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Pete “Trouble?” In “Paradise?”

May 22nd, 2008

The Great

(In his home in St. Louis, Missouri, The Great has a crisis on his hands. The Great is discussing the problem with his wife—)

“The Great”: Where’s Pete Trable? The Great has a situation The Great needs to exterminate.

The Great’s wife: Why? What’s going on?

“The Great”: The Great is certain you know what is going on. The Great caught Lori texting a friend that she had a “thing” for her Daddy’s tag-team partner, because he was “SO HOT”! That’s disgusting! Lori is 15 years old! Pete’s what? 30?

The Great’s wife: Oh, it’s just a crush. She’ll get over it.

“The Great”: Nick is running around saying “Word to ya, Mother. Hey Mother, word to ya!” Every time he sees you, “Word to ya, Mother!”

The Great’s wife: Yeah, that’s pretty annoying.

“The Great”: And then, The Great saw your mother yesterday morning wearing baggy pants. She had a giant gold chain around her neck and her hair was done in cornrows. She said to The Great, “Wat up, my_______? And then she referred to The Great as the n-word. It’s ridiculous, that woman is damn near 70 years old!

The Great’s wife: Oh, that’s cute! Mom asked me to do the cornrows. She wants a frizzy wigger afro next week.

“The Great”: Okay, The Great has had enough! And Little Johnny? Do you know what he’s currently working on? He’s trying to build an army of Pete robots to take over the world.

The Great’s wife: WHAT?! WHAAAAAAAT?! Where are we going to keep them?!

“The Great”: You’re not worried about the takeover?

The Great’s wife: For crying out loud, hell no! They’ll take up too much room! I need my space!

“The Great”: The Great reasons that a personal web page for friends will not help.

The Great’s wife: Not MySpace, you idiot! Johnny, get down here!

(Seconds later, the Great Family’s 5 year old is in view.)

Little Johnny: You summonded me, Breeder?

The Great’s wife: Your father tells me you’re building an army of Pete Trable robots to take over the world.

Little Johnny: That is correct. They would seem to be a smidge more intimidating than Ryan Seacrest droids, and slightly less irritating.

The Great’s wife: Well, where do you plan on keeping them, hmmm?

Little Johnny: I’m devising a technologically advanced pill form to where all I need do is add water when D-Day is set. Therefore, the robots will set dormant in my shoebox until I’m ready to spring my plans into action. They will not impede on everyday goings on in our household, nor will they take up any additional occupancy. Then all I’ll need is a gallon of purified spring water, preferably a mountain stream variety, without electrolytes added. I add a drop to each pill, and then a fully functional, Pete Trable cyborg will emerge, practically growing out of the pill. That is, if my calculations are accurate.

The Great’s wife: Okay then.

“The Great”: Huh? Are you serious?

The Great’s wife: As long as there’s not 30 thousand Petes around here when I’m trying to watch Days of our Lives—-

“The Great”: You’re kidding! Okay, whatever. It’s not going to work anyway. If you add water to the pills, the robots will rust.

Little Johnny: It’s poly alloy, Father. With a protective flesh armor. You’re such an infantile pea brain at times.

(Little Johnny stomps away as if insulted.)

“The Great”: Look, The Great cannot have these extracurricular activities throwing The Great off The Great’s game. The Great was fortunate to defeat Seth Harker at Implosion 5. The Great has a huge battle royal coming up and The Great needs total concentration. The Great has also learned that The Domino has returned to the Brawler’s on a Budget, and an impending “Battle of Guys that refer to themselves in Third Person” is imminent. Pete is a distraction. He has to move out.

The Great’s wife: Aww, that’s a shame. Pete even wrote a song about me.

“The Great”: He did?

XFactor Pete Trable

(At that moment, Pete Trable slides across the floor ala Tom Cruise in Risky Business. The beat of Naughty by Nature’s OPP starts up.)

Pete: Yo, I think it’s time— that I should explain it.
Your girl is psycho-so-matic, that explains it.
Some say it’s ob-sess-ive, compulsive.
I don’t know, but your girl is kinda repulsive.

I’ll tell ya but I think you already know.
The bitch ties her shoes fifty times in a row.
You may be blind, but I think you really need to see.
The diagnosis is pretty damn plain to me:

YOUR GIRL GOT O.C.D.!

The Great’s wife: Yeah, he know me!

YOUR GIRL GOT O.C.D.!

The Great’s wife: Yeah, he know me!

YOUR GIRL GOT O.C.D.!

The Great’s wife: Yeah, he know me!

YOUR GIRL GOT O.C.D.!

The Great’s wife: That’s right, homey!

“The Great”: Please stop it! The Great can’t take anymore!

(The Mother in Law struts in, with a gait reminiscent of “Rudy” from Fat Albert.)

The Mother in Law: Whah whuh whah, WHAH whuh whuh whah?

“The Great”: No, The Great has not seen your gat, your 40 of O.E., or your crowbar so you can go roll some transients over at the park. How is The Great ever going to train for Implosion 7 with all this going on? How? HOW?

(To be continued???)

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