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PYRO & BALLYHOO:
A PROPER GENTLEMAN'S GUIDE TO TN OF A.
 
The following was inspired by the actual leaked TNA Impact script for January 3, 2008. Within contained a phrase that struck me so funny, I just HAD to parody it. That phrase? "PYRO & BALLYHOO". Yes, see, apparently, that is  a code word, coined by Kevin Dunn in WWE and then stolen by Vince Russo for TNA, that represents the fireworks and cheering that precedes all wrestling television these days. The problem? Well, the word BALLYHOO is a phrase that has not been used regularly in almost a hundred years. So, my thinking was, what if AN ENTIRE SHOW RECAP was written entirely in Ye Olde Gentleman's English? (that may or may not mutate into nonexistent exaggerations or King James era English, because well, don't let facts get in the way of a good parody...).
 
This was the result, a recap of last Thursday's Impact, the one in the actual script, as penned by my good friend, 1800's English nobleman and respected gentleman of the times, Rupert Cuthbertson-Smythe! As a word of warning, though, the World was a little different in Ol' Rupert's time, so bear with him and his ignorant prejudices! And when reading, do so in a pompous British accent for true effect.
 
(Special thanks as well for the theft of "wreftling" from FRANK A. GOTCH~!).
 
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 scribe 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 their very nature is of the purest of excellence.

We are then shown a myriad of explosions, and oh my, this gathering of sports enthusiasts is rife 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, nonexistent drunkard such as Scott Hall gets an alleged chance at title - never once questioning that perhaps this Hall gentlemen was simply born into a line of superior 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 fledgling 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 rife 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 monies: 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 monies: 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 soon reveals the shocking allegation that Master Styles once urinated within his very own britches, when suddenly 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 then 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 at all, 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 monies: Young 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 possesseth 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 monies: 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!" 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.
 

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Sean Carless is a man of many hats. And he wears those hats to cover an ever-increasing bald spot. Sean's various scribblings have been read at Live Audio Wrestling, Wrestlecrap, 411 Mania, Honky Tonk Man.com, The Toronto Star.com, and Lethal Wrestling. He has also cured AIDS.

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TWF FLASHBACK

November 2006

SATIRE: DISCONTINUED WWE XMAS PRODUCTS!

by Sean Carless

With Christmas just around the corner, what better way to spend your few remaining dollars (left over after the seemingly infinite line-up of fucking pay-per-views ) then on the following "quality WWE merchandise!" After all, if they don't move this stuff, and fast, stockholders just might get time to figure out what "plummeting domestic buyrates" means!... and well, I don't think they need to tell you what that means! (Seriously. They're not telling you. Everything is fine! Ahem.).