PYRO & BALLYHOO!
A Proper Gentleman's Guide To TN Of A.
By Rupert Cuthbertson-Smythe.
Right oh, fair wreftling purists, I am of course your
humble squire Rupert Cuthbertson-Smythe, and as such, I have been assigned to be your noblest of guides through this journey
of grappling merriment as provided by our benefactors TN of A! So, sit back, gentlemen, adjust your top hats, instruct
your wives that they are no longer required this evening and can now retire to their quarters, and join me
in this exciting tale of sport!
We proceed with our yarn outside of the alleged ancestral home of one AJ of Styles. When suddenly, a
ruffian, of an unnatural orange palette, I believe called "Jeremy Borash" beckons Master Styles very presence,
post haste, but sadly to no avail! Master Styles simply ignoreth his request and goes on with activities of a truly
phenomenal nature, if indeed his boasts are to be believed. And I have no reason to doubt that his exploits and
there very nature is pure excellence.
We are then shown a myriad of explosions, and oh my, this gathering of sports enthusiasts is ripe with jubilation!
I can nary heareth a distinguished gentleman over all this collective ballyhoo! Noblemen Michael Tenay and Donald West welcome
us in gentlemanly fashion, and soon perplex us all with the decree that on this night, TN of A will feature 3, nay,
4 GAUNTLETS. Indeed, loyalists, the gauntlets will be thrown down. PISTOLS AT DAWN! Or perhaps rather throwing men
about amidst flailing histrionics! It's all reasonably exciting. Although, I don't understand nary a bit of
it.
We are now suddenly whisked to the hexagonical stage, where our master
of ceremonies Lord James Cornette and his noble ward, Matthew of Morgan await our polite company! They
explain our evening's journey in grandiose detail, when, oh my, they are interrupted by Joseph of the Samoas! And
I am aghast at his collective intellect and linguistic abilities, despite being to you and I, the educated upper
class, but a simple golden brown savage! Joseph then denounces Lord Cornette and puzzles over the prospect
of why, he, Samoan Joseph was left from the Final Resolution playbill, when, a wraith like the nonexistent drunkard Scott
Hall gets an alleged chance at title, never once questioning that perhaps this Hall gentlemen was simply born into a line
of nobility, and as himself, an uncivilized islander, he could never be accepted into that society no matter what the
course. Gads. Can you imagine. This then spurs the collective distemperment of Mr. Hall's frequent male companion,
Kevin Longshanks! Whom soon arriveths at the hexagon with true purpose and merit! "How dareth you besmirch the names
of the Outsiders!" says he (I presume by this appellation the respective pair were denied entry into a respectable
gentleman's club). Kevin Longshanks then respectfully demands that Samoan Joseph respect his "place", and accept his
plight as an island barbarian and to stop ignorantly trying to assimilate himself into a class that he can
never be a part of! ABSOLUTELY! I'm aghast. What's next? Negroes at the drinking fountain? Preposterous!
Amidst all this anarchy, Lord Cornette makes Joseph and Longshanks
actual bedfellows! And decrees that now they will be forced to work as a tandem! Perhaps even on a tandem bicycle.
Trust me, if one of you is not doing your part with the peddling and such, you'll simply tip over! It's very frustrating!
But also rewarding!
We are then whisked away again, where a fair wench by the name of Crystal
is holding an electrical phallus in the face of Robert of the house of Roode. Mr. Roode announces, that he, as a prominent white
land owner, can and will slap the defiant brown visage of negro freeman Booker T's life-mate Sharmell! Oh my! He
then decrees that his own fair wench, Mistress Traci Brooks will follow suit in unconditional obedience, or
oh my, she will return to a life as lady of the evening, disrobing for pence and only slightly larger currency!
Uncouth, but absolute fact.
We now venture to the visual advertisements!
We return with fair wench Crystal, this time standing with the brothers
of multi-dimensionality, Raymond and Devon and their young page, Devine. I find this all very hard to assimilate. I mean, am
I to believe that the mother of this Raymond at some point soiled herself with the coloured help and thus birthed
this Devon?! Outrageous. Mixing with the serving class? God help us all.
Brother Raymond, which I can assume by his designation is member of
the clergy (which may also explain brown brother Devon's constant boisterous bellowing of "Testify") insists
that the collective duo have been practicing for this Ultimate X athletic exhibition by climbing and somesuch. From there,
tempers flair when young page Devine compares Devon to a giant primate. I fail to see the troubling issue here,
friends. If anything, being compared to a monkey is not that insulting if the scribblings of godless trouble-maker Darwin
are to believed! In 100,000 years, Brother Devon, you may have the sensibility of an actual man if his fledglings theory proves
true! How exciting!
But that was not all! The collective mob of evil witchdoctors approached
and demanded the presence of Wench Crystal, and when informed of her imminent departure (hopefully to fix supper
or prepare the wash-clothes) the large, unsightly masculine woman "Kip" takes her designated place and acts as temporary Mistress
of ceremonies! Kip then demands of B and G of James when he shalt finally come forward and accepteth his invitation
in the bountiful Feast for which James so nobly earned. I took this to mean the handsome couple is currently courting
and the ever anxious lass, Kip, wants to know when their blossoming relationship will advance beyond simple poetry
and love letters and proceed onto the breaking of breads. B and G, however procrastinates which upsets Kip's feminine biological
neediness for answers in the present. How tremendously sad.
TANDEM GAUNTLET OF TEAMS!
We begin our first sporting event with Lance Hoyt (whose lower back
painting I find particularly disturbing! As if it was a MESMER!) and the muscular temptress Kip James! I usually do
not condone violence against the weaker sex, but clearly, Master Lance feel it necessary here to put Kip in her place,
perhaps to quash any and all urges of independence and freewill, because can you imagine?! A woman perhaps, dare I say
it, voting? A woman working alongside as a full equal of a man?! My God, it's all very unsettling,
and thankfully a situation, I guarantee will never see fruition.
Now, at this point, my friends, the perpetual movements of the competitors became
increasingly chaotic and difficult to follow. And soon, the stage became ripe with Wreftlers of all shapes, sizes,
colour and social standing. A rapscallion named "Homicide" for example, wreaked pure unadulterated havoc, whilst promoting
a moniker that implies that he ever so flagrantly endorses MURDER. Egads! What has our nation come to! I am aghast
that law makers and barristers alike allow such a man to run rampant! Soon, bodies are tossed from the stage, and
we arriveth at two final tandems! The Wagon City Gattling Guns of Squire Christopher Sabin and Sir Alex Shelley
against an alleged "Rock and Rave" connection (who are students of geology, I'd gather) of the aforementioned
Lance Hoyt and his secret lover, Jimmy Rave. The four gladiators doeth battle, and dare I say, the action experienced here
is of a disconcerting nature! Good grief. Eventually, Squire Sabin attempted to holdeth Rave down until he yielded.
And then he did! It was glorious.
Winners & recipients of purse moneys: Squire Sabin & Sir Shelley!
We return from more flagrant shilling of goods!
We return from whence we last had you, when suddenly, our noble victors
are BUSHWHACKED by the mongrel brothers Raymond and brown Devon, along with their pageboy Devine! They attack our heroes with
a savagery not seen since the colonies ambushed our majesty's trade-ships and dumped our goods into their blackened ocean!
They even goeth so far as to potentially shatter the hands of both men, obviously in an attempt to destroy their penmanship
and to ostracize them from polite society where they can no longer extend the traditional pinky whilst drinking from
their chalices! Also, perhaps to gain an advantage in their silly climbing contest, but likely mostly the former. Obviously.
Which holds the more significant long term ramifications? Precisely.
We are once again whisked away, to the posh smoking lounge of
Kurtwood of all Angles and his bride, Karen. Angle is obtuse but ultimately reveals that AJ of Styles and a gentleman
by the name of "Tomko" must maketh their choice for whose campaign they will be backing: he, Kurtwood of Angles,
or the elusive Christian Cage, which I assume is a church implement used to trap and convert wayward pagans into the ways
of our holy father. Kurtwood of Angles then decrees that Master Tomko meet him in the gladiators staging area on this
very evening to giveth his decision. Kurtwood then reveals that he has a plan for the Christian Cage, (he has all
angles covered? Oh my, hilarity and irony!). Kurtwood then makes a baffling statement that he is not the most serrated cooking
implement in the staff's quarters. Or something of that ilk. Truth is, I only eat what my chef serves, and have never actually been
in my manor's kitchen. Can you imagine!
More flagrant soliciting of goods!
We are back now, and we are standing by with the school marm of AJ of Styles,
who reveals that Master Styles once sported a face of blemishes for which he vehemently denies, and she then implores
him to maketh his decision!
Town callers Michael Tenay & Donald West announce your playbill
for the commencing Final Resolution!
GAUNTLET OF TARTS!
Yes, fair gentlemen, what an unruly sight this was. A collection of prostitutes,
large and small engaged in immoral Battle! I would giveth you the full transcript of memory of this ungodly
exhibition, but I am far too disturbed to even attempt to remember the startling details. All I recall is a giant brown
beast destroying a bevy of buxom tarts, before eventually being hoisted and propelled from the hexagonical area! It was horribly
unsettling and hurt my very soul. This just left two remaining prostitutes, the frightening ODB, and a painted harlot
from the French quarter, by the name of Roxxi Laveaux. This brouhaha was eventually bested by the appalling ODB when
she hurled her mighty loins from the very second strand into Miss Laveaux's very direction, and she laid a top of her for
final near-copulatory triumph! It was surprisingly satisfying! In fact, the Gents and I all lit up a celebratory pipe in
its honour!
Winner of purse moneys: ODB!
Fair wench Crystal is now currently seen with the terrifying Tomko,
whose beard reminds me of the dark Lucifer himself; if the unholy lord of darkness was housed only in a disturbingly
ill-fitting pair of tragic pantaloons! This Tomko pillock then ventured to the Hexogonical area from whence he decreed that
for no man other than he would he be willing to be shot dead. It was rather confusing. Kurtwood of Angles then reluctantly
extends his un-gloved hand in a declaration of true sportsmanship, but Tomko refuted his gentlemanly gesture and grabbed
Kurtwood by his very neck that Kurtwood has so oft described as freakishly broken! Oh my. Tomko then takes his leave,
and Kurtwood is left, manhood besmirched, likely regretting not slapping the Tomko about his very cheek
with three consecutive blows of a single white glove. I cannot say that I blame him.
We are now joined in the company of AJ of Styles former wreftling tutor
who reveals the shocking allegation that Master Styles once urinated within his very own britches when a beastly woman
removed and stomped on her own bicuspids! BIZARRE!
After more shameless shilling of goods we return to Stately Styles Manor
where Master Styles younger sister Dame MJ of Styles began to spin a yarn of how during his youth, Master Styles would
take to frequently interfering with himself! Master Styles then intervenes, rapidly changing the topic from his alleged
fondling of special purposes, to denounce the physical attractiveness of his sibling and demand the woman maketh
him a sandwich, post haste, for which she vehemently refuses until AJ maketh up his mind!
We venture off yonder with a strange black peacock whose vocal chords appeared
to be ravaged, and his Pakistani manservant addressed as Sonjay Dutt. They begin a quarrel over whose right it was to
sully a white woman. Heaven help us! We are then immediately joined by the Christian Cage, whom it turns out is
not a large Godly conversion containment apparatus but rather a MAN! He announces that he is proud that the Tomko
stood on his own two feet (or hooves as it were if the Satanic appearance of the Tomko is to be believed) and he was
visibly aghast at the cowardice of one AJ of Styles who remain in exile in his ancestral home. Christian Cage then
decrees that unlike Kurtwood earlier, he is indeed a rather sharp butchery blade housed within a cabinet and promised
that in all manners, brains will defeat brawn every time, bar feats of strength, obviously.
GAUNTLET OF CHILDREN!
This fracas was especially disturbing as it appears, in an act of cruel sport, Lord
James Cornette has assembled a motley crew of battling children (or perhaps pigmy's?) for which he watches
for his own perverse amusement! The whole melee is ultimately survived by the heavily-muscled child known as Petey
Williams, who takes a malnourished hairless boy named "Senshi" and unnaturally twirls him through the very air as if
gravity and logic and common sense have no meaning! Town callers, Donald & Michael announce it as the destroyer
of Canada, but I find that claim far-fetched, as our Royal majesty, Queen Victoria would never allow one of her most
prominent members of the commonwealth to so easily be vanquished!
Winner of purse moneys: Petey Williams.
We once again wander off yonder where fair wench Crystal is standing by
with a farmhand, James Storm and his colored assistant Miss Jackie Moore. The cow-herders declare that they are
the true champions of the bottle, and subsequently challenge Eric the Young to a respectable battle of ale consumption!
Jolly good. The Gents and I have also been known to partake in a little good natured drinking! In fact, I have only been
bested once when I was unfairly disqualified when my monocle fell into my Brandy Alexander! It was truly heartbreaking.
We returneth to Stately Styles Manor where the family Priest reveals confessional
secrets of Master Styles in unapologetic candor! We then learn that the Cleric is in all actuality speaking of another
diminutive lad with phenomenal abilities, and not AJ of Styles! The family then further add shocking intrigue to
the festivities by revealing that they are all collectively RAPISTS! Egads. Wait. One of the Gents just informed me that
was "BAPTISTS" and not "RAPISTS". Please forgive my incompetence. Earlier today I flogged my servants, as is my noble right, and
as such their screams of anguish have temporarily left me with a ringing in my very ears, thus making some audible
enunciation hard to decipher.
We journey off yonder one last time with fair wench Crystal, who is standing
by with Freeman negro Booker T and his allotted life-partner Sharmell. Booker claims he knows how to treat a woman,
but fails to mention keeping her on task to finish the all important scrubbing, cooking and general maintenance of the home,
so his boasts hold no water with I. Sharmell then declares that tonight, she shalt slap Robert of the house of Roode in such
a manner that he will in turn lose the memory of the flavor of his last ingested meal! Outrageous!
GAUNTLET IS THROWN. AGAIN.
This is our final gauntlet of the evening, and as such, Freeman Booker enters
the rumpus first, and engages in battle with filthy cow-herder James Storm. Next was Eric the Young, and my personal favourite,
the noble Knight Scott Steiner of the house of Poppa Pumping, dressed in his best chain-mail for this athletic exhibition.
If this was a JOUST, I do believeth we would have a champion in our midst!
From there, more gladiators enter and I lose track of the participants,
because this evening's action is perpetual and there is no stop in sight. No wonder the House of Carter chose that moniker.
Eventually the herd of beefy gents thin out after a right thrashing, and
we are left with Christian Cage, Joseph of the Samoas and the silver-fox Kevin Longshanks! Kurtwood of Angles ambushes
Christian, hurling him torso first into the large metal pole that keeps the stage afloat. Our Town callers West & Tenay
declare it an Olympic slam, but I doubt those filthy Greeks had the foresight to toss foes into metallic trees, or else they'd
still possesses ownership of the known world, instead of my noble homeland of Britain. This unfortunate scuffle seemingly leaves
only Longshanks and the Island barbarian remaining! However, in the ultimate act of benevolence, Longshanks decrees that
"although you can never be an equal to me in standing or worth due to your unsightly savage customs, I shalt do the gentlemanly
thing and step aside so you mayst enjoy a fleeting moment of glory before you and your nation are assimilated into the commonwealth
and forced to pay tax." However, the sneaky rapscallion, Christian, emerges blindly from behind Joseph and quickly rolls
the rotund Islander into a riddle he cannot solve for the victory. Hey now. Just like with the Polynesia's, the Christians
have once again bested the dark savages! Score one for morality!
Winner of purse moneys: Christian Cage!
In our final act, we journey once more to Stately Styles Manor where AJ
of Styles is ready to maketh his decision! However, he flip flops like a common ponker and leaves us all holding the proverbial
bag! "You'll get your decision at the gathering of sportsmen on this Sunday, the lords day!" says Styles. "Now leaveth me
in peace so I shalt continue being Phenomenal!" he bellows in closing. And as such, I shalt respect his wishes and take my
leave.
Say now, I genuinely enjoyed that and feel truly fulfilled. What a smashing
exhibition of sport this was, and I'm ever so glad that you, the upper class, and perhaps even a few straggling Plebs who
understand the written word, could join me for this jolly good anecdote.
Until the next time, I am, and remain
respectfully yours,
Rupert Cuthbertson-Smythe, Esquire.
