The house show saw Seth and myself obtain a victory, though the means were controversial by any definition. A chair slammed into Seth's head ended the match and awarded us the victory. Naturally, I was livid - for all of five minutes. If they were so very certain of a victory that night, why end the match like that? Sheer force of temper? Somehow I doubt it. They don't seem the type. I won't be so arrogant as to say they were afraid, or knew defeat was coming... But I will say this. If you hate us so much, why not strive for a victory? The prestige of having taken out a former world champion and his wife, the queen bitch of RWA. Especially for a cherry poppin' match like that one.
You guys disappointed me. And one more thing i'll note - to you, Johnny. You claim the end of the match saw you walking out, satisfied with what you'd done, and me.. Crying in the ring because of the damage done to my husband. You, sir, are an idiot. Seth has been concussed so many times that he's nearly built up an immunity. Hell, half of the concussions have probably been my own doing. So why the fuck do I care? He'll live. He'll get up again. And when he does, he's gonna fuck you little bastards up. I myself could care less what you do. You do not concern me. However if you're inventing images of contradicting reality, and actually believing them, then you may have a condition someone should look into. And you may wonder why I don't give a shit.
That, sir, is because I am not interested in championships. I am not remotely interested in holding the United titles, nor do I care if you walk around with the titles. I don't care if you strap the titles to a burro, name it Gerald and ride it to the arena. This is because I, too, suffer from a 'condition'. Side effects are frequent and may include sleeping, drinking, excessive swearing and mild to moderate partying.
california style
4:08 P.M.
yucca valley, california
"Holy shit! Time paradox! Pime taradox! Divide by zerooooooo!! Shibby shibby WHUUUT?!"
A shout wrested the small neighborhood from it's lazy afternoon lull. Jalie was on the roof of their recently acquired home. Surrounding her were individual bags of "boil-in-a-bag" rice, which she'd purchased specifically for this purpose. The house across the street from them belonged to an Asian couple and their math whiz daughter, Michelle. Jalie leaned back and pressed a button on the stereo beside her. Instantly the tune of Carl Douglas' disco jam "Kung Fu Fighting" blared from the hot pink sound system. She grabbed a bag of rice and stood up. Taking aim, she pitched the rice at the neighbors window. It didn't break, but landed with a soft flump and splattered against the glass. Jalie threw her arms into the air, shaking her butt wildly and singing along.
"Man, those cats were fast as lightning.. In fact it was a little bit frightening, but they fought with expert tiiimiiiing! They were funky china-men, from funky china-town.. They were choppin' them up, they were choppin' them dooown. It's an ancient chinse art, and everybody knew their part. From a feint into a slip, and a kickin' from the hip!"
She topped it off with a spectacular roundhouse kick that landed her flat on her ass. The neighbor, a short, balding man by the name of Shan, poked his head out of their front door. He spotted the rice and immediately turned to look across the street. He saw nothing, however, because Jalie had timed a throw perfectly and nailed him in the face with a fresh bag of rice.
"Little bit of irony there, Teriyaki? Hm?! US bombing YOU with rice. Choke on that, Toyota!" shouted Jalie from the roof.
Shan wiped his face off and marched across the street to stand in their yard, looking up at his attacker with an expression of purest loathing.
"Firstly, you fucking spic -" he began.
"Ah ah.. Spics are spanish. I'm mexican and el salvadorian. I'd prefer wetback, if you please." Jalie said with a grin.
"Whatever. For one thing you have your cultures completely confused. Not that I expected anything better. We are NOT Japanese, dipshit. We're Taiwanese."
"You can call yourself whatever kind of 'ese' you want. Fact is you still make everything. And all your SUV's roll! Explain yourself Suzuki, or go fetch your numb-chucks and we'll settle this woman to-... Hey do Taiwanese even have penises?"
Shan's face flushed. He was clearly nearing the end of his tether.
"For one thing, they are not 'numb-chucks'. They're nunchaku!"
"Oh? So you are Yapanese then?" Jalie inquired, raising an eyebrow.
Shan muttered something under his breath and turned to leave. He got half-way across the street before another bag of rice smacked against the back of his head. Suddenly he spun around and threw a shuriken in her direction. In slow motion, Jalie's eyes widened as it soared straight for her forehead. Speed up! In her panicked attempt at dodging she tumbled backward and off the roof entirely. Seth heard the commotion and ran out to the backyard, where Jalie was lying at the bottom of a hole Jay'd started digging for their in-ground pool. She was conscious, staring upward in shock. Seth looked down to find her flat on her back, her leg bent out at an odd angle. Jalie's eyes flicked to him as she frowned.
"I deserved that."
&discuss.
Why? Why am I in this match? Was I unclear in my statement of having no ambition? Damn.
Well... Just another match, I suppose. I see we have quite a few teams involved here. Interesting, that. Or it would be if I fuckin' cared. Fascinating, really.
Shibby shibby WHUT?!