"First off, my friend, it's Turkington. If you're going to seem edgy with 'rape job', at least get the name right. 'Rape job'...huh. Ok, great. That does not really work, dear, blood is not boiling on this side, and it’s not intimidating—just silly. Neither is it --I think I've seen it before on craigslist, the t4m 'casual encounters' section, and who can take those larrys seriously? Rape job from YOUR mouth, my friend Mr. Mylde, is just...what is that word..."
Cary Turkington: beautiful specimen of a man. Older, yes, but as always, dapper as a mother lover. The tuxedo shirt underneath the dirty sky-blue hoody is complimented with a piano keys tie as well, because this is no laughing matter--this is Turkey Dinner, El Turkerino, Prince Turk of the Dorks falling under an insult from...from Jimmy Mylde and Problem Child. In case you didn't see what they did there, THE TWO NAMES RHYME. Anywho, we find the Turk, contemplating what word it is to describe the duo.
"...oh yes! It’s truly retarded! Now, if you had any brain between your two heads, Billy Piled and Goblin Filed--and PLEASE don't take offense to that, I mean none, I just call them as I see them--you'd notice a distinct absence on my part leading up to the program in terms of self-promotion. Do you think that means I'm guaranteed a victory? NO! I am what they call a JOBBER!"
Cary whips out a large notebook of paper, think the type Dmitri Martin uses on that terrible TV show of his, and flips it open to the front page. There is a crude illustration, sticks and what not, of a man in a luchador mask receiving one in the behind from a paper cut out of Craig Miles. An arrow points to the little line between the figures, with the word "penis" at the ray end of the dart.
"Uh...my illustration is purely coincidental to your vocabulary. But what I’m meaning to say is, I won’t be winning this match, and my fans deserved to know why; hence, the insulted promo. The window I allowed them to peak through was small, but enough light shone through to give them an idea. I needed money, and those lovely men paid me more than NFW would’ve for Crash. C’est la vie.”
“My question is, BND…”
A new page is flipped over with BND in bold letters:
Brains
Not
Detected.
“…why are you picking on the jobber? The lowest of the low? The crumbs from the dumb? Shouldn’t you be rapejobbing someone else? Heck, I’m in a match with ROOK BLACK and DR. CURIOSITY. Let me let that sink in for a minute.”
Cary flips over the page, two more paper cut outs, this time the previously capitalized Curiosity and Black. They are surrounded with middleschool-girl stars and swirls, as if from a biology notebook’s margins.
“Ok, so I’m in a match with ROOK BLACK and DR. CURIOSITY. I’m unfamiliar with Kooter—I don’t spend a lot of time around NFW sober, sorry, I just can’t get in that ring without a few bottles of schnapps, so those I’ve met while with the company haven’t stuck—but I know those men have track records that’d make Jacky-Joyner curse thee. And you choose to specifically call out
ME while barely mentioning the other two?”
…
…
…
“THANK YOU! I didn’t know there were other jobbers in the NFW! I thought my tender derriere was all alone for the butt whoopings. You were giving me all those names, those well established names, and it worried me, until I realized, the promo was truly meant for me! ME!”
Cary gets all giddy and skips around. His piano-key tie bounces up and down on his chest.
"Oh lord, this is so exciting! If you guys really want to form a Jobber stable, I’m all for it! There’s something about bumbling incompetence that really resonates with me, and you two seem like perfect partners. Though there will be ground rules:
- I’m the leader. Even though we’re at the bottom of the ladder, I can’t let any potential sponsors be turned off by your elementary vocabulary. My homeless, booze infused tongue is a better alternative than seeing those southern arenas, the ones in Louisville and Houston and Mobile, filled from front to back with one-toothed imbeciled fans of ours wearing ‘Rape Job’ shirts.
- Change your names. The whole rhyming thing—bleech. It might be fun living at the jobber level for now, but if we ever want respectability, the mother goose level rhymes need to be purged from your monikers.
- Let me choose our targets. It was miraculous you found me, but it was under the most retarded terms I’ve ever come across. Who the heck wants to cheer for someone picking on the crippled kids in the NFW world? Let’s make a clear and conscious effort to go for the big wigs when we hit the gates, ok?
- And BND? Bold…new…disaster? You got the ‘d’ part right. Work on that.
“So, would you like to ally with the wimpy and the terrible, The King of the Jobbers, Mr. Thanksgiving, Le Turke, “Boozed and Snoozed” Cary Turkington? Can your…dim selves accept a place in the back seat? Or would you prefer continuing with the ‘rape jobs’?”
Cary flings the note book away and pulls out a bottle of whiskey, taking a long pull and leaving an audible “ahhh” to resonate at the end. With squinted eyes he stares at the camera.
“…if that’s the case, know the offer still stands. It’s for your own good.”
Cary is left smiling as the camera fades. It looks as sincere as ever.
