Thatsrightdaddyrobvanspamisthegreatistandyouarejutslosers! Hestepsintheringanddoesthethingwiththekicksandthespinningthingwherehegoesanddoesthatotherthing, thenthezthaonetwothreeasbillalfalfacallsit straight down the middle, daddy andrvsfourtwentyisthewinnerandyouaretheloser!

RVS: That’s right Alfie. So all you Rob Van Spam fans out there, and I know you reading this right now are one, don’t forget to buy my t-shirt. And maybe you could win a free iPod!!!

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