Late Show w/Stephens Colbert and Singh (with Von Atwood!)
Feb 4, 2018 12:39:16 GMT -5
God King Dune and Wade Moor like this
Post by Stephen Singh on Feb 4, 2018 12:39:16 GMT -5
Victor Anadyne.
Vincent Augustine.
Nope...Still not ringing a bell.
Stephen Singh sits in a green room with his bookie Byron who is currently being (barely) paid to act as his personal assistant.
Byron: Well it should ring a bell because that’s who you’ve got this week.
Singh: Nah.
Byron: Nah?
Singh: Nah.
Byron: Yah, you’ve definitely got him. Check the card.
Singh: Oh I’ve seen the card. But I’m not wrestling him.
Byron: Are you really trotting that out again? Two weeks in a row?
Singh: Trotting what out? The fact that the WCF is BURYING their World Champion in the mid card? The fact that I these mulkies don’t deserve to even be in the ring with me much less “competing” against me? The fact that I will NOT wrestle him but will allow him the opportunity to pay me my proper respects?
Byron: Yes, all of those things. Wasn’t this the bit last week?
Singh: A bit? That’s what you think this is? A bit.
Byron: Absolutely.
Singh: So what comes next? Even though I’m definitely NOT going to wrestle Valor Aberdeen I’ll start shooting on him, explaining why I’m better than him?
Byron: Yes, exactly.
Singh: I wouldn’t even know what to say about Violet Actuarian; I have no idea who this is.
Byron: First of all, you definitely know who he is. You know who everybody is. The moment the WCF announces a new signee you’re scouring youtube for their matches, evaluating their threat level.
Singh: If I had done that for Vance Apothecary I’m sure I’d likely have assessed him as Threat Level: Midnight.
Byron: Is that a joke?
Singh: No but Valerie Amsterdam has to be.
Byron: I’m pretty sure that’s from The Office.
Singh: American or British?
Byron: American.
Singh: Ew, the British Office is obviously the superior incarnation. Plus, I've never seen the American one so it can't possibly be from that.
Singh: But look at this fuckchop, he looks like the one guy in the Skinemax movie that doesn’t even get to pretend to fuck the girl. Every promo of his I watched, I kept waiting for an “Oh Hai Mark!” or at least some football tossing.
Byron: So you watched his promos. Don’t you usually just watch the promos of guys you’ll actually be wrestling?
Singh: Usually that’s the case, yes. But with Rotten Rabid having chased half the “talent” out of the federation there’s a severe dearth of programming on the network lately so I was forced to sit through those travesties by a sheer lack of options. It was certainly not a choice I would make on my own.
Byron: Because you’re not wrestling him. So you didn’t make that choice.
Singh: Exactly.
Byron: It was forced on you.
Singh: Now you’re getting it. Vernon Allister is an atrocious excuse for what the WCF has to offer for new and upcoming “talent” today. In the past this guy would’ve already been drummed out of the federation by the former King of the Nae Nae, Oblivion, may he rest in peace.
Byron: Is Obi dead?
Singh: Dead to me. Or at least as dead as watching Vitor Alfort makes me wish I was. Seriously this man is an embarrassment. It almost makes me feel like I SHOULD actually wrestle him on Sunday in order to hopefully shame him into an early retirement and/or grave.
Byron: It ALMOST makes you feel that way. Right. So what would you say to him if this were a normal week with a normal promo where you were going to wrestle a normal match?
Singh: Which I’m not going to do.
Byron: That’s been well-established.
Singh: I’m just checking because you still seem unclear on it. Speaking of unclear, that’s exactly what I’d say the reason for Vaughn Arbuckle’s existence is. What the fuck is the point with your eighties shampoo commercial hair and a goatee that you’re clearly using “Just For Men” on? I’ve read and watched everything I can dig up on you but it’s all still so unclear: who are you? Why are you? WHAT are you? You claim to be a wrestler but from the matches I’ve seen, that’s clearly not the case. And you claim to be an intelligent man but that’s clearly not the case. Now you’re claiming that you have to avoid a losing streak and that’s clearly NOT going to happen. Listen Good Vlad Hunting, IT’S NOT YOUR FAULT. Now shhhh….come here, bring it in for a hug….IT’S NOT YOUR FAULT. I mean the last loss last week yeah, that’s definitely your fault. Everybody else in that ring was a no-talent ass clown that couldn’t hold a candle to me if I lit a Menorah for them. But this week? Your impending, unavoidable, absolutely imminent losing streak? Well that’s not your fault. That is not your fault; that blame lies with our faulty front office.
Rotten Rabid can’t stand to think that my World Title reign will immediately surpass his, that I’m leading us into a new Golden Era of the WCF devoid of Seth’s sweaty-palmed handprints all over it and free from Internet tough guys like #beachkrew. So instead of giving me the main event where I belong--or just leaving me off the card--he feeds you to me. He’s tied you to the train tracks and there’s no lever to pull to get my high speed splatter machine to divert. I move one direction: that’s forward and that’s to victory. Andy sadly for you this week, that leads directly through your fleshy soft carcass.
Byron: Is that it then? That’s what you would say were you actually fighting him.
Singh: Do you think I’d really need to say more?
Byron: Well it sounds right now like you’re just looking past him. Or that you WOULD be looking past him, were you to be actually competing this week.
Singh: I’m not looking past him B, I’m looking THROUGH him; there’s a big difference. That’s the same thing I do with all my opponents. I look directly into them, realize that they’re usually vapid, empty shells of men and then I look right through them to MY goals. I can commend Verner Ampfield on having made a career out of being average. That’s not without merit. Since you lack any natural talent or inborn gifts, it’s actually MORE impressive that you’ve made it this far. Being a jobber in the WCF is more than most mulkies can dream of. Shit, maybe you’ll get lucky like Spencer Adams and parlay never winning a relevant match here into a failed promotion of your own! Wouldn’t that be something to aspire to!
What a leader I am. What a champion. Here to point out a path and provide some modicum of hope to even Valentine Armistice. Sunday I could definitely stomp out any hope he actually has of ever being relevant in this federation but in the meantime at least I’ve shown him that even professional losers here in the Dub can go on and have brief success before flaming out elsewhere. And that’s really the best a fuckchop like you could for.
Am I going soft? I feel like I’m being too nice, giving you the false hope of doing something other than eating the shit that the real talent of the WCF rolls down hill at you for the rest of your days here. That’s not doing you any service. Let me try to be a better champion by providing you with some more unadulterated truths, maybe a little less sugar coating. You opened your time here by claiming that the word “loner” means happiness to you. Okay, that’s fine. Lone wolf, this man is an island, a one man stable, whatever. That’s fine. It’s been done about a million times before in this industry but that’s fine. Unfortunately you’re such a flip-flopping fucktard that the very next week you proceed to Assemble the Assvengers! If what you need to be happy is being alone, why put together this ragtag tard team? Choose a fucking lane and at least TRY to stay in it. But at least now you’ve got some people around you, maybe it can actually make you interesting. Because god knows you’re a walking Xanax otherwise.
But oh wait! You put together this crack team of crackheads only for one to IMMEDIATELY BE KILLED. That’s what it is to be associated with you, Virgil Anchos. The very guy you just about begged to come be part of your bitch brigade ends up face down, dead in the snow. I assume he tried to hold more than a five minute conversation with you and killed himself but who knows. I guess I’ll wait until next week for another riveting installment of “Oh fuck, this dude is still on the roster?! Lol” ←--(this is a good promo title, feel free to use it)
So wrestling’s your itch huh? That’s the one you can’t scratch? God your metaphors are as shit as your in-ring abilities. You’re scratching the wrestling itch right now. Now maybe you’re never satisfied or you can’t get ENOUGH wrestler or competing, etc. All that is fine. But wrestling can’t be the itch. Wait…Maybe you meant winning? Is that the itch you can’t scratch? That makes more sense, let’s go with that. Winning is the one thing out of your reach, the one thing you can never seem to do because you’re an incompetent ignoramus with the skill set of a housewife and the face of a child rapist. And while we’re on the topic that “itch that sets your brain on fire” is called syphilis. You should probably go see someone about that.
Byron: So that’s probably it then. That probably covers it. Or would cover it. If you wer--
Singh: Yes, Byron. We get it. Good Golden God, will you pull it together.
Byron: I just can’t believe you didn’t go in on him calling it a “poorly run city.”
Singh: That might be the most accurate thing he’s said so far because the rest of it is obviously self-defeating, garbled garbage. So of course I didn’t go “in on him” for that. Also, what the hell is up with that phrasing?
Byron: What? “Go in on him?” It means to really insult and jab somebody.
Singh: Yeah I know what it means, Byron but what kind of phrasing is that really? Why would I want to “go in” on some guy who pissed me off? It sounds a little….romantic, you know?
Byron: You’re a homophobe.
Singh: I’m a homophobe?! I’m out here hashtagging justice for Syd and I’m a homophobe?!
Byron: He wasn’t gay.
Singh: Wasn’t he a girl or whatever?
Byron: He was trans. Is trans.
Singh: Was trans. He hightailed it without a word to anyone, effectively deleting himself from the WCF’s collective consciousness and certainly from relevancy. But despite that, I fight for his justice. Which, obviously, proves I’m not a homophobe.
Byron: It certainly does not prove that.
Interrupting their conversation, a CBS page pops their head in the room.
Page: About seven minutes until you’re up. Mr. Singh.
Singh nods and the 20-something glorified intern wearing a name tag that includes “The Late Show with Stephen Colbert.” It appears they’ve been in the green room at the Ed Sullivan theatre, awaiting the champion’s turn to make an obliged appearance to promote the upcoming the pay per view. There’s an extended silence between the duo until Byron breaks it with an irritating question.
Byron: So...why even show up on Sunday if you’re not going to--
Singh: Know what, Byron? Fuck it. Fuck it and fuck you. You want to push my buttons? Fine. I’ll wrestle him. I’ll go out there this Sunday and embarrass the shit out of this poor tire fire of a wrestler. Just remember that when he quits, when he tucks tail just like SJW before him, that’s on you. It’s on you and Rabid or whoever the hell is making the card in the back. Me? I want to provide this young cunt hairs someone to look up to. I want them to look to the sky and see their Golden God, ruthless and fearsome but never lowering himself to the level of these unconcerning mooks and mulkies. They should know that the ladder is long and arduous before stepping into the ring with me. And with good reason. Because I have left better men with a Broken Will. Because I will SMITE you for so much as thinking that there IS a plan you can concoct that there IS a strategy you can use that there is even a fucking PRAYER that you can share that ring with me. Because guess what? There isn’t. You have no chance. And apparently I have to actually show up on Sunday to prove that to the WCF, the booking staff and you, Byron.
The WCF is a poorly run city? Maybe. But guess what, it’s my fucking city. It’s the one I’ve climbed to the top off and left a burning pile of ash behind. I’m the one who broke Flash’s neck. I’m the one who erected Everest and eroded #beachkrew into dust. I’m the one who ran THE CAPTAIN out of the federation. I’m the one who bloodied and battered The Epitome of Hardcore into his 83rd retirement. It’s me, Vincent. Yeah, I know your idiotic name. I know you fancy yourself a well-trained technical wrestler. And I know you think this is a must win for you. It isn’t. It’s an already-lost. And no one will judge you for it because I’m the top of the fucking mountain here. Your “technical wrestling” is going to look like amateur schlock in the ring with me. Because it is. I know you over-rely on easily countered suplexes and your wins have come via an elementary-level submission maneuver that I’ll Houdini out of in my sleep on Sunday.
Here’s some additional advice for you, free of fucking charge: you have to believe it. You have to think you can actually win, you have to think that you’re the best technician or the smartest guy in the room or the strongest one or SOMETHING. You have to actually will your success into being via confidence. Right now? Your hand shakes. I see it. You’re a man of such little confidence that you have an economics degree but feel the need to keep a “numbers guy” close by. That’s a perfect metaphor for your entire existence here, Augustine. You don’t believe you belong, you don’t believe you stand a chance. And we all can smell it on you. Maybe you’re right and you in the WCF doesn’t quite “add up” but steady your hand, give me a fight. You have to put that seed of doubt in us or this place is going to assfuck its seed right into you.
Byron: Is that necessary?
Singh: No but it added a certain flavor didn’t it?
Byron: That is not a “flavor” I’m into.
Singh: Homophobe.
At that moment, the page returns and signals that it’s time for Singh to head toward the stage. Normally, we’d get to watch the interview as part of this promo. There’d be some witty repartee between Colbert and Singh where they bond over being “ph” over “v” guys, probably some political talk and maybe a little more shoot on the opponent this Sunday while attempting to hype up Til Death Do Us Part. Shit, maybe Singh would even take part in some awful carpool karaoke or lip sync battle or other pathetic attempt to go viral that the producers beg him to do. Probably not but maybe. Unfortunately this week, we don’t get to see any of that. Because you don’t deserve it, WCF. You think you get to watch Stephen Singh charm the ever-loving shit out of late night talk show hosts for a match with Voldemort Armstrong? Get a fucking grip.
Vincent Augustine.
Nope...Still not ringing a bell.
Stephen Singh sits in a green room with his bookie Byron who is currently being (barely) paid to act as his personal assistant.
Byron: Well it should ring a bell because that’s who you’ve got this week.
Singh: Nah.
Byron: Nah?
Singh: Nah.
Byron: Yah, you’ve definitely got him. Check the card.
Singh: Oh I’ve seen the card. But I’m not wrestling him.
Byron: Are you really trotting that out again? Two weeks in a row?
Singh: Trotting what out? The fact that the WCF is BURYING their World Champion in the mid card? The fact that I these mulkies don’t deserve to even be in the ring with me much less “competing” against me? The fact that I will NOT wrestle him but will allow him the opportunity to pay me my proper respects?
Byron: Yes, all of those things. Wasn’t this the bit last week?
Singh: A bit? That’s what you think this is? A bit.
Byron: Absolutely.
Singh: So what comes next? Even though I’m definitely NOT going to wrestle Valor Aberdeen I’ll start shooting on him, explaining why I’m better than him?
Byron: Yes, exactly.
Singh: I wouldn’t even know what to say about Violet Actuarian; I have no idea who this is.
Byron: First of all, you definitely know who he is. You know who everybody is. The moment the WCF announces a new signee you’re scouring youtube for their matches, evaluating their threat level.
Singh: If I had done that for Vance Apothecary I’m sure I’d likely have assessed him as Threat Level: Midnight.
Byron: Is that a joke?
Singh: No but Valerie Amsterdam has to be.
Byron: I’m pretty sure that’s from The Office.
Singh: American or British?
Byron: American.
Singh: Ew, the British Office is obviously the superior incarnation. Plus, I've never seen the American one so it can't possibly be from that.
Singh: But look at this fuckchop, he looks like the one guy in the Skinemax movie that doesn’t even get to pretend to fuck the girl. Every promo of his I watched, I kept waiting for an “Oh Hai Mark!” or at least some football tossing.
Byron: So you watched his promos. Don’t you usually just watch the promos of guys you’ll actually be wrestling?
Singh: Usually that’s the case, yes. But with Rotten Rabid having chased half the “talent” out of the federation there’s a severe dearth of programming on the network lately so I was forced to sit through those travesties by a sheer lack of options. It was certainly not a choice I would make on my own.
Byron: Because you’re not wrestling him. So you didn’t make that choice.
Singh: Exactly.
Byron: It was forced on you.
Singh: Now you’re getting it. Vernon Allister is an atrocious excuse for what the WCF has to offer for new and upcoming “talent” today. In the past this guy would’ve already been drummed out of the federation by the former King of the Nae Nae, Oblivion, may he rest in peace.
Byron: Is Obi dead?
Singh: Dead to me. Or at least as dead as watching Vitor Alfort makes me wish I was. Seriously this man is an embarrassment. It almost makes me feel like I SHOULD actually wrestle him on Sunday in order to hopefully shame him into an early retirement and/or grave.
Byron: It ALMOST makes you feel that way. Right. So what would you say to him if this were a normal week with a normal promo where you were going to wrestle a normal match?
Singh: Which I’m not going to do.
Byron: That’s been well-established.
Singh: I’m just checking because you still seem unclear on it. Speaking of unclear, that’s exactly what I’d say the reason for Vaughn Arbuckle’s existence is. What the fuck is the point with your eighties shampoo commercial hair and a goatee that you’re clearly using “Just For Men” on? I’ve read and watched everything I can dig up on you but it’s all still so unclear: who are you? Why are you? WHAT are you? You claim to be a wrestler but from the matches I’ve seen, that’s clearly not the case. And you claim to be an intelligent man but that’s clearly not the case. Now you’re claiming that you have to avoid a losing streak and that’s clearly NOT going to happen. Listen Good Vlad Hunting, IT’S NOT YOUR FAULT. Now shhhh….come here, bring it in for a hug….IT’S NOT YOUR FAULT. I mean the last loss last week yeah, that’s definitely your fault. Everybody else in that ring was a no-talent ass clown that couldn’t hold a candle to me if I lit a Menorah for them. But this week? Your impending, unavoidable, absolutely imminent losing streak? Well that’s not your fault. That is not your fault; that blame lies with our faulty front office.
Rotten Rabid can’t stand to think that my World Title reign will immediately surpass his, that I’m leading us into a new Golden Era of the WCF devoid of Seth’s sweaty-palmed handprints all over it and free from Internet tough guys like #beachkrew. So instead of giving me the main event where I belong--or just leaving me off the card--he feeds you to me. He’s tied you to the train tracks and there’s no lever to pull to get my high speed splatter machine to divert. I move one direction: that’s forward and that’s to victory. Andy sadly for you this week, that leads directly through your fleshy soft carcass.
Byron: Is that it then? That’s what you would say were you actually fighting him.
Singh: Do you think I’d really need to say more?
Byron: Well it sounds right now like you’re just looking past him. Or that you WOULD be looking past him, were you to be actually competing this week.
Singh: I’m not looking past him B, I’m looking THROUGH him; there’s a big difference. That’s the same thing I do with all my opponents. I look directly into them, realize that they’re usually vapid, empty shells of men and then I look right through them to MY goals. I can commend Verner Ampfield on having made a career out of being average. That’s not without merit. Since you lack any natural talent or inborn gifts, it’s actually MORE impressive that you’ve made it this far. Being a jobber in the WCF is more than most mulkies can dream of. Shit, maybe you’ll get lucky like Spencer Adams and parlay never winning a relevant match here into a failed promotion of your own! Wouldn’t that be something to aspire to!
What a leader I am. What a champion. Here to point out a path and provide some modicum of hope to even Valentine Armistice. Sunday I could definitely stomp out any hope he actually has of ever being relevant in this federation but in the meantime at least I’ve shown him that even professional losers here in the Dub can go on and have brief success before flaming out elsewhere. And that’s really the best a fuckchop like you could for.
Am I going soft? I feel like I’m being too nice, giving you the false hope of doing something other than eating the shit that the real talent of the WCF rolls down hill at you for the rest of your days here. That’s not doing you any service. Let me try to be a better champion by providing you with some more unadulterated truths, maybe a little less sugar coating. You opened your time here by claiming that the word “loner” means happiness to you. Okay, that’s fine. Lone wolf, this man is an island, a one man stable, whatever. That’s fine. It’s been done about a million times before in this industry but that’s fine. Unfortunately you’re such a flip-flopping fucktard that the very next week you proceed to Assemble the Assvengers! If what you need to be happy is being alone, why put together this ragtag tard team? Choose a fucking lane and at least TRY to stay in it. But at least now you’ve got some people around you, maybe it can actually make you interesting. Because god knows you’re a walking Xanax otherwise.
But oh wait! You put together this crack team of crackheads only for one to IMMEDIATELY BE KILLED. That’s what it is to be associated with you, Virgil Anchos. The very guy you just about begged to come be part of your bitch brigade ends up face down, dead in the snow. I assume he tried to hold more than a five minute conversation with you and killed himself but who knows. I guess I’ll wait until next week for another riveting installment of “Oh fuck, this dude is still on the roster?! Lol” ←--(this is a good promo title, feel free to use it)
So wrestling’s your itch huh? That’s the one you can’t scratch? God your metaphors are as shit as your in-ring abilities. You’re scratching the wrestling itch right now. Now maybe you’re never satisfied or you can’t get ENOUGH wrestler or competing, etc. All that is fine. But wrestling can’t be the itch. Wait…Maybe you meant winning? Is that the itch you can’t scratch? That makes more sense, let’s go with that. Winning is the one thing out of your reach, the one thing you can never seem to do because you’re an incompetent ignoramus with the skill set of a housewife and the face of a child rapist. And while we’re on the topic that “itch that sets your brain on fire” is called syphilis. You should probably go see someone about that.
Byron: So that’s probably it then. That probably covers it. Or would cover it. If you wer--
Singh: Yes, Byron. We get it. Good Golden God, will you pull it together.
Byron: I just can’t believe you didn’t go in on him calling it a “poorly run city.”
Singh: That might be the most accurate thing he’s said so far because the rest of it is obviously self-defeating, garbled garbage. So of course I didn’t go “in on him” for that. Also, what the hell is up with that phrasing?
Byron: What? “Go in on him?” It means to really insult and jab somebody.
Singh: Yeah I know what it means, Byron but what kind of phrasing is that really? Why would I want to “go in” on some guy who pissed me off? It sounds a little….romantic, you know?
Byron: You’re a homophobe.
Singh: I’m a homophobe?! I’m out here hashtagging justice for Syd and I’m a homophobe?!
Byron: He wasn’t gay.
Singh: Wasn’t he a girl or whatever?
Byron: He was trans. Is trans.
Singh: Was trans. He hightailed it without a word to anyone, effectively deleting himself from the WCF’s collective consciousness and certainly from relevancy. But despite that, I fight for his justice. Which, obviously, proves I’m not a homophobe.
Byron: It certainly does not prove that.
Interrupting their conversation, a CBS page pops their head in the room.
Page: About seven minutes until you’re up. Mr. Singh.
Singh nods and the 20-something glorified intern wearing a name tag that includes “The Late Show with Stephen Colbert.” It appears they’ve been in the green room at the Ed Sullivan theatre, awaiting the champion’s turn to make an obliged appearance to promote the upcoming the pay per view. There’s an extended silence between the duo until Byron breaks it with an irritating question.
Byron: So...why even show up on Sunday if you’re not going to--
Singh: Know what, Byron? Fuck it. Fuck it and fuck you. You want to push my buttons? Fine. I’ll wrestle him. I’ll go out there this Sunday and embarrass the shit out of this poor tire fire of a wrestler. Just remember that when he quits, when he tucks tail just like SJW before him, that’s on you. It’s on you and Rabid or whoever the hell is making the card in the back. Me? I want to provide this young cunt hairs someone to look up to. I want them to look to the sky and see their Golden God, ruthless and fearsome but never lowering himself to the level of these unconcerning mooks and mulkies. They should know that the ladder is long and arduous before stepping into the ring with me. And with good reason. Because I have left better men with a Broken Will. Because I will SMITE you for so much as thinking that there IS a plan you can concoct that there IS a strategy you can use that there is even a fucking PRAYER that you can share that ring with me. Because guess what? There isn’t. You have no chance. And apparently I have to actually show up on Sunday to prove that to the WCF, the booking staff and you, Byron.
The WCF is a poorly run city? Maybe. But guess what, it’s my fucking city. It’s the one I’ve climbed to the top off and left a burning pile of ash behind. I’m the one who broke Flash’s neck. I’m the one who erected Everest and eroded #beachkrew into dust. I’m the one who ran THE CAPTAIN out of the federation. I’m the one who bloodied and battered The Epitome of Hardcore into his 83rd retirement. It’s me, Vincent. Yeah, I know your idiotic name. I know you fancy yourself a well-trained technical wrestler. And I know you think this is a must win for you. It isn’t. It’s an already-lost. And no one will judge you for it because I’m the top of the fucking mountain here. Your “technical wrestling” is going to look like amateur schlock in the ring with me. Because it is. I know you over-rely on easily countered suplexes and your wins have come via an elementary-level submission maneuver that I’ll Houdini out of in my sleep on Sunday.
Here’s some additional advice for you, free of fucking charge: you have to believe it. You have to think you can actually win, you have to think that you’re the best technician or the smartest guy in the room or the strongest one or SOMETHING. You have to actually will your success into being via confidence. Right now? Your hand shakes. I see it. You’re a man of such little confidence that you have an economics degree but feel the need to keep a “numbers guy” close by. That’s a perfect metaphor for your entire existence here, Augustine. You don’t believe you belong, you don’t believe you stand a chance. And we all can smell it on you. Maybe you’re right and you in the WCF doesn’t quite “add up” but steady your hand, give me a fight. You have to put that seed of doubt in us or this place is going to assfuck its seed right into you.
Byron: Is that necessary?
Singh: No but it added a certain flavor didn’t it?
Byron: That is not a “flavor” I’m into.
Singh: Homophobe.
At that moment, the page returns and signals that it’s time for Singh to head toward the stage. Normally, we’d get to watch the interview as part of this promo. There’d be some witty repartee between Colbert and Singh where they bond over being “ph” over “v” guys, probably some political talk and maybe a little more shoot on the opponent this Sunday while attempting to hype up Til Death Do Us Part. Shit, maybe Singh would even take part in some awful carpool karaoke or lip sync battle or other pathetic attempt to go viral that the producers beg him to do. Probably not but maybe. Unfortunately this week, we don’t get to see any of that. Because you don’t deserve it, WCF. You think you get to watch Stephen Singh charm the ever-loving shit out of late night talk show hosts for a match with Voldemort Armstrong? Get a fucking grip.