Shame on a nuh, who tried to step TUH

[DWoods]

(FADE-IN: Joe the Plumber stands in the middle of a cheap motel room, a bottle of beer in one hand, a blunt in the other – both fighting for his attention. It's shortly after the Detroit house show, and the Gristly Beast is still attired in his wrestling gear...

That is to say he's dressed how he's always dressed: poorly.

He's got on a red-and-black lumberjack, with a pack of cigarettes stuffed in the front pocket. His hair's sopping wet and combed back, exposing his badly receded hairline and forehead scars. His expression is that of subdued rage.

JTP: "Brock Alyas.

"You little faggot dick-licker sonofabitch."

(He sighs and shakes his head.)

JTP: "Steppin' foot in Ol' Joe's business – that's ratty… ratty as fuck… Goddamn, son, if there's one thing I know it's ratty and what constitutes rattiness! Shit, I practically invented that cocksucker! I also know a lil' sum'n sum'n `bout stupidity, and you DAMN SURE infringed upon that, too, when you fucked with the BOUSE~! in the Motor City!

"I dunno what you were thinkin' walkin' out there like that, grabbin' on Ol' Joe's arm like you're his friend one minute – `nother thing, don't ever fuckin' touch me again with your bingo-dobber digits, blotchin' me with ol' congealed boy-cum – just don't fuckin' do it; shit, don't even think it, y'hear? Yeah – …so you're grabbin' on me one minute, got this goofy look on your kisser like you wanna slowdance with Ol' Joe, fuckin' three feet apart like we're in middle-school or sum'n, boner pointin' straight at me… and then you go and do some dirt… like you're some big-dick hamhock-slinger all of a sudden, and not the third-rate jizbag that's been passed around the bathhouse for all the homos to splouge into… that just so happened to have up and disappeared a while back without a single person noticing. Huh…"

(Joe sighs, again, and takes a drag off his bootleg Indian cig.)

JTP: "You got beef with Cameron? Then the Greasy fuckin' Goblin's got cornbeef and cabbage with you, faggot. UGHNNNNNN! The whooole nine! I don't care if that didn't make any fuckin' sense – that shit don't matter! What matters is that you fucked with me, you fucked with Kooter's daddy, and you fuckin' fucked with my after-match celebration! That was my first title defence; I was gonna ask some bitch to slip me her dirty panties! Ol' Joe was gonna huff the salty crotch of them panties, while strokin' his revolting anteater, and hose down a Hustler centerfold with his SEEEEEEEEED. Then, he was gonna roll that fucker up and spank TQ's pimply balloon knot. Train her to stay, fetch, play dead, though her career's been dead since… well… it was stillborn. UGHNNNNNNN! Take `er away, Cameron!"

(Joe turns, and the camera follows, settling on Cameron Cruise, seated in a shabby recliner with his left leg thrown over the side of the chair, dressed in blue jeans and a Pantera T-shirt, wearing his trademark Anarchy shades but looking like his usual embittered self, and sipping at a bottle of beer.)

CRUISE: "Ya know something Brock I thought that the last time we crossed paths it was made quite simple.

"You don't deserve that title shot, hell you don't deserve alot of things.

"You don't even deserve to BE HERE in NFW....but Mayfield's got his "Equal Opportunity" clause in the contracts a little too widespread and that's his problem, not mine. But you can best believe I'm gonna fix it in due time.

"But the fact is that only CREDIBLE athletes belong here.

"You? You're a man that's been to Jail. You've been cuffed and thrown in the slammer because of things that you did wrong, so as far as I'm concerned...you don't deserve ANYTHING, much less belong here.

"But I do, as does Joe.

"Now I'm usually not the type of man that would stand by such a greasy son of a bitch, but what the hell? With the economy the way it is now-a-days, it's an arm-and-a-leg to get service to show up at your house to fix the pipes, but Joe?

"He's not exactly your everyday run-of-the-mill Plumber, and both you and I know it.
But this guy's got enough to keep the NFW TV title around his waist for a record amount of time, not to mention a title that in all rights and reality should belong around MY waist, and that's enough for me.

"But you're back and you wanna stick your pathetic carcass in my business where it DOESN'T belong.....DURING A WORLD TITLE MATCH of all places....and cause a scene.

"You made your point, and you got my attention....but now you also got Joe's.

"I know I've said it before and I've proved it before...but believe me when I tell you Brock...this is going to be a REALITY CHECK that you just....won't like.

(Cruise goes back his beer and unknowingly grabs Joe's by mistake and takes a swig, but midway through spits it out and wipes off his mouth in disgust.)

CRUISE: "WHAT THE FUCK JOE??!!!?!?!!!"

JTP: (Off-handedly) "Ya like that, don'tcha? Straight downin' the cigarette brew… smoooooth, amirite?… g'awn, swish 'er around in your mouth a little, savour the taste of nicotine and hops! UGHNNNNNNN! An unholy union!"

(Cameron shoots a glare at Joe.)

JTP: "Brock, you ain't ever gonna beat the Filth Fiend, and that's a fact. You're a fuckin' trout, and I looove to fish! I just throw the ol' line out there… and sooner or later a gullible bottomfeeder such as yourself bites.

"Then I bite." (JTP bites down hard and grunts.) "And later on – at, like… three in the morning – I get up to haul ass out to the shitterroom, yank down my dirty drawers, hover my hairy, festering blackhole of grime over the toilet bowl, and drop a massive turd log that hits the piss-diluted water like the bomb that wiped out those Japs in Hiroshima! To my surprise, as I'm wipin' with a fistful of your momma's pubes, I see shards of your fuckin' oblong scull juttin' out of my hunk of rancid, floating poo – ya can't digest that shit, ya just can't.

"I'm like Jaws, y'see; when I die, whether it's by drug overdose or some vengeful throat-slashing in the middle of the night, the autopsy report will read like a list of inventory from some department store: washers, dryers, gaudy pullout sofas from the late 80s, fuckin'.. some lost child, maybe. Hell, they'll find a fuckin' Oldsmobile in my gut; the paint rusted; airbags deployed; the driver frozen in fear, his skeletal jaw, stripped clean of the meat, hanging as far down as it can feasibly go while still remaining hinged. …It's scary to think of the countless worlds that I've consumed – and yours, Brock, will be no different. I won't even bat an eye as I club your goddamn fuckin' face in, and jackoff on your lips. My brain's encrusted with shratnel and super beetles, Brock: I do shit like that without remorse. I got this fuckin' fed wrapped like cyran, bitch!

"Maybe you can make a go at the TV Title now that my deathgrip on that frigger's been lifted. Or maybe you can just continue to suck – both cock and in wrestling. I may not have the NFW World Heavyweight Strap around my waist at the present time, but make no mistake about it, I'm still the champ around 'ere. I'm still the best. And until you show me some respect, you can continue to bob for dicks in a vat of rancid pussy juice – TQ's pussy juise (so y'know that shit ain't natural, probably got some canola oil mixed in there)… just watch out `cause Ol' Joe, that sneaky motherfucker, might just dunk your head below the surface for PERMANENT and then chuck ya in a fuckin' late or somethin'. Cops'll dredge the fucker, find you, and then toss ya right back `cause… to come full circle… you're a small fish… undeveloped… not enough to fill me up.

"So frig afffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffff!"

(With that, JTP and Cameron Cruise mug for the camera, as we…

FTapictureofBrockAlyaslookinglonginglyatasuperimposeduncutdick.

…Told'ja he's queer. Hehe. ^.^)

 

[Macc24]

(FADE-IN: Brock Alyas is seated comfortably in the back of his sports utility vehicle, more commonly referred to as a Ford Explorer. He appears to be clean shaven, showered and smellin’ like the freshest motha fucka you ever done smelt. SUCKA.

He’s wearing a black NFW hoodie unzipped with a white t-shirt underneath and he reaches into his left pocket pulling out a pack of smokes and he lights up his post-show delicacy.

The car has the bass turned down but the sounds of Ludacris’ newest hit “I Do It For Hip Hop” is heard in the background. He’s bumping his head along with the beat and it’s still got that novelty to it, you know? He hasn’t played it a million times on replay, yet.)

BROCK: “So JOE THE PLUMMER… the greasiest, slimiest, foulest smelling creature that’s ever slithered it’s way into this God given earth has a bone to pick with Big Brock. Our so called ‘champion’ has decided to call me out and try to intimidate me, ME!”

(Brock’s laughing his ass off.)

BROCK: “Are you fuckin nuts? Haven’t you come to realize what I do to people? Haven’t you come to realize that your grease and filth… be rest assured the ONLY reason anybody around here is intimidated by you… doesn’t scare me?

“There’s something you obviously forgot to realize, Joe. I’m GRIMIER than you. So you can remain DIRTY. As. FUCK. And you can find me over here keepin’ it straight pimpin’. You’re that – haha look at this guy he’s a fuckin’ bum, look how dirty he looks! I’m that – Damn that dude’s Jay’s are DIRRRRTYY! He ‘da fuckin’ MAN! And some shit. I’m dirtier than Ol’ Joe I just dress fresh as FUCK. I rock boss clothes. Coz unlike you, when I say I’m a boss, people actually take me seriously.

“You’re ought to feel lucky you don’t need a neck brace right now keeping that jellyfish vertebrae of yours in line. I took it EASY on the Ol’ Joe.

“Seriously though – sharing a motel room with Cameron Cruise is DEFENITE grounds for homo-erotic activities I want to know nothing about. You prolly have him wax your belt while you wax him from behind. I question your motives Joe. I thought a “sucka-free BOUSE” like yourself whose made such a splash in an industry like this would come to recognize a true boss when he sees one.

“I’m a thoroughbread gee, Joe. I GETS IT CRACKIN’. I’m the typa’ pit that’ll ROCK you in ya sleep!

“You giving ME a reality check!? That’s like telling me Ghandi could take Iron Mike man, come on now.

“You’re willing to go out and defend it against Cameron Cruise and then room up with him at some shack? What the fuck man, seriously. You’re trying to tell me there ain’t shit goin’ in the background? COME ONNN! I mean honestly, are you two butt-buddies? Is you two playin’ bum-darts, Joe?

“Don’t think you’re foolin’ anybody… everybody knows how Cruise rolls suckin’ whoevers got the belts dick. I don’t even think he wants some gold I think he’s straight up gay with some fetish for whoever the champ is. He was all over Nova’s dick now he’s roomin’ with JTP! You’re a fuckin’ HOMO Cruise and I can’t wait to smack the fuckin’ shades off your face.

“When I’m rockin’ that belt CC, when it’s MY time – you ain’t gettin’ nothing but a swift kick in the ass and a punch in the face.

“As for Ol’ Joe – you just started a war. You’re going to regret the day you called me out in my own city. HAH!”

FADE.

 

[DWoods]

(FADE-IN: We return to same motel room where Joe the Plumber and Cameron Cruiser cut the promo that murdered Brock Alyas' career. Only JTP remains; Cameron is gone. Joe sits in a chair, scrubbing his plunger. He looks up at the camera, shakes his head, and chuckles to himself.)

JTP: "Are you fuckin' serious? C'mon, really?

"Did you hit the switch to transform into some wannabee gangster in order to trade words with the grimiest fuckin' ogre the wrestling world has ever seen? Or do you have Akon on the brain? Heh. Ol' Joe laughed when you called yourself "dirty". Yeah, you're dirty. It's pretty fuckin' dirty of you slummin' with HIV patients. The way I understand it is that you love to ski. Two cocks at a time. Squeeze some KY into the palms of your hands, grab a hold of your poles, and, well… it's an all-day affair, right, ya fuckin' queer?

"You talk about "sucka this" and "sucka that" and how you "rock boss clothes". Tell me, Brock, what exactly are "boss clothes"? Hm? Matter o' fact, why don't you prance your faggot ass into your bedroom, dig through your drawers – the compartments in your dresser, not those frilly, pink undies of yours with "home to the three-inch wonder" embroidered across the crotch – and grab an armful of your "boss clothes". Bring 'em back and lay 'em out so Ol' Joe can see 'em. Then prepare to get laughed at. C'mon, the only thing "boss" about your clothes is the cum stain Craig Miles left when he pulled out of your mouth and busted a nut on your little faggy Affliction tee shirt.

"You talk like you actually believe you're intimidating. You're not. Ol' Joe looks at you, and he wonders how Varga and Legion found the time to procreate in order to birth the wad of concentrated suck and faggotry that is you. It baffles his mind! Not that that's hard to do, seein' as its drug-addled and soaking in a pool of congealed blood from one too many shots to the noggin. But somehow, someway, those two fuckin' goons butt-fucked, and out you came nine months later. The fuckin' love child of the two shittiest wrestlers, ever.

"Everything you said in your promo just served to harden my cock a little bit more. `Cause I know the more shit you talk, the more I'm gonna enjoy takin' you out back behind the arena, and jammin' some big, oddly shaped object up your cornhole. I'm gonna need to get something really big, though, like TQ's bill for her sex change operation, `cause that fuckin' orifice of yours has been pulverized and stretched to the point where it more resembles the hole in our ozone than a human being's anus. UGHNNNNNNN!

"You mentioned Mike Tyson in your promo. Good. I was planning on mentioning him, too, actually. See, Mike rang Ol' Joe the other day, and we got together, sat down, drank a couple beers, exchanged rape stories (his is good, mine is better). He said he wanted to tell me that I'm his favourite NFW star. Star, Brock, A.K.A. the one thing you'll never, ever be—besides a champion, that is. At one point, I stopped him, and said, 'Listen, if you're gonna blow Ol' Joe, you might as well get on your knees.' I don't need some has-been givin' me compliments, tellin' me how good I am. I already know! So, he got all pissed off, started bobbin' and weavin', tryin' to box me out. I took every one of his punches, yawned, and remarked that it felt as though I just got hit by a gust of wind from a pussy quiff.

"That's what you are, Brock, a pussy quiff. A confused pussy quiff. I mean, you call yourself dirty, and then you call yourself a thoroughbread. No one believes that! Especially after I just exposed your deep, dark secret: You're a crossbreed between a delusional idiot who believes he's got some sort of mystique about him, and a delusional idiot who thinks he's evil, when, in fact, he's evil in that cartoon villain sort of way. And, once again, both of them are terrible. I bet Christmas morning was awkward, huh? You'd rush downstairs, all excited, pajama bottoms soaked from the gay wet dream you had just prior to waking up, and you'd tear into your presents. Wrapping paper goes flying in every direction, your heart begins to beat faster, and then— …the fuck? A twelve-inch dildo. You turn around, look at pa and pa, and they're standing there nodding their heads like 'you won't get your BIG present until later on tonight.' Another box; another dildo. Then some lube. Then anal beads. Turns out Varga and Legion did all their Christmas shopping at a sex store.

"So, no, Ol Joe ain't surprised you're a pisser and a moaner. You got used as a child. And you're getting used right now—as target practice for the BOUSE, and nothin' more. You're just a warm up for the real thing, when a challenger steps up that has, uh, done something noteworthy.

"Oh, and you're wrong. The reason people fear me isn't because of my stench, though it is rather pungent (my smell is fuckin' natural, the musk of greatness dipped in hot garbage juice). At least, it ain't the only reason. People fear me because I've run roughshod over this fed for close to two years. Ol' Joe's undefeated, Ol' Joe's NFW World Heavyweight Champion, and Ol' Joe just got stripped of a title he had a veritable deathgrip on! No one thought I was gonna lose the TV Title, and I didn't. It was taken from me. They said I'd had it for too long, that they needed something for no-talent douchebags like Brock Alyas and that fuckin' `tard Turkeytown, or whatever his goddamn name is, to fight for.

"Believe me, Brock, if it were up to me, the only time you'd even come close to that belt would be when I wore it as a cockring and fucked you in the ass.

"There's no honour among thieves. You and I are both percieved as immoral. The scum of society. I don't deny that. Ol' Joe is fuckin' scum. You, however, are a goof. Clown shoes. Ol' Joe wants to ball up his fat, hairy, arthritic fist, and smash you in the face with it. Not once, not twice, but EIGHTEEN-AND-A-HALF TIMES. The half one will be a disrespectful backhand thrown with just another power to wake you up.

"Y'see, what you fail to realize is that you're not even on my level. I've fought everyone, been concussed about a bajillion times, and still I get up and throw hamhocks in the squared circle. I haven't even committed my life to this fuckin' sport. Ol' Joe's got a second job, remember? He's a fuckin' plumber! I spend all day at work, elbow deep in shit, then come home, down about three dozen cigarette beers, smoke a twenty stone, and then pass out around four in the morning. Next day, I get up, haul ass to the arena, whoop the ass of some poor sacrificial lamb (that's been fucked repeatedly by the townsfolk), and then come home, and repeat the drinking, the smoking, and the passing out. That's my fuckin' life. I don't train. I went into the wild to live with bears, for fuck's sake, in preparation for my match with Nova! I got hammered on potato vodka, ate some experimental `shrooms, and tripped out for three weeks. And I still kicked his fuckin' ass! So maybe you should recognize me as your superior.

"Frig, douche the fuckin' jiz from your ears, cup one'a them ugly motherfuckers with your hand (the hand that doesn't contain the jiz-soaked douche, which you'll probably save for later sucking), and listen to what the people are saying. They love the Greasy fuckin' Goblin. Everyone comes to the shows to see the BOUSE. People were clamoring for me to face Dan Ryan six months after I won the TV Title. And why? `Cause they knew I'd kick his ass. It was Nova's ass I ended up kicking, but against Dan Ryan things would have gone exactly the same. My hand would have been raised. Period.

"Brock, do yourself a favour and shut the fuck up. You're playin' with the big boys, now. You're a midget attempting to compete against a giant. A giant with a cock that hangs past his knees, and that's aching to pulverize your girlfriend's cunt. I'll show up at her front door, in military dress, the flag folded in my arms, and I'll "regret to inform her of your passing." Then, as she cryin' like a bitch, I'll bumrush that slut, pin her to the floor, and give 'er the dick. Between painful sobs and screams for me to stop, she'll remark how you, Brock, never once fucked her like a "boss" and that you always demanded you roleplay with her as the man and you as the woman. Come out of the closet, ya fuckin' faggot. That way the boys can make sure not to shower with you.

"Cameron, too, `cause he ain't gay. At least, I don't think he is." (JTP shrugs.) "You can insinuate all you like about two men cutting a promo in the same room, but no piece of evidence is more damning to your façade as a straight man than the 'Got Milk?' cum smear ever-present on your upper lip. Well, maybe the school girl-ish way you screamed 'dirty' in your promo. Seriously, did you have to stick a thumb up your own ass to carry that pitch? UGHNNNNNNNN!

"This has been fun, but I've gotta go break some shit and return it to Wal-Mart for cash! Then get fucked up on potato vodka, again, and eat experimental `shrooms. Hopefully this promo drives you to kill yourself, `cause that would make Ol' Joe very happy. Very, very happy. Be sure to state your reason in the suicide note. I want confirmation that it was my doing. I'll wave that shit around the locker room, shove it in your parents' faces, and then throw some grass in there, roll up a joint, and smoke that shit in celebration.

"Once more with feeling: YOU FUCKING SUCK. PLEASE DIE. Ahem."

(FTB)

 

[TSiegel]

"Whigga Please!!"

“As for Ol’ Joe – you just started a war. You’re going to regret the day you called me out in my own city. HAH!”

(Fadein, Cameron Cruise in front of an NFW Backdrop, dressed in the same clothing. Sniffing the air, Cruise shakes his head.)

CRUISE: Ya know Brock it's a sad day when a man like me can take a smell like YOU and know it's JEALOUSY, but the fact of the matter is that it's just not true.

You really do STINK.

Fact of the matter is this, Brock:

Nova got beat by "Ol' Joe" for the NFW World Heavyweight and was so embarrassed by it, the chicken**** bastard LEFT THE COMPANY.

Now, normally that wouldn't be a bad move, considering the bastard's been ducking me now more than Joey Melton EVER HAS for the money I need for the Bangkok Hookers and Overseas Vaginas he talked to on long distance, and Lindsay Troy too...

(Cruise waves it off quickly, continuing without digression.)

But the fact remains, is that I have a fair one-on-one World Title shot owed to me by Eddie Mayfield that I'm not gonna let go of...

And YOU...most definately aren't gonna stop me either.

I told you before, you don't want any of me and you DEFINATELY don't want any of "Ol' Joe"...but in the meantime, do yourself a favor and answer this one question for me.

Just what the **** are you talking about Joe starting a War with you when you can't even get a victory over me in at least the two or three times you had a fair chance alotted to you??

You're in WAY OVER YOUR HEAD Brock.

Do yourself a favor and stay home in Detroit.

You're better off hiding in the same places that the Lions, Tigers, and soon-to-be-Pistons are at now.

(Cruise slaps his hands to his face like Macauley Culkin from "Home Alone".)

OH MY!!!

(Cruise smirks)

That's right, Brock, I said it. Why??

Because that's a REALITY CHECK that you just...won't like!!

(Fadeout)

 

[Macc24]

Re: "Whigga Please!!"

(FADE IN: To the apartment complex of BROCK ALYAS whose fresh on the scene wearing a white and navy striped Sean John button that fits nice and big with only the top three buttons undone showing his brand new blank white (RoyalTEEZ... hit up royalTEEZ.com for all your blank-tee necessities) with a collar is so snug you’d think it’d be choking big Brock but let’s be serious here you’d need some legal giant sized mittens to get the full Mario Lemieux wrap-around. BOSS shirt. Lookin’ like a straight BOSS. Hear that Joe? Not a slimey, grimey, grotesque wife beeter, the same damn shirt you been wearin’ since we GOT here, a brand new… white and navy striped 2XL Sean John button down. BOSS TEE.

Brock’s apartment is nothing out of the ordinary, he’s got the main necessities and for some reason every room is painted with either black or white walls and decorated with black or white furniture and black or white carpet. His furniture all matches because well, it’s all white or black. You keep it simple stupid. And you are stupid, Joe.

Brock’s in his bed-room and he’s opened his closet showcasing his personal wardrobe and I must say it’s quite the collection. Designer everything. Sean John, Enyce, Phat Farm, Ecko Unltd., Roca Wear you name it and it’s guaranteed 100% BOSS merchandise.)

BROCK – “I’ve decided to do a little promo here just to show poor old Joe just what I mean when I say that I rock boss clothes. See Joe. These are expensive brands of clothing that allow you to slam muff far from your typical romping of you’re inbred sisters. These clothes allow you to look fly, you know? Presentable? Respectable? I’m sure this is all going over your head so we’ll go through it a bit slower so you’re room temperature IQ can process exactly what I’m trying to say.

“There’s more to life than cleaning toilets and smoking crack Joe. Unfortunately, you’re a horrendous wrestler so personally I’d recommend you stick to what you’re good at – smoking crack and cleaning toilets. Don’t you see how this works, Joe? You even said it yourself. You are a plumber. I take big massive shits and you clean them. Therefor, you clean my shit. You are not better than me. Even comparing you, to my shit is an insult to any dump I’ve ever taken.

“So from now on I’m going to do my absolute BEST to ensure that I take an Exlax-induced diarrhea SHIT in every single toilet you clean. I’m going to make sure I eat the fowlest smelling foods so while you’re sticking your head in the toilet that contains my PERSONAL brand – you can get a good idea of the SHIT storm I am now going to personally conduct.

“Not only that Joe. But I’m also going to contact all of your known crack-dealers and make sure that the next crack sack you pick up contains nothing but the finest Arm & Hammer so that when you’re again becoming delusional with the fact that I’m not only going to take your title belt but that I’m also going to end your life, when you go to smoke a big fat rock to try and forget about me – you’re going to be forced to bite the bullet and face the fear. And you’re going to be sober as goat. The same type of goat’s you seemingly have admitted to fucking.

“We’ve got a real shitty situation on our hands here Joe because the shit storm is coming and only I know which way the shit winds are blowing. But, they’re bound to come Joe. You’re going to be very, very familiar with Shiticane Brock. When you poke your head out in the morning in hopes the shit-storm comes to a drought, I’m going to make sure you’re heads poked out and unleash an X-Rated dump. The kind that clears public bathrooms. The kind that even you’re father admits is disgusting.

“The shit clock is ticking Joe and it’s going to keep on ticking down, shit seconds away from the torrential shiticane that’ll eventually turn into a shitsunami that pour old Joe just won’t have the proper plumbing equipment to fix. You’re familiar with septic tanks, right Joe? What I plan on doing is collecting as much SHIT as possible so that when you TRY to get away from work where you’ve obviously got a shitty situation on your hands, in BOTH careers… but when you try to vacate from all the SHIT surrounding your life and have a “shit break” or better yet a “break from shit”… where ever it is you decide to host this occasion I’m going to be above it with a septic tank the size of North Carolina dumping it all over you and you’re attempt at getting away from shit.

“Operation Shit is in affect, Joseph. And I’m the shit Nazi whose going to put you in the shit oven. Shiticaust 09.

“You best bring your plunger,”

“Oh and Cameron,

“I refuse to even acknowledge your existence. Let alone you’re whack promos. You’re an embarrassment and a stain on this sport.

(BROCK couldn’t contain his laughter at this point in the promo.)

“You really ought to consider suicide. You are a fucking joke.

(It was starting to get out of hand.)

“Not only that, you have nothing that I desire. Beating you is no longer fun. I’d rather stay out of the opening act exclusively to face you. You fucking suck and I’d become a necrophiliac if you’re mother died just to video-tape it and set you up with witnessing the demoralization of your mothers dead vagina and Cam I’d make sure you’d get a full-frontal view on a 62 inch high definition television screen.

(That’s just downright belligerent.)

“Even defeating you wouldn’t help my career because people would look down on me even agreeing to wrestle you! You’re the laughing stock of this entire company.

(What a fuckin’ loser.)

“I’m done with you for now. I’m going to kill Joe the Plummer first.”

FADE.

 

[DWoods]

(FADE-IN: Joe the Plumber’s in a grocery store, moving up and down the aisles, grabbing various items off the shelf: cat litter (though he has no cats), dented cans with missing labels, pie plates, tins of tuna, twelve full-sized chickens—y’know, chow for the week. He pushes his cart along, looking like he hasn’t yet recovered from a bender the night before. He looks at the camera, which follows closely in front of him, shooting him from the waist up.)

JTP: “Really? We’re gonna continue with this back-and-forth ‘I murk you; you no-sell it, change your manner of speaking, and come back with some weak ass trash-talk that doesn’t make any fuckin’ sense’ charade? It’s fuckin’ pathetic. C’mon. Shit’s sake, son, get a grip on reality; are you a ‘thoroughbread G,’ or are you a fuckin’ Jim Lahey impersonator without the alcohol tolerance? You take one sip of the big-boy drinky drink, and you’re fallin’ all over yourself, spillin’ shit on the carpet, on the furniture, tellin’ people off, suckin’ people off—it’s goddamn annoying to watch!

“You say I ain’t got anything you want? Lemme get this straight: Ol’ Joe… doesn’t have anything you want… ? I guess you’ve come to terms with the fact your no-talent, bitch ass won’t ever be champion, then. You’re kinda like that poor kid no one likes. Everyone has the new video game system (…Is it still the Atari? Is that what kids are playin’ these days? Ol’ Joe doesn’t follow them flashin’ interactive movie boxes; too much shit goin’ on; trips me right the fuck out), `cept your parents, the pathetic jobbers that they are, can’t wring enough cash money out of their NFW paychecks to buy you one, so you claim you don’t ‘want one.’ You're good with your cup-and-ball. Shit never gets old, right?

“Wrong. Shit got old months ago, and you just won’t admit it. Ol’ Joe knows, because he came from the fuckin’ slums. He doesn’t “rock boss clothes;” he rocks “box clothes.” I buy my shit in bulk at the local thriftstore. I don’t give a fuck. It ain’t what you’re wearing; it ain’t the paint job, so to speak, it’s what’s under the hood that counts.”

(Joe grabs a hold of his crotch. One big handful of… you know. He gives a nod.)

JTP: “Once again, Brock, you don’t measure up. Talk all you want about shit hurricanes, blah blah blah—Ol’ Joe doesn’t care. I’ve said it before, I’m grime personified. I live to wallow in the muck of a fecal holocaust, a fecal nuclear winter, a fecal… uh… whatever. Basically, I ain’t afraid to get dirty. When you’re the Filth Fiend, you just don’t give a fuck.

“But I guess you’ve been to prison, eh Brock? I guess that makes you hard. You’ve had it rough. First, your parents molested you like it’s ‘Take Your Kid To Work Day,’ and daddy’s a porno actor. A gay porno actor. A gay porno actor who specializes in ingesting bodily fluids of every type. So, your childhood was kind of bumpy. Then, you got to prison—the big house—and had to trade in your “boss clothes” for an orange jump suit. Soon after your arrival, you had some Adebesi-lookin’ motherfucker makin’ eyes at you. And you felt your heart flutter. You love the attention, don’t’cha, Brock? Makes you feel like a pretty woman, huh? You don’t fool me—you weren’t a boss in prison, just like you aren’t a boss in the wrestling world—you work in the mail room suckin’ dick for postage stamps. UGHNNNNNN! You got passed around like a joint at a college party—everyone hit that, even the dog. It’s sad.

“So, anyway, Ol’ Joe doesn’t have anything you want. (`Cept his majestic flesh sword; fuckin’… his ravenous worm ever-tunneling toward the womb; hot seed locked and loaded, ready to be fired.) And if Ol’ Joe doesn’t have anything you want, you can go back to all the other important shit you’ve been done since coming to NFW… which is… uh…

“Wait… Ol’ Joe can’t think of what that is, exactly. Cameron would whoop your ass from here to China, straight through the earth. Then, you’ll go and rob a convenience store with a hand-pistol tucked in your Champion sweater, just so you can get sent back to jail. Back to centre ring in the middle of the biggest circle jerk circus, bukkake session the world has ever seen. I’ll visit you once, just once, and laugh at you through the glass. You’ll talk a bunch of nonsensical shit, then head back to your cell block, and tell everyone you met the Joe the Plumber. They’ll call you a fuckin’ liar and then Ghostbust your face—concentrate the streams, but don’t cross ‘em!

“Brock, you don’t get to say when this shit’s done. Ol’ Joe does. I’ve got the belt—not physically, of course, but I am the champ—so I say when you’ve had enough.

“You haven’t. But I’m wasting a lot of quality shit on someone who won’t ever string together enough wins to earn himself a title shot. Enjoy competing against the fallen bodies of my past opponents. Pin ‘em fast before they zombify, get up, and kick your mediocre ass! You think this verbal trouncing I gave you was bad—physically, one-on-one, I’d put you through the meat grinder. Process your expired body. Roll that shit into hamburger patties. And then feed it to my true adversaries as a snack. Get ‘em ill, throwin’ up, runnin’ to the shitter. Then, poke my hideous, ape-like face over the stall wall, and give a resounding “UGHNNNNNN!” so they know who’s to blame.

“Joe the Plumber—the greatest wrastler in the history of wrastlin’.

“Brock Alyas—a nobody, a nuffin’.

“You’re welcome.”

(Joe growls at the camera, exposing his Pete Doherty-like smile, before ramming his cart into some obese chick driving a Rascal. She topples over, hitting the tile floor violently, as we FTB.)

 

[TSiegel]

It's a Great Day for Baseball....

(Fadein, Cameron Cruise in front of an NFW backdrop, wearing blue jeans blue Anarchy-style shades and a white T-shirt that looks like graffiti has been spray painted across the front that upon closer look says "Brock likes it up the Butt...just ask Biff and Bubba".)

CRUISE: You'll have to excuse the below-average choice in apparrel, it was sent along with a DVD that the case was covered and caked in Hyena-semen....

(Cruise lifts one hand to signal a pause before judgement can be made.)

He was kind enough to wrap the shirt in a "Hefty" bag for me to signify his usuage of "Lent". After all...we all did celebrate Ash Wednesday last week...even that' son-of-a-gun, "Ol' Joe".

But allow me, since Brock was so insistant on misunderstanding and hearing what Daddy said...re-affirm some things he said.

“Oh and Cameron,

“I refuse to even acknowledge your existence. Let alone you’re whack promos. You’re an embarrassment and a stain on this sport.

Well now Brock, I'm not exactly about to take time out to explain why I'm smarter than you so let's just call this what it is:

You're UGLY.. So much in fact that even Mayfield agreed to think so in the sense that you haven't been booked in the longest time. He only let you back for the Detroit show I'm guessing because even he has a penchant for picking out those that think he's PREJUDICED against booking those who spend long, warm, showers with men bigger and more dangerous in the wee-hours of the morning.

That's "Strike One".

“You really ought to consider suicide. You are a fucking joke.

CRUISE: Well now that's interesting that you say that Brock, because being that I've beaten you each and every time we've faced each other in the ring, no matter what you can say or do to provoke me; I'm just THAT MUCH BETTER THAN YOU. It's not being confident, it's not me being a Jerk, but it is THE TRUTH. If I'm "a ****ing joke", Brock....then I'm a *******ED MASTER.

That's "Strike Two".

“Not only that, you have nothing that I desire...."

CRUISE: Jeez, I dunno Brock I'm just spitballin' here...but what about actually having your hand raised in VICTORY?? After all, if you think people are making fun of you now for me handing you your ass on a silver platter...don'cha think beating me for once would at least shut afew of 'em up??

Beating you is no longer fun.

CRUISE (Scratches his head a second): HELL-OOOOOO???

"....You're the laughing stock of this entire company.

“I’m done with you for now. I’m going to kill Joe the Plummer first.”FADE.

CRUISE: Take a long look at yourself in the mirror, Brock. If you REALLY think that's true, then you have even more problems than originally thought.

You want "Ol' Joe" to embarrass you like I have your ENTIRE NFW CAREER, then by all means...I'll step aside.

But just so you know, Brock....

(The camera closes up on Cruise as he takes his shades off for a second, and looks solemnly into the camera.)

CRUISE: That was Strike Three. Putting you back on the bench where you belong is going to be a REALITY CHECK that you just...won't like.

(Fadeout.)