Post by Lord Hastings on May 4, 2019 22:16:18 GMT -5
A guy in a poorly fitting Ram mask walks in front of the camera. He’s munching on a carrot with one hand while holding a mini-bar bottle of tequila in the other. He takes a huge chomp out of the carrot, chews on it for a few moments and then washes it down in one gulp from the mini-bar Tequila. He shakes it, looks in it and tosses the empty bottle behind him. It bounces off of the wall and falls on the floor, which he observes with a ceiling tile rattling burp.
“Breakfast of champions.” He mutters, then pulls a larger bottle out, uncorks it and spits the cap across the room.
“I’m gonna win my first NJPW…”
He looks off of the camera as he’s interrupted. You can almost his face crinkling in annoyance under his mask.
“Yeah.” He says. “Whatever. My first Supreme Jersey Wrestling championship when I win the Inter-Municipal Chaaaaaampionship on Monday.”
He bleats out “championship” like a goat and takes another slug from the bottle.
“I’m going to waaaalk into Indiana Farrrrmers Coliseum and maaaake my debut.” He says, then takes another bite and another swig. “I won’t be sheepish about chomping the Camden Carrot into obscurity and then washing him down with the Dos Tequila”
He takes another chomp and swig.
“X Gamer I’m going to be blunt. You’re going to roll a joint right before I smoke you.” He bleats. “It’s going to be spliffy.”
He polishes off the bottle and throws it on the floor with a crash.
“I’m going to have to clean that up.” Someone whines from off camera.
“If I had eyebrows, I’d be glaring at you right now.” Bartholomew sneers.
He throws his carrot at the person on the other side of the camera.
“I don’t even know what the hell a ‘Peekatyou’ is.” He snarls. “Did you drive in here in windowless van or a beaten up old ice cream truck? Nobody wants to ‘peek’ at a grown man in a discount Haaaaaaaaloweeeeeen costume!”
“You’re going to be Counting Sheep.” He continues. “On Monday your ass is grass and I’m going to eat it.”
Wording, Bart. Wording.
“You’ve never won the Inter-Municipal Championship and you’re not going to now.”
A muffled laugh wanders from his “face”.
“Barry Harris?” He asks. “What is this, nineteen ninety-five?”
“Are Ron and Don backstage?” He continues. “How does it feel to be the reserve in the ‘Two Brother Army’?”
“The only way you get ‘ice hard’ is when you slip and fall when your brother stops holding your hand at the skating rink.”
“This is my time.” He states. “I want the Inter-Municipal Championship and I’m not going to let a dive-bar backup band wrestler keep me from claiming it. Your brother was the ‘main event’ of the ‘Two Brother Army’ and he’s not here. I’m going to make my name at your expense”
“The Ebony Sheep’ is here and it’s my time.” He bleats. “You’re all the past. I’m the future. This isn’t going to be ‘Lamb Chop’s Play Along’. ‘The Wooly Warrior’ is here for war and no one is going to horn in on my future.”
“At ‘Chill’ the Inter-Municipal Championship will be mine.”
“Prepare to be sheared.”
He stomps away and the promo abruptly ends.
“Breakfast of champions.” He mutters, then pulls a larger bottle out, uncorks it and spits the cap across the room.
“I’m gonna win my first NJPW…”
He looks off of the camera as he’s interrupted. You can almost his face crinkling in annoyance under his mask.
“Yeah.” He says. “Whatever. My first Supreme Jersey Wrestling championship when I win the Inter-Municipal Chaaaaaampionship on Monday.”
He bleats out “championship” like a goat and takes another slug from the bottle.
“I’m going to waaaalk into Indiana Farrrrmers Coliseum and maaaake my debut.” He says, then takes another bite and another swig. “I won’t be sheepish about chomping the Camden Carrot into obscurity and then washing him down with the Dos Tequila”
He takes another chomp and swig.
“X Gamer I’m going to be blunt. You’re going to roll a joint right before I smoke you.” He bleats. “It’s going to be spliffy.”
He polishes off the bottle and throws it on the floor with a crash.
“I’m going to have to clean that up.” Someone whines from off camera.
“If I had eyebrows, I’d be glaring at you right now.” Bartholomew sneers.
He throws his carrot at the person on the other side of the camera.
“I don’t even know what the hell a ‘Peekatyou’ is.” He snarls. “Did you drive in here in windowless van or a beaten up old ice cream truck? Nobody wants to ‘peek’ at a grown man in a discount Haaaaaaaaloweeeeeen costume!”
“You’re going to be Counting Sheep.” He continues. “On Monday your ass is grass and I’m going to eat it.”
Wording, Bart. Wording.
“You’ve never won the Inter-Municipal Championship and you’re not going to now.”
A muffled laugh wanders from his “face”.
“Barry Harris?” He asks. “What is this, nineteen ninety-five?”
“Are Ron and Don backstage?” He continues. “How does it feel to be the reserve in the ‘Two Brother Army’?”
“The only way you get ‘ice hard’ is when you slip and fall when your brother stops holding your hand at the skating rink.”
“This is my time.” He states. “I want the Inter-Municipal Championship and I’m not going to let a dive-bar backup band wrestler keep me from claiming it. Your brother was the ‘main event’ of the ‘Two Brother Army’ and he’s not here. I’m going to make my name at your expense”
“The Ebony Sheep’ is here and it’s my time.” He bleats. “You’re all the past. I’m the future. This isn’t going to be ‘Lamb Chop’s Play Along’. ‘The Wooly Warrior’ is here for war and no one is going to horn in on my future.”
“At ‘Chill’ the Inter-Municipal Championship will be mine.”
“Prepare to be sheared.”
He stomps away and the promo abruptly ends.
