Ep.02: Mad Dog Blows, Take Him Home (Music Parody Episode)
Oct 23, 2019 17:58:37 GMT -6
Deana Barrows likes this
Post by Savage on Oct 23, 2019 17:58:37 GMT -6
"Let us make mankind in our image, in our likeness, so that they may rule over the fish in the sea and the birds in the sky, over the livestock and all the wild animals, and over all the creatures that move along the ground."
10/22/2019 0847 hrs.
Wrestling's a lot like TiVo: it seems like no matter how long you're gone, you can come back, and everything seems frozen in time. Like it never changed; you can just hit play and get back into the flow.
Same goddamned tropes, week in, week out. If it's not a moron in face-paint, wearing his girlfriend's yoga pants he bedazzled in the garage, it's some jerk-off that thinks mental illness gives you superpowers in the ring. Or a pretty face made of porcelain who uses wrestling as a platform for a modeling career that tanks just as badly as the in ring endeavor.
Or, like my new buddy this week, Cleetus McSister-Fucker. I wonder how many Oxycontins and genetic defects from generations of inbreeding it took for this mountain monkey to..
A: Think he was qualified to step into the squared circle and make a career out of it, and...
B: Think he could spread the sea salt on my name and rep in that verbal fit of dysentery, when the pinnacle accomplishment of this man's life was figuring out how to swing a pick-axe without embedding it straight into his foot! Honestly, I sometimes wonder why I deal with this shit. The morons with the same mentalities and approaches to the game, the rebooted personas, the floods of feds that sprout like thistle, promising to be the next big thing, then...
Poof. It dries up, and there's nothing but the dead leaves to remind us. So, many of you wonder why am I doing this again?
The pay is great, I get more opportunities to travel. Mexico City's skyline is magnificent to behold during dawn or dusk. 4 hours of training at high altitudes; there's nothing like sitting for a break to enjoy the view. I can't list all the reasons I do this, but there is one I'm beginning to embrace as the years go by; a teacher.
And I've got myself this week a hillbilly jackass who, if I don't correct him, is gonna drive his career off a cliff like his shit-box pick-up truck.
School's in session, stump jumper. And if you're not paying attention, you WILL flunk this class.
Well, buenas dias, motherfuckers! It's wrestling's favorite bad guy shooting, good pussy smashing juggernaut 'bout to rip a dude in half again in stunning 4K resolution. Yeah, sadly, you'll also get to see with crystal clarity some cave crawling bumpkin's alarming lack of dental hygiene. I'd tell people I'll be making Mad Doggy Dog shit out his teeth, but since he's from prescription painkiller abuse country, I don't want to do that to him. They're a rare commodity in broke ass coal country!
Tony's gym bags and gear are sitting on a picnic table along the walking path he jogged on. In one hand, he wipes his brow with a towel. The other reaches down and picks up...a guitar case?
Oh, this ol' thing? Yeah; I picked up a few hobbies during my time in the game. Decided music was a good palette cleanser, considering my ear-balls get bukkake'd on a regular basis by the shit that comes out of wrestler's mouths. Besides, there's only so many ways one can sit in front of a camera lens and talk about how trash your opposition is in comparison, how bad you're gonna whoop up on him.
When you SING about it, on the other hand,Tony smirks, sitting on a bench and tuning his guitar.Now that adds some spice to that boring dish. This one goes out to a very, very, special needs having motherfucker from the armpit of the Appalachians, who decided to be a bad mutt and piss on my shoes, a mister Cleetus McSister-Fucker. His government name may be Mark, but, after his last shoot...
Dad's not permitting you the use of your government name. You get that back when you can act like somebody serious about this shit. *strums his guitar* A 1, a 2...A 1,2,3,4...
He's breaking out the John Denver parody. Oh, shit. This redneck don't know what he got himself into...(Following parody based off "Country Roads, Take Me Home" by John Denver. All rights belong to his estate. Unlike some wrestlers...*Cough, cough, Mad Dog Cleetus, cough* Tony Savage does not plagiarize.)
What a shit-pit, West Virginia.
Redneck pill-heads, 14 deep in a mobile home.
No jobs, no reading; everyone broke as fuck.
Now I'm tasked with beating, this hillbilly rookie schmuck.
Mad Dog blows, take him home,
In my ring, he don't belong.
West Virginia, the fuck you thinking?
Mad Dog blows, take him home.
Has no resume, no clue about this biz
Yet on a legend's shoes he thinks he can piss
Needs those wrestling bucks 'cause he shit at everything
I built my own rep, while he rides his daddy's dick
Mad Dog blows, take him home
In my ring, he don't belong
West Virginia, you sent a clown,
Mad Dog blows, take him home
I hear the mumbling of a brain dead never will
Talking shit he can't and won't back up
And after Friday, when I bust you up, all the mountain folk will say
Dog fucked up....*high baritone pitch*...HE FUUUUCKED UP, YEAH!
Mad Dog blows, take him home
In my ring, he don't belong.
West Virginia, dump your white trash
Mad Dog blows, take him home.
Oh, Mad Dog blows, take him home (probably a mobile home)
Mad Dog blllllooooowwwws...take him hooooooooome!
Ah, nothing like a good tune to brighten ones mood.
Tony puts the instrument down. He pops his shirt off, and his chiseled frame is a mural of scars painting some abstract art piece across flesh. He wipes his body down, frowning and shaking his head.
I needed a ray of sunshine, because I'ma make the Dog run under the bed for calling down the thunder on his fucking head right now.
Cleetus...yeah, that's your name now. You ain't earned a name in this business yet. You haven't earned the right for guys like me that have spent seven years selling out stadiums and fighting some of the best this business has to offer to bother getting whatever title your shack dwelling, welfare check scamming ass parents slapped on your birth certificate right. You've already got a problem when one of your big guns in this fight is questioning whether Savage is my real name.
At this point in my life and career, I can change my fucking name to goddamn Lateshia Higglebottom, and it'd still carry greater weight than yours will. Took a look at the way you roll, that little pullback of the curtain of life in the trailer park.
God damn,Tony can't help but laugh.You really think you stand a chance considering how you roll, do you?
A failed coal miner and seemingly faltering bootlegger, who's only claim to fame in the biz is your Uncle Daddy pulled a Jerry Jarrett and kept pushing you onto the name card of those shit shows he throws in bingo halls and high school gyms until fans just threw up their hands. Your disses, weak. You didn't bother to do any research on me, did you? Like a true maddog, you just saw me and started yapping your head off and chasing anything that moves, not bothering to find out what you're planning on biting.
You brought your family onto your shoot to prop you up, when I've shredded you on wax by my lonesome. You go after my military service and skill set, because your training background involves moving dirt and an occasional pain-pill, and begging your dad to book you. I've made it a point to approach the game with sophistication and diligence, while you roll like a goddamned 90's WWF southern stereotype, screaming yee-haw and rolling around with rotgut in your Mason jar. You might as well have possum pelts hanging from your porch and a fucking kid with six fingers picking a banjo on the porch.
Slack jawed swamp monkeys like you make it hard for guys like me to convince people not from the South we're not a buncha goddamn jug blowing inbred morons
Tony had to pause. Motherfuckers like Cleetus really were a stain on the rep of the South.I can see perfectly why you call yourself Maddog, besides the fact coming up with an original moniker would fry what few brains cells generations of drinking glorified brake cleaner and busting nutts repeatedly in your own gene pool hadn't fragged. Because you truly do roll like a rabid, brainless, belligerent, diseased mutt that instead of conducting yourself like a competent fighter who should be concerned his first, and possibly, last match, is against a fucking multi-fed champion that has seen so many guys like you prancing around in overalls playing honky tonk, I could reboot fucking Hee-Haw with jackoffs like you as the cast.
Tony pops a fresh shirt on, and packs his bags, grumbling.You truly are a dog, Cleetus. A poorly trained, stupid, aggravating to the last nerve ending white trash equivalent of black-face stinking up my ring with your shitty Henry Godwin tribute act, barking senseless noise into the air, and pissing all over the furniture. You're a bad dog, Cleetus. Your lifeline daddy, he done trained you wrong. That's why COME FIGHT NIGHT...
I'm taking you to obedience school.
There's a loaded handgun in Tony's bag. He pulls it out, taking it apart and checking it as he keeps talking. He doesn't even look down to inspect his work as his diatribe commences. he doesn't need to.
Despite your doubts, I am Tony Savage. The man some of the roster will tell youu is what he claims to be. But on Friday, I might as well be fucking Caesar Milano, because you are about to be housebroken in front of millions.
I will make you sit. I will make you roll over. I will make you shut your yap like a good dog when the men are talking, and if you really decide to piss me off, you landfill of honky hillbilly garbage...
IWILLmake you beg!
Tony himself is growling into the lens, veins in his forehead bulging.
That's why man has dominion over the animals. Because it's up to men like me to try to train wild, worthless animals like you. Either what I do on Friday makes you a good and smart dog, worthy of mine and the fan's time, or...
You'll keep acting like a retard with rabies always barking up the wrong tree. Then that means next time I see you in a ring, it'll turn out for you like the end of Old Yeller. And if you've never seen that movie...
CLICK CLACK! His pistol's slide chamber cocks with a loud, ominous click, and Tony's grin turns vile and wolfish.
Spoiler Alert: It wasn't a happy ending for the mutt.
Genesis 1:26
Mexico City, Mexico 10/22/2019 0847 hrs.
Wrestling's a lot like TiVo: it seems like no matter how long you're gone, you can come back, and everything seems frozen in time. Like it never changed; you can just hit play and get back into the flow.
Same goddamned tropes, week in, week out. If it's not a moron in face-paint, wearing his girlfriend's yoga pants he bedazzled in the garage, it's some jerk-off that thinks mental illness gives you superpowers in the ring. Or a pretty face made of porcelain who uses wrestling as a platform for a modeling career that tanks just as badly as the in ring endeavor.
Or, like my new buddy this week, Cleetus McSister-Fucker. I wonder how many Oxycontins and genetic defects from generations of inbreeding it took for this mountain monkey to..
A: Think he was qualified to step into the squared circle and make a career out of it, and...
B: Think he could spread the sea salt on my name and rep in that verbal fit of dysentery, when the pinnacle accomplishment of this man's life was figuring out how to swing a pick-axe without embedding it straight into his foot! Honestly, I sometimes wonder why I deal with this shit. The morons with the same mentalities and approaches to the game, the rebooted personas, the floods of feds that sprout like thistle, promising to be the next big thing, then...
Poof. It dries up, and there's nothing but the dead leaves to remind us. So, many of you wonder why am I doing this again?
The pay is great, I get more opportunities to travel. Mexico City's skyline is magnificent to behold during dawn or dusk. 4 hours of training at high altitudes; there's nothing like sitting for a break to enjoy the view. I can't list all the reasons I do this, but there is one I'm beginning to embrace as the years go by; a teacher.
And I've got myself this week a hillbilly jackass who, if I don't correct him, is gonna drive his career off a cliff like his shit-box pick-up truck.
School's in session, stump jumper. And if you're not paying attention, you WILL flunk this class.
Well, buenas dias, motherfuckers! It's wrestling's favorite bad guy shooting, good pussy smashing juggernaut 'bout to rip a dude in half again in stunning 4K resolution. Yeah, sadly, you'll also get to see with crystal clarity some cave crawling bumpkin's alarming lack of dental hygiene. I'd tell people I'll be making Mad Doggy Dog shit out his teeth, but since he's from prescription painkiller abuse country, I don't want to do that to him. They're a rare commodity in broke ass coal country!
Tony's gym bags and gear are sitting on a picnic table along the walking path he jogged on. In one hand, he wipes his brow with a towel. The other reaches down and picks up...a guitar case?
Oh, this ol' thing? Yeah; I picked up a few hobbies during my time in the game. Decided music was a good palette cleanser, considering my ear-balls get bukkake'd on a regular basis by the shit that comes out of wrestler's mouths. Besides, there's only so many ways one can sit in front of a camera lens and talk about how trash your opposition is in comparison, how bad you're gonna whoop up on him.
When you SING about it, on the other hand,Tony smirks, sitting on a bench and tuning his guitar.Now that adds some spice to that boring dish. This one goes out to a very, very, special needs having motherfucker from the armpit of the Appalachians, who decided to be a bad mutt and piss on my shoes, a mister Cleetus McSister-Fucker. His government name may be Mark, but, after his last shoot...
Dad's not permitting you the use of your government name. You get that back when you can act like somebody serious about this shit. *strums his guitar* A 1, a 2...A 1,2,3,4...
He's breaking out the John Denver parody. Oh, shit. This redneck don't know what he got himself into...(Following parody based off "Country Roads, Take Me Home" by John Denver. All rights belong to his estate. Unlike some wrestlers...*Cough, cough, Mad Dog Cleetus, cough* Tony Savage does not plagiarize.)
What a shit-pit, West Virginia.
Redneck pill-heads, 14 deep in a mobile home.
No jobs, no reading; everyone broke as fuck.
Now I'm tasked with beating, this hillbilly rookie schmuck.
Mad Dog blows, take him home,
In my ring, he don't belong.
West Virginia, the fuck you thinking?
Mad Dog blows, take him home.
Has no resume, no clue about this biz
Yet on a legend's shoes he thinks he can piss
Needs those wrestling bucks 'cause he shit at everything
I built my own rep, while he rides his daddy's dick
Mad Dog blows, take him home
In my ring, he don't belong
West Virginia, you sent a clown,
Mad Dog blows, take him home
I hear the mumbling of a brain dead never will
Talking shit he can't and won't back up
And after Friday, when I bust you up, all the mountain folk will say
Dog fucked up....*high baritone pitch*...HE FUUUUCKED UP, YEAH!
Mad Dog blows, take him home
In my ring, he don't belong.
West Virginia, dump your white trash
Mad Dog blows, take him home.
Oh, Mad Dog blows, take him home (probably a mobile home)
Mad Dog blllllooooowwwws...take him hooooooooome!
Ah, nothing like a good tune to brighten ones mood.
Tony puts the instrument down. He pops his shirt off, and his chiseled frame is a mural of scars painting some abstract art piece across flesh. He wipes his body down, frowning and shaking his head.
I needed a ray of sunshine, because I'ma make the Dog run under the bed for calling down the thunder on his fucking head right now.
Cleetus...yeah, that's your name now. You ain't earned a name in this business yet. You haven't earned the right for guys like me that have spent seven years selling out stadiums and fighting some of the best this business has to offer to bother getting whatever title your shack dwelling, welfare check scamming ass parents slapped on your birth certificate right. You've already got a problem when one of your big guns in this fight is questioning whether Savage is my real name.
At this point in my life and career, I can change my fucking name to goddamn Lateshia Higglebottom, and it'd still carry greater weight than yours will. Took a look at the way you roll, that little pullback of the curtain of life in the trailer park.
God damn,Tony can't help but laugh.You really think you stand a chance considering how you roll, do you?
A failed coal miner and seemingly faltering bootlegger, who's only claim to fame in the biz is your Uncle Daddy pulled a Jerry Jarrett and kept pushing you onto the name card of those shit shows he throws in bingo halls and high school gyms until fans just threw up their hands. Your disses, weak. You didn't bother to do any research on me, did you? Like a true maddog, you just saw me and started yapping your head off and chasing anything that moves, not bothering to find out what you're planning on biting.
You brought your family onto your shoot to prop you up, when I've shredded you on wax by my lonesome. You go after my military service and skill set, because your training background involves moving dirt and an occasional pain-pill, and begging your dad to book you. I've made it a point to approach the game with sophistication and diligence, while you roll like a goddamned 90's WWF southern stereotype, screaming yee-haw and rolling around with rotgut in your Mason jar. You might as well have possum pelts hanging from your porch and a fucking kid with six fingers picking a banjo on the porch.
Slack jawed swamp monkeys like you make it hard for guys like me to convince people not from the South we're not a buncha goddamn jug blowing inbred morons
Tony had to pause. Motherfuckers like Cleetus really were a stain on the rep of the South.I can see perfectly why you call yourself Maddog, besides the fact coming up with an original moniker would fry what few brains cells generations of drinking glorified brake cleaner and busting nutts repeatedly in your own gene pool hadn't fragged. Because you truly do roll like a rabid, brainless, belligerent, diseased mutt that instead of conducting yourself like a competent fighter who should be concerned his first, and possibly, last match, is against a fucking multi-fed champion that has seen so many guys like you prancing around in overalls playing honky tonk, I could reboot fucking Hee-Haw with jackoffs like you as the cast.
Tony pops a fresh shirt on, and packs his bags, grumbling.You truly are a dog, Cleetus. A poorly trained, stupid, aggravating to the last nerve ending white trash equivalent of black-face stinking up my ring with your shitty Henry Godwin tribute act, barking senseless noise into the air, and pissing all over the furniture. You're a bad dog, Cleetus. Your lifeline daddy, he done trained you wrong. That's why COME FIGHT NIGHT...
I'm taking you to obedience school.
There's a loaded handgun in Tony's bag. He pulls it out, taking it apart and checking it as he keeps talking. He doesn't even look down to inspect his work as his diatribe commences. he doesn't need to.
Despite your doubts, I am Tony Savage. The man some of the roster will tell youu is what he claims to be. But on Friday, I might as well be fucking Caesar Milano, because you are about to be housebroken in front of millions.
I will make you sit. I will make you roll over. I will make you shut your yap like a good dog when the men are talking, and if you really decide to piss me off, you landfill of honky hillbilly garbage...
IWILLmake you beg!
Tony himself is growling into the lens, veins in his forehead bulging.
That's why man has dominion over the animals. Because it's up to men like me to try to train wild, worthless animals like you. Either what I do on Friday makes you a good and smart dog, worthy of mine and the fan's time, or...
You'll keep acting like a retard with rabies always barking up the wrong tree. Then that means next time I see you in a ring, it'll turn out for you like the end of Old Yeller. And if you've never seen that movie...
CLICK CLACK! His pistol's slide chamber cocks with a loud, ominous click, and Tony's grin turns vile and wolfish.
Spoiler Alert: It wasn't a happy ending for the mutt.
