opera142: (Default)
Triple H trudges to the ring, refusing to meet my eye. Even though I wasn't at the PPV, I KNOW WHAT YOU DID LAST SUMMERSLAM. Punk's fall, I kindasorta expected. Good angles gets stepped on like roaches. But Christian too? WHY. Give me one non-butterscotchy, non-ranchy, non-semi turgid reason why.

HHH isn't saying. His wife He wants to talk about Cena. He wants to apologize to Cena. OMG, he wishes he could strike out his eyes. How could his miss Cena's noble foot lolling so majestically atop the rope--- why, it was as though he was pinning the whole damn ring. And anyone who doesn't think so can sit in a ditch in the rain.

Also, omg, never ever leave tickets at will call for Kevin Nash. First off, THAT GOATEE, rite. Did he dye it with a magic marker? What shade of Just For Men Beard and Mustache is that? Snidely Whiplash Umber? Day-Old Coffee In the Bottom of the Pot In the Breakroom Dun? Leaked Oil On the Driveway Chestnut? Second off, he'll think he's still relevant and try to squash the hot guy in the main event. Third off, much like annoying e-mails from Groupon, he just keeps showing up. You can label him JUNK all you want; he still weasels in.

Nash better tell the truth tonight, or Triple H will think twice about letting him have 15% of Raw's airtime next week.

And now to continue with the re-butterscotching of Raw, Alberto SANS BUTLER scurries out to gloat about destiny and no longer getting hassled by airport security when he tries to carryon the MitB briefcases, and Steph totes wears a size 4. He can hardly wait to sign autographs and take pictures with the least ugly of the children in the audience, and convince the telecommunications industry to do away with the 619 area code.

R-Truth, bent on elevating some of the butterscotchy turgidness of the night, rushes out for a Falls Count Anywhere match against John Used-to-be-HHH's-body-servant-but-Opera-liked-that-so-it-got-kyboshed Morrison. Brutal match with flippy and abs bouncing faceplants and slithering and John crawling around injured. A little on the low end of their usual homoerotica, but considering how much butterscotch they had to wade through, it worked. Also, the finisher involved John suplexing Rtruth into an office chair.

It's been nearly 30 minutes, and a size-12 someone is feeling peckish. Miz get sent out to pester Subway Jared for a sammich and BBQ chips. Jared protects his sammich with the desperate clinging of an orphan in a Dickens novel. Miz, Fagen-like snatches that shit up. He's all "Hey Subway Execs, How do you like me now?"

Then he dooms himself to forever feuding with Mark Henry by taking a bite of the sandwich destined for She Who Wears Size 12.


The Bella and Kelly Kelly and Eve wrestle while Beth and Natalya lurk like cyborgs from the Can't-Come-Soon-Enough-Sexy Future.

Kevin Nash has an Ed Hardy t-shirt and totes knows how to text on the Twitter. He stumbles through a voice-over on The Most Enduring Friendship Ever Beside Trips and Shawn's. Then bores us by reading he and Steph's latest OMGOTPCHATFICLOL. “No matter what happens, stick it to the winner.”

Stick, as in butterscotch is sticky.

Most butterscotchily of all, Punk IS WEARING PANTS. THAT'S HOW DEEP THE BUTTERSCOTCH RUNS TONIGHT. He calls bullshit on Nash and his goatee, and winning all the smark ribbons by saying, "If Triple H told you to jump off a bridge, would you? Because that would be good for business.”)

Punk, like EVERYONE ELSE WHO DOESN'T WEAR A SIZE 12, knows Nash has no idea what is actually good for business. Nash wants Punk to watch his pretty, pretty pierced mouth. Punk says Nash needs to watch the goddamn show.

Nash offers to show Punk the TRUFAX text, but instead Punk makes up his own OTPCHATFICLOL. OMG KEVIN NASH WTF LOL.

Lots of delicious, snarky, smarky burning of Kevin Nash ensures, and whee. Security steps up, lest Kevin Nash break a sweat. Punk just smirks, and says if anyone needs him, he and Trips will be otpchatficing backstage.

Post-commercial, Nash tries to cockblock HHH (and me, by proxy), but all that happens is Laurenitis hits on him.

Jack Swagger is awesome. A-rods bores me. Dolph pwns Lawler, and my least favorite of all wrestling cliches occurs-- stealing of a hat as precursor to feud. Total Butterscotch.

The ending of the match was size-12 ugly. Either my precious Swagger flubbed like whoa or A-rod sandbagged his end of the powerbomb. Guess what I believe. Backstage, Swagger hits on Vickie. Excuse me, delicious.

DON'T GO IN THAT OFFICE PUNK. Punk barely has time to wonder aloud, why does it smell like butterscotch in here? When a size-12 shadow descends upon him. That smell is not butterscotch, it is the stink of "precious". Get ready to job like it's your job.


Evan Bourne & Kofi Kingston vs. Mike McGillicutty & David Otunga. Nothing semi about it. Just flat out turgid.

Finally, the butler. Oh the disapproving side-eyes. The disgust, he must shout. Los pantelones, porque Punk porque? No es una size quatro, es una size 12. ES VERDAD. No me gusta butterscotch!

ME: Alberto tags with destiny against Rey and enduring popularity. Okay enough, match with a pretty sweet top-rope kick by Alberto. Post match, Alberto goes for the beatdown. Cena runs out because this segment needs more whitey.

Alberto bails con butler. Cena sets to lecturing us allabout dignity and wrestling with valor. He barks that someday Alberto will have to wrestle. You mean LIKE WHAT HE JUST DID? And that Cena will get to win 'cause that's Steph likes.
opera142: (this shit is bananas)
First, a confession. I am a liar. YesD and I were discussing WIPs and inspiration and future projects. This led to me snarky about the amount of Cody!fic in wrestlefic. Cody Rhoades, ugh. I do not give two shits about Cody.

Or rather, didn't until this weekend when I found a stale-dated Smackdown hidden in a TiVo folder. Cody threatened to make Teddy wear a bag on his head if Teddy didn't win his next match. omguguys.

So now, my head has this big, awful Edwardian AU starring Teddy as a poor lad up from the village, at his first footman post, and Cody is the son of The Manor owner, and he's such a total shit. A weasley little turd, so deplorable nobody can stand him so he forces his company upon those who can't tell him to go away. I gave you the premise, go write the story. doit doit doit.


Anyway, Raw.

An ill, butterscotchy wind blew through San Jose last night. It howled with a semi-turgid fury. OTPCHATFICLOL!! OTPCHATFICLOL it seemed to screech, and low, beneath the wind, my bestie HHH could be heard to say, "All right, geez. All right."

As the gale subsided, HHH, careful to avoid eye contact with me, trudged out to the ring, bringing with him Super Dave Osbourne. First, he announces there's gonna be a new ref at Summerslam.

Me: Shawn Michaels in tiny reffing panties?

HHH: shhhhhh.

Me: Omg, Jericho in tiny reffing panties?

HHH: Op, shhhhh.

Me: omg, the Precious in tiny reffing panties, and you've made him stop drinking and tazing.

HHH: No. Me.

Me: Geez.

HHH: And now, I've decided totally on my own, without any badgering from anyone who wears a size twe--, to make two matches. Cena and Punk have to fight other people even though all they want to do be in the ring together.

Me: How come you switched out Morrison with Super Dave Osbourne?

HHH: Watch it, or next week I'll have to re-sign Edge.

Me: I'm gonna go eat a popsicle.

HHH: Look, Op. Raw is going proceed most Stephilly for the rest of the night. Mark Henry recap. Alex Riley still employeed. The awesomeness that is Vickie totally downplayed. Oh, I snuck in a few treats for ya: Ricardo, the ever-skulking butler, recap of remember that time R Truth slithered all over John Morrison, surprise!Christian. And trust me, the main even is going to seem a total OTPCHATFICLOL contract signing-- nothing but 25 minutes of Punk and Cena, Cena and Punk, Punk and Cena, but stick with it. It'll be awesome.

Me: Okay, bestie. For you.

How can Punk be so awesome with everything he says, and Cena be so after-school special preachy in everything he says, and it's the same conversation?
opera142: (bleach)
Man, do I dislike Google Chrome. No, no, no, I don't need a favorites bar. I'd much rather import it somewhere inconvenient to access. Oh, and the 1,458 step for adding a favorite process? It's as fun and satisfying as downloading video via modem.

But, it makes flash games play like a dream.


Anyway, YesDrizella asked me the other day which TV shows I watch. I left out of two new loves. Shame on me! Community and Parks&Rec. Community has always been fun, but this season-- other than Annie always in soft focus/Vaseline cam shots- is pure genius. Other than the Britta bashing.

Parks & Rec is like the made-for-TV, after-school-special in which ugly, awkward girl trying to fit in of Season 1 was transformed into a funny, ballsy chick loving the Hell out of her life. While I didn't like the Leslie/Ben ender, the show made me get all teary-eyed. Tom, the skeesy, on-the-make character "invented" a new liquor. He hosted a party at his club, and everyone got trashed. Then his boss found out, decided that he either had to give up his day job or his stake in the liquor (because he used government time and resources to promote it). He sold his shares and lost his dream. The next day, another co-worker (total curmudgeon) sends him a gift box containing a bottle of the booze, and the word ONWARD! carved into the lid.

I ached during that scene. How awesome would be to have someone caring about your dreams like that?


I was in the world's snarliest mood yesterday. Mostly due to work on Friday. There isn't a Flocked post long enough, I swear.

I tried to go to a garage sale, and my Nav system was like IDK WHERE THAT IS. And I was like, "I'm asking you, fucker!" and it's all, "Do you mean White Bees Knees, Indiana?" and I'm like "No, dipshit. Why would I do to a garage sale in Indiana?" and the navsys is like "What's a garage sale?"

Then, I lugged all our big heavy quilts to the laundry mat for a hearty, spring wash in the fancy machines only to find out that the laundry mat had closed. For good. Now I left with the choice of unwashed quilts or spending a few hours in the SCARY laundry mat.
opera142: (The Precious)
Sorry to freak everyone out. Moe and I are fine. If Moe hadn't been so, I wouldn't have blogged about my stupid car!

Anyway, here's what happened. After our 12 millionth snow storm of the winter, I went outside to move my car (the city of Saint Paul tows away your car if you leave it where they want to plow). When I tried to spin a U, to park in the driveway, my car got stuck. Very unusual for my car, normally it's a little bulldog. I could turn the wheels or get any traction. Luckily, a neighbor towed my car closer to my garage and I was able to get in.

Fast forward to Monday morning, I get in my car to go to work. Backing out the garage is just fine, but when I go to steer, I have absolutely no power steering and my car feels as wobbly as Batista trying to do a top rope move. I parked it, and called a friend for a ride to work. A visit to the repair shop gave me the bad news: steering pump failed and took a bunch of other stuff with it, and basically the cost to repair all the damage it did is more than my precious little car is worth.

So bummed. Been looking at new cars, and right now the number one contenders are a Mini Cooper or a Ford Escape. Car payments: do not want.


Also, everyone go tell YesDrizella how awesome she is.
opera142: (this shit is bananas)
Dreads.

I-went-to-Jamaica-for-spring-break-dreads.

If anyone needs me, I'll be in a corner, weeping and scratching myself.
opera142: (Default)
Fucking A.

I have tickets to Bragging Rights. Christian's out. Jericho's out. M. Hardy's been endeavored. I feel so totally fucking ripped off.

RAWR

Jul. 19th, 2010 05:23 pm
opera142: (bleach)
RAWR. Bath & Body Works discontinued Mentha Hair conditioners. Fuxxors. What, you don't want my $15.00?

Moar lyke Butterscotchy, Semi Turgid Cocks and Body Works.

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