No Candyland?
* * *
The following script is non-televised and is strictly behind the scenes content.
* * *
Ripplemagne:
"What kind of crap is this?!"
A masterpiece is often shit on throughout its artist's lifetime -- about as much as Bobby Hanson at a singles' bar. It's one of the greatest injustices of this world that an advanced lifeform as grandeur as myself is shafted and continually held down by 'the man'. Do you realize the emotional trauma I must endure knowing that I am as stunning as I am and persistently get dropped off like Stone Cold in The Condemned in warfare zones like this a bloody lottery to determine my opponent for the week and a royal rumble right after.
I'm like an endless draedel in Harmony (caps intentional), but niggas always tryin' to slide the surface out from underneath me. Spin on, spin. The world is out to get me. It's jealous because it's not as beautiful as me. All seven wonders wish their dick was as big as mine.
The end of the bong was locomotive beneath my right eye tooth as my eyesbrows inhaled itself around my perfectly crafted, porcelain nose bridge. The stem gyrated around my pearly whites as I made all seven women fill their panties with cream cheese with a simple enigmatic flip of the golden fleece of a quaff cascading around my forehead and ears. A twinkle in the lush, champagne forest winding down the left side of my head ; a diamond and white gold hoop earring. I was clad in but a simple oversized, embroidered dress shirt that hung down passed my vein-ridden left bicep, exposing the Patriot of Pretty's not-too-thick, not-too-big, rosy areola climaxed at the peace of his stern pecs. The vibrant petunia-esque garment was held up on my physique only by the high end of it draped over my broad shoulders, which entirely offset my lean, ectomorphic waistline. Yes, I must say that I am a lovely creature.
The hookah eased its way from the stem of the bong, but the scorching vitriol of my breathing wafted it right through the imperceptible gap in my front teeth. I rose one leg onto the bed-spread, exacerbating the already peacock-esque lavender pajama bottoms littered with various Disney characters. I will leave it to the imagination whether these were obtained in the men or women's section.
The Blonde With The Fake-Ass Tan:
"Um... isn't it like, um... your match for the, like, week?"
The Red-Head With Too Many Freckles, But A Banging Body:
"Totally. You're, like, a big time wrestler, right? You, like, fight and make a lot of money, right? Can we, like, wait for you in your locker room at the show?"
The parchment gently spread over my svelte fingers as a wince could be empirically observed around one of my dastardly delicious aquamarine eyes. Glancing around at the women, I crumpled the paper in hand, earning a rather nasty paper cut in the process, but I was the man about it. I didn't scream or make a scene at all. Instead, I took a toke from the hookah like a boss, inhaling the refreshing pina colada vaor into my sternum until the crafted abs beneath my dress shirt began to wane. Releasing the exhaust of the bong, I exhaled to brilliant streams of tenebrous smoke columns from my nostrils before emptying the cloud of smoke in my lungs like the smoke machines we spring for at PPVs. Rah rah like a dungeon dragon!
There was a moment of silence for the night that we hadn't seen since I used my international prestige and dapper visage to pick these Barbie bitches up. I still couldn't get a hold of anyone from back home and that loneliness was beginning to blanket a large portion of my day. Fortunately, I have the charisma of the well spoken Norse God of Beauty, Baldr the Good and I can break up the monotony with fake-titted, chicken-headed hos with overactive libidos.
Isolation was imperative to my intellectual and spiritual progress. It wasn't uncommon for me to spend days in solitude, endlessly toiling away at my various little projects. Whether I was onto a new theological theory that challenged conventional thinking or had a hankering to design a 2D video game with C++. The problem is that I had grown use to interruptions; I had grown used to my mother checking up on me umpteen times a day, hos I went to school with hitting me up all hours of the day and night, The Tang pitching his latest quackjob ideas via text message, friends from home IMing me about absolutely nothing. Being a million miles from home all the time really allows you to appreciate that people care that much to be annoying.
I had some international renown. People recognized me everywhere I went. Maybe not everyone recognized me, but there's always be at least one person who would point me out and everyone else would follow suit. I remember back home before I got famous, I had these two buddies who were into PUA and they'd used to talk about one day becoming famous and having bitches suck their dicks 'out of respect'. Not to sound like tryhard Bobby Hanson, but I had that.
It wasn't doing anything for me though.
Ripplemagne:
"...No."
Emotionless, I pushed the Candy Land board we were enjoying a game of over and started walking away from the room as though in a trance.
The Italian Broad With The Big Fucking Mouth... But Really Big Tits Too:
"What the fuck is your fucking problem, you fucking asshole?! You just fucking mad because you were fucking losing?! Fucking asshole."
I ignored her. I'd cunt punt her so hard that I'd make her a virgin again later.
The door rocked open as Ilumbered down the hallway of the trailer in pink ankle socks until I saw that bitch at the end of the trailer. Even at midnight, she was still dressed like a God damn Amish secretary. No idea when she even got here, but for once, I was actually looking for her rather than avoiding her.
Sophia Sheffield:
"Ah, there you are. Our meetings have been rather infrequent as of late, haven't they?"
Ripplemagne:
"You're my manager now, right? Why in all of the cosmos is the magnificent Ripplemagne being subject to a royal rumble and a lottery card, back-to-back?"
Sophia Sheffield:
"Straight to the point, I see. Well, to be quite honest, I saw no reason to exempt you from competitions that everyone on the roster would be plugged into. Your whole career, you've avoided these kind of gimmick concepts, but the benefits are two-fold.
A) It will keep your mind off of your meaningless dribble and on the competition.
B) You may actually get recognized.
Had you not been avoiding me for the past couple of weeks, I could have explained that to you. But in the meantime, get rid of the women in the other room. You will need to be in tip-top shape for the upcoming outrage and for that, you need sleep."
Ripplemagne:
"What I need is to blow my load over a slew of broads with more tit than brains because there ain't a soul in the world picking up their God damn phones. And de Magne does not sleep; it is a waste of time designed entirely for the lazy."
Sophia Sheffield:
"Because you're using your time oh-so productively. Well, if you're not going to get rid of them, then I will."
Ripplemagne:
"Good luck with that, toots. Them bitches in there are like a cast of rabid Snookis with a sexual frustration capacity of three minutes."
There wasn't a word from her. Just a... a fucking smirk? Spinning around, she walked off like an advancing army to my bedroom. Crossing my arms, I waited for a moment before all seven women stormed out of the room, bitching and raging incoherently. As they flooded out of the trailer, I was pelted with various objects lying around the house... and a dildo that I presume belonged to one of them.
The only thing I heard was from the very last girl walking out of the trailer:
The Black Chick With Too Much Make Up:
"Have fun with your bitch-ass right hand tonight, foo'. You gon' be mad later 'cause I can do things that make grown-ass men scream like a bitch."
Pretty sure she just gave me a semi, but I had to save face. As she stepped out of the trailer, I poked my head out and rose my fist in the air like an elderly, retired prospector yelling at children to get off his lawn.
Ripplemagne:
"Hey, for your information, it's the left hand! The left hand! You skank!"
Backtracking, I tried to figure out what just happened and turned around to see Sophia walking passed me without making so much as eye contact.
Sophia Sheffield:
"I believe that takes care of that. And for your information, the reason why no one is taking your calls is because I took the liberty of calling everyone in that black book you left near the phone and letting them know that they are a distraction and that you no longer wish to speak with them. Goodnight, sweet pea."
* * *
The following script is non-televised and is strictly behind the scenes content.
* * *
Ripplemagne:
"What kind of crap is this?!"
A masterpiece is often shit on throughout its artist's lifetime -- about as much as Bobby Hanson at a singles' bar. It's one of the greatest injustices of this world that an advanced lifeform as grandeur as myself is shafted and continually held down by 'the man'. Do you realize the emotional trauma I must endure knowing that I am as stunning as I am and persistently get dropped off like Stone Cold in The Condemned in warfare zones like this a bloody lottery to determine my opponent for the week and a royal rumble right after.
I'm like an endless draedel in Harmony (caps intentional), but niggas always tryin' to slide the surface out from underneath me. Spin on, spin. The world is out to get me. It's jealous because it's not as beautiful as me. All seven wonders wish their dick was as big as mine.
The end of the bong was locomotive beneath my right eye tooth as my eyesbrows inhaled itself around my perfectly crafted, porcelain nose bridge. The stem gyrated around my pearly whites as I made all seven women fill their panties with cream cheese with a simple enigmatic flip of the golden fleece of a quaff cascading around my forehead and ears. A twinkle in the lush, champagne forest winding down the left side of my head ; a diamond and white gold hoop earring. I was clad in but a simple oversized, embroidered dress shirt that hung down passed my vein-ridden left bicep, exposing the Patriot of Pretty's not-too-thick, not-too-big, rosy areola climaxed at the peace of his stern pecs. The vibrant petunia-esque garment was held up on my physique only by the high end of it draped over my broad shoulders, which entirely offset my lean, ectomorphic waistline. Yes, I must say that I am a lovely creature.
The hookah eased its way from the stem of the bong, but the scorching vitriol of my breathing wafted it right through the imperceptible gap in my front teeth. I rose one leg onto the bed-spread, exacerbating the already peacock-esque lavender pajama bottoms littered with various Disney characters. I will leave it to the imagination whether these were obtained in the men or women's section.
The Blonde With The Fake-Ass Tan:
"Um... isn't it like, um... your match for the, like, week?"
The Red-Head With Too Many Freckles, But A Banging Body:
"Totally. You're, like, a big time wrestler, right? You, like, fight and make a lot of money, right? Can we, like, wait for you in your locker room at the show?"
The parchment gently spread over my svelte fingers as a wince could be empirically observed around one of my dastardly delicious aquamarine eyes. Glancing around at the women, I crumpled the paper in hand, earning a rather nasty paper cut in the process, but I was the man about it. I didn't scream or make a scene at all. Instead, I took a toke from the hookah like a boss, inhaling the refreshing pina colada vaor into my sternum until the crafted abs beneath my dress shirt began to wane. Releasing the exhaust of the bong, I exhaled to brilliant streams of tenebrous smoke columns from my nostrils before emptying the cloud of smoke in my lungs like the smoke machines we spring for at PPVs. Rah rah like a dungeon dragon!
There was a moment of silence for the night that we hadn't seen since I used my international prestige and dapper visage to pick these Barbie bitches up. I still couldn't get a hold of anyone from back home and that loneliness was beginning to blanket a large portion of my day. Fortunately, I have the charisma of the well spoken Norse God of Beauty, Baldr the Good and I can break up the monotony with fake-titted, chicken-headed hos with overactive libidos.
Isolation was imperative to my intellectual and spiritual progress. It wasn't uncommon for me to spend days in solitude, endlessly toiling away at my various little projects. Whether I was onto a new theological theory that challenged conventional thinking or had a hankering to design a 2D video game with C++. The problem is that I had grown use to interruptions; I had grown used to my mother checking up on me umpteen times a day, hos I went to school with hitting me up all hours of the day and night, The Tang pitching his latest quackjob ideas via text message, friends from home IMing me about absolutely nothing. Being a million miles from home all the time really allows you to appreciate that people care that much to be annoying.
I had some international renown. People recognized me everywhere I went. Maybe not everyone recognized me, but there's always be at least one person who would point me out and everyone else would follow suit. I remember back home before I got famous, I had these two buddies who were into PUA and they'd used to talk about one day becoming famous and having bitches suck their dicks 'out of respect'. Not to sound like tryhard Bobby Hanson, but I had that.
It wasn't doing anything for me though.
Ripplemagne:
"...No."
Emotionless, I pushed the Candy Land board we were enjoying a game of over and started walking away from the room as though in a trance.
The Italian Broad With The Big Fucking Mouth... But Really Big Tits Too:
"What the fuck is your fucking problem, you fucking asshole?! You just fucking mad because you were fucking losing?! Fucking asshole."
I ignored her. I'd cunt punt her so hard that I'd make her a virgin again later.
The door rocked open as Ilumbered down the hallway of the trailer in pink ankle socks until I saw that bitch at the end of the trailer. Even at midnight, she was still dressed like a God damn Amish secretary. No idea when she even got here, but for once, I was actually looking for her rather than avoiding her.
Sophia Sheffield:
"Ah, there you are. Our meetings have been rather infrequent as of late, haven't they?"
Ripplemagne:
"You're my manager now, right? Why in all of the cosmos is the magnificent Ripplemagne being subject to a royal rumble and a lottery card, back-to-back?"
Sophia Sheffield:
"Straight to the point, I see. Well, to be quite honest, I saw no reason to exempt you from competitions that everyone on the roster would be plugged into. Your whole career, you've avoided these kind of gimmick concepts, but the benefits are two-fold.
A) It will keep your mind off of your meaningless dribble and on the competition.
B) You may actually get recognized.
Had you not been avoiding me for the past couple of weeks, I could have explained that to you. But in the meantime, get rid of the women in the other room. You will need to be in tip-top shape for the upcoming outrage and for that, you need sleep."
Ripplemagne:
"What I need is to blow my load over a slew of broads with more tit than brains because there ain't a soul in the world picking up their God damn phones. And de Magne does not sleep; it is a waste of time designed entirely for the lazy."
Sophia Sheffield:
"Because you're using your time oh-so productively. Well, if you're not going to get rid of them, then I will."
Ripplemagne:
"Good luck with that, toots. Them bitches in there are like a cast of rabid Snookis with a sexual frustration capacity of three minutes."
There wasn't a word from her. Just a... a fucking smirk? Spinning around, she walked off like an advancing army to my bedroom. Crossing my arms, I waited for a moment before all seven women stormed out of the room, bitching and raging incoherently. As they flooded out of the trailer, I was pelted with various objects lying around the house... and a dildo that I presume belonged to one of them.
The only thing I heard was from the very last girl walking out of the trailer:
The Black Chick With Too Much Make Up:
"Have fun with your bitch-ass right hand tonight, foo'. You gon' be mad later 'cause I can do things that make grown-ass men scream like a bitch."
Pretty sure she just gave me a semi, but I had to save face. As she stepped out of the trailer, I poked my head out and rose my fist in the air like an elderly, retired prospector yelling at children to get off his lawn.
Ripplemagne:
"Hey, for your information, it's the left hand! The left hand! You skank!"
Backtracking, I tried to figure out what just happened and turned around to see Sophia walking passed me without making so much as eye contact.
Sophia Sheffield:
"I believe that takes care of that. And for your information, the reason why no one is taking your calls is because I took the liberty of calling everyone in that black book you left near the phone and letting them know that they are a distraction and that you no longer wish to speak with them. Goodnight, sweet pea."
* * *
