Post by Zevon on Aug 20, 2007 18:41:13 GMT -6
Zevon: FOR THE LAST TIME! IT WAS NOT I! I'M THE EPITOME OF MORALITY FOR NIXON'S SAKE!
Zevon slams down the receiver of the classic hotel telephone proudly sitting in all its 1980's glory on the nightstand next to Zevon's bed. Zevon is dressed in full ring gear as always and is slightly more pissed off than usual. He sulks down on the bed shaking his head in disgust.
Zevon: Bloody drunkard has that bitch Nancy Grace after me too I reckon.
The phone rings. Zevon rolls his eyes.
Zevon: Here we go again.
Zevon reluctantly picks up the receiver.
Zevon: Ahoy ahoy....
....
No, I'm not a crooked Republican.
....
Nixon was a fine man indeed....
....
Let us circumvent the menial questions and get to the point: IT WAS NOT I! NOW GOOD DAY!
Zevon slams the receiver down and yanks the line from the wall. He mutters to himself.
Zevon: Delinquent idiot....
Zevon takes a deep breath. He stands and attempts to repair the minimal damage his rage dealt to the telephone. He dials but it is a futile gesture.
Zevon: Bleep! I require the consult of Mr. Kitters!
Zevon rises and marches to his door. He crosses the hall and pounds on the door.
Zevon: HABERDASHER! I require the usage of your long distance voice communication machine!
From inside comes a muffled fake French accent.
Haberdasher: Nigel is telephoning his grandmother!
Zevon: Nigel does not exist!
Haberdasher: Says the pitiful failure who wishes to call his cat.
Zevon: BLASPHEMY! I do not OWN him! He is my faithful feline companion!
Haberdasher: Oh-hon-hon-hon!
Zevon gives the door one final shot with his left fist and winces in pain as a result.
Zevon: Bleep!
Zevon stumbles back and bumps into the camera. His head quickly spins around. Evil eye.
Zevon: Blast! I had forgotten I was being tailed. Now good camera jockey, have you a mobile communications device?
The camera shakes to the negative.
Zevon: Ron Simmons!
Zevon returns to his room in frustration and pulls a ziploc bag of ice out of the freezer of his room fridge.
Zevon: These accommodations feature a miniature refrigeration unit with water freezing capabilities and one hundred channels of pornographic material yet not a telephone that can withstand the force of a single humble outburst from a morally sound being.
Zevon returns to his bed and flings himself onto his back, cradling his injured hand. He takes a few deep breaths before suddenly bursting back to his feet.
Zevon: Video professional! To the interview area! No Kilgreen required! Words of insult must lash the immoral meat-sack known as Buddy Love.
Zevon grabs a lawn chair from under his bed and moseys out into the hall. He carefully set it up against the wall and checks its stability before carefully sitting down. He takes a final deep breath before a familiar assholish grin fills his face and scorn fills his eyes.
Zevon: Buddy "Love" Johansson. Miserable sod thinks this is funny. He thinks this is entertaining. Creating a media frenzy by prancing about in a mask and flashing his genitalia to a throng of conservative bigots. Buddy Love is nothing but an immoral, drunken, immature malcontent who disgraces the art of professional wrestling with his sophomoric doings.
Buddy Love's idea of professional wrestling is hosting mud wrestling contests featuring disease ridden whores and pension stealing criminals. Buddy Love's idea of professional wrestling is making a mockery out of a main event caliber match by insisting that it be preceded by a wet t-shirt contest. Buddy Love's goes as far as to call this fine art of professional wrestling "sports entertainment." Buddy, I am not an entertainer, and I will be Ron Simmonsed if I stand by and allow you to continue to mock and defile professional wrestling.
Mr. Johansson, I am not in the business of entertaining ignorant twelve year old boys with drunken escapades and crude humor. I am not an entertainer. I am not in the business of making philistines cheer. I am above pandering to the common ignorant pissants. I am a professional wrestler. I take pride in practicing with great skill, respect, and integrity the fine craft of professional wrestling.
Buddy Love seems to take pride in being a juvenile miscreant. Getting drunk and engaging in Internet predatry. Conversing with xenophobic Irish hacks and criminals who hire thugs to slam cage doors against noble skulls. Dousing water on an innocent journalist of stunning visual appeal. Replicating scenes from sitcoms in an attempt to sully the name of a paragon of integrity.
Buddy Love thinks he is giving the fans "what they want." Just like the criminal Anthony, Buddy holds the mistaken belief that professional wrestling is all about making a horde of ignorant people happy. Yet again, from high atop a mountain of truth comes enlightenment in the form of JR Zevon's elegant words: the philistine fans mean are unimportant. What is important is honoring the legacies of Flair and Funk. Of Race and Anderson. Buddy and Anthony can entertain the peons in any degrading, immoral fashion they wish, but keep it away from the ring. Do not defile professional wrestling with your tomfoolery.
Buddy Love is not worthy of stepping into the ring. He shows not the class nor the respect required. Buddy love does not deserve the honor of being Mid-Atlantic Champion . Buddy Love deserves Red Foreman's foot in his ass. Unfortunately, Red Foreman, like God, is a fictional being, and the task of humbling Buddy Love must be delegated to an honorable, humble Ohio paragon of integrity. The epitome of a professional wrestler. I thank Mr. Pickles for expediting the end of Buddy Love.
Dramatic pause wherein or humble hero Mr. Zevon is deep in thought preparing for one final statement.
Zevon: A parting remark for Buddy Love. Bleep you for bringing that cretin actor anywhere near professional wrestling. You should be ashamed.
Zevon slams down the receiver of the classic hotel telephone proudly sitting in all its 1980's glory on the nightstand next to Zevon's bed. Zevon is dressed in full ring gear as always and is slightly more pissed off than usual. He sulks down on the bed shaking his head in disgust.
Zevon: Bloody drunkard has that bitch Nancy Grace after me too I reckon.
The phone rings. Zevon rolls his eyes.
Zevon: Here we go again.
Zevon reluctantly picks up the receiver.
Zevon: Ahoy ahoy....
....
No, I'm not a crooked Republican.
....
Nixon was a fine man indeed....
....
Let us circumvent the menial questions and get to the point: IT WAS NOT I! NOW GOOD DAY!
Zevon slams the receiver down and yanks the line from the wall. He mutters to himself.
Zevon: Delinquent idiot....
Zevon takes a deep breath. He stands and attempts to repair the minimal damage his rage dealt to the telephone. He dials but it is a futile gesture.
Zevon: Bleep! I require the consult of Mr. Kitters!
Zevon rises and marches to his door. He crosses the hall and pounds on the door.
Zevon: HABERDASHER! I require the usage of your long distance voice communication machine!
From inside comes a muffled fake French accent.
Haberdasher: Nigel is telephoning his grandmother!
Zevon: Nigel does not exist!
Haberdasher: Says the pitiful failure who wishes to call his cat.
Zevon: BLASPHEMY! I do not OWN him! He is my faithful feline companion!
Haberdasher: Oh-hon-hon-hon!
Zevon gives the door one final shot with his left fist and winces in pain as a result.
Zevon: Bleep!
Zevon stumbles back and bumps into the camera. His head quickly spins around. Evil eye.
Zevon: Blast! I had forgotten I was being tailed. Now good camera jockey, have you a mobile communications device?
The camera shakes to the negative.
Zevon: Ron Simmons!
Zevon returns to his room in frustration and pulls a ziploc bag of ice out of the freezer of his room fridge.
Zevon: These accommodations feature a miniature refrigeration unit with water freezing capabilities and one hundred channels of pornographic material yet not a telephone that can withstand the force of a single humble outburst from a morally sound being.
Zevon returns to his bed and flings himself onto his back, cradling his injured hand. He takes a few deep breaths before suddenly bursting back to his feet.
Zevon: Video professional! To the interview area! No Kilgreen required! Words of insult must lash the immoral meat-sack known as Buddy Love.
Zevon grabs a lawn chair from under his bed and moseys out into the hall. He carefully set it up against the wall and checks its stability before carefully sitting down. He takes a final deep breath before a familiar assholish grin fills his face and scorn fills his eyes.
Zevon: Buddy "Love" Johansson. Miserable sod thinks this is funny. He thinks this is entertaining. Creating a media frenzy by prancing about in a mask and flashing his genitalia to a throng of conservative bigots. Buddy Love is nothing but an immoral, drunken, immature malcontent who disgraces the art of professional wrestling with his sophomoric doings.
Buddy Love's idea of professional wrestling is hosting mud wrestling contests featuring disease ridden whores and pension stealing criminals. Buddy Love's idea of professional wrestling is making a mockery out of a main event caliber match by insisting that it be preceded by a wet t-shirt contest. Buddy Love's goes as far as to call this fine art of professional wrestling "sports entertainment." Buddy, I am not an entertainer, and I will be Ron Simmonsed if I stand by and allow you to continue to mock and defile professional wrestling.
Mr. Johansson, I am not in the business of entertaining ignorant twelve year old boys with drunken escapades and crude humor. I am not an entertainer. I am not in the business of making philistines cheer. I am above pandering to the common ignorant pissants. I am a professional wrestler. I take pride in practicing with great skill, respect, and integrity the fine craft of professional wrestling.
Buddy Love seems to take pride in being a juvenile miscreant. Getting drunk and engaging in Internet predatry. Conversing with xenophobic Irish hacks and criminals who hire thugs to slam cage doors against noble skulls. Dousing water on an innocent journalist of stunning visual appeal. Replicating scenes from sitcoms in an attempt to sully the name of a paragon of integrity.
Buddy Love thinks he is giving the fans "what they want." Just like the criminal Anthony, Buddy holds the mistaken belief that professional wrestling is all about making a horde of ignorant people happy. Yet again, from high atop a mountain of truth comes enlightenment in the form of JR Zevon's elegant words: the philistine fans mean are unimportant. What is important is honoring the legacies of Flair and Funk. Of Race and Anderson. Buddy and Anthony can entertain the peons in any degrading, immoral fashion they wish, but keep it away from the ring. Do not defile professional wrestling with your tomfoolery.
Buddy Love is not worthy of stepping into the ring. He shows not the class nor the respect required. Buddy love does not deserve the honor of being Mid-Atlantic Champion . Buddy Love deserves Red Foreman's foot in his ass. Unfortunately, Red Foreman, like God, is a fictional being, and the task of humbling Buddy Love must be delegated to an honorable, humble Ohio paragon of integrity. The epitome of a professional wrestler. I thank Mr. Pickles for expediting the end of Buddy Love.
Dramatic pause wherein or humble hero Mr. Zevon is deep in thought preparing for one final statement.
Zevon: A parting remark for Buddy Love. Bleep you for bringing that cretin actor anywhere near professional wrestling. You should be ashamed.
