Post by Savage on Nov 18, 2019 16:25:46 GMT -6
IT'S THE REDNECK DIP-SHIT MUPPET SHOW! HURRAY!
How much peroxide Tony had to apply to his hair to get that shitty neon yellow mess look Chad Vargas sports, we'll never know. But he's got the look down, complete with a dirty Pabst Blue Ribbon T-Shirt, MAGA hat, and some wrap around shades 1992 left a DM to Tony to return. He sits behind a desk in a rather plain filming studio. Cameraman Kenny's behind the lens, happy he doesn't have to do another shoot in the shitter like he did last week.
Hey, Tony warned him not to piss off the wife. This time during breakfast, Ken kept his mouth shut and ate his omelet. As he does now, except without the omelet filming Tony breaking out the puppet case like Jeff Dunham, except this bad ventriloquism won't cost people $120 a ticket.
Howdy, government assistance abusing border jumpers. It's me, the ONLY half of the GCWA Tag champions, and walking white trash dumpster fire CHAD VARGAS! Tony bellows in a very overblown Tennessee accent. And tonight, we've got a special show for you low income having, safe space loving pansies. First off, I'd like to introduce the Chad Vargas cheering section. Just a buncha good, God fearing American boys...
Yikes!
Lookit dem boys. All crispy looking in their momma's best Sunday tablecloths. They're fine examples of what you can accomplish if you drop out of high school, work shitty scrap yard jobs, and give your first cousin the dick after you beat her ass for not putting the right beer cozy on your cheap domestic beer. Now, I know, I'm pretty much the only reason we done got those tag straps, in-between racist commentary and crying in my pillow because every sports team in my home state's sucking ass...
But in-between being a warning for going Republican in this era and bitching about bad booking, yet, all too happy to cherry pick weak rivals, I'm busy blowing out my spine carrying this burn out man child that I use to keep the other belt warm, the one, the thankfully only...Bob Grenier!
Whoever Tony hired to craft this puppet earned his paycheck this week. They even got the red eyes, shitty beautician school trainee haircut, and vacant "the fuck was I doing" look plastered on his face. Tony laments he spent $500 bucks on a prop to torch a $5 idiot.
Howdy, Bob? How's life being my boat-anchor who smokes the reefer like some ghetto kid spending all his money on Migos records and overpriced sneakers?
Whoa. First off, like, I thought we were going to the Holiday store to pick up some Slim Jims and an orange soda. I wasn't prepared to cut a promo today...
Considering I've been carrying your lazy ass like a waiter's tray since you showed up, there's no point to cut a shoot. Like you do that anyways...
Cool. Because, like, doing promos cuts into my time scrounging my couch cushions for loose nugs of kush. Besides, hauling my water's been doing wonders for your trapezium muscles...
Enough talking; that stench of failure and Cheetos on your breath's gagging me. So, we've been on a crusade to stop GCWA's sorry ass booking...
Actually, you've been griping about it. Me, I've been cool with it. Like, I've made so much money riding your coat-tails since I signed the contract...
Whoa, did I sign it? I don't remember...* Puppet Bob starts fading out*
Big fucking shock. But anyways, you're in solo action this week.
Wait, like, as in, I have to actually work this week? What, no...
Yup, you goddamn sponge, this week you get to show the GCWA fans why we're two of the best single competitors on the payroll.
Okay. It shouldn't be a big deal. I mean, usually they book guys like us against Janitor or Puffer. Maybe when I, like, beat Peter, he can finally get more hand sanitizer in the GCWA bathroom...
Nah, burnout, you've got Tony Savage this week.
Then Puppet Bob's eyes rattle, and it shakes like it's going epileptic. Wait, wait...Tony!? I've got TONY this week?
Yeah, Puppet Bob's rocking out like THIS now!
There's a sound of somebody expelling a tainted truck stop burrito out the back door, and Tony/Chad feels something liquid dripping down his forearm.
Did you...did you just shit yourself all over me? He's just ham and egger...
Like, fuck he is, Yosemite Sam. You've never been in the same companies as him like I have. This dude is, like, career ebola. He's a fucking monster! While I was busy scraping pipes and midcard spots, this crazy murder machine was headlining PPV's and winning belts. He was a nightmare in Boardwalk.
Pfft! Fuck that Georgia peach! He lost to Duce's 3-6 Mafia loving brown ass...
Yeah, in the match of the night at the last PPV, against a bad-ass after three weeks back in wrestling. He overshadowed us while STILL losing! And did you see what he did to Lightning with bomb shrapnel and glass stick stuck in his ass? I mean, when we were on the sidelines, nursing a few boo-boo's and watching you assault random service workers because they made fun of your Trump bumper sticker, him and Jones were carrying the show just a few days after nearly killing each other!
First off, blunts for brains, Chad Vargas NEVER goes out of his way to sell or show respect to opposition. I can't afford to look like an elite professional in the squared circle instead of some dye job rocking troll on the Drudge report who can't get a woman because those dumb gashes have a problem with things like "derogatory slurs", "excessive body odor" and "1st degree domestic assault!" Second, we're the GCWA Tag Team Champions...
Easy to do when there's, like only two or three teams. I mean, after awhile, whooping up on Thunder and Lightning ad nauseum actually DEVALUES the belts. I mean, we've put in a bunch of work to get where we are...
Correction, numb-nuts; I have! You've been riding my ass colon polyp style to easy paychecks. I mean, you don't even have a proper roster bio page on the fucking company website!
Oh,Puppet Bob chuckles like a doofus,Yeah, I knew I forgot something. I mean, I'm always spacing stuff off. Like, cutting shoots, training, contributing anything of substance to our team. You should have seen how I had to look for my car keys, and I just say screw it, I'll just break into it...
That wasn't your car you broke into, you idiot!
Oh. So that's why my neighbor was screaming about pressing charges against me. I just thought his wife was being frigid again.
Fuck! Tony/Chad buries his head into his free hand in shame.This is what I get for making fun of retarded kids; I'm stuck with one. Look, despite your shit work ethic, you've got this locked up. Tony is shit. He's going down in flaming nosedive once he steps into the ring.
Cool...so that means you're gonna wrestle for me, then?
No! I mean...I..I could totally kick Tony's ass like kicking a border jumper back across the Rio Grande. Easy. But, you know, I had a hard match at High Rollers, and I need to recover...
You've had over 2 weeks to recoup; Tony's been going nonstop.
This hangnail ain't gonna heal itself without proper rest! Besides, I'm busy...yeah...lots of important things on my itinerary. I've got to put new aluminum siding on my single wide trailer house. Looking up slanderous terms for Puerto Ricans on Urban Dictionary. Plus, you know how essential it is I spend every waking moment I can doing donuts in a rusted ass 1986 Chevy pickup truck while I play Toby Keith music on loop for hours. He nervously prattles on, pit stains in his swap meet t-shirt seeping through.
You're gonna do fine...I swear...I'll even be there that night for moral support when youget prison raped with your own head I mean, get your hand raised in victory. All by yourself. Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got this beta cuck on the Breitbart news site I've been beefing with that needs to called every homophobic insult I can pile on him that doesn't involve more than two syllables. Maybe even hit a Burger King employee and somehow not get arrested for aggravated assault...
And that's where we end this parody, because between these fuckers, and that vapid also-ran from my other gig acting like a real life Miss Piggy with her pack of cheerleaders trying to prop her up, I'm done playing Jim Henson studios for right now.
Hell, maybe I was raised different, but when you need backup to fight one guy, you make the case for defeating me really fucking hard to justified.
Tony yanks off the puppet from his hand and thoughtlessly tosses it at his side on the table. His Southern accent is back to that Georgian drawl that just sounds so much better than that of Volunteer country.
Gotta ask you an honest question, Robert; when did you decide to become a dick rider that relies on being a tool for a fucking satire of himself and Southern culture to pay your fucking bills, huh? I mean, I've know about you for a while. You used to be a pretty proactive, used to have a decent work ethic. But ever since you've arrived in the G, you've been pretty cozy letting Vargas drive your team while you roll like a flat tire.
It's just the truth, man. By yourself, you've done so little, people are starting to forget you're even part of a tag team. You're making that Skoal dipping dumb-fuck look like Superman because he's consistently bailing you out. And you want to bitch about weak booking? You guys?!
You, rob, have no room to talk anymore. No more excuses, because I'm laying the truth out on the table as bare as the day we are born.
I've been leading while you've been following. I've been innovating while you've been procrastinating. While I've been out in the wilderness promoting the company, putting up classics win or lose on my own accord, you have been surfing on coattails. Hell, when you and Chad were backstage being wallflowers and bumping your gums the last show, I sucked up the pain of a goddamn death-match, slapped on some tape, and proved once again why guys like me are the future of the company, because that's the difference between marquee superstars, and fucking shoe wearing tumors like you that coast their way to a payday.
Worst part is, I want you to try to prove me wrong. I want you to pull your spine out of Chad's beer cooler, and actually back up your claims you can still do your job on your own. You haven't exactly shown anybody lately you can stand on your own feet.
So, bake sale, here's your options: You can either stand on your own feet, or, you can keep using your partner as a free paycheck. Choice is yours.
He pulls out a lighter, and holds the Bob puppet up. A bright yellow flame dances out of the Bic under the prop.
Then again, it probably won't matter. Best you leave the weed at home.
Come Fight Night, after I roll you up and put some fire to that ass...
He applies the flame to the prop, and it begins to blaze as Tony throws it into an empty metal box he stashed behind the desk.
You're the one that's going to get smoked.
(Word Count: 1930. Good Luck, Bob!)
How much peroxide Tony had to apply to his hair to get that shitty neon yellow mess look Chad Vargas sports, we'll never know. But he's got the look down, complete with a dirty Pabst Blue Ribbon T-Shirt, MAGA hat, and some wrap around shades 1992 left a DM to Tony to return. He sits behind a desk in a rather plain filming studio. Cameraman Kenny's behind the lens, happy he doesn't have to do another shoot in the shitter like he did last week.
Hey, Tony warned him not to piss off the wife. This time during breakfast, Ken kept his mouth shut and ate his omelet. As he does now, except without the omelet filming Tony breaking out the puppet case like Jeff Dunham, except this bad ventriloquism won't cost people $120 a ticket.
Howdy, government assistance abusing border jumpers. It's me, the ONLY half of the GCWA Tag champions, and walking white trash dumpster fire CHAD VARGAS! Tony bellows in a very overblown Tennessee accent. And tonight, we've got a special show for you low income having, safe space loving pansies. First off, I'd like to introduce the Chad Vargas cheering section. Just a buncha good, God fearing American boys...
Yikes!
Lookit dem boys. All crispy looking in their momma's best Sunday tablecloths. They're fine examples of what you can accomplish if you drop out of high school, work shitty scrap yard jobs, and give your first cousin the dick after you beat her ass for not putting the right beer cozy on your cheap domestic beer. Now, I know, I'm pretty much the only reason we done got those tag straps, in-between racist commentary and crying in my pillow because every sports team in my home state's sucking ass...
But in-between being a warning for going Republican in this era and bitching about bad booking, yet, all too happy to cherry pick weak rivals, I'm busy blowing out my spine carrying this burn out man child that I use to keep the other belt warm, the one, the thankfully only...Bob Grenier!
Whoever Tony hired to craft this puppet earned his paycheck this week. They even got the red eyes, shitty beautician school trainee haircut, and vacant "the fuck was I doing" look plastered on his face. Tony laments he spent $500 bucks on a prop to torch a $5 idiot.
Howdy, Bob? How's life being my boat-anchor who smokes the reefer like some ghetto kid spending all his money on Migos records and overpriced sneakers?
Whoa. First off, like, I thought we were going to the Holiday store to pick up some Slim Jims and an orange soda. I wasn't prepared to cut a promo today...
Considering I've been carrying your lazy ass like a waiter's tray since you showed up, there's no point to cut a shoot. Like you do that anyways...
Cool. Because, like, doing promos cuts into my time scrounging my couch cushions for loose nugs of kush. Besides, hauling my water's been doing wonders for your trapezium muscles...
Enough talking; that stench of failure and Cheetos on your breath's gagging me. So, we've been on a crusade to stop GCWA's sorry ass booking...
Actually, you've been griping about it. Me, I've been cool with it. Like, I've made so much money riding your coat-tails since I signed the contract...
Whoa, did I sign it? I don't remember...* Puppet Bob starts fading out*
Big fucking shock. But anyways, you're in solo action this week.
Wait, like, as in, I have to actually work this week? What, no...
Yup, you goddamn sponge, this week you get to show the GCWA fans why we're two of the best single competitors on the payroll.
Okay. It shouldn't be a big deal. I mean, usually they book guys like us against Janitor or Puffer. Maybe when I, like, beat Peter, he can finally get more hand sanitizer in the GCWA bathroom...
Nah, burnout, you've got Tony Savage this week.
Then Puppet Bob's eyes rattle, and it shakes like it's going epileptic. Wait, wait...Tony!? I've got TONY this week?
Yeah, Puppet Bob's rocking out like THIS now!
There's a sound of somebody expelling a tainted truck stop burrito out the back door, and Tony/Chad feels something liquid dripping down his forearm.
Did you...did you just shit yourself all over me? He's just ham and egger...
Like, fuck he is, Yosemite Sam. You've never been in the same companies as him like I have. This dude is, like, career ebola. He's a fucking monster! While I was busy scraping pipes and midcard spots, this crazy murder machine was headlining PPV's and winning belts. He was a nightmare in Boardwalk.
Pfft! Fuck that Georgia peach! He lost to Duce's 3-6 Mafia loving brown ass...
Yeah, in the match of the night at the last PPV, against a bad-ass after three weeks back in wrestling. He overshadowed us while STILL losing! And did you see what he did to Lightning with bomb shrapnel and glass stick stuck in his ass? I mean, when we were on the sidelines, nursing a few boo-boo's and watching you assault random service workers because they made fun of your Trump bumper sticker, him and Jones were carrying the show just a few days after nearly killing each other!
First off, blunts for brains, Chad Vargas NEVER goes out of his way to sell or show respect to opposition. I can't afford to look like an elite professional in the squared circle instead of some dye job rocking troll on the Drudge report who can't get a woman because those dumb gashes have a problem with things like "derogatory slurs", "excessive body odor" and "1st degree domestic assault!" Second, we're the GCWA Tag Team Champions...
Easy to do when there's, like only two or three teams. I mean, after awhile, whooping up on Thunder and Lightning ad nauseum actually DEVALUES the belts. I mean, we've put in a bunch of work to get where we are...
Correction, numb-nuts; I have! You've been riding my ass colon polyp style to easy paychecks. I mean, you don't even have a proper roster bio page on the fucking company website!
Oh,Puppet Bob chuckles like a doofus,Yeah, I knew I forgot something. I mean, I'm always spacing stuff off. Like, cutting shoots, training, contributing anything of substance to our team. You should have seen how I had to look for my car keys, and I just say screw it, I'll just break into it...
That wasn't your car you broke into, you idiot!
Oh. So that's why my neighbor was screaming about pressing charges against me. I just thought his wife was being frigid again.
Fuck! Tony/Chad buries his head into his free hand in shame.This is what I get for making fun of retarded kids; I'm stuck with one. Look, despite your shit work ethic, you've got this locked up. Tony is shit. He's going down in flaming nosedive once he steps into the ring.
Cool...so that means you're gonna wrestle for me, then?
No! I mean...I..I could totally kick Tony's ass like kicking a border jumper back across the Rio Grande. Easy. But, you know, I had a hard match at High Rollers, and I need to recover...
You've had over 2 weeks to recoup; Tony's been going nonstop.
This hangnail ain't gonna heal itself without proper rest! Besides, I'm busy...yeah...lots of important things on my itinerary. I've got to put new aluminum siding on my single wide trailer house. Looking up slanderous terms for Puerto Ricans on Urban Dictionary. Plus, you know how essential it is I spend every waking moment I can doing donuts in a rusted ass 1986 Chevy pickup truck while I play Toby Keith music on loop for hours. He nervously prattles on, pit stains in his swap meet t-shirt seeping through.
You're gonna do fine...I swear...I'll even be there that night for moral support when you
And that's where we end this parody, because between these fuckers, and that vapid also-ran from my other gig acting like a real life Miss Piggy with her pack of cheerleaders trying to prop her up, I'm done playing Jim Henson studios for right now.
Hell, maybe I was raised different, but when you need backup to fight one guy, you make the case for defeating me really fucking hard to justified.
Tony yanks off the puppet from his hand and thoughtlessly tosses it at his side on the table. His Southern accent is back to that Georgian drawl that just sounds so much better than that of Volunteer country.
Gotta ask you an honest question, Robert; when did you decide to become a dick rider that relies on being a tool for a fucking satire of himself and Southern culture to pay your fucking bills, huh? I mean, I've know about you for a while. You used to be a pretty proactive, used to have a decent work ethic. But ever since you've arrived in the G, you've been pretty cozy letting Vargas drive your team while you roll like a flat tire.
It's just the truth, man. By yourself, you've done so little, people are starting to forget you're even part of a tag team. You're making that Skoal dipping dumb-fuck look like Superman because he's consistently bailing you out. And you want to bitch about weak booking? You guys?!
You, rob, have no room to talk anymore. No more excuses, because I'm laying the truth out on the table as bare as the day we are born.
I've been leading while you've been following. I've been innovating while you've been procrastinating. While I've been out in the wilderness promoting the company, putting up classics win or lose on my own accord, you have been surfing on coattails. Hell, when you and Chad were backstage being wallflowers and bumping your gums the last show, I sucked up the pain of a goddamn death-match, slapped on some tape, and proved once again why guys like me are the future of the company, because that's the difference between marquee superstars, and fucking shoe wearing tumors like you that coast their way to a payday.
Worst part is, I want you to try to prove me wrong. I want you to pull your spine out of Chad's beer cooler, and actually back up your claims you can still do your job on your own. You haven't exactly shown anybody lately you can stand on your own feet.
So, bake sale, here's your options: You can either stand on your own feet, or, you can keep using your partner as a free paycheck. Choice is yours.
He pulls out a lighter, and holds the Bob puppet up. A bright yellow flame dances out of the Bic under the prop.
Then again, it probably won't matter. Best you leave the weed at home.
Come Fight Night, after I roll you up and put some fire to that ass...
He applies the flame to the prop, and it begins to blaze as Tony throws it into an empty metal box he stashed behind the desk.
You're the one that's going to get smoked.
(Word Count: 1930. Good Luck, Bob!)
