Hail Mary
* * *
The following script is non-televised and is strictly behind the scenes content.
* * *
...And at that point, I could feel my bowels sing to the highest heavens as I heard that water swish and swash behind the hardwood door. The sweet, sweet sonor of the valves and feeder hoses doing their thing rang through the canal of my left ear with such bliss that I felt like I was having a synchronized orgasm. The searing pain that crept forward from my anus was practically unbearable; I clenched at the reflective gold knob protruding from the door in anticipation for it to swing ajar. God almighty, what the fuck was taking so long?!
Oh, hello. Some of you will probably recognize me as the Patriarch of Pretty, the Malefactor of Modesty, the King of Hearts, the First Magne of Win... and, well, you get the picture. My dapper visage has won over the hearts and fallopian tubes of wimmenz the world over. Ah, yes. My glistening golden strands weave around my picture-perfect face, billowing around my high cheek bones and complimenting the vast expanses of my scintillating blue-green eyes which bursts from my magnesia alba-esque complexion. Even through the searing agony coursing through my ass at the moment, I can stop to admire my splendorous embodiment in the dinky golden knob in my clutches. Fuck yes, I'd molest that man in that knob. I would clone that sexy hunk of man and jam it right in his a--
Oh, I suppose I should start from the beginning here, shouldn't I? It wasn't a dark stormy night, it wasn't once upon a time, it wasn't a galaxy far far away, it wasn't the best of times, it wasn't the worst of times or any of that good stuff. For me, every day is just lovely, and this day was no different, though I had to attend a meeting at the Full Throttle Wrestling headquarters early in the morning. I'm never a fan of having to pry my lazy ass out of bed before noon. Actually, I'm working on cultivating the theory that I'm actually nocturnal or some shit.
Anyway, the meeting was kind of a snooze. Barring the nineteen paper airplanes I chucked at Chris Cage's head, prompting him to rage about how one day Canada would rule us all and then we'd see. We'd all see. I, personally, got a boner from the whole speech, but I don't think that was the message he intended to deliver.
Lina Zalizati:
"For hundredth time, my name is not Anil!"
Ripplemagne:
"Durka durka ick glockma, you say? Speak English! We're in America, Commie!"
Yeah. I'm an asshole. Get used to it.
At this point, I had made myself comfy by the water cooler with my mates in 8-Bit Theater. The meeting had gone by, but it was about time we got on the same page.
Lina Zalizati:
"I am speak English! You are durka durka!"
Ripplemagne:
"Bitch, I just told you that I don't understand your foreignese sputterings! Hop off my cock!"
She was actually a fairly pretty girl. Silken auburn hair and evergreen eyes that made the African rainforests look like the dilapidated yellow patches in the grass of a public dog park. At some point in time, I'll have to make note to feel her Slovene accent as she gurgles the back end of my shaft. Yeah, I'd hit it. She's a little too easy to antagonize, though. Makes my job a Hell of a lot easier though.
The Fire Ant
"Clink-clonk, zort zort."
Ripplemagne:
"No, no. Anil and de Magne are quite done."
Lina Zalizati:
"You are understand The Fire Ant, but you does not understand me?!"
The Fire Ant's an interesting character. We came to meet through rather interesting means, but that's a story for another time. What I can say right now is that the bodysuit she dons accentuates dat gluteus maximus like "HOOOSNAP HOW DAT SHIT GET UP THURR". I'm thinking that if I tap that, I'll have to slice the suit in half and just pound her with the costume on, because something tells me she's a butterface. Even if she's not, I can't take the risk of an erectile dysfunction if she is, so best to just leave it to the imagination.
My imagination is usually kinder to the nekkidness of others than God was anyway.
Ripplemagne:
"I still don't know what you're saying, Linka."
Lina Zalizati:
"It's Lina!"
The Fire Ant
"Zing ring glig."
Ripplemagne:
"You're right. That was the name of the durka durka tomata from Captain Planet. Mah nigga, Wheeler, was tappin' that ass in the extended version of the series. Bitch was like 'Durk... durk... durk! Durk! DUUUUUUUURK!'"
Mah niggas, Bucky Skyler and P.K. Sterling, were busting their guts behind me. I guess it makes up for the rest of my stable being a bunch of sour pusses. Maybe it was a Canadian thing. Either way, it seemed Shane and Cage were stone faced with their arms crossed. They were about as fun as paint drying. And not fingerpaint after you done fucked up a nigga's face by painting a blue moustache on them either. The mundane dreariness of having just painted that room in your house, where you ultimately notice after the nigga is done drying that you missed a spot. So, you try to coat over the bitch, but that just makes it worse, so you gotta start all over again.
Yeah, that about summed those two canuckians up. The only difference between them was that Shane was the way he was because he was an emo nancy boy reminiscent of a fat, sixteen year old, Wiccan twilight fan with dyed hair. So, if Shane is Cloud Stryfe, then Cage is Squall Leonhart.
Anyway, after having thoroughly embarrassed the manager and leaving her cheeks as red as a hooker's ass cheeks after a night with Roman Polanski -- it was about my turn to dish. Everyone had already given their plans and the whole nine and I was the only one left who hadn't. Normally, I'd tell the part of the story where they explained that, but you'll just have to wait and see that for yourselves.
By the way, who the Hell am I talking to anyway?
P.K. Sterling:
"Hey, I think I missed the memo. Who else is joining us here?"
Ripplemagne:
"Honestly? No one's confirmed. There's a number of prospects, who said they'd be coming. Will they come through on that? Hard to say."
Bucky Skyler:
"And how about this Aaron guy you're booked with? Did you watch his match?"
Ripplemagne:
"Nah."
P.K. Sterling:
"Don't you think that would be a good idea? It'll give you an idea of what makes him tick. I know you have a keen eye for weaknesses and you could probably do it after the bell rings, but why not have a leg up on him? No doubt he's going to try to pick your every move apart before you two duke it out in the ring, so why not level the playing field?"
The Fire Ant
"Zip norg."
Ripplemagne:
"You heard the lady."
P.K. Sterling:
"Uh..."
Lina Zalizati:
"The Fire Ant say that it does not matter how much time Aaron does trying to pick Ripplemagne apart. Aaron can prepare for Ripplemagne's technic skills, but Ripplemagne may decide to challenge him with speed punches or strange antics. Aaron can prepare for randomness, but Ripplemagne can go over his brain with it or fight for serious."
The White Mage:
"You were able to decipher all of that from just le 'zip norg', Miss Lina?"
Believe it or not, Whitey and I were a lot closer than Your Feature Presentation leads on. Next to me, she was the longest running member of Your Feature Presentation and my longest traveling partner. I had a number of companions over my career, but Whitey was honestly as important to the production of Your Feature Presentation as me. She kept all of the techy mumbo jumbo running smoothly. For those of you who don't know, the magnum (no, not you, James) opus of things that cause the Ripplemagne to rage... is electronics. Want to hear a level of profanity that'll make South Park look like a 70s info clip about religion? Hand me a blackberry.
Lina Zalizati:
"Ant linguistics differ greatly from English."
Ripplemagne:
"The point is that he has very little to go off of with me. The most he can study are my last three matches, which were all fairly docile, and online sources. The only way he's going to have even a semblance of what I can bring to the table is by watching my old matches; matches where I hoisted a five-hundred pound man onto my shoulders in a fireman's carry, overcame ridiculous odds, participated in spots that left the entire arena stunned.
And that's just it. He's new here too. If I watch one match of his, do you really expect me to know every move he's going to pull off?"
P.K. Sterling:
"But you were able to get a good perception of me in our sparring matches and match it with a strategy."
Ripplemagne:
"Yes, but you and I were in the ring. The drums of war beat differently to a spectator than from a warrior. I can look at an opponent's fighting style and say 'Well, okay, he's going to come at me using his amateur wrestling background, larger size, agile frame, whatever.' But to truly gauge an opponent, you have to be there with them in the ring. Even if you've fought them once already, you'll never know what to expect the second time.
Life isn't a storybook, unfortunately. Factors alter the make-up of an event. For example, one day, I may be facing a guy when he's fighting with his wife. So, he's going to come at me with every kind of rage and animosity about him. But maybe the next time I meet him in the ring, they made up and he's expecting a baby. So, now, he's going to fight me with a clearer head and a calmer disposition. People are not so one-dimensional that you can gauge their abilities by one match, two matches, ten matches or even every match they've ever fought. It simply does not work that way. We don't all have one personality like we tend to write for our fictional characters in stories.
In a storybook, a character will be a pessimistic loner, who hates everyone. But in real life, even a pessimistic loner gets happy and has friends. Maybe not quite as many or quite as often, but it's there."
P.K. Sterling:
"So, your strategy is no strategy?"
The White Mage:
"Monsieur P.K., it is useless to try to pick Monsieur Ripplemagne's brain for ze strategies. Monsieur Ripplemagne's brain is layered in such a way that even if he wished to articulate his plans, he couldn't do so."
Bucky Skyler:
"Kind of like that song by Yellocard, 'And my worst pains are words I cannot say'."
It seemed like Bucky could empathize or at least sympathize with such a notion. I didn't want to confirm or deny Whitey's analysis, so...
Ripplemagne:
"Graham crackers."
I think that that dose of randomocity scared or irked the canuckians because they walked away at that point. Having effectively killed the conversation like Keith Olbermann at a night club, I slinked my way through the corridors and decided to pass the time with the usual tasks. Giving the weak little comptuer nerd guys wedgies, peeping in the lady's bathroom, drinkin' Whiskey out the bottle, not thinkin' 'bout tomorrow, singin' "Sweet Home Alabama" all Sum-- Oh, uh...
So, after the 8-Bit Theater motley crue dispersed, I snatched up a chocolate milk from the facilities from the vending machine and went merrily on my way. I had my eyes fixed on the psychedelic pattern of the floor tiles as I spread my arms out like a plane and walked one foot in front of the other. Then it was like the opening sound effect of Bon Jovi's "It's My Life" went off inside my brain and the universe did a cartwheel as my eyes.
Ooooh, mah eyes. For the sight that they see in front of them hath prompted a fatal heart attack. Rigormortis set in, but only below the waist before Umbrella Corporation game shark'd my shit back to life. Mon amie, mon amie.
She was bent over, rising (in slow motion, of course) as she gently hoisted a clipboard that she dropped to the ground. Bella had on a scarlet blouse and a black skirt; and God almighty, words do not do justice to how this posterior just popped from that skirt. As her spine straighted out, I followed her golden-brown legs down and back up to her. She wasn't quite as pretty as that Zalizati chica, but dat ass, yo. Dat. Ass.
Naturally, I did what any good hearted young male chauvinist with an overactive libido would do. I performed my best Johnny Bravo impression as I skid across the floor on my mismatched sneakers and flexed my biceps before her, pulsating each pec beneath my pink 'Believe It' t-shirt that fit me like the last layer of skin on a snake. I saw the twinkle in her eyes as she proceeded to have a little orgasm in her knickers, raise her eyebrow in that seductive manner and step back as if to say 'give it to me'. She grimaced and stared at me for a second, knowing full well that I'd be the man to bear her a child.
Woman:
"Can I help you, Mr. Ripplemagne?"
Ripplemagne:
"Excellent. You know the Patriarch of Pretty's name already. That saves us some time. Actually, you can help me."
Woman:
"What do you need, Mr. Ripplemagne?"
Ripplemagne:
"'Mr. Ripplemagne'. I love that. Anyway, yes. Well..."
Woman:
"Well, what?"
Ripplemagne:
"Well, it's not just going to suck itself!"
She pretended to gasp in shock as I pointed to the glory that was in my pants, but we all know she wanted it. Fiendin' for that boom boom pow.
Woman:
"Excuse me?!"
Ripplemagne:
"'First things first, though. My fingers are a bit cold. Would it be alright if I warmed them up?"
I held forth the SUFI and twitched it before her as she gave that cute little look of disgust that just told you that she wished for me to tickle her balloon knot. For those of you who don't know what a balloon knot is, look at the inside of the knot of a balloon and tell me what it looks like.
Moving on!
Woman:
"I hope you're not implying what I think you're implying!"
Ripplemagne:
"I'm not implying anything. I'm straight up askin': Do you want to give me a blow job? The balls won't touch, so it's not gay."
Woman:
"You are vile! I'm calling security!"
Ripplemagne:
"Easy, easy, easy now. I'm only kidding. Actually, I wanted to show you a magic trick."
Woman:
"A... magic trick?"
Ripplemagne:
"Yes. See my pocket watch here?"
Yes, I carry a pocket watch in my dress shirt pocket. Straddle my nuts.
Woman:
"Yes?"
Ripplemagne:
"Well, it's magic. And it's telling me that you're not wearing panties."
Woman:
"I most certainly am wearing panties!"
Ripplemagne:
"Hm... wiggy. Must be an hour fast. Okay, enough formalities. Your place or mine? Tell you what, I'll flip a coin. Head at my place, tail at yours. Savvy?"
We're going to skip the next part of the story and the um... next part which explains my black eye. Yeah, I got uh... into a fight with a gorilla. Two gorillas. With brass knuckles.
So, after the... gorilla incident, I kind of realized something. I'm lactose intolerant. Mah tum tum began to gurgle and I'm pretty certain that if ya disected me at that point, you'd find foam in me. Having made a bee-line to the potty, I stopped short before the porcelain throne. Before my eyes was perhaps the ripest, stinkiest, most putrid terlit (sic) seat that I've ever seen in all of my days. I mean, this thing had skid marks along the entirety of it. There was dry diarrhea singed along the backside of the bowl and somehow, someway... there was an upside-down pyramid of dookie suspended from the ceiling that I only noticed because a turdlet dropped from the ceiling into the bowl, prompting a splash that.... unfortunately got on my shirt, discoloring it almost instantaneously.
Thoroughly nauseated, I rushed out of the public restroom and began to move dem buns and thighs, hauling ass out of the building. Naturally, the elevator was out of comission, so I had to trek down 17 levels of the building to fly from the door.
I made a mad dash for Sherman Lane, where I could catch the bus back home. Fuck me for not having my license. Ugh. I could feel it squirm as my sphincter seemed to move like a rubicks cube in the hands of an Asian. I could feel my abdominals actually tearing from the bloatedness of my stomach. Four blocks away from Sherman Lane; I'd be able to make the two o'clock bus!
With every step my sneaker plopped into the pavement, I could feel my cheeks clench as if it were to a levy made of straw during Hurricane Katrina. As I ran, I did a hop-step where I'd reach back and hold my ass cheeks together, so when I ran, it looked like I was a duck on smack.
Two blocks and around the corner! It was 1:57. And...
Oh, no.
What now?!
Before my eyes was little Miss Hottie from earlier. All I could think of was 'Jesus Christ, if they're going to arrest me for sexual harassment, at least let them do it fast, so I can eject this demon from my stink hole!'
Woman:
"Mr. Ripplemagne! I have to speak to you."
Ripplemagne:
"Oh, hello, titties. Um, yes. You can... u-um... f-find my uh... oooh... l-lawyer's number in the... theeee... registry. Ciiaaaaao."
I went to dash by, but she locked her fingers -- which were very well manicured, by the way -- around my arm, holding me back.
Woman:
"I just wanted to apologize."
Plot twist. Osnap.
Ripplemagne:
"A-A-Ap-ologize? For... what?"
Woman:
"For being so rude earlier. You actually seem like a really fun guy to be around, but I just came out of a long term relationship and I was kind of in an 'I hate men' funk. I'd actually love to do something with you soon. My name is Lucilia."
...Note to self: Brutally ream this broad until the veins in your giggity burst.
Ripplemagne:
"Oh, I s-see. Apology accepted. L-Lets do br-bruuuunch at some time then."
Lucilia:
"Actually, I was thinking that you and I go back to the office and I make all of your fantasies come true."
At this point, she began to run her fingers up my shirt, running her palms along my abs and digging her nails into my obliques. The squeezing made my whole stomach do backflips as I felt like a cannoli being squeezed and my frosting was just about ready to burst out the other side.
... Wait, what did she just say? My eyes locked on her as I gazed down her blouse at her plump, perky brown breasts practically leaping up at me. But then my attention turned to the distance where I could see the bus coming.
Back to the breasts. Man, the things I could do to this girl. Back to the bus. Bowels about to give way. My head cocks back to the office building in the far distance. Feces covered terlits; office sex fantasy.
Decisions, decisions.
Ripplemagne:
"Fuck you, homogenized dairy products! Fuck you right in your methane-producing assholes!"
I raced off from what may have been a beautiful Puerto Rican girl in heat, willing to do anything. But at the time, I didn't even think about it. My ass felt like it needed to be prison bitched just to keep the inevitable Krakatoa eruption in check. I ran with the speed of an Olympic gold medalist with the posture of a diseased llama as I could see the bus turn the corner. My little tootsies ran for it.
I ran and ran. I just raaaaan. I couldn't geeet awaaaaay.
But... I tried so hard. And got so far. And in the end, it didn't even matter. I fell to my knees as I got to the bus stop a second afterit departed. My mind was haunted by the inevitable reality; I'd have to wait another hour for the next bus. The only other option was... public restrooms.
...I'd take my chances waiting.
In what may have been the longest hour of my life, my entire body was convulsing; I could actually feel my hips quivering. But just as all hope seemed lost, there was my deus ex machina. The sunlight radiated into the reflectors of the rattling junk heap on wheels. It rolled down the corner as my face opened up in glee. My heart skipped a beat as angels played their harps and a chorus of choir folk began to praise the Lord.
Ripplemagne:
"Can't you people practice your gospel singing somewhere else?!"
As I received dirty looks from the choir, the bus finally rolled up to the curb as my body fumbled over like a slinky, eagerly waiting to get on the bus. The panes in the doorway flapped open as I saw an older gent with a fairly defined nose, a receding hairline and a prominent jawline. His skin was a fair shade, but it was blistered over his cheeks; likely a bit of sunburn. The older gent cocked his head down the stairs at me in his blue uniform and raised an eyebrow as I dug in my pocket for my bus pass.
???:
"Gospod voznik. Ne spustite ga na avtobus. On je rasistično uperjen proti Slovencem."
As my hand was thoroughly pillaging the pocket of my bootcut jeans, I heard that voice rang out. That familiar durka durkocity that sounded so... durkish. My left ear twitched as my chin gently rose up, so that my eyes were level with the vixen sitting behind the bus driver. Auburn hair and a green business attire...
Bus Driver:
"V redu."
In that instant, the panes closed themselves up, shutting me out from the bus as I pounded my fist into the glass only to receive a scowl from the bus driver. With a smug grin, that fine piece of mail-order-bride ass poked her head out the bus window.
Ripplemagne:
"Anil! What did you durk to him just now!?"
Lina Zalizati:
"Oh, nothing. I just tell him what you said about Slovenian peoples. Funny how even away from home, I am able to find my people."
As I stood there stupefied, the bus pulled away, driving off over the horizon. And I was left with only one thought... y'know, besides "My ass is about to release the depths of Hell in mah boxers."
Ripplemagne:
"...I still can't understand that ho's durking!"
As you probably guessed, another hour went by of my knees buckling together and my ass cheeks so tightly pressed together that the cleft of dat ass was absorbing my jeans into them. Not a pretty sight.
...Well, okay. It was pretty, but probably not kosher.
I had finally managed to get on the bus and, naturally, there were no seats available. Fine. I can stand -- or more accurately, bounce from one foot to the other in anticipation -- long enough to gain access to the terlit in my trailer. The problem arose when--
Small Child:
"Oh my God! You're that wrestler, Ripplemagne!"
Suddenly, all of these fucking people who didn't even recognize me wanted my autograph and I was practically trampled to death as I signed autographs for a packed bus of people for 14 stops. Who was pushing, who was climbing on top of me, who was raising a notepad in my face, who was pinching my ass, and I'd question who was rubbing their titties against me, but I actually think it was a rather hefty man, so I'm not going to mention it.
You'd think, though, that when I got off the bus, I'd be safe. No. The mother fuckers actually chased me off the bus, waving their notepads and sharpies as I blasted off like a grasshopper on steroids, managing to get a few blocks distance between myself and the mob of cafones who probably just wanted to sell the autographs on ebay or something. I feel so underappreciated.
And there it was. Before my practically tearing cascade eyes; home sweet home. The 8-Bit Movie Trailer. Flashforward about two seconds to find me standing outside the bathroom door, marching in place and grinding my teeth with a searing anger that flushed my face a bright cherry red color. If this was a cartoon, you'd see smoke pouring out of my ears.
The door was locked. Oh, you guessed it. There was someone fucking in the bathroom. And given my living arrangements, it was almost indefinitely a female -- which meant the delay was monumentous. It was just then though that I heard the harmony that was that pretty silver handle doing its job and at that point, I could feel my bowels sing to the highest heavens as I heard that water swish and swash behind the hardwood door. The sweet, sweet sonor of the valves and feeder hoses doing their thing rang through the canal of my left ear with such bliss that I felt like I was having a synchronized orgasm. The searing pain that crept forward from my anus was practically unbearable; I clenched at the reflective gold knob protruding from the door in anticipation for it to swing ajar. God almighty, what the fuck was taking so long?!
Oh, this was going to be a photo finish. Here I was, pinching a loaf and I could feel the head of the dookie starting to pry its way out. Scratch and claw. This nigga wanted out and he wanted out now. Ai, madonna mia; it felt like I was like trying to jam a loaf of bread through a key hole; or more accurately -- the antithesis of Aaron trying to jam his pud in Gabriella's gash. I had to do it. My fist wound back to deliver a Falcon Punch into the doorway; I'd sit between the bitch's legs and shit together if need be!
Ripplemagne:
"FALCON... PUUUUUUUUUUUNCH!"
But just as I thrust my fist forward to bash the door open, it swung open and my entire body flew into the bathroom, rolling across the floor and promptly scaring Cheerleader Debra pissless (though, I suppose she was already pissless all things considering.) Immediately, I snap to my feet and shove Debra from the bathroom in a huff.
Cheerleader Debra #1:
"...What just happened?"
Ripplemagne:
"Oooooh. Alright. Ten, twenty-two. Ten, twenty-three. Down, set, hike. He swings it! Deflected! Intercepted! Oh... oh... here it comes. It's the haaaaaaaaaaail mary! There it is! The twenty, the ten... TOUCHDOWN!"
* * *
Fin.
* * *
The following script is non-televised and is strictly behind the scenes content.
* * *
...And at that point, I could feel my bowels sing to the highest heavens as I heard that water swish and swash behind the hardwood door. The sweet, sweet sonor of the valves and feeder hoses doing their thing rang through the canal of my left ear with such bliss that I felt like I was having a synchronized orgasm. The searing pain that crept forward from my anus was practically unbearable; I clenched at the reflective gold knob protruding from the door in anticipation for it to swing ajar. God almighty, what the fuck was taking so long?!
Oh, hello. Some of you will probably recognize me as the Patriarch of Pretty, the Malefactor of Modesty, the King of Hearts, the First Magne of Win... and, well, you get the picture. My dapper visage has won over the hearts and fallopian tubes of wimmenz the world over. Ah, yes. My glistening golden strands weave around my picture-perfect face, billowing around my high cheek bones and complimenting the vast expanses of my scintillating blue-green eyes which bursts from my magnesia alba-esque complexion. Even through the searing agony coursing through my ass at the moment, I can stop to admire my splendorous embodiment in the dinky golden knob in my clutches. Fuck yes, I'd molest that man in that knob. I would clone that sexy hunk of man and jam it right in his a--
Oh, I suppose I should start from the beginning here, shouldn't I? It wasn't a dark stormy night, it wasn't once upon a time, it wasn't a galaxy far far away, it wasn't the best of times, it wasn't the worst of times or any of that good stuff. For me, every day is just lovely, and this day was no different, though I had to attend a meeting at the Full Throttle Wrestling headquarters early in the morning. I'm never a fan of having to pry my lazy ass out of bed before noon. Actually, I'm working on cultivating the theory that I'm actually nocturnal or some shit.
Anyway, the meeting was kind of a snooze. Barring the nineteen paper airplanes I chucked at Chris Cage's head, prompting him to rage about how one day Canada would rule us all and then we'd see. We'd all see. I, personally, got a boner from the whole speech, but I don't think that was the message he intended to deliver.
Lina Zalizati:
"For hundredth time, my name is not Anil!"
Ripplemagne:
"Durka durka ick glockma, you say? Speak English! We're in America, Commie!"
Yeah. I'm an asshole. Get used to it.
At this point, I had made myself comfy by the water cooler with my mates in 8-Bit Theater. The meeting had gone by, but it was about time we got on the same page.
Lina Zalizati:
"I am speak English! You are durka durka!"
Ripplemagne:
"Bitch, I just told you that I don't understand your foreignese sputterings! Hop off my cock!"
She was actually a fairly pretty girl. Silken auburn hair and evergreen eyes that made the African rainforests look like the dilapidated yellow patches in the grass of a public dog park. At some point in time, I'll have to make note to feel her Slovene accent as she gurgles the back end of my shaft. Yeah, I'd hit it. She's a little too easy to antagonize, though. Makes my job a Hell of a lot easier though.
The Fire Ant
"Clink-clonk, zort zort."
Ripplemagne:
"No, no. Anil and de Magne are quite done."
Lina Zalizati:
"You are understand The Fire Ant, but you does not understand me?!"
The Fire Ant's an interesting character. We came to meet through rather interesting means, but that's a story for another time. What I can say right now is that the bodysuit she dons accentuates dat gluteus maximus like "HOOOSNAP HOW DAT SHIT GET UP THURR". I'm thinking that if I tap that, I'll have to slice the suit in half and just pound her with the costume on, because something tells me she's a butterface. Even if she's not, I can't take the risk of an erectile dysfunction if she is, so best to just leave it to the imagination.
My imagination is usually kinder to the nekkidness of others than God was anyway.
Ripplemagne:
"I still don't know what you're saying, Linka."
Lina Zalizati:
"It's Lina!"
The Fire Ant
"Zing ring glig."
Ripplemagne:
"You're right. That was the name of the durka durka tomata from Captain Planet. Mah nigga, Wheeler, was tappin' that ass in the extended version of the series. Bitch was like 'Durk... durk... durk! Durk! DUUUUUUUURK!'"
Mah niggas, Bucky Skyler and P.K. Sterling, were busting their guts behind me. I guess it makes up for the rest of my stable being a bunch of sour pusses. Maybe it was a Canadian thing. Either way, it seemed Shane and Cage were stone faced with their arms crossed. They were about as fun as paint drying. And not fingerpaint after you done fucked up a nigga's face by painting a blue moustache on them either. The mundane dreariness of having just painted that room in your house, where you ultimately notice after the nigga is done drying that you missed a spot. So, you try to coat over the bitch, but that just makes it worse, so you gotta start all over again.
Yeah, that about summed those two canuckians up. The only difference between them was that Shane was the way he was because he was an emo nancy boy reminiscent of a fat, sixteen year old, Wiccan twilight fan with dyed hair. So, if Shane is Cloud Stryfe, then Cage is Squall Leonhart.
Anyway, after having thoroughly embarrassed the manager and leaving her cheeks as red as a hooker's ass cheeks after a night with Roman Polanski -- it was about my turn to dish. Everyone had already given their plans and the whole nine and I was the only one left who hadn't. Normally, I'd tell the part of the story where they explained that, but you'll just have to wait and see that for yourselves.
By the way, who the Hell am I talking to anyway?
P.K. Sterling:
"Hey, I think I missed the memo. Who else is joining us here?"
Ripplemagne:
"Honestly? No one's confirmed. There's a number of prospects, who said they'd be coming. Will they come through on that? Hard to say."
Bucky Skyler:
"And how about this Aaron guy you're booked with? Did you watch his match?"
Ripplemagne:
"Nah."
P.K. Sterling:
"Don't you think that would be a good idea? It'll give you an idea of what makes him tick. I know you have a keen eye for weaknesses and you could probably do it after the bell rings, but why not have a leg up on him? No doubt he's going to try to pick your every move apart before you two duke it out in the ring, so why not level the playing field?"
The Fire Ant
"Zip norg."
Ripplemagne:
"You heard the lady."
P.K. Sterling:
"Uh..."
Lina Zalizati:
"The Fire Ant say that it does not matter how much time Aaron does trying to pick Ripplemagne apart. Aaron can prepare for Ripplemagne's technic skills, but Ripplemagne may decide to challenge him with speed punches or strange antics. Aaron can prepare for randomness, but Ripplemagne can go over his brain with it or fight for serious."
The White Mage:
"You were able to decipher all of that from just le 'zip norg', Miss Lina?"
Believe it or not, Whitey and I were a lot closer than Your Feature Presentation leads on. Next to me, she was the longest running member of Your Feature Presentation and my longest traveling partner. I had a number of companions over my career, but Whitey was honestly as important to the production of Your Feature Presentation as me. She kept all of the techy mumbo jumbo running smoothly. For those of you who don't know, the magnum (no, not you, James) opus of things that cause the Ripplemagne to rage... is electronics. Want to hear a level of profanity that'll make South Park look like a 70s info clip about religion? Hand me a blackberry.
Lina Zalizati:
"Ant linguistics differ greatly from English."
Ripplemagne:
"The point is that he has very little to go off of with me. The most he can study are my last three matches, which were all fairly docile, and online sources. The only way he's going to have even a semblance of what I can bring to the table is by watching my old matches; matches where I hoisted a five-hundred pound man onto my shoulders in a fireman's carry, overcame ridiculous odds, participated in spots that left the entire arena stunned.
And that's just it. He's new here too. If I watch one match of his, do you really expect me to know every move he's going to pull off?"
P.K. Sterling:
"But you were able to get a good perception of me in our sparring matches and match it with a strategy."
Ripplemagne:
"Yes, but you and I were in the ring. The drums of war beat differently to a spectator than from a warrior. I can look at an opponent's fighting style and say 'Well, okay, he's going to come at me using his amateur wrestling background, larger size, agile frame, whatever.' But to truly gauge an opponent, you have to be there with them in the ring. Even if you've fought them once already, you'll never know what to expect the second time.
Life isn't a storybook, unfortunately. Factors alter the make-up of an event. For example, one day, I may be facing a guy when he's fighting with his wife. So, he's going to come at me with every kind of rage and animosity about him. But maybe the next time I meet him in the ring, they made up and he's expecting a baby. So, now, he's going to fight me with a clearer head and a calmer disposition. People are not so one-dimensional that you can gauge their abilities by one match, two matches, ten matches or even every match they've ever fought. It simply does not work that way. We don't all have one personality like we tend to write for our fictional characters in stories.
In a storybook, a character will be a pessimistic loner, who hates everyone. But in real life, even a pessimistic loner gets happy and has friends. Maybe not quite as many or quite as often, but it's there."
P.K. Sterling:
"So, your strategy is no strategy?"
The White Mage:
"Monsieur P.K., it is useless to try to pick Monsieur Ripplemagne's brain for ze strategies. Monsieur Ripplemagne's brain is layered in such a way that even if he wished to articulate his plans, he couldn't do so."
Bucky Skyler:
"Kind of like that song by Yellocard, 'And my worst pains are words I cannot say'."
It seemed like Bucky could empathize or at least sympathize with such a notion. I didn't want to confirm or deny Whitey's analysis, so...
Ripplemagne:
"Graham crackers."
I think that that dose of randomocity scared or irked the canuckians because they walked away at that point. Having effectively killed the conversation like Keith Olbermann at a night club, I slinked my way through the corridors and decided to pass the time with the usual tasks. Giving the weak little comptuer nerd guys wedgies, peeping in the lady's bathroom, drinkin' Whiskey out the bottle, not thinkin' 'bout tomorrow, singin' "Sweet Home Alabama" all Sum-- Oh, uh...
So, after the 8-Bit Theater motley crue dispersed, I snatched up a chocolate milk from the facilities from the vending machine and went merrily on my way. I had my eyes fixed on the psychedelic pattern of the floor tiles as I spread my arms out like a plane and walked one foot in front of the other. Then it was like the opening sound effect of Bon Jovi's "It's My Life" went off inside my brain and the universe did a cartwheel as my eyes.
Ooooh, mah eyes. For the sight that they see in front of them hath prompted a fatal heart attack. Rigormortis set in, but only below the waist before Umbrella Corporation game shark'd my shit back to life. Mon amie, mon amie.
She was bent over, rising (in slow motion, of course) as she gently hoisted a clipboard that she dropped to the ground. Bella had on a scarlet blouse and a black skirt; and God almighty, words do not do justice to how this posterior just popped from that skirt. As her spine straighted out, I followed her golden-brown legs down and back up to her. She wasn't quite as pretty as that Zalizati chica, but dat ass, yo. Dat. Ass.
Naturally, I did what any good hearted young male chauvinist with an overactive libido would do. I performed my best Johnny Bravo impression as I skid across the floor on my mismatched sneakers and flexed my biceps before her, pulsating each pec beneath my pink 'Believe It' t-shirt that fit me like the last layer of skin on a snake. I saw the twinkle in her eyes as she proceeded to have a little orgasm in her knickers, raise her eyebrow in that seductive manner and step back as if to say 'give it to me'. She grimaced and stared at me for a second, knowing full well that I'd be the man to bear her a child.
Woman:
"Can I help you, Mr. Ripplemagne?"
Ripplemagne:
"Excellent. You know the Patriarch of Pretty's name already. That saves us some time. Actually, you can help me."
Woman:
"What do you need, Mr. Ripplemagne?"
Ripplemagne:
"'Mr. Ripplemagne'. I love that. Anyway, yes. Well..."
Woman:
"Well, what?"
Ripplemagne:
"Well, it's not just going to suck itself!"
She pretended to gasp in shock as I pointed to the glory that was in my pants, but we all know she wanted it. Fiendin' for that boom boom pow.
Woman:
"Excuse me?!"
Ripplemagne:
"'First things first, though. My fingers are a bit cold. Would it be alright if I warmed them up?"
I held forth the SUFI and twitched it before her as she gave that cute little look of disgust that just told you that she wished for me to tickle her balloon knot. For those of you who don't know what a balloon knot is, look at the inside of the knot of a balloon and tell me what it looks like.
Moving on!
Woman:
"I hope you're not implying what I think you're implying!"
Ripplemagne:
"I'm not implying anything. I'm straight up askin': Do you want to give me a blow job? The balls won't touch, so it's not gay."
Woman:
"You are vile! I'm calling security!"
Ripplemagne:
"Easy, easy, easy now. I'm only kidding. Actually, I wanted to show you a magic trick."
Woman:
"A... magic trick?"
Ripplemagne:
"Yes. See my pocket watch here?"
Yes, I carry a pocket watch in my dress shirt pocket. Straddle my nuts.
Woman:
"Yes?"
Ripplemagne:
"Well, it's magic. And it's telling me that you're not wearing panties."
Woman:
"I most certainly am wearing panties!"
Ripplemagne:
"Hm... wiggy. Must be an hour fast. Okay, enough formalities. Your place or mine? Tell you what, I'll flip a coin. Head at my place, tail at yours. Savvy?"
We're going to skip the next part of the story and the um... next part which explains my black eye. Yeah, I got uh... into a fight with a gorilla. Two gorillas. With brass knuckles.
So, after the... gorilla incident, I kind of realized something. I'm lactose intolerant. Mah tum tum began to gurgle and I'm pretty certain that if ya disected me at that point, you'd find foam in me. Having made a bee-line to the potty, I stopped short before the porcelain throne. Before my eyes was perhaps the ripest, stinkiest, most putrid terlit (sic) seat that I've ever seen in all of my days. I mean, this thing had skid marks along the entirety of it. There was dry diarrhea singed along the backside of the bowl and somehow, someway... there was an upside-down pyramid of dookie suspended from the ceiling that I only noticed because a turdlet dropped from the ceiling into the bowl, prompting a splash that.... unfortunately got on my shirt, discoloring it almost instantaneously.
Thoroughly nauseated, I rushed out of the public restroom and began to move dem buns and thighs, hauling ass out of the building. Naturally, the elevator was out of comission, so I had to trek down 17 levels of the building to fly from the door.
I made a mad dash for Sherman Lane, where I could catch the bus back home. Fuck me for not having my license. Ugh. I could feel it squirm as my sphincter seemed to move like a rubicks cube in the hands of an Asian. I could feel my abdominals actually tearing from the bloatedness of my stomach. Four blocks away from Sherman Lane; I'd be able to make the two o'clock bus!
With every step my sneaker plopped into the pavement, I could feel my cheeks clench as if it were to a levy made of straw during Hurricane Katrina. As I ran, I did a hop-step where I'd reach back and hold my ass cheeks together, so when I ran, it looked like I was a duck on smack.
Two blocks and around the corner! It was 1:57. And...
Oh, no.
What now?!
Before my eyes was little Miss Hottie from earlier. All I could think of was 'Jesus Christ, if they're going to arrest me for sexual harassment, at least let them do it fast, so I can eject this demon from my stink hole!'
Woman:
"Mr. Ripplemagne! I have to speak to you."
Ripplemagne:
"Oh, hello, titties. Um, yes. You can... u-um... f-find my uh... oooh... l-lawyer's number in the... theeee... registry. Ciiaaaaao."
I went to dash by, but she locked her fingers -- which were very well manicured, by the way -- around my arm, holding me back.
Woman:
"I just wanted to apologize."
Plot twist. Osnap.
Ripplemagne:
"A-A-Ap-ologize? For... what?"
Woman:
"For being so rude earlier. You actually seem like a really fun guy to be around, but I just came out of a long term relationship and I was kind of in an 'I hate men' funk. I'd actually love to do something with you soon. My name is Lucilia."
...Note to self: Brutally ream this broad until the veins in your giggity burst.
Ripplemagne:
"Oh, I s-see. Apology accepted. L-Lets do br-bruuuunch at some time then."
Lucilia:
"Actually, I was thinking that you and I go back to the office and I make all of your fantasies come true."
At this point, she began to run her fingers up my shirt, running her palms along my abs and digging her nails into my obliques. The squeezing made my whole stomach do backflips as I felt like a cannoli being squeezed and my frosting was just about ready to burst out the other side.
... Wait, what did she just say? My eyes locked on her as I gazed down her blouse at her plump, perky brown breasts practically leaping up at me. But then my attention turned to the distance where I could see the bus coming.
Back to the breasts. Man, the things I could do to this girl. Back to the bus. Bowels about to give way. My head cocks back to the office building in the far distance. Feces covered terlits; office sex fantasy.
Decisions, decisions.
Ripplemagne:
"Fuck you, homogenized dairy products! Fuck you right in your methane-producing assholes!"
I raced off from what may have been a beautiful Puerto Rican girl in heat, willing to do anything. But at the time, I didn't even think about it. My ass felt like it needed to be prison bitched just to keep the inevitable Krakatoa eruption in check. I ran with the speed of an Olympic gold medalist with the posture of a diseased llama as I could see the bus turn the corner. My little tootsies ran for it.
I ran and ran. I just raaaaan. I couldn't geeet awaaaaay.
But... I tried so hard. And got so far. And in the end, it didn't even matter. I fell to my knees as I got to the bus stop a second afterit departed. My mind was haunted by the inevitable reality; I'd have to wait another hour for the next bus. The only other option was... public restrooms.
...I'd take my chances waiting.
In what may have been the longest hour of my life, my entire body was convulsing; I could actually feel my hips quivering. But just as all hope seemed lost, there was my deus ex machina. The sunlight radiated into the reflectors of the rattling junk heap on wheels. It rolled down the corner as my face opened up in glee. My heart skipped a beat as angels played their harps and a chorus of choir folk began to praise the Lord.
Ripplemagne:
"Can't you people practice your gospel singing somewhere else?!"
As I received dirty looks from the choir, the bus finally rolled up to the curb as my body fumbled over like a slinky, eagerly waiting to get on the bus. The panes in the doorway flapped open as I saw an older gent with a fairly defined nose, a receding hairline and a prominent jawline. His skin was a fair shade, but it was blistered over his cheeks; likely a bit of sunburn. The older gent cocked his head down the stairs at me in his blue uniform and raised an eyebrow as I dug in my pocket for my bus pass.
???:
"Gospod voznik. Ne spustite ga na avtobus. On je rasistično uperjen proti Slovencem."
As my hand was thoroughly pillaging the pocket of my bootcut jeans, I heard that voice rang out. That familiar durka durkocity that sounded so... durkish. My left ear twitched as my chin gently rose up, so that my eyes were level with the vixen sitting behind the bus driver. Auburn hair and a green business attire...
Bus Driver:
"V redu."
In that instant, the panes closed themselves up, shutting me out from the bus as I pounded my fist into the glass only to receive a scowl from the bus driver. With a smug grin, that fine piece of mail-order-bride ass poked her head out the bus window.
Ripplemagne:
"Anil! What did you durk to him just now!?"
Lina Zalizati:
"Oh, nothing. I just tell him what you said about Slovenian peoples. Funny how even away from home, I am able to find my people."
As I stood there stupefied, the bus pulled away, driving off over the horizon. And I was left with only one thought... y'know, besides "My ass is about to release the depths of Hell in mah boxers."
Ripplemagne:
"...I still can't understand that ho's durking!"
As you probably guessed, another hour went by of my knees buckling together and my ass cheeks so tightly pressed together that the cleft of dat ass was absorbing my jeans into them. Not a pretty sight.
...Well, okay. It was pretty, but probably not kosher.
I had finally managed to get on the bus and, naturally, there were no seats available. Fine. I can stand -- or more accurately, bounce from one foot to the other in anticipation -- long enough to gain access to the terlit in my trailer. The problem arose when--
Small Child:
"Oh my God! You're that wrestler, Ripplemagne!"
Suddenly, all of these fucking people who didn't even recognize me wanted my autograph and I was practically trampled to death as I signed autographs for a packed bus of people for 14 stops. Who was pushing, who was climbing on top of me, who was raising a notepad in my face, who was pinching my ass, and I'd question who was rubbing their titties against me, but I actually think it was a rather hefty man, so I'm not going to mention it.
You'd think, though, that when I got off the bus, I'd be safe. No. The mother fuckers actually chased me off the bus, waving their notepads and sharpies as I blasted off like a grasshopper on steroids, managing to get a few blocks distance between myself and the mob of cafones who probably just wanted to sell the autographs on ebay or something. I feel so underappreciated.
And there it was. Before my practically tearing cascade eyes; home sweet home. The 8-Bit Movie Trailer. Flashforward about two seconds to find me standing outside the bathroom door, marching in place and grinding my teeth with a searing anger that flushed my face a bright cherry red color. If this was a cartoon, you'd see smoke pouring out of my ears.
The door was locked. Oh, you guessed it. There was someone fucking in the bathroom. And given my living arrangements, it was almost indefinitely a female -- which meant the delay was monumentous. It was just then though that I heard the harmony that was that pretty silver handle doing its job and at that point, I could feel my bowels sing to the highest heavens as I heard that water swish and swash behind the hardwood door. The sweet, sweet sonor of the valves and feeder hoses doing their thing rang through the canal of my left ear with such bliss that I felt like I was having a synchronized orgasm. The searing pain that crept forward from my anus was practically unbearable; I clenched at the reflective gold knob protruding from the door in anticipation for it to swing ajar. God almighty, what the fuck was taking so long?!
Oh, this was going to be a photo finish. Here I was, pinching a loaf and I could feel the head of the dookie starting to pry its way out. Scratch and claw. This nigga wanted out and he wanted out now. Ai, madonna mia; it felt like I was like trying to jam a loaf of bread through a key hole; or more accurately -- the antithesis of Aaron trying to jam his pud in Gabriella's gash. I had to do it. My fist wound back to deliver a Falcon Punch into the doorway; I'd sit between the bitch's legs and shit together if need be!
Ripplemagne:
"FALCON... PUUUUUUUUUUUNCH!"
But just as I thrust my fist forward to bash the door open, it swung open and my entire body flew into the bathroom, rolling across the floor and promptly scaring Cheerleader Debra pissless (though, I suppose she was already pissless all things considering.) Immediately, I snap to my feet and shove Debra from the bathroom in a huff.
Cheerleader Debra #1:
"...What just happened?"
Ripplemagne:
"Oooooh. Alright. Ten, twenty-two. Ten, twenty-three. Down, set, hike. He swings it! Deflected! Intercepted! Oh... oh... here it comes. It's the haaaaaaaaaaail mary! There it is! The twenty, the ten... TOUCHDOWN!"
* * *
Fin.
* * *
