“WE GOT US SOME ANNOUNCEMENTS JACK!”
“It’s Martin…ma name’s Martin”
“Alright brother, we got us a memorial rope trophy royal brother. 30 humans enter a bull pen, and the last man standing turns into Andre The Giant brother, yeah brother Jack”
“Whit you even on aboot?
“I dunno, I blacked out about 10 year ago and everything since has been confusion Jack!”
“Many times dae I huv tae tell ye, ma name’s Martin”
“Yeah brother. Like I told that chick I slayed in that porno movie I was in, if you not Jackin, then you aint my brother Jack! Brother Jack Jack brother, Hulkamaniacs”
“Mate you’re away wae it”
Sometimes it disnae matter who emerges from a PPV with the big belts. Even if thats the PPV that shapes the Wrestlemania card more than any other. The belts didnae matter a fuck when this yin ended cause the next generation lets us aw know that they were ready. Its time for the next batch of genuine stars tae take over and lead us intae an era of cunts who captivate us. Cunts who understand the art of storytelling. The type of characters who get on that fuckin mic, and makes ye put down yer Tuna Melt, roll yer chair right next tae the tele so its like he’s cuttin the promo right in yer face. I’m talking about Bray Wyatt. I’m talking about Dean Ambrose. I’m talking about the walking spearing orgasm known as Roman fuckin Reigns. I’m talkin about Luke Harper. I’m of course talking about the shimmering man chest Big E is sporting. I’m talkin about the whole lot of yees. The Usos, Rowan, the selling machine known as Seth Rollins. Yer aw ready troops, and I know I’m no only speaking for myself when I say…we’re ready for ye. Ready for ye tae main event the rest of our fuckin lives, tae yer sons n daughters get auld enough tae take over.
Imagine sitting doon tae preview a WWE PPV and ye find yersell with nothing but hope and a tingling in the testicles for it. A unique proposition tae say that least. Not that I anticipate this being any less arse bursting than most of the PPVs from the tail end of last year, but d’ye know whit? It has the Wyatts vs The Shield, and a wee chance that either Daniel Bryan or Antonio Cesaro could stroll oot wae aw the belts, so for those reason I’m gonnae allow that pure, unfiltered, rarefied optimism tae flow aw the way from ma chest pubes, right down tae ma ball fro.
Betty White was a guest on RAW this week, and as much as a respect how much life she still has in her at 92, my overriding thought throughout was “whit?”
She comes oot, arm n arm wae Big Show, and its revealed that they’re dating, and Betty is expecting tae give birth tae a foot any day now. Trips n Steph interrupt this vile shit, tae show off just how fuckin shapely Stephs lookin these days, and tae gie the expectant mother a wee cuddle. Big Show shoots them heavy growlers, cause his role in this wee melodrama is that of the protector. Guarding his spawn, and his maiden in the face of danger. Erroneously Triple H n Steph think being nice tae Betty White gies them permission tae say words, and have me listen tae them. Triple H is aw “we said we’d CONSIDER Daniel Bryan to be the face of the company if he could beat Orton, no that he wid be for sure” and a man in the crowd is aw “I feel misled!” Me tae man in the crowd, me tae, and much respect tae ye for conveying yer feelings in a controlled manner.
Orton interrupts them by sliding down tae the ring on a slipstream of the “Arabian Beauty” body mist that gies him that rapey shimmer. Stephanie urges Randall tae get the fuck outta there, and Randy urges her to remain calm. He wisnae gonnae handcuff her husband tae the ropes, and gie her a sly winch this time. It wisnae good. I dont care for his words. Disnae matter if he shouts them, whispers them, or dictates the fuckin things tae Morgan Freeman. They’re shite words. He wants tae be on cereal boxes and billboards. Daniel Bryan chants ring out throughout. Nae…cunt….gies….a….fuck.