Post by Jack of Blades on Jan 23, 2007 20:42:39 GMT -5
"A dentist?"
"No."
"A Member of the Taliban?"
"No."
"Elton John?"
"No."
"Darth Vader?"
"No."
"Samuel L. Jackson?"
"No."
"Well, you come up with an idea for your entrance at the Pay-Per- View then!", he pouts with all the maturity of a jilted child. Out of his lungs come that immortal gentle sigh that speaks and expresses his intrinsic questioning of why he even tries. 'You do know that Logan is going to come out of a fire-breathing giant Godzilla, don't you?', he theorizes on the gossip as if to invoke deep and routing feelings of gimmick insecurity. I let out that sigh.
At least he is not attempting to tap-dance out my theme tune again. It was quite an impressive emulation if I were in my most soberest of days, honest. His allotted talent seems to lie in that direction as opposed to his stated desire to ready me for the big day. He makes sure that I recognise that if I so requested, he could obtain a garguantuan pair of legs from which I could emerge.
The whole 'vagina-Blades' issue was apparently Seth's idea. I'd have at least considered him to not plaguarise strategems from other established promoters. Despite my reservations, do not be surprised that if Logan does squarely hit me in where most men fear the most, I reveal a perfectly operated vaginoplasty.
Speaking of perfectly operated on crotches, the invader has stopped his concerns for a dramatic entrance and is instead sitting in the thrall of my mesmerically large television screen.
"Oh! No nominations for 'Children of Men. Did you see it?'"
"No." The film's title adds credence to my concerns of having a vagina come the match.
"It was ok. But Clive Owen was so fab in it. I don't know what had more sugar: the butterkist or Clive."
"I very much doubt that the star of such drivel as 'King Arthur' could give you diabetes."
"Do you watch many films?"
"No."
"Is that all you say? No. No. No. Look at Dame Helen Mirren. She says: Yes. Yes. Yes. And that's why she's the favourite for an oscar."
"As inspiring as that theatrical modification of 'The Little Train That Could', could you leave please?"
"Ow! Ow! Ow! Dreamgirls got a nomination! I love Diana Ross."
He moves over to those epic subwoofers and plugs in his own personal music contraption. After a few moments of dust being torrented into the air, the lady in parlance begins to play.
"Then one day you came. You told me you were leaving
You gave your folks the blame, And made me cry! I've got it. I've got it."
Please say it is a synonym for a rapid illness that causes immediate and fatal deteriation.
"You could come out as a giant Oscar statue! We could get you all painted up and have nominations for 'Best Jack of Blades.' And you could win it, and we could have Forest give it to you and you could come out of the statue. We could even have the Golden Globes beforehand to ease them into the thing!" By Golden Globes, I hope he doesn't mean the remaints of my castration spraypainted the colour.
"Billy Crystal! He could warm the crowd up and present! Oh my god! But he's not doing it this year, who is...Ellen Degeneres. We can use that. Oh, I'm going upstairs to get some brass tissue I brought and we can wrap you in it and get that kind of effect." He runs up the stairs with giddy delight.
One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten. Eleven.
Odd. He doesn't omit every other step which has become common habit for me recently. If you underestimate the distance between the incline, you could trip and break your neck. Shame.
Oh, Clive. You think you have issues. I'm listening to 'Surrender' contemplating whether a new supple womb will do wonders for my original wrestling venture which now features me as a six-foot replica of a redundant certificate for the over-bloated egos of L.A. while my opponent rides in on Godzilla and I watch as a particuarly flacid lesbian introduces the pair of us.
"No."
"A Member of the Taliban?"
"No."
"Elton John?"
"No."
"Darth Vader?"
"No."
"Samuel L. Jackson?"
"No."
"Well, you come up with an idea for your entrance at the Pay-Per- View then!", he pouts with all the maturity of a jilted child. Out of his lungs come that immortal gentle sigh that speaks and expresses his intrinsic questioning of why he even tries. 'You do know that Logan is going to come out of a fire-breathing giant Godzilla, don't you?', he theorizes on the gossip as if to invoke deep and routing feelings of gimmick insecurity. I let out that sigh.
At least he is not attempting to tap-dance out my theme tune again. It was quite an impressive emulation if I were in my most soberest of days, honest. His allotted talent seems to lie in that direction as opposed to his stated desire to ready me for the big day. He makes sure that I recognise that if I so requested, he could obtain a garguantuan pair of legs from which I could emerge.
The whole 'vagina-Blades' issue was apparently Seth's idea. I'd have at least considered him to not plaguarise strategems from other established promoters. Despite my reservations, do not be surprised that if Logan does squarely hit me in where most men fear the most, I reveal a perfectly operated vaginoplasty.
Speaking of perfectly operated on crotches, the invader has stopped his concerns for a dramatic entrance and is instead sitting in the thrall of my mesmerically large television screen.
"Oh! No nominations for 'Children of Men. Did you see it?'"
"No." The film's title adds credence to my concerns of having a vagina come the match.
"It was ok. But Clive Owen was so fab in it. I don't know what had more sugar: the butterkist or Clive."
"I very much doubt that the star of such drivel as 'King Arthur' could give you diabetes."
"Do you watch many films?"
"No."
"Is that all you say? No. No. No. Look at Dame Helen Mirren. She says: Yes. Yes. Yes. And that's why she's the favourite for an oscar."
"As inspiring as that theatrical modification of 'The Little Train That Could', could you leave please?"
"Ow! Ow! Ow! Dreamgirls got a nomination! I love Diana Ross."
He moves over to those epic subwoofers and plugs in his own personal music contraption. After a few moments of dust being torrented into the air, the lady in parlance begins to play.
"Then one day you came. You told me you were leaving
You gave your folks the blame, And made me cry! I've got it. I've got it."
Please say it is a synonym for a rapid illness that causes immediate and fatal deteriation.
"You could come out as a giant Oscar statue! We could get you all painted up and have nominations for 'Best Jack of Blades.' And you could win it, and we could have Forest give it to you and you could come out of the statue. We could even have the Golden Globes beforehand to ease them into the thing!" By Golden Globes, I hope he doesn't mean the remaints of my castration spraypainted the colour.
"Billy Crystal! He could warm the crowd up and present! Oh my god! But he's not doing it this year, who is...Ellen Degeneres. We can use that. Oh, I'm going upstairs to get some brass tissue I brought and we can wrap you in it and get that kind of effect." He runs up the stairs with giddy delight.
One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten. Eleven.
Odd. He doesn't omit every other step which has become common habit for me recently. If you underestimate the distance between the incline, you could trip and break your neck. Shame.
Oh, Clive. You think you have issues. I'm listening to 'Surrender' contemplating whether a new supple womb will do wonders for my original wrestling venture which now features me as a six-foot replica of a redundant certificate for the over-bloated egos of L.A. while my opponent rides in on Godzilla and I watch as a particuarly flacid lesbian introduces the pair of us.
