fap fap fap fap....
#IT'S RAININ' MEN#
#HALLELUJAH IT'S RAININ' MEN#
#AMEN#
#I'M GONNA GO OUT#
#GONNA LET MYSELF GET#
#ABSOLUTELY SOAKING WE-#BEEP”
“dude why do you have a song from the eighties as your ringtone that also implies you are a gay”
“A, shut the christ up. B, I like the song. D, making a jerking off joke there would be too much. Besides, the crowd likes non sequiturs.”
“...What happened to C?”
“C is for cumshot.”
“God damn it, Fappity.”
“MISTER FAPPITY TO YOU. I AM A BIG TIME WRESTLEMAN NOW.”
“So you saw that like everybody in that open signup NFW show is talking about you, huh?”
“Oh my god yes. I creamed like eighteen times when they mentioned me. That's more publicity than I've gotten in like three years.”
“So... Are you gonna tape another promo?”
“...I dunno. Why, should I? I'm just gonna go down there and get put in my place.”
“Well, you are with THAT attitude.”
“Dude, these guys are like World Champions and shit. I'm a joke. I just want the paycheck.”
“Let me put it this way. Do you honestly and truly think that your lethal weapon of a hand isn't a good enough gimmick to maybe do more than just take Boogie Smalls' finisher and get a paycheck?”
“...Truefax.”
“So, why don't you go in there and try to win?”
“Well, no shit I'm gonna try and win. But I think I have something... more in mind.”
“...You want to get the Cream of Fappity off, don't you?”
“It's been a LOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOONG time since that spot's happened on camera.”
“Well. Good luck, dude. People have quit rather than take that.”
“Make sure you watch. I want at least one person to be rooting for me.”
“Totes.”
CLICK
YOU-FREAKIN-TUBE-DAWT-CAWM-SLASH-PENIS-JOKE
The video comes in on a superiorly handsome man, with stunning features and a gorgeous bod'. He's reclining by poolside, in a tiny little banana hammock. His oiled-up muscles bulge and jiggle as girls walk by.
The camera pans back. The vid' was being shot from the dumpy motel next door to the gorgeous hotel, seperated by a six-foot-tall wrought-iron fence. Spikes on the top. And it was probably electrified to keep the riffraff out.
Riffraff like the man sitting on a shitball Wal-Mart Special plastic deckchair.
“LANE CASH TALKED ABOUT ME! OHMIGOSH OHMIGOSH OHMIGOSH!”, Fappity squeals, his eyes hidden behind the circa-1985 plastic sunglasses he found in a drawer in the shithole motel he was staying in on his way to Sydney. They were probably left there when a drug dealer snorted half of the eightball he was supposed to sell and skipped town rather than face the music.
“I got such a boner from that. I had to go to clownshoe dot com and find a video of a tranny clown drinking cold Campbell's Chicken Noodle Soup out of a midget's butthole to avoid shitting my pants in delight.” Drink in that mental image.
Drink It In.
Pause for drinking it in.
"However, I think you all are missing one very important fact here.", Fappity says as he reclines in his cheap Chinese-made crap. He's sitting on the roof of the motel he's been staying in, and is practicing his aim.
He's firing off at pigeons as they fly by. He's a seriously disturbed individual.
"Lane Cash says he's gonna beat me." Fappity is making sure the camera doesn't dip low enough to see. He IS making sure that the camera can see his studly, amazingly muscular, super hardcore chest.
As in "Fappity has no muscle definition, his pecs droop, and he has no abs."
"Some rapper dude named after the Notorious B.I.G. says he's gonna beat me." Fappity's hand is constantly going, however. Fapfapfapfapfap.
"The list goes on, and on, and painfully, irritatingly on. Everyone is totally convinced that they're gonna be the one to beat me because I'm some sort of pervert." Some sort. No, a specific kind. Fappity gives a deep belly-groan, and a squelching sound happens just off-camera. And then a bird squawks.
Bullseye.
"Here's the thing you're all missing, boys and boys. The last time I won a title belt was in 2005. The last match I won was thanks to my tag team partner at the time. I'm what you'd call... "Enhancement talent". I get paid to do a specific job." He gets paid to do jobs. Jay-Oh-Bees.
Fappity brings a hand up, and runs it through his greasy, unbound hair. And it was dirty enough that the specific color of his hair was a bit of a mystery.
"Yes. All of you could very easily beat me in a one-on-one match. If I faced Biggie Smalls, he'd beat me in like two minutes after the "They Call Me Big Poppa" or whatever the christ is his finisher." Fappity reaches back down, going for his crotch once more. Refractory period my ass.
"Lane Cash could... I dunno, make jokes about how many girls he's banged and try to wave that in my face like it's some sort of prize." Like Fappity gave a shit about that. No girl could do the things to his dilz that he could.
"And I'd take it, go get my paycheck and go home. Like always. But this match is different. This match is more my style. All I've got to do is beat off however many other people and keep from getting thrown out of the ring." Ha! He said he'd beat people off. See, cuz it's like... Aw, you get it.
"The one thing that matters in an over-the-top-rope battle royale is gripstrength. And I can promise you that I have more gripstrength than alla you dudes. I can hang onto those ropes like you wouldn't BELIEVE. I'm gonna pretend that thing is my dick and hold on for DEAR LIFE. So... I stand a pretty good chance of lasting a while and getting a REALLY good paycheck." Fappity's hand was hard at work. Ha. He said hard.
"I'm probably not gonna win. I'm a nobody. A jobber who hasn't won a match in something like eight years. But what I CAN do is fly to Australia and touch people's faces with my dick-smelling hand, last for a long time and get enough money to live on for a little while." Which would be awesome. Fappity would love to eat food that doesn't come from the bargain aisle.
"I think Tupac is like an eighteen time World Champion and shit. And Lane Cash has so much money and so many bitches hanging off his dick that he could buy and sell my ass six times over." Again, Fappity would be okay with Lane Cash paying him to lose. Fappity is comfortable with his spot at the bottom.
Did you catch the like three sex jokes there? Oh ho ho, how witty.
"But here's one thing that's inevitable. And I'm tenacious about this. You won't be able to eliminate me before I touch someone's face with the Claw." Grunt. Sploot. Squawk. Bullseye x2.
Fappity brought his hand up, his monstrously discolored hand wiggling dickstained fingers at the camera.
"I'm going to touch your face, Lane Cash. And the stink of twenty years of dicksweat is gonna get stuck in your nose for a week, Laney. You're gonna be Lady MacBething that shit for years. Out, damn spot! Stop making me think of a dick, you'll cry and wail! Oh, how you'll gnash your teeth as you remember the feeling of my skin, how clammy and sweaty it is. And how you'll remember where that sweat probably came from." Fappity gave a toothy grin. His yellow, uneven, never-seen-a-dentist smile wasn't anywhere near as gorgeous and classy as Lane Cash's.
"You'll be going down on a girl, tonguedeep in that furburger, and all of a sudden, a whiff of my dicksweat will stick in your nose. Sure, you can get some happiness out of the fact that you'll probably eliminate me after. But your face is gonna smell like my balls." Fappity gave a wink.
Seriously, Fappity's Claw made some guy kill himself. He couldn't get the dicktaste out of his mouth. And this was no ordinary taste that you smell and it's icky. This was concentrated funk. Not George Clinton-style funk, either. Oprah's ass-style funk. Homeless Man's Balls funk. Ron Jeremy's asshair-type funk.
"I'm going to touch your face with my jerkin' hand. And I'll probably touch Oogie Boogie's face with my jerkin' hand. I'll ruin Orange Centipede Three's mask with my dickfunk." Imagine it. Fappity enters the ring and makes everyone freak the hell out from Brain Chops. Face slaps. Whatever you'd call him just grabbing your face with his funky fingers. "Rook Black, you're the supervillain. You're Raul Julia in Street Fighter. The day you burnt down my pornography stash was the worst day of my life. But to you, it was tuesday."
Fappity reached down with his other hand. That way, he'd get to roll his dick between his palms like a Play-Doh snake. "And... UNGH, BABY." He was touching himself and it was good. "I'm gonna throw a handful of my splooge right in your face." The Triple Crown paled in comparison to Fappity's AVN AEE 2011 "Fastest Wanker" award. He was the quickest masturbator in the world. What.
"Jason Ramey, I do two things with my time. I jerk my gherkin and I spank my monkey and I watch wrestling."
That was three things.
"And even I am not sure who you were. But I'm still gonna tell you a joke in that ring. Here's the joke."
Wait for it.
"What do you get when Spider-Man gets excited?"
Fappity brought one hand up, making a wank-motion, before turning his hand and flinging an invisible handful into the camera.
"HERE COMES THE SPIDER-MAN!" He was seriously planning on throwing dicksnot in the face of just about everyone in the ring. And he was probably gonna touch their face with his dickhand.
"In summary, you're a good wrestler, person-who-will-say-nuh-uh. Eleventy billion time World Chumpion. But, see, I know a wristlock or two or three. I know my way around a ring. I've been doing this long enough that I can grab your face from just about anywhere." Fappity reached up with his claw, extending his fingers out to an imaginary marquee.
"Imagine it. Lane Cash in a ring full of dudes, stomping me into a fine paste. Boogie Woogie runs up to punch LAne in the face. A momentary distraction. I get up and grab Lane's face. And then, Lane's day is ruined. His week is ruined. His month, maybe. It's like a skunk's spray. No tomato juice will help. No clothespin is strong enough." Fappity's eyes had gone off into space, unfocusing as he imagined it.
"Hell, maybe I'll even do a bunch of Mandible Claws. And no. I'm not washing my hand before the match." Fappity never washed his hand. Fappity never washed his ANYTHING. NFW would be lucky if he'd wear a pair of clean tights to the ring. Fappity's current pair had a ketchup stain on one thigh from a burger he had been eating, and... Well...
The rest were probably cumstains.
"Go ahead, guys. Tell me how bad you're gonna beat me. And I'll say "Thank you, sir, may I get paid now?" after you beat me up. But I'm gonna touch your face. Your face is gonna smell like my junk. My sweaty, gross, calloused, blistered, friction-burnt junk. And there's not a thing you can do to stop it." From the poolside area, a loud cry came up. It sounded like a beefcake dillhole screaming “A PIGEON SHAT ON ME!”. But that wasn't bird feces.
THAT WASN'T BIRD FECES AT ALL!
(IT'S AN ALLUSION TO WHAT IS GOING TO HAPPEN IN SYDNEY. AS IN: FAPPITY IS GOING TO THROW A HANDFUL OF JISM INTO ROOK BLACK'S FACE.)
Fappity cackles and wiggles his Claw at the camera. For posterity: Let's describe the Claw again. His fungernails have a fungus growing on 'em from constant bombardment with high-caloric-value liquid. They're all yellow and waxy. His skin has been stained a deep, dark brown from the little swimmers he's rubbed into his skin like a ashy-skinned black girl. It also is all waxy and clammy, covered in sweat and fromunda cheese. He has no body hair whatsoever on that hand, due to the friction of rubbin' the backside on a pair of boxers and the palm on his favorite body organ.
His epidermis.
And he's gonna touch someone's face with that... that... THING. The very AIR around it ripples like the air above a chunk of boiling blacktop on a hot summer's day, warped from the funkatronic grotendous stank that emanates from every pore, that is soaked into the skin, that radiates with the essence of manbag.
And he's gonna touch. Your. Face.
"See you in Sydney!"
HARDCUT TO BLACK AND RELATED VIDEOS LIKE DOGS HUMPING AND PUKING, PEOPLE GETTING KICKED IN THE DICK AND BAD STAND-UP COMEDY.