Post by "The Geriatric One" on Dec 29, 2010 22:52:05 GMT -6
("Geriatric" Waylon Hawthorne is standing in front of a mirror. He is angrily tugging at his fake novelty beard.)
HAWTHORNE: Stupid useles beard. Can't even get me a stupid win against stupid Chip Pekurny.
(I know, it hurts me to see him so angry at the greatest fake beard known to man. His hatred projected towards the beard makes me think of the immortal words of Rodney King "Can't we all just get along". But no, he's mad at the beard.)
HAWTHORNE: How dumb was I to think a fake beard would get me a shot at the SWA title.
(Travis Malloy walks into the room.)
TRAVIS: Hey Waylon, guess what. You have a big match coming up.
HAWTHORNE: What, filling out the undercard with Duke Wallace?
TRAVIS: No, you are facing Ian DeTornado.
HAWTHORNE: The immigrant?
TRAVIS: Uhhh... yeah... he's also the SWA champion.
HAWTHORNE: They let immigrants become champions nowadays? That's just not right. In my day a champion was white faced, and english tongued.
TRAVIS: Yeah sure.
HAWTHORNE: Is the title on the line?
TRAVIS: No, but if you win, you may just get your shot. Everyone knows that beating Ian DeTornado in a nontitle match is as easy as stealing candy from a baby.
HAWTHORNE: I tried that once. Darn baby, you haven't seen the last of me. So, why am I getting this match?
TRAVIS: I don't know. Rumour has it, Rev and Gladiator have been very impressed with the beard. I've gotta admit, it does make you look pretty studly.
(Travis walks out of the room. Hawthorne looks in the mirror and strokes his beard smiling.)
HAWTHORNE: I could never stay mad at you.
(As we all breathe a collective sight of relief that the beard will stay, we fast forward to later that night as Hawthorne is sleeping in his hotel room bed. You know what that means, drumroll please....
Dum-da-da-dum-da-da-dum-da-da-dum...)
(Hawthorne, the young Hawthorne stands in the middle of the desert. He has a towel wrapped around his head, not in a terrorist kind of way, but more in a classy Lawrence of Arabia kind of way. Sweat glistens of his rippling biceps and his abs that make Teen Throb's six pack look like a beer gut.)
HAWTHORNE: Stupid desert. Good thing I've got my studly body, and awesome beard to get me through this trek.
(Hawthorne sees someone in the distance. The man is slightly chubby, and is wearing pointy shoes with curly tips. The man is none other than the Iron Sheik.)
(The Iron Sheik is riding a camel. Before you start ragging on me for buying into a stereotype of arab people allow me to remind you that the Iron Sheik is a walking talking stereotype. If WWF had the money them that they do now, you better believe Vince McMahaon would have put the Sheik's flabby backside on a camel too.)
HAWTHORNE: What are you doing here you Iranian scum?
IRON SHEIK: The Ayatollah has sent me to kill you.
HAWTHORNE: Really?
IRON SHEIK: No, it's a dream you idiot. By the way you aren't your old studly self, and also your abs were never that sweet.
HAWTHORNE: Oh no you don't. This is my dream, and I say that I stay studly this time.
IRON SHEIK: Fine, have it your way.
HAWTHORNE: Haev you come to give me a pep talk about my upcoming match with Ian DeTornado?
IRON SHEIK: Nope.
HAWTHORNE: Are you here to tell me that I can be SWA Champion if I just believe in myself.
IRON SHEIK: Ha, not a chance.
HAWTHORNE: Then why are you here?
IRON SHEIK: To prove to you that immigrants were allowed to be champions even back in your day you stupid biggot.
HAWTHORNE: You lie!
IRON SHEIK: Oh you think so. Well who won the title from Bob Backlund?
HAWTHORNE: It was uh... that guy with the pointy shoes. What was his name? Bob McClaine?
IRON SHEIK: It was me you idiot.
HAWTHORNE: Wait a second... pointy shoes... towel on the head... iranian flag... NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!
(Hawthorne drops to his knees and screams at the top of his lungs.)
HAWTHORNE: They let immigrants win championships back in my day.
IRON SHEIK: Yep, Russians too.
HAWTHORNE: NOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!
(Hawthorne wakes up from the dream sequence screaming. The scream is so loud the hotel manager busts through the door.)
HOTEL MANAGER: Mr. Hawthorne, are you all right?
HAWTHORNE: No, ghosts... pointy shoes... immigrants... AYATOLLAH!
HOTEL MANAGER: Sir, you aren't making any sense.
HAWTHORNE: Neither does letting people come from other countries and steal our glory. Like Iron Sheik, and Ian DeTornado.
HOTEL MANAGER: DeTornado, I love that guy.
HAWTHORNE: Ha, the little twerp doesn't even have a beard. He calls himself a champion. It's time to take back the championship for good honest hard working North Americans like me. Not these mangled english speaking, Flilipianos like him.
HOTEL MANAGER: Right then... I'm going to go now.
(The hotel manager leaves the room and closes the door. Hawthorne sits up and looks in a mirror. He strokes his beard.)
HAWTHORNE: Ok beard, it looks like you and I have some work to do.
(Though Waylon Hawthorne has been advised to apologize for his many politically incorrect statement throughout the duration of this roleplay, he will do no such things. He would like to tell all you beardless, politically correct do gooders to stop whining and leave him alone.)
HAWTHORNE: Stupid useles beard. Can't even get me a stupid win against stupid Chip Pekurny.
(I know, it hurts me to see him so angry at the greatest fake beard known to man. His hatred projected towards the beard makes me think of the immortal words of Rodney King "Can't we all just get along". But no, he's mad at the beard.)
HAWTHORNE: How dumb was I to think a fake beard would get me a shot at the SWA title.
(Travis Malloy walks into the room.)
TRAVIS: Hey Waylon, guess what. You have a big match coming up.
HAWTHORNE: What, filling out the undercard with Duke Wallace?
TRAVIS: No, you are facing Ian DeTornado.
HAWTHORNE: The immigrant?
TRAVIS: Uhhh... yeah... he's also the SWA champion.
HAWTHORNE: They let immigrants become champions nowadays? That's just not right. In my day a champion was white faced, and english tongued.
TRAVIS: Yeah sure.
HAWTHORNE: Is the title on the line?
TRAVIS: No, but if you win, you may just get your shot. Everyone knows that beating Ian DeTornado in a nontitle match is as easy as stealing candy from a baby.
HAWTHORNE: I tried that once. Darn baby, you haven't seen the last of me. So, why am I getting this match?
TRAVIS: I don't know. Rumour has it, Rev and Gladiator have been very impressed with the beard. I've gotta admit, it does make you look pretty studly.
(Travis walks out of the room. Hawthorne looks in the mirror and strokes his beard smiling.)
HAWTHORNE: I could never stay mad at you.
(As we all breathe a collective sight of relief that the beard will stay, we fast forward to later that night as Hawthorne is sleeping in his hotel room bed. You know what that means, drumroll please....
Dum-da-da-dum-da-da-dum-da-da-dum...)
(Hawthorne, the young Hawthorne stands in the middle of the desert. He has a towel wrapped around his head, not in a terrorist kind of way, but more in a classy Lawrence of Arabia kind of way. Sweat glistens of his rippling biceps and his abs that make Teen Throb's six pack look like a beer gut.)
HAWTHORNE: Stupid desert. Good thing I've got my studly body, and awesome beard to get me through this trek.
(Hawthorne sees someone in the distance. The man is slightly chubby, and is wearing pointy shoes with curly tips. The man is none other than the Iron Sheik.)
(The Iron Sheik is riding a camel. Before you start ragging on me for buying into a stereotype of arab people allow me to remind you that the Iron Sheik is a walking talking stereotype. If WWF had the money them that they do now, you better believe Vince McMahaon would have put the Sheik's flabby backside on a camel too.)
HAWTHORNE: What are you doing here you Iranian scum?
IRON SHEIK: The Ayatollah has sent me to kill you.
HAWTHORNE: Really?
IRON SHEIK: No, it's a dream you idiot. By the way you aren't your old studly self, and also your abs were never that sweet.
HAWTHORNE: Oh no you don't. This is my dream, and I say that I stay studly this time.
IRON SHEIK: Fine, have it your way.
HAWTHORNE: Haev you come to give me a pep talk about my upcoming match with Ian DeTornado?
IRON SHEIK: Nope.
HAWTHORNE: Are you here to tell me that I can be SWA Champion if I just believe in myself.
IRON SHEIK: Ha, not a chance.
HAWTHORNE: Then why are you here?
IRON SHEIK: To prove to you that immigrants were allowed to be champions even back in your day you stupid biggot.
HAWTHORNE: You lie!
IRON SHEIK: Oh you think so. Well who won the title from Bob Backlund?
HAWTHORNE: It was uh... that guy with the pointy shoes. What was his name? Bob McClaine?
IRON SHEIK: It was me you idiot.
HAWTHORNE: Wait a second... pointy shoes... towel on the head... iranian flag... NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!
(Hawthorne drops to his knees and screams at the top of his lungs.)
HAWTHORNE: They let immigrants win championships back in my day.
IRON SHEIK: Yep, Russians too.
HAWTHORNE: NOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!
(Hawthorne wakes up from the dream sequence screaming. The scream is so loud the hotel manager busts through the door.)
HOTEL MANAGER: Mr. Hawthorne, are you all right?
HAWTHORNE: No, ghosts... pointy shoes... immigrants... AYATOLLAH!
HOTEL MANAGER: Sir, you aren't making any sense.
HAWTHORNE: Neither does letting people come from other countries and steal our glory. Like Iron Sheik, and Ian DeTornado.
HOTEL MANAGER: DeTornado, I love that guy.
HAWTHORNE: Ha, the little twerp doesn't even have a beard. He calls himself a champion. It's time to take back the championship for good honest hard working North Americans like me. Not these mangled english speaking, Flilipianos like him.
HOTEL MANAGER: Right then... I'm going to go now.
(The hotel manager leaves the room and closes the door. Hawthorne sits up and looks in a mirror. He strokes his beard.)
HAWTHORNE: Ok beard, it looks like you and I have some work to do.
(Though Waylon Hawthorne has been advised to apologize for his many politically incorrect statement throughout the duration of this roleplay, he will do no such things. He would like to tell all you beardless, politically correct do gooders to stop whining and leave him alone.)
