Re-Writing The Book: The Return Of Something Completely Stupid!

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Happy holidays, friends. Since it’s the holidays, and we’re all kicked back and relaxed, I figured I’d spit out something a little easier to digest then tragedy and revenge and such heavy topics. If you remember this, then you know where I’m going with this. That’s right, since fan reaction was so good last time (which puzzles me to this day), and because I’m a lazy son of a bitch and want some time off, I bring to you …

The Return Of Something Completely Stupid!

Same format as before: short stories, no scheme or semblance of order. Just stupidity.

The continuing adventures of Triple H and his sledgehammer in his every day life …

Triple H grumbles, muttering under his breath, trying to keep his teeth from chattering. He has suffered before to get ahead … Arkansas Hog Pen matches, the 4 minute squash by The Ultimate Roid-head…but nothing like this. Never like this.

Ahead of him, he spies another group of people coming up. A couple with an ankle-biter, maybe 8 or 9, bounding around their feet like some cracked-up monkey. A gaggle of pudgy, brain-dead housewives, clucking and guffawing about a soap opera or who’s f*cking who’s husband or something. A couple of pimply-faced, stump-dumb teenagers.

He bends over, reaching for his cup of coffee on the ground, but the red, pointy hat on his head slides off and tumbles onto the wet, dirty pavement. Immediately, the filth and grime start soaking into the fluffy, white border of the hat. Triple H growls, snatches the hat back up and picks up his coffee. He takes a sip, only to spit it back out; even hot, it tasted like sewer water run through Bruno Sammartino’s used Depends. Now, lukewarm … toxic waste in a styrofoam cup.

A cold wind kicks up, freezing his exposed skin. Snow starts to fall; not in happy, “It’s A Wonderful Life”-like lazy drift through the winter air, no, no. This was a full-blown, balls to the wall blizzard, the kind where the snowflakes cut through your skin and burrow into your bloodstream. Pretty soon, the landscape would look whiter then Scott Hall’s coffee table on a Saturday evening.

And here he was, stuck in a stupid Santa outfit, standing next to a bucket with a coin slot in front of a Target in some dipshit suburban nightmare. The lengths he would put himself through to split Steph’s buns never ceased to amaze him … and the lengths she would make him go to to tap her ass never ceased to amaze him either.

The housewives approach first; Triple H gamely rings his bell, smiling the best smile he can manage and says, “Merry Christmas, ladies!”. The lead housefrau catches his glance, notices the mighty flow of snot coming out of his immense proboscis and silently edges away without missing a beat of the conversation, pushing her group of tubby friends in the opposite direction. Triple H grumbles again, reaching for a Kleenex as they disappear through the doors.

He feels someone tap him on the shoulder; it is one of the teenagers he’d seen coming up. He can’t be older then 13; the perfect age to be some nitwit Internet-worshipping freak who thinks he knows all and Triple H makes Hitler look like Mother Theresa. And sure enough, he’s wearing a Benoit t-shirt; a total loser.

“Dude, ain’t you Triple H?” the kid says.

“Maybe I am, kid. What do you want, an autograph or something?”

The kid stomps Triple H’s foot; his buddy launches a snowball, which pegs Triple H right in the face. Triple H howls in pain as the two kids point and laugh … until, from behind him, he hears the sounds he has been longing to hear all day: metal hitting metal. Money hitting the bucket and falling in. Triple H turns towards the sound and sees two coins hit the bucket. It’s not much, but it’s a start …

… until he notices the coins are Canadian money. Totally worthless (even in Canada) to his anal cause. It is the last straw; butt-sex or no butt-sex, he has had enough with this endeavor.

Triple H’s blood rises from a simmer to a boil faster then Missy Hyatt can spread her legs for a promoter. He reaches behind the tripod holding up the bucket and feels it … his friend … his ally … his most trusted companion. His sledgehammer.

Triple H swings; BAM!, and the bucket goes flying, sending the buck and a half he’d made in the past four hours into the air and burying itself in the rapidly growing snow. The idiot who dropped the Canadian money turns around and freezes, making him a perfect target. Triple H swings and connects, sending the stupid son of a bitch flying into the glass doors. Another swing, and the two wiseass internet “smarts” collapse faster then Jake Roberts at last call. Triple H strikes his pose with a mighty Tarzan roar and screams “I AM THE GAME!!!

A knock on the door behind him draws his attention. Triple H spins around, and immediately, his blood comes to a boil again. Chris Jericho is behind the entrance door, wearing a Toys For Tots shirt and surrounded by kids and hot chicks, flipping him the bird and smiling a smile bigger then Tammy Sytch’s ass. The sight of the lousy little loudmouthed moose-f*cker is enough to almost set him off again, but Jericho points past Triple H. Triple H follows the point and sees Stephanie’s limo pull up and laughs as he escapes back into the warmth of the store.

What if The Ultimate Warrior were a contestant on The $25,000 Pyramid?

Donny Osmond smiles his best toothy, down-home, welcome to the show grin as he explains the rules. “You all know how the game is played; each contestant will have 40 seconds to guess six clues explained by our celebrity guests. They cannot use any words in the clue to get the contestants to say the clue. As per the coin flip before the show, Bob, you and your partner …” Donny looks down at his index card; his eyebrows go up. “The … Ultimate Warrior?” He looks up at the man sitting in the chair; he is a beefy, but short man, covered in multi-colored face paint that looks like a rainbow threw up, naked save for boots, brightly colored underwear and tassels hanging from damn near every limb. And, from the looks of him, he is seething and about ready to explode; his jaw is clinched, his fists two tight balls, and his eyes bulging out of his skull like the Taco Bell Chihuahua. “Well, you’ll be going first. Select your category.”

Bob surveys the gameboard. “Um … I’ll take ‘Around The House’.”

“Okay, um … Mister … um …”

Warrior points up at the sky, looking up into the rafters (and, somehow, ignoring the bright stage lights which would blind any other person) “By the gloriosity of the gods above, they cast down upon mine soul, the name of The Warrior! Call me that!”

“Call you what?”

“The name of The Warrior!”

“What warrior?”

The Warrior, you simpletonian! Now stop wasting valuablisified Warrior time!”

Donny pauses, then nods. “Fine then, The Warrior. Warrior, your clues will appear on the screen in front of you. Your clock begins now.”

Warrior glances down and checks his clue, nods and begins. “Oh, by the powerful of this sphericized device’s luminosisness, driving the demons and the un-non-believers into the darkness of their own consciousosity -“

“What?”

But The Warrior continues as if Bob isn’t even there. “Woe to those who fight against the arising illumificacity brought forth by the orbloid I speak of-“

“Dude, I have no clue-“

“-for they have forsooken their ancestors’ descendants and forgotten their future past, wallowing in the destrucity-“

“Donny, can I pass?”

“-of their hardified black internalizified souls. They shall all tremble and bow-“

“What are you talking about?”

“-before the combagnified strongthness of the One Warrior Nation! All it takes is a single group of a alonely Warrior-“

Would you shut the hell up?!? We’re gonna-“

The buzzer cuts through the chatter. Warrior leaps up out of his chair, running his hands through his fingers. “Where is he? Where is that witch doctor?” The Warrior lets loose a of a primal, kidney stone-passing scream, rips the chair off the stage and throws it across the stage; he reaches into his tights, pulls out a handful of something and throws it down, producing a thick cloud of smoke to cover his exit.

“I’m sorry,” says Donny. “The answer was ‘light bulb’. No points for you this round. However, since your partner has … left, so to speak … we have booked a replacement. Your new partner … Kamala!”

What if Vince Russo’s life was as crazy and nonsensical as his booking?

“All rise,” the bailiff announces. The gallery, the lawyers and the defendant all stand; the defendant, Vince Russo, has his hands in front of him, trying to look as penitent. “Court is now in session; the honorable Judge Mathers presiding.”

The judge comes out of chambers and takes his seat, then orders everyone else to be seated. The court clerk stands again, reading from the docket; “The people versus Vince Russo; Mister Russo stands accused of driving while intoxicated. How do you plead?”

“Not guilty, your honor,” says Vince.

“Mr. Sneed, call your first witness,” says the judge.

Phil Sneed stands and proudly says; “The State calls Officer Lyons.” A doughy guy who makes Ed Ferrara look like Lex Luger waddles up to the stand and is sworn in. “State your name for the record.”

“Officer Bill Lyons.”

“Good. Now, then, Officer Lyons, if you would turn your attention to the monitor here …” Sneed steps over to a television monitor. The image, a grainy black and white piece of footage, shot from the inside of a car, pointing out towards another car. “On the night of November 21st, you had occasion to stop the defendant and pull him over, is that correct?”

“Yes, that is correct.”

“For what purpose?”

“His car was swerving erratically across four lines Interstate 80. I figured it would be prudent to pull him over and issue a sobriety test.”

“Your honor, I now wish to show you the video of the traffic stop.” The video rolls, showing a car cutting across lanes on a fairly quiet highway. “And when you pulled over the defendant, did he show signs of intoxication that enforced and explained the erratic driving patterns?”

“Yes, he did.”

“No further questions, your honor.” Sneed sits down as the defense lawyer, Joe Bell, stands up.

“Officer Lyons, how did you determine that Mr. Russo was, indeed, drunk?” asks Bell.

“Well, I administered the usual tests; saying the alphabet backwards, walking a straight line, touching the tip of his nose.”

“And he failed all of these?”

“Oh yes. He almost poked his eye out.”

“In fact, did you not give him an on-the-spot breathalyzer test?”

“Yes, I did.”

Bell leans over the retaining wall, getting into Officer Lyons’ face. “And did he not, in fact, blow well over the legal limit?”

Lyons looks up at the judge, totally confused by the line of questioning. The judge shrugs and looks to the prosecution, who shrugs as well and holds a hand up, as if to say go right ahead, let him build the case for me. The judge says; “Please answer counsel’s question, Officer Lyons.”

Lyons looks nervously from the judge to the lawyer. “Um, well, yes, he did. Almost double the legal limit.”

“In fact,” the defense lawyer says, “was he not so terribly, piss-stinking drunk that he offered to make love to your shoes?”

Lyons looks up again at the judge nervously. The judge leans forward, peering at Bell. “Just where is this line of questioning going, counsel? If I didn’t know any better, I’d swear you’re working for the prosecution.”

“That’s because I am, your honor!” The gallery, Russo and the officer all gasp as Bell grabs his briefcase and papers off the defendant’s table and deposits it on the prosecution side. “I have been all along, secretly feeding the prosecution damning evidence to so we can send this sick, pathetic son of a bitch to the firing squad!”

The judge and shakes his head. “Did you just say the firing squad? Need I remind you that we use lethal injection as a method of execution, Mr. Bell, and that the charges don’t even come close to qualifying for such a penalty?”

“We must draw a line in the sand somewhere, your honor. Why not here, why not now?”

The judge’s head falls into his hands. “Do you realize what you’re advocating? We haven’t even convicted this man yet!”

Russo raises a hand. “Um, pardon me, but aren’t I innocent-“

No!” Bell yells. “Now sit there and take your death sentence like a man!”

“Mr. Sneed, do you have anything to add to your new co-counsel?”

“I do, your honor.” Sneed stands up, straightens his tie, clears his throat and swings his briefcase at Bell’s head. “There’s no f*cking way I’d be on a legal team with this asswipe!” Sneed composes himself, calmly transporting his papers and briefs to the other side of the courtroom. “I now, and in truth, always have represented Mr. Russo. It is my intention to show that my client was slipped a mickey earlier on in the evening by this unscrupulous policeman who just so happens to be Mr. Russo’s long lost half-brother!

All heads whip around to the new defense lawyer, mouths agape. “It’s true. Officer Lyons and the defendant share a father, a devious, cheating bastard who happened to seduce someone under his protection years ago while married to Mr. Russo’s mother. It is our intention to prove that the arrest of Mr. Russo is a diabolical plot hatched by Officer Lyons, launched decades ago, so as to send Mr. Russo to prison for a crime he did not commit.”

“Wait a minute, wait a minute,” the judge says. “You mean to tell me that Officer Lyons enrolled in the police force, suffered through training and the rookie years of being a police officer, all so he could frame a man for driving while intoxicated?”

“Not just any man, your honor, his half-brother.”

“Is this making sense to anyone?” the judge asks.

The clerk stands up, clearing his throat. “It is to me … perhaps because”-he jabs a finger at the judge, his brow knotting, the veins in his neck sticking out further then Joanie Laurer’s fake chest-“this man is an imposter!” The clerk springboards up the railing for the witness stand and up onto the judge’s desk, tearing at the judge’s face. A wig flies off, followed by putty make-up. The clerk moves aside to reveal to the gallery and all assembled the real identity of the judge: Hulk Hogan.

The clerk/judge jumps down to the floor as Hogan tries to cover his face. “Officer Lyons was hired by Hulk Hogan to deliver Vince Russo to this court to exact revenge for Bash At The Bash 2000!” he proclaims.

Vince Russo stands up, grabs the water pitcher and crashes it over the clerk’s head. The clerk goes down in a heap, blood and water soaking his head, laughing maniacally. “You all fell for it! This was my master plan to humiliate Hulk Hogan once and for all! I have gotten my revenge for Bash At The Beach 2000! BWAHAHAHAHA!!!

The audience sits, confused, save for one man, who cups a hand over his mouth in the direction of the man sitting next to him, Eric Bischoff. Vince McMahon whispers; “Still makes more sense then the Higher Power story.”

What if Jim Ross did commentary for other activities besides wrestling?

“We are live, and just moments away from finding out who truly has the best chili in all of Texas! Good evening, everyone, Jim Ross here at the Texas Roadhouse Chili Cook-off. We’ve seen some big action leading up to this, but by far, tonight should crazier then a pet coon! Let’s join the action; the cooks have approached their pots, and are ready to begin.” There is a pause, the cooks ready, hands on ingredients. A whistle sounds, and the cooks spring into action. “And there’s the bell! Chef Julie is off and running, throwing in the tomatoes, but Chef John is concentrating on the meat … it’s riskier then kissing a jumped-up wolverine. Chef John, stands about six-three, 245, outta Florida State where he was on the field hockey team, likes to collect stamps and butterflies in his spare time, and enjoys shooting ducks in the head with an air-rifle at the city park. Chef Julie, meanwhile, is five-three, 125 pounds, went to UCLA where she played flute in the marching band, served on the student council as the secretary, and lost her virginity in the backseat of a ’78 Dodge Dart when she was 15 to her step-brother. Chef Julie is … I don’t believe it! Chef Julie is flirting with Chef John! What a jezebel! Dear god, son, don’t fall for it! Don’t fall for it! He didn’t! He didn’t! He’s focusing on the meat! He’s browned the meat, and he’s draining it! Chef Julie’s gonna have to fight harder then Paul Heyman at a writer’s meeting to gain any ground! She’s got the base finished, now she’s adding spices … salt … pepper … and … wait, she’s not going for the chili powder, folks, she’s … OH MY GOD, she’s going for the cayenne pepper! She’s gonna go all the way, just like she did when she was 15, the dirty little jezebel! And … GOOD GOD ALMIGHTY! GOOD GOD ALMIGHTY! GOOD GOD ALMIGHTY! The cap came off! She’s ruined her chili with cayenne pepper! As God as my witness, in all the 12 minutes I’ve been calling chili cook-offs, I have never seen anything like that!”

What if Stone Cold Steve Austin hosted a wild animal show?

Steve Austin looks the camera right in the lens, eyes hidden behind sunglasses. In one hand is a rifle longer then Joanie Laurer’s penis, and in the other, a half-finished six pack of Bud. “Well, hell, son, welcome to the Stone Cold show,” he says, waving everyone in. “We’re gonna have us a good ol’ time today. We’re up here in Oh-ree-gone, and we’re huntin’ all sorts a’ crap.” Austin starts to stomp away towards his pick-up, a rusty, beaten up hunk of junk that looks like it could fall over from a stiff fart. “Well, pile in, ya dumb bastards, we’s gots to get ourselves into the woods!” Austin tosses the rifle in through the passenger window, then rips off another can of beer and chugs it, spilling most of it on his chest. He turns the key, which struggles to turn over once, twice, three times before finally catching and coming to life. He drives away, leaving a spray of mud and dust behind him.

They finally come into a stop in a dense forest, filled with thick evergreen trees. “Alright, now ol’ Stone Cold’s got a surprise for you all,” he says, looking at the camera. “Y’all know Stone Cold never done settled for second best, and that’s what all them mealy-mouthed bastards who go huntin’ deer or bunny-rabbits do. No, Stone Cold has got bigger plans then some dumb rat …” Austin leans into his truck and pulls out a box full of empties. “See, when you’re going for the big game, you gotta use the big bait.” Austin carries his box into the woods, stopping when he gets to a large wall of stone and mountain; set into the wall is a massive cave that looks emptier then Tony Schiavone’s head. Austin walks up to the mouth of it, sets the box down and starts yelling. “C’mon, ya piece of [bleep]! Get the [bleep] out here!”

One of the producers comes around camera and taps Austin on the shoulder as he reaches into the box. “Mr. Austin, what exactly is in there?”

Austin pulls out a small, red cylindrical item with a long green stem: an M-80. Austin pulls a lighter out of his pocket, lights the illegal firecracker and heaves it at the cave’s open maw. The producer taps Austin on the shoulder again, but Austin shushes him with an upraised hand (and without even turning around). The explosion ruptures the stillness of the land and, from the bowels of the cave, a low, groaning noise that sounds like a 30-foot high tuba comes wafting out. The producer grabs Austin’s sleeve and spins Austin to face him.

“What in the hell did you do? What did you just do?”

“Well, I gotta wake the bear somehow! Should I’ve called it nice, like some stupid puppy? ‘Here, bear, bear, bear, c’mere ya big walking [bleep]ing rug!’ Would thata made you happier? Well, guess what, ya silly bastard; Stone Cold does things Stone Cold’s way!”

The producer tries to run away, but Austin grabs him by the scruff of the shirt. “Whoa, whoa, whoa, where you goin’? Stone Cold didn’t say you can go nowhere!” Now hand me a beer can!” The producer hesitates, earning him a stiff slap. “I said hand me a beer can! Do I gotta do everyth-aw, Christ, wouldja look at that?” Austin points down at the man’s crotch, which is soaked through with urine (caught on a very shaky camera by an equally frightened cameraman). “Ya pissed yer pants, ya big baby! You’re pathetic! What? I said pathetic! What? You’re sad! What? You’re nothing! Now hand Stone Cold a [bleep]damn beer can!”

The producer pulls out an empty can, giving it to Austin with hands shaking harder then Chris Candido after a line of pure Columbian. Austin grabs the can and hurls it like a juiced-up MLB pitcher. Its sound is nowhere near as deafening or impressive as the firecracker, but Austin demands more cans and hurls everyone of them, like some crazy batting cage ball-throwing machine, heckling the bear the entire time. Finally, the bear comes lumbering out of the cave, its hibernation disturbed by Austin.

“Sh-sh-shall I g-g-g-g-get the gun, Mr. Austin?” the producer asks.

“Hell, no, I ain’t done yet! Another [bleep]in’ can!” The producer hesitates, and that’s enough for Austin to shove him on his ass and grab cans himself. He hurls them one after another, taunting the bear until it’s close enough for him to hit with the cans. One connects on the shoulder, another in the leg; it’s the shot in the head, dead-to-nuts between the eyes, that pisses off the bear the most. He rears up on his hind legs for a moment and roars. Austin flips him a pair of birds and looks at the camera; “Aw, big dumb sumbitch thinks he’s scared. Why, I done put down The Undertaker, and that big red retard Kane, and the Big Show … ain’t no [bleep]in’ way some stupid animal can outwit ol’ Stone Cold!”

Austin stomps up to the bear and gives it another pair of fingers before kicking it in the chest, then wrapping his arms around the bear’s massive neck and dropping down in a Stunner. Austin stands up immediately, fingers in the air in triumph … until the bear swings one of his massive paws, sending Austin sprawling through the air like straw in a hurricane.

Vince McMahon turns off his television, shaking his head. “It’s an interesting idea,” he tells the television executive sitting across his desk. “but the bear doesn’t sell enough. Put Triple H in there, and I guaran-damn-tee you that bear’s gonna f*ckin’ sell!”

More! … What if certain members of the IWC booked the WWE?

Rick Scaia

The Monday Night Raw preview from WWE.com

Last night’s New Year’s Revolution was unlike any other event in the history of wrestling! Under new General Manager Rick “Thumbs In The Middle” Scaia, every match at last night’s pay-per-view extravaganza ended in a draw! The ever-critical GM gave the event a “thumbs in the middle”, and promised that tonight, on Raw, there would be more action designed to stay on the fence!

CRZ

The Monday Night Raw preview from WWE.com

For a complete transcript of last night’s New Year’s Revolution, or for tonight’s Monday Night Raw, please see our transcript ordering section at WWE.com/transcripts.

If, however, you made fun of head writer CRZ’s fiancee in our forums, or disagree with the direction of the company, you are no longer allowed to watch WWE ever again. Rubes.

What if the Presidential race was flooded with wrestling personalities?

Dan Rather, seated at the moderator’s desk, clears his throat and begins talking, bringing the murmur in the crowd to a halt. “Good evening, and welcome to the first debate between the independent candidates for the President of the United States. With scandals of corruption, drugs and extramarital affairs crippling the campaigns of both the Republican and Democratic candidates, a virtual army of men have stepped forward and thrown their hat into the ring to compete for the highest office in the land. And, perhaps conspicuously, the 8 leading candidates all come from one similar background: professional wrestling. The 8 candidates are”-the camera for the home viewers switches to static shots of each man as his name is announced-“World Wrestling Entertainment Chairman Vince McMahon, former WWE and WCW Champion Hulk Hogan, former WWE Champion and motion picture star The Rock, former governor of Minnesota Jesse Ventura, former WWE star and televangelist Ted DiBiase, former WWE and WCW Champion Randy Savage, former NWA and ECW Champion Terry Funk, and former NWA, WCW and WWF World Champion Ric Flair.” Rather turns to the platform, and adds; “You are all aware of the rules; due to the number of participants tonight, a question will be asked of one person, who will be allowed a 60-second response. Each person thereafter will be allowed a 30-second rebuttal, in an order predetermined by …” Rather checks his notes; an eyebrow jumps up in an arch. “Does this say pose down?” Rather shakes his head incredulously. “This is dumber then a sheep in a horserace. Anyway, the order has been predetermined, so, without further ado, we shall begin.”

“Oooh, yeah,” says Savage. “Not so fast, slick. The Macho Man has a beef, has a beef, not a Slim Jim, just a beef, ooooh yeah!”

Rather blinks and shakes his head. “What? What did you just say?”

“The Macho Man doesn’t wanna stand next to this“-he jabs a finger to his right, at Hogan-“punk! Dig it! The Macho Man won’t continue unless I’m guaranteed limo service to and from this venue, and I want the Oval Office, oooooooh, yeah! Dig it!”

“Mr. Savage, the limo service was already provided, with security from the Secret Service. And we cannot guarantee you the Presidency.”

“Then the Macho Man is outta here! Dig it!” Macho pushes his podium over and stomps backstage, muttering the whole time.

Rather sighs, then, ever the professional, carries on and turns to DiBiase first. “Mr. DiBiase; Social Security has been under the gun in the past several years. Estimates by the General Accounting Office and prior administrations have declared that, unless the system is repaired or revamped, Social Security will as broke as Marlon Brando’s pogo stick. What would a DiBiase administration do about this fiscal pig in a poke?”

DiBiase snaps and, from the curtains, comes Virgil. “Ya know something, Dan, everybody’s got a price for the Million Dollar Man,” he says with a grin. Virgil pulls out a wad of cash and fans out five 100 dollar bills. “What kind of price does Dan Rather have to make this question go away?”

“Mr. DiBiase! I am a journalist, and the moderator of this debate! I am not-“

“Are you daft?” declares Vince. “Or am I alone in recalling your debacle with the Texas Air National Guard and certain memos?”

Rather looks down. “Touche. Nevertheless, I am not going to allow you to buy your way our of questions, Mr. DiBi-“

“Virgil.” Virgil whips out five more bills. “Name your price, Rather. No matter how it is, I can hit it.”

Rather sighs. “Fine, we’ll come back to Mr. DiBiase. Mr. Ventura, same question. You have 30 seconds.”

“The problems facing Social Security cannot be ignored,” Ventura says with stateman-like authority. “To do so would cost future generations of the money they have worked for. I will authorize a task force to investigate the cost of overhauling the system, be it through privatization-“

“Privatizing anything is a disaster,” interrupts Vince. “Letting people make their own decisions is ludicrous. If the wrestlers can’t manage their money on their own, it’s their problem, not mine. I shouldn’t have to bend to the will of some stupid union-“

“Mr. McMahon, it is not your turn yet. Please wait-“

“Do you know who I am, Rather? I’m the Chairman of a multi-billion dollar company! I’m the genetic jackhammer! I’m-“

“The guy who created the World Bodybuilders Federation and the XFL,” says Ventura. “Can we stay on topic?”

“Ya know something, brother,” says Hogan, “me and The Body don’t get along, but he’s got a point. McMahon … you may have made Hulkamania, but Hulkamania made Vince McMahon! And whatcha gonna do … when the largest arms in the world run wild on you, Vince?”

“Are you threatening me, you insufferable, ignorant clown?”

GENTLEMEN! PLEASE!” The panel turns back to Rather, who has his head in his hands. When he finally raises his head again, his eyes are weary, but furious. “Can we please focus?” When everyone nods, Rather continues. “New question. Mr. Flair; recently, Canada has indicated that they may pass legislation to legalize and recognize same-sex marriages, mirroring the efforts some states have already pioneered. This has created a massive moral backlash here in the United States, dividing the country in half in a way few other issues can manage. What stance would a Flair administration take on it?”

MEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE” (Vince looks at his watch) “EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE” (Funk takes a drink of water) “EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE” (Savage pokes his head out of the curtains, sees Hogan still there, and ducks back in) “EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE” (Hogan applies another layer of bronzing lotion) “EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE-” DiBiase walks behind Flair and slaps him in the back of the head. Flair shakes his head, as if rattled, then goes right back to what he was doing without pause. “WOOOOOO! BY GOD, GENE!

“Um, Mr. Flair, who is Gene?”

“Mean Gene, the Nature Boy is here, in Charlotte-“

“Actually, this is Dayton, Ohio.”

“-I got the Horsemen with me … and we are set to style and profile and walk that aisle like only the Horsemen can do it! Cause when you-” A woman in the front row catches Flair’s eye; he points at her and winks. “Just you wait, honey, cause Space Mountain is a ride that don’t close. Anyway, cause when you got the Horsemen behind you, you-“

“Aww, shut up, Flair, you old gasbag,” barks Funk. “Ya wanna know what I’d do, Rather? I wouldn’ta chickened out; I woulda dropped a goddamn atomic bomb on them camel f*ckers!”

Excuse me? Ladies and gentlemen, I apologize for-“

“Shut up, Cronkite, your momma’s a two-bit whore! If you wanna piece of the Funker, I’ll shove a branding iron up your ass, just like I’d do that goddam towel-head Osama!”

“Sir, aside from your profanity and racial epithets, which are totally unnecessary, the current question regards gay marriage, not the war on terrorism. And, for the record, I am not Walter Cronkite.”

“Are you sassin’ me, boy? I’ll tan your hide faster then you can say one of them stupid f*cking catchphrases you got!”

“Okay, time for a new question.” Rather selects a card and turns to Hogan. “Mr. Hogan, racial tensions have long been a thorn in the growth of this country. There is still a perception of certain races as lower class, no matter how hard they work or what success they achieve. What would you do to help ease the tension and bridge the gap between races?”

“Ya know something, brother, Hulkamania stands for all people! Hulkamania stands for the United States! And that’s why the Hulkster would enlist all his little Hulkamaniacs to help drive out all those dirty, no-good, lying cheaters who helped blow up our buildings!” Hogan steps out from behind the podium and rips off his shirt, then tosses the remnants into the crowd.

“Mr. Hogan, this debate is on race relations, not national security.”

“It doesn’t matter, Dan Rather, cause the Hulkster isn’t a coward; the Hulkster isn’t a man who backs down from anyone-“

Savage pokes his head through the curtain. “Oooooh, yeah, you want a piece of me, Hogan? You wanna piece of the Macho Man, a piece of the madness? Dig it! Why don’t you come snap into it, dig it!” Hogan barely flinches before Savage disappears into the curtains again.

Hogan opens his mouth, but is cut off by the one person who has, up to now, maintained a strange silence. “Ya know, The Rock has heard a lot of talkin’, a lot of jib-jabberin’ by a bunch of jabronis who think they got what The Rock has, can do what The Rock can do, is who The Rock is. Who is The Rock? He is The Great One, The Chosen One, The People’s Choice and The People’s Champion! What does The Rock have? Why, The Rock has millions …” The Rock waits for the audience to finish his sentence; after several uncomfortable seconds of silence with Rock’s head spent pointed to the spotlights, eyebrow raised, he continues as if the crowd had done as he’d hinted at. “… and millions of fans. And what can The Rock do that no one else can? Why, that’s layeth the smacketh down on aaaaaaaaaaaaalllllllllllllllll these candy-asses!”

“Can we please get back to the questions?” Ventura says. “It’s bad enough that I gotta share a stage with these morons … but can we just get through one debate-“

“You’re just envious,” says Vince, “because I have succeeded in making stars out of these men, while you amounted to nothing!”

“I was governor of Minnesota!”

“And a real success would’ve been governor of a real state! Not Canada’s half-witted step-brother!”

DiBiase interrupts, sending Virgil over to Rather with a briefcase. “Can we just skip this nonsense?” Virgil cracks open the briefcase; it is filled with bricks of money. “A million dollars for the White House. A million dollars, Rather. Think about it.”

The Rock comes out from behind his podium, glaring at DiBiase through his sunglasses. “Why don’t you think about taking that briefcase, turning that sumbitch sideways and sticking it straight up your candy-ass!”

Suddenly, Savage comes sprawling out of the curtains and collapses on the stage. A bulky, psychotic looking man in a leather jacket covered in a denim vest with a sledgehammer. BAM!, and Terry Funk eats hammer, going right off the stage. Hogan gets the hammer next; DiBiase throws Virgil into it and runs from the madman with the hammer. The Rock catches Triple H’s arm mid-swing and sets up for a Rock Bottom, but Flair crotches him and The Rock crumbles. Vince joins the two as they pose at the edge of the stage, Triple H dripping in sweat, while Flair struts around, ripping his suit off piece by piece, while Jesse walks off stage, shaking his head in exasperation.

“Well,” Rather says, addressing the audience and populace of the country. “here they are. Your candidates for President, every one of them as dumb as a porcupine stuck to a watermelon. These are the types of idiots we produce for public office. Do your duty in November: move away.”

The end

Thanks to Bonto and Kurtis for helping with a few of the stories.

Go read Kern in Movies (although saying Dune was a good movie … man, you’re treading on thin ice), Cooling (in Music!!!), the Reader Awards for Games, Goforth, and Eric in Wrestling. And the other sections as well. But not on Xmas (assuming you celebrate it). Be with your family. We’ll be around.

Well, check that … IP will be around. I, however, must inform you all that I’m taking a sabbatical. Between some personal issues I can no longer go without addressing, and the preparations necessary for the InVasion mega-arc, as of the posting of this story, I am on leave. I’ll still pop in on the Roundtables and such, but no new RTB until February 4th. Sorry, friends. I promise, the wait will be worth it. I will be posting in my blog, as normal, with status updates, personal stuff, bonus material, and all sorts of good fun, You check it out, yeah? Meantime, best wishes for your holiday season, whatever you celebrate, and a happy and safe new year. And mark your calendars … February 4th …

The InVasion begins …