The Chronicles of Raw
Aug. 11th, 2009 08:07 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
opera142The night's onyx waves drifted somberly across the tempest Canadian sky. The summer's heat still smoldered in the Calgary arena. In the stands, people sat. Some ate popcorn or drank beer, and a few held signs made of bright cardboard. Through that teeming mass emerged Randy Orton. Well-oiled. Exceedingly well-oiled. Shamelessly well-oiled.
Well-oiled and clad in tiny pants, he chose this moment to entone about the horrors of rumors and to espouse the gloriousness of facts. It's a dirty, damnable rumor that he's scared of Cena. It's a fact, well and true, that beat Cena at Summerfest he will. Rumors are scoundrels! And if rumors be scoundrels, then gray areas be curs! Know not this everyone? Long Live the Facts!
The mighty strider is upon Young Randall. Armed with microphone and the wit of a 7th grader, Cena stands fast, eye to eye with the Mortal Enemy of Gray Areas. Both scowl, such is their anger. Cena speaks first, "Doth thee ever has a problem, and that bitter problem torments ye, and torments ye and torments ye until you art ready to snappeth?"
"Means thou an itch?"
"Nay, villain. I mean thee."
"Indeed, I have been called The Itch That Cannot Be Scratched. Would require the talons of the devil himself to rid thee of me."
"Rid of you, I wish not. I wish blows between us. I wish us to fall lustily and vehemently upon each other. I wish our passions to crest at Summerfest."
"I see no need," Randall spoke ever the sly, "To wait for the sands of time to pour us into Summerfest's goblet. Let us do this passion now! For my trunks are tiny and my passion is as full as the moon!"
"I die!" Cena gasps, falling into a swoon. The luminescent arena lights shine brightly, then all is dark and forboding as Big Show and Jericho arrive like a half-party of Biblical horsemen. Tis not so much famine they bring, as an unrepententness for cleaning out buffets. Neither disease nor death, but war aplenty and ill-tidings have they.
Breath like a dragon's, a very dragon! has Show, and its fire singes all.
"Nay!" claimed Cena, armoured in his wit, "Of late, only Shaq's codpiece knowth your fiery mouth."
"Nay returned to you a thousandfold!" Scolded the easily vexed Jericho. "My mouth is also fiery, and it doth much inflamed Master At Arms Slaughter. A coupling with dropped drawers against a row of lockers was his fondest wish. I granted it! Granted it well, and then he rewarded me richly. I could have my desires claimed he, and I knew my fondest desire as surely as I knew my own heart. I wish fisticuffs between you and I, Cena. You and I."
"Then I shall punt the head of Cena! With my foot most dangerous!" declared Young Randall, already planning dastardlyness.
"Another nay and another thousandfold," grumbled Show, grinning fire. "I, too, pleased Master At Arms Slaughter. Tis not your foot most dangerous that shall stand tall this night. All of history shall lament your ass most beat upon."
More trumpets, then commercials and the scene ends.
Whenst the Chronicles of Raw returns, a proclamation is heard: The Search for Shawn Michaels is nigh! By orders of Prince Hunter. Leave no mullet unscruntized.
Tis a match of the womanly persuasion. Gail Kim, usually as nimble as a goat, wrestled much like an ox would die of a witch's poisons-- clumsily, slowly, surrounded by heifers. Beth Phoniex, o' star of the Canadian night, also lumbering. KellyKelly resembled a reed--- too thin yet necessary for the glue of a mudhouse. A match most plodding, yet the fanboys cried with glee.
Upon Raw then fell buffonery of the most tedious and over-long sort. Master At Arms Slaughter baited not his breath but the popcorn-eating, sign-bearing, seat-seating audience. Canada would speak Russian most fluently and French as equally as it does this very night if were not for the mighty war machinations of the States Most United. Canada stood not for this bullshit, though many chose this time to venture forth into the caverns of the arena and seek both pot and ale.
Oh heart! Oh loins! Jack Swagger's smile is upon this night! As is the jobbing of Evan (Bourne of Peasant Henry and Wench Eunice). Tis their thrice match, and it knows none of the greatness of their previous meetings. Oh bitter disappointment.
A disappointment as bitter and grand and neverending as MVPs jeans. Let us speak never speak of them, lest it give rise to evil.
Prince Hunter doth sally forth into the land called Texas. The land is hot in some places, merely warm elsewhere. In the kitchen, where Prince Hunter strides manfully and thusly, the air is pleasant. Prince Hunter, his eyes bewitched, is tricked into believing an fiendish doppleganger is the friend he seeks. Prince Hunter imprudiently yet fondly remembers nights spent with said friend, clothed in chaps. The doppleganger, seeing the beauty and righteousness in Prince Hunter's regal visage forgets his orders from the Dark One and vows to wear chaps forever more if it pleases his Majesty.
The Dark One having lost the doppleganger sends forth an imp. The imp demands beef pasty. The harried cook, the unbeknowing victim of the doppleganger, quiets the imp with the promise of turnips. The scent of imps and beef pasty draw forth Prince Hunter. There is a royal taking of doubles betwixt Prince Hunter and Harried Cook Shawn.
The idiot is out for our amusement. As is a masked crusader. Not Batman, you unbelievers and brides of Hell! Galantly Eugene fights for the collective honor off all who sit or eat popcorn in this arena, but tis the Masked One who is triumphant. Hardly a breath passes after the match knows its ending when the Masked One undoffs the mask which he wore and shows himself to be Miz. Returned and Re-employed. Verily returned and re-employed and also clad in tiny pants. My ova drop resoundedly.
A proclamation for Extreme Crusading Wrestling. Which swarthy foreigner will try to wrest forth the holyland from Christian's righteous grasp?
The squared circle, though seemingly closer to a rectangle, is where Young Randall will battle Big Show. As this match shows itself to be tiny-panted pretty boy against a Glump of Epic Magnitude, I find my heart to be on my sleeve. There is goodly tossing about of oiled thighs and heaving of chests and Young Randall mounted surely. Then, sadly, Randy slithers away much like the snakes and witches that doth write these chronicles of Raw. Snakes which doth cloaks and garb in size twelve.
Our story returns to arid Texas and its kitchens. The imp, goaded by the Dark One, is no longer surfeited with turnips. Greens are for peasants! The imp demands kingly fare. A fire flares! Prince Hunter finds mirth in all he sees.
The only master this night is not Master At Arms Slaughter. Christopher Masters rides to battle this night. His foe is Montevious Vontavious Porter, king of the Holy Roman Emperor. Tis a match for which 'suck' doth not even begin incur the imaginings of the viewer. But it brings forth Jack Swagger, and for that, I can bear it no ill will.
The disguised Knight Hickenbottom still toils in the kitchen of Texas. Prince Hunter doth probes the half-cooked beef pasty. A cook with a heart of blackness and foulness and coldness doth loses his bile upon Knight Hickenbottom. Music of sweetest chinfulness is played. Away from the ever-seeing eye of the camera, the imp curses the bar of salad greens and vinegars. Ever the noble and just face, Knight Hickenbottom plays for her too the haunting melodies of Sweet Chin Music.
Then, though the hour is late, and the patience of all is as thin as the witch who lives down yonder river, who would charge forth into the arena but the ever-hagard Hacksaw Jim Duggan. Then come a troll and his minions. Then the Pretty Lads Theodore and Codfrienda. NEVER AGAIN SHALL MINE WRETCHED EYES DARE LOOK UPON THE JUNK OF MARK HENRY IN HIGH DEF. I VOW THIS. And while I recoiled another proclamation issued forth: Raw in the City of the Saint Paul, and The Precious shall be there. LIES. Twas traded to Smackdown a forthnight ago. Your trickery has failed you thusly Steph.
Jericho spins a tale of Calgary that was meant to be business most private betwixt he and Show, but the ever-seeing eye of the camera misses nothing. The egg upon Jericho's face could feed a village. He sallies forth, noble-y unpreturbed, to his match. With Cena, therefore boring. Cena wins as inevitably as the tide receeds and the day darkens to night and the rye supplies turn to ergot. The ten o'clock hour rises, my eyes droop and Raw, this night, is over.
Well-oiled and clad in tiny pants, he chose this moment to entone about the horrors of rumors and to espouse the gloriousness of facts. It's a dirty, damnable rumor that he's scared of Cena. It's a fact, well and true, that beat Cena at Summerfest he will. Rumors are scoundrels! And if rumors be scoundrels, then gray areas be curs! Know not this everyone? Long Live the Facts!
The mighty strider is upon Young Randall. Armed with microphone and the wit of a 7th grader, Cena stands fast, eye to eye with the Mortal Enemy of Gray Areas. Both scowl, such is their anger. Cena speaks first, "Doth thee ever has a problem, and that bitter problem torments ye, and torments ye and torments ye until you art ready to snappeth?"
"Means thou an itch?"
"Nay, villain. I mean thee."
"Indeed, I have been called The Itch That Cannot Be Scratched. Would require the talons of the devil himself to rid thee of me."
"Rid of you, I wish not. I wish blows between us. I wish us to fall lustily and vehemently upon each other. I wish our passions to crest at Summerfest."
"I see no need," Randall spoke ever the sly, "To wait for the sands of time to pour us into Summerfest's goblet. Let us do this passion now! For my trunks are tiny and my passion is as full as the moon!"
"I die!" Cena gasps, falling into a swoon. The luminescent arena lights shine brightly, then all is dark and forboding as Big Show and Jericho arrive like a half-party of Biblical horsemen. Tis not so much famine they bring, as an unrepententness for cleaning out buffets. Neither disease nor death, but war aplenty and ill-tidings have they.
Breath like a dragon's, a very dragon! has Show, and its fire singes all.
"Nay!" claimed Cena, armoured in his wit, "Of late, only Shaq's codpiece knowth your fiery mouth."
"Nay returned to you a thousandfold!" Scolded the easily vexed Jericho. "My mouth is also fiery, and it doth much inflamed Master At Arms Slaughter. A coupling with dropped drawers against a row of lockers was his fondest wish. I granted it! Granted it well, and then he rewarded me richly. I could have my desires claimed he, and I knew my fondest desire as surely as I knew my own heart. I wish fisticuffs between you and I, Cena. You and I."
"Then I shall punt the head of Cena! With my foot most dangerous!" declared Young Randall, already planning dastardlyness.
"Another nay and another thousandfold," grumbled Show, grinning fire. "I, too, pleased Master At Arms Slaughter. Tis not your foot most dangerous that shall stand tall this night. All of history shall lament your ass most beat upon."
More trumpets, then commercials and the scene ends.
Whenst the Chronicles of Raw returns, a proclamation is heard: The Search for Shawn Michaels is nigh! By orders of Prince Hunter. Leave no mullet unscruntized.
Tis a match of the womanly persuasion. Gail Kim, usually as nimble as a goat, wrestled much like an ox would die of a witch's poisons-- clumsily, slowly, surrounded by heifers. Beth Phoniex, o' star of the Canadian night, also lumbering. KellyKelly resembled a reed--- too thin yet necessary for the glue of a mudhouse. A match most plodding, yet the fanboys cried with glee.
Upon Raw then fell buffonery of the most tedious and over-long sort. Master At Arms Slaughter baited not his breath but the popcorn-eating, sign-bearing, seat-seating audience. Canada would speak Russian most fluently and French as equally as it does this very night if were not for the mighty war machinations of the States Most United. Canada stood not for this bullshit, though many chose this time to venture forth into the caverns of the arena and seek both pot and ale.
Oh heart! Oh loins! Jack Swagger's smile is upon this night! As is the jobbing of Evan (Bourne of Peasant Henry and Wench Eunice). Tis their thrice match, and it knows none of the greatness of their previous meetings. Oh bitter disappointment.
A disappointment as bitter and grand and neverending as MVPs jeans. Let us speak never speak of them, lest it give rise to evil.
Prince Hunter doth sally forth into the land called Texas. The land is hot in some places, merely warm elsewhere. In the kitchen, where Prince Hunter strides manfully and thusly, the air is pleasant. Prince Hunter, his eyes bewitched, is tricked into believing an fiendish doppleganger is the friend he seeks. Prince Hunter imprudiently yet fondly remembers nights spent with said friend, clothed in chaps. The doppleganger, seeing the beauty and righteousness in Prince Hunter's regal visage forgets his orders from the Dark One and vows to wear chaps forever more if it pleases his Majesty.
The Dark One having lost the doppleganger sends forth an imp. The imp demands beef pasty. The harried cook, the unbeknowing victim of the doppleganger, quiets the imp with the promise of turnips. The scent of imps and beef pasty draw forth Prince Hunter. There is a royal taking of doubles betwixt Prince Hunter and Harried Cook Shawn.
The idiot is out for our amusement. As is a masked crusader. Not Batman, you unbelievers and brides of Hell! Galantly Eugene fights for the collective honor off all who sit or eat popcorn in this arena, but tis the Masked One who is triumphant. Hardly a breath passes after the match knows its ending when the Masked One undoffs the mask which he wore and shows himself to be Miz. Returned and Re-employed. Verily returned and re-employed and also clad in tiny pants. My ova drop resoundedly.
A proclamation for Extreme Crusading Wrestling. Which swarthy foreigner will try to wrest forth the holyland from Christian's righteous grasp?
The squared circle, though seemingly closer to a rectangle, is where Young Randall will battle Big Show. As this match shows itself to be tiny-panted pretty boy against a Glump of Epic Magnitude, I find my heart to be on my sleeve. There is goodly tossing about of oiled thighs and heaving of chests and Young Randall mounted surely. Then, sadly, Randy slithers away much like the snakes and witches that doth write these chronicles of Raw. Snakes which doth cloaks and garb in size twelve.
Our story returns to arid Texas and its kitchens. The imp, goaded by the Dark One, is no longer surfeited with turnips. Greens are for peasants! The imp demands kingly fare. A fire flares! Prince Hunter finds mirth in all he sees.
The only master this night is not Master At Arms Slaughter. Christopher Masters rides to battle this night. His foe is Montevious Vontavious Porter, king of the Holy Roman Emperor. Tis a match for which 'suck' doth not even begin incur the imaginings of the viewer. But it brings forth Jack Swagger, and for that, I can bear it no ill will.
The disguised Knight Hickenbottom still toils in the kitchen of Texas. Prince Hunter doth probes the half-cooked beef pasty. A cook with a heart of blackness and foulness and coldness doth loses his bile upon Knight Hickenbottom. Music of sweetest chinfulness is played. Away from the ever-seeing eye of the camera, the imp curses the bar of salad greens and vinegars. Ever the noble and just face, Knight Hickenbottom plays for her too the haunting melodies of Sweet Chin Music.
Then, though the hour is late, and the patience of all is as thin as the witch who lives down yonder river, who would charge forth into the arena but the ever-hagard Hacksaw Jim Duggan. Then come a troll and his minions. Then the Pretty Lads Theodore and Codfrienda. NEVER AGAIN SHALL MINE WRETCHED EYES DARE LOOK UPON THE JUNK OF MARK HENRY IN HIGH DEF. I VOW THIS. And while I recoiled another proclamation issued forth: Raw in the City of the Saint Paul, and The Precious shall be there. LIES. Twas traded to Smackdown a forthnight ago. Your trickery has failed you thusly Steph.
Jericho spins a tale of Calgary that was meant to be business most private betwixt he and Show, but the ever-seeing eye of the camera misses nothing. The egg upon Jericho's face could feed a village. He sallies forth, noble-y unpreturbed, to his match. With Cena, therefore boring. Cena wins as inevitably as the tide receeds and the day darkens to night and the rye supplies turn to ergot. The ten o'clock hour rises, my eyes droop and Raw, this night, is over.
