Odin's Sphincter
* * *
Fact of the Day
Contrary to popular belief, Barack Obama is neither the first mixed President nor the first President with black descent. And no, Bill Clinton does not count. The following Presidents are all suspected to be or confirmed to be of mixed racial identity:
Thomas Jefferson.
Andrew Jackson.
Abraham Lincoln.
Warren G. Harding.
Calvin Coolidge.
Dwight Eisenhower.
I guess now we know what the 'G' stands for in 'Warren G. Harding'.
* * *
And now, for your feature presentation...
* * *
Ripplemagne:
"...Say he-llo... to de good guy."
The classic yinyang representation of Scarface appears on the screen for just a second, with the words 'Al Pacino' replaced with 'Ripplemagne', 'Scarface' replaced with 'Your Feature Presentation' and the image of Al Pacino replaced with a similar image of the King of Hearts, the magnificent Ripplemagne.
The double-tone quickly obscures as the image of Ripplemagne gains a third dimension. The tenebrous display welds into the Patriarch of Pretty nimbly coasting toward the camera in a dimly lit suite. In the background, his unholy convent of scantily clad motivators adorn the scarlet sofa, enjoying their cocktails. Diverse i appearance, but wholly uniformed in the vivacious pink and white colors of Your Feature Presentation.
After just a lick of the disheveled picture, the pixels are restored to a crisp, digital input. The hyperactive, seemingly heart-shaped pupils of the young man were pivoting in his eye sockets like a wet saw in motion. Like ribbons of unearthed gold, his hair strands billowed down his high cheek bones as his rosy lips were nearly pierced by the razor sharp, porcelain arrow heads that were his teeth. They amply clamped his perky lips as he tried in vain to hold back an anxious cackle.
What must have been a very expensive dry cleaning bill was adorned on his person; a white, California-casual suit in the likeness of Scarface. Flicking his wrist into the vines of hair gallantly streaming down the side of his face, the Patriarch of Pretty spoke.
Ripplemagne:
"Ahoy, aloha, ni hao and all that good stuff, my delectable little croissants. If this is your first time joining us on Your Feature Presentation...
...Well, you're a cum slushie. But beyond that... behold! For you are in the presence of the most electrifying magne in sports entertainment today!"
The White Mage:
"Monsieur Ripplemagne, perhaps you should run with le own material, yes?"
From behind the camera, the young woman spoke to the figure head of Your Feature Presentation. Her trademark French accent rose the tender ears of the Patriarch of Pretty, but without concern of her advice, he blew raspberries at her.
Ripplemagne:
"Puppy cock. The whole world suffers from Chronic Hormonal-induced Ripplemagne Infatuation Syndrome. I, the magnificent Ripplemagne am loved world wide and the sheer, unbridled orgasmitude the people have for de Magne would forever, always prevent them from making Ripplemagne a sad panda with a subpoena."
The White Mage:
"Poppycock."
Ripplemagne:
"No, bitch. That's straight legit shit right thar. Believe it!"
The White Mage:
"No, no. Ze word you are looking for is 'poppycock'. Not 'puppy cock'."
Ripplemagne:
"What!? How does that make sense!? Poppy seeds do not have cocks! Well... I suppose that explains why Joshua Arcade requires a tweezer and a microscope to spank the frank."
The White Mage:
"Er... I do not think that that is ze etymology of--"
Ripplemagne:
"So, I think a mosquito was trying to show some love to me last night. But de Magne must'a been like Reese Black with Kameron Chase; all 'not tonight, honey, I'm tired.'"
There was a moment of silence where Ripplemagne just stared at the camera and everyone in the room just kinda... stared.
Ripplemagne:
"...For srs. I woke up with like six mosquito bites above the ol' sauseej. Either that was a lady mosquito who wanted some action now and I just wasn't puttin' out... or I was attacked by a fruit fly."
I think I hear crickets. The Patriarch of Pretty extended his arms out for jazz hands, but it doesn't seem that anyone was amused by his corny joke.
Ripplemagne:
"Oh, fine. I guess I'm not funny then. Gawsh."
Bombastically throwing his hands up in a theatrical manner, Ripplemagne attempts to storm out of the room, but...
Ripplemagne:
"The door's locked too!"
After having failed on a Lex Luger caliber, Ripplemagne storms back to the feed of the camera with his finger pointed at the lens. Mouth agape, the young man seems to have the words on the tip of his tongue, but...
The White Mage:
"What is it, Monsieur Ripplemagne?"
Ripplemagne:
"...I forgot what I was going to say. So, who'm I fightin' this week?"
The batshit crazy philogynist tapped his chin for a moment before the White Mage could be heard audibly attempting to form her words behind the camera. The nervousness in her voice was evident as she um'd and uh'd a few times before blurting it out...
The White Mage:
"Um, Monsieur Ripplemagne. According to ze card, you do not have a match tomorrow night on Rampage."
Ripplemagne:
"...What in Odin's sphincter do you mean?! I'm not booked this week?! Who authorized this?!"
The White Mage:
"Well... um... perhaps it is a good thing. According to ze card for Behind Enemy Lines next week, you are booked to fight um... le Octane Champion, Dan Hayter."
After a moment, a smirk appears on the face of Ripplemagne as he theatrically spins to the camera like Ace Ventura and takes a hold of the lens, pointing it directly to his face.
Ripplemagne:
"Well, that's just fine. Danny Boy, congratulations on your victory againstt Nicholas. The Ripplemagne understands that it was a hard fought victory and would find it absolutely dreadful to pitter patter all over your pretty parade. Unlike some of the others in this business, I'm not going to be a meanie and rob you of your celebration with a long diatribe about how Nicholas is nothing compared to the Patriarch of Pretty and you better be ready for the fight of your life, yadda yadda yadda. By all means, be happy, be healthy. Just give me something worthwhile to compete against in the ring."
Releasing the lens, Ripplemagne steps back and titters to himself as his eyes seem to bolt in different directions. A cackle escapes his lips, but he tries to stifle it before continuing...
Ripplemagne:
"I can go on and on about my accomplishments. How I've beaten big names like Boris 'The Bear' Knokimov, Afro Thunder, Nat Daddy, Damien Black, 'Big' Willy Johnson--"
The White Mage:
"Um... Monsieur Ripplemagne, those are all characters in le boxing video game that you were playing all night last night, Ready 2 Rumble."
Ripplemagne:
"It's still real to me, damn it!"
Clearing his throat and dusting his clothes off, Ripplemagne stands prim and proper again before continuing.
Ripplemagne:
"You know, Danny. I actually like you. You and I are cut from the same cloth; we ain't too different, you and I. And I'm talking beyond the simple cosmetics of we both have long blond hair, we're both egotistical, the both of us alluding to ourselves as lions in the past and seeing our names in shining lights every time we close our eyes.
You and I have both curb stomped Ace Centric. I took out Wayne Ezra, you defeated his buddy, Gordie James. We both left Aaron a foot note in history -- although, admittedly I did it better. The next hurdle, though, is your triumphant victory over Taggart Tagatito to become the Octane Champion that you are today. When we compare the parallels of our careers, that match -- for me -- is with you. You are my Taggart Tagatito.
So, that means this can go one of two ways. The first possibility being that you are the Old Testament to my new covenant; you've set the prophecies in motion for me to fulfill, much like Yeshua to Joseph, et al. The second is simply that you are to transcend your triumphs of yesterday by defeating your proverbial Dark Link.
But the difference between you and I? Haha. Danny boy, you want to be known as the best. I, on the other hand... I want to be... the very best. Like no one ever was."
Part of the riffs from the classic Pokemon opening anime tune plays in the background as Ripplemagne snickers to himself before catching his bearings.
Ripplemagne:
"Look, I'm not a fortune teller. I don't guarantee victories, ever. People who do become liars when they don't meet their own hype and are left battered and broken on the canvas. Speaking of liars though, I hope you don't mind an inkling of curiosity. 'The Everlasting Fall', I believe it was called.
'Notice the key word there, Taggart? Alone. I may not know you well enough; I may not claim to know your career history or what size shoe you wear. I have one thing for you though: respect.
I respect any man that recognizes to achieve, he must do so alone. That to succeed and to prosper, he must go when he is ready and not wait for someone else to gather themselves. You took a bold step is separating yourself from, arguably, the biggest force in this federation. You took a leap of faith onto your own two feet, and now you stand before me; in the way of me... as a champion.'"
Licking his lips, Ripplemagne blinks one eye and then the other as he stifles another cackle.
Ripplemagne:
"You've made quite the spectacle out of solitary striving in this business and in life in general. What changed, Danny? You went from being so stern against alliances even if they were the 'biggest force in this federation' -- and now, you're standing shoulder-to-shoulder in a stable. Did you come to an epiphany where you realized that you were wrong, Danny? Were you reverberating hot air and shit-stank breath in the hopes that what you were saying would sound good and intimidate Tagatito? Perhaps you're simply a hypocrite?
You know, they say curiosity killed the cat, so perhaps it's not wise of me to probe into your inconsistent statements and stances. But quite frankly, Danny, it's the inevitable. As I mentioned earlier, both of us have alluded to ourselves as lions in the past; my entrance video, for those of you who have noticed, begins with Metro Goldwyn Mayer's trademark lion roar. But if both of us are indeed lions -- and judging by the goldie locks that both of us are sporting, we may very well be -- who is the alpha male?
Surely there can only be one alpha male in the pride we call the Octane Division. Is it you or me? Is it both of us? No, surely not because the pride may well be called a shame instead. So, one way or another, a cat will be killed. And I'm not talking about that whole 'every time you wank, God kills a kitten'. If that shit were true, I'd have genocided the entire world's feline population with the boom boom pow in the Ripplemagne's cat cannon."
Running his fingers through his golden strands of hair, he slid one hand into his pocket and pulled out a cylinder of cherry chapstick. Using just one hand, he uncapped it, coated his lips with it, recapped it and placed it back in his pocket. The zany lady rolled his lips against one another and blew a kiss to the camera.
Ripplemagne:
"'This is my third professional wrestling match, yet they deem me good enough, worthy enough to face you. Why is that? Am I really that good, or have you just not progressed as you had hoped. It's an honor to be a champion, but only when the champion himself has honour.'
The parallels are endless. Perhaps it has to do with the phoenix that you alluded to in the past. Referring to yourself as this company's own personal phoenix. Do you know where the phrase 'phoenix rises from the ashes' comes from?
Toward the end of a phoenix's lifespan, it builds a nest of twigs and perches itself within. Using the flames of its spirit, it ignites the nest and itself in an infernal flame, which consumes it and leaves it just a pile of ash. From those ashes, the next generation of the phoenix is born. But in order for that phoenix to rise from the ashes, its parent phoenix must become those ashes.
So, analyzing this thoroughly, one must deduce that the phoenix of professional wrestling must lay waste to themself before the next generation can spring forth from the ashes. Perhaps make a few blunders that wither them; perhaps be caught in a hypocritical statement or two. Whatever the case, the phoenix's birth and death are in ashes."
A big grin appeared on Ripplemagne's face as the White Mage could literally be heard facepalming behind the camera.
The White Mage:
"Do not sing it, please."
Ripplemagne:
"Ashes to ashes! Dust to dust! If it weren't for wimmenz, mah thing would rust!"
The only dumb ass. I swear. He was the only dumb ass in the room laughing... and he did so as if he had just heard the coupe de grace of all funnies. Finally, he settled down.
Ripplemagne:
"De Magne ready to sip dat Hayterade all night lawng, brah. De Magne ready to go 'behind his enemy's line'. Ayo, you ever give a rusty trombone? Eh, ain't important. Baby, you and I are going to have a show. So, I ask you, Daniel. What'cha gonna do? What'cha gonna do when you hear the millions... and millions of Ripplemagniacs screaming de Magne's name?! What'cha gonna do when Ripplemagnia runs wild on you!? Ou, yeah! Believe it, brother!"
* * *
Fin.
* * *
Fact of the Day
Contrary to popular belief, Barack Obama is neither the first mixed President nor the first President with black descent. And no, Bill Clinton does not count. The following Presidents are all suspected to be or confirmed to be of mixed racial identity:
Thomas Jefferson.
Andrew Jackson.
Abraham Lincoln.
Warren G. Harding.
Calvin Coolidge.
Dwight Eisenhower.
I guess now we know what the 'G' stands for in 'Warren G. Harding'.
* * *
And now, for your feature presentation...
* * *
Ripplemagne:
"...Say he-llo... to de good guy."
The classic yinyang representation of Scarface appears on the screen for just a second, with the words 'Al Pacino' replaced with 'Ripplemagne', 'Scarface' replaced with 'Your Feature Presentation' and the image of Al Pacino replaced with a similar image of the King of Hearts, the magnificent Ripplemagne.
The double-tone quickly obscures as the image of Ripplemagne gains a third dimension. The tenebrous display welds into the Patriarch of Pretty nimbly coasting toward the camera in a dimly lit suite. In the background, his unholy convent of scantily clad motivators adorn the scarlet sofa, enjoying their cocktails. Diverse i appearance, but wholly uniformed in the vivacious pink and white colors of Your Feature Presentation.
After just a lick of the disheveled picture, the pixels are restored to a crisp, digital input. The hyperactive, seemingly heart-shaped pupils of the young man were pivoting in his eye sockets like a wet saw in motion. Like ribbons of unearthed gold, his hair strands billowed down his high cheek bones as his rosy lips were nearly pierced by the razor sharp, porcelain arrow heads that were his teeth. They amply clamped his perky lips as he tried in vain to hold back an anxious cackle.
What must have been a very expensive dry cleaning bill was adorned on his person; a white, California-casual suit in the likeness of Scarface. Flicking his wrist into the vines of hair gallantly streaming down the side of his face, the Patriarch of Pretty spoke.
Ripplemagne:
"Ahoy, aloha, ni hao and all that good stuff, my delectable little croissants. If this is your first time joining us on Your Feature Presentation...
...Well, you're a cum slushie. But beyond that... behold! For you are in the presence of the most electrifying magne in sports entertainment today!"
The White Mage:
"Monsieur Ripplemagne, perhaps you should run with le own material, yes?"
From behind the camera, the young woman spoke to the figure head of Your Feature Presentation. Her trademark French accent rose the tender ears of the Patriarch of Pretty, but without concern of her advice, he blew raspberries at her.
Ripplemagne:
"Puppy cock. The whole world suffers from Chronic Hormonal-induced Ripplemagne Infatuation Syndrome. I, the magnificent Ripplemagne am loved world wide and the sheer, unbridled orgasmitude the people have for de Magne would forever, always prevent them from making Ripplemagne a sad panda with a subpoena."
The White Mage:
"Poppycock."
Ripplemagne:
"No, bitch. That's straight legit shit right thar. Believe it!"
The White Mage:
"No, no. Ze word you are looking for is 'poppycock'. Not 'puppy cock'."
Ripplemagne:
"What!? How does that make sense!? Poppy seeds do not have cocks! Well... I suppose that explains why Joshua Arcade requires a tweezer and a microscope to spank the frank."
The White Mage:
"Er... I do not think that that is ze etymology of--"
Ripplemagne:
"So, I think a mosquito was trying to show some love to me last night. But de Magne must'a been like Reese Black with Kameron Chase; all 'not tonight, honey, I'm tired.'"
There was a moment of silence where Ripplemagne just stared at the camera and everyone in the room just kinda... stared.
Ripplemagne:
"...For srs. I woke up with like six mosquito bites above the ol' sauseej. Either that was a lady mosquito who wanted some action now and I just wasn't puttin' out... or I was attacked by a fruit fly."
I think I hear crickets. The Patriarch of Pretty extended his arms out for jazz hands, but it doesn't seem that anyone was amused by his corny joke.
Ripplemagne:
"Oh, fine. I guess I'm not funny then. Gawsh."
Bombastically throwing his hands up in a theatrical manner, Ripplemagne attempts to storm out of the room, but...
Ripplemagne:
"The door's locked too!"
After having failed on a Lex Luger caliber, Ripplemagne storms back to the feed of the camera with his finger pointed at the lens. Mouth agape, the young man seems to have the words on the tip of his tongue, but...
The White Mage:
"What is it, Monsieur Ripplemagne?"
Ripplemagne:
"...I forgot what I was going to say. So, who'm I fightin' this week?"
The batshit crazy philogynist tapped his chin for a moment before the White Mage could be heard audibly attempting to form her words behind the camera. The nervousness in her voice was evident as she um'd and uh'd a few times before blurting it out...
The White Mage:
"Um, Monsieur Ripplemagne. According to ze card, you do not have a match tomorrow night on Rampage."
Ripplemagne:
"...What in Odin's sphincter do you mean?! I'm not booked this week?! Who authorized this?!"
The White Mage:
"Well... um... perhaps it is a good thing. According to ze card for Behind Enemy Lines next week, you are booked to fight um... le Octane Champion, Dan Hayter."
After a moment, a smirk appears on the face of Ripplemagne as he theatrically spins to the camera like Ace Ventura and takes a hold of the lens, pointing it directly to his face.
Ripplemagne:
"Well, that's just fine. Danny Boy, congratulations on your victory againstt Nicholas. The Ripplemagne understands that it was a hard fought victory and would find it absolutely dreadful to pitter patter all over your pretty parade. Unlike some of the others in this business, I'm not going to be a meanie and rob you of your celebration with a long diatribe about how Nicholas is nothing compared to the Patriarch of Pretty and you better be ready for the fight of your life, yadda yadda yadda. By all means, be happy, be healthy. Just give me something worthwhile to compete against in the ring."
Releasing the lens, Ripplemagne steps back and titters to himself as his eyes seem to bolt in different directions. A cackle escapes his lips, but he tries to stifle it before continuing...
Ripplemagne:
"I can go on and on about my accomplishments. How I've beaten big names like Boris 'The Bear' Knokimov, Afro Thunder, Nat Daddy, Damien Black, 'Big' Willy Johnson--"
The White Mage:
"Um... Monsieur Ripplemagne, those are all characters in le boxing video game that you were playing all night last night, Ready 2 Rumble."
Ripplemagne:
"It's still real to me, damn it!"
Clearing his throat and dusting his clothes off, Ripplemagne stands prim and proper again before continuing.
Ripplemagne:
"You know, Danny. I actually like you. You and I are cut from the same cloth; we ain't too different, you and I. And I'm talking beyond the simple cosmetics of we both have long blond hair, we're both egotistical, the both of us alluding to ourselves as lions in the past and seeing our names in shining lights every time we close our eyes.
You and I have both curb stomped Ace Centric. I took out Wayne Ezra, you defeated his buddy, Gordie James. We both left Aaron a foot note in history -- although, admittedly I did it better. The next hurdle, though, is your triumphant victory over Taggart Tagatito to become the Octane Champion that you are today. When we compare the parallels of our careers, that match -- for me -- is with you. You are my Taggart Tagatito.
So, that means this can go one of two ways. The first possibility being that you are the Old Testament to my new covenant; you've set the prophecies in motion for me to fulfill, much like Yeshua to Joseph, et al. The second is simply that you are to transcend your triumphs of yesterday by defeating your proverbial Dark Link.
But the difference between you and I? Haha. Danny boy, you want to be known as the best. I, on the other hand... I want to be... the very best. Like no one ever was."
Part of the riffs from the classic Pokemon opening anime tune plays in the background as Ripplemagne snickers to himself before catching his bearings.
Ripplemagne:
"Look, I'm not a fortune teller. I don't guarantee victories, ever. People who do become liars when they don't meet their own hype and are left battered and broken on the canvas. Speaking of liars though, I hope you don't mind an inkling of curiosity. 'The Everlasting Fall', I believe it was called.
'Notice the key word there, Taggart? Alone. I may not know you well enough; I may not claim to know your career history or what size shoe you wear. I have one thing for you though: respect.
I respect any man that recognizes to achieve, he must do so alone. That to succeed and to prosper, he must go when he is ready and not wait for someone else to gather themselves. You took a bold step is separating yourself from, arguably, the biggest force in this federation. You took a leap of faith onto your own two feet, and now you stand before me; in the way of me... as a champion.'"
Licking his lips, Ripplemagne blinks one eye and then the other as he stifles another cackle.
Ripplemagne:
"You've made quite the spectacle out of solitary striving in this business and in life in general. What changed, Danny? You went from being so stern against alliances even if they were the 'biggest force in this federation' -- and now, you're standing shoulder-to-shoulder in a stable. Did you come to an epiphany where you realized that you were wrong, Danny? Were you reverberating hot air and shit-stank breath in the hopes that what you were saying would sound good and intimidate Tagatito? Perhaps you're simply a hypocrite?
You know, they say curiosity killed the cat, so perhaps it's not wise of me to probe into your inconsistent statements and stances. But quite frankly, Danny, it's the inevitable. As I mentioned earlier, both of us have alluded to ourselves as lions in the past; my entrance video, for those of you who have noticed, begins with Metro Goldwyn Mayer's trademark lion roar. But if both of us are indeed lions -- and judging by the goldie locks that both of us are sporting, we may very well be -- who is the alpha male?
Surely there can only be one alpha male in the pride we call the Octane Division. Is it you or me? Is it both of us? No, surely not because the pride may well be called a shame instead. So, one way or another, a cat will be killed. And I'm not talking about that whole 'every time you wank, God kills a kitten'. If that shit were true, I'd have genocided the entire world's feline population with the boom boom pow in the Ripplemagne's cat cannon."
Running his fingers through his golden strands of hair, he slid one hand into his pocket and pulled out a cylinder of cherry chapstick. Using just one hand, he uncapped it, coated his lips with it, recapped it and placed it back in his pocket. The zany lady rolled his lips against one another and blew a kiss to the camera.
Ripplemagne:
"'This is my third professional wrestling match, yet they deem me good enough, worthy enough to face you. Why is that? Am I really that good, or have you just not progressed as you had hoped. It's an honor to be a champion, but only when the champion himself has honour.'
The parallels are endless. Perhaps it has to do with the phoenix that you alluded to in the past. Referring to yourself as this company's own personal phoenix. Do you know where the phrase 'phoenix rises from the ashes' comes from?
Toward the end of a phoenix's lifespan, it builds a nest of twigs and perches itself within. Using the flames of its spirit, it ignites the nest and itself in an infernal flame, which consumes it and leaves it just a pile of ash. From those ashes, the next generation of the phoenix is born. But in order for that phoenix to rise from the ashes, its parent phoenix must become those ashes.
So, analyzing this thoroughly, one must deduce that the phoenix of professional wrestling must lay waste to themself before the next generation can spring forth from the ashes. Perhaps make a few blunders that wither them; perhaps be caught in a hypocritical statement or two. Whatever the case, the phoenix's birth and death are in ashes."
A big grin appeared on Ripplemagne's face as the White Mage could literally be heard facepalming behind the camera.
The White Mage:
"Do not sing it, please."
Ripplemagne:
"Ashes to ashes! Dust to dust! If it weren't for wimmenz, mah thing would rust!"
The only dumb ass. I swear. He was the only dumb ass in the room laughing... and he did so as if he had just heard the coupe de grace of all funnies. Finally, he settled down.
Ripplemagne:
"De Magne ready to sip dat Hayterade all night lawng, brah. De Magne ready to go 'behind his enemy's line'. Ayo, you ever give a rusty trombone? Eh, ain't important. Baby, you and I are going to have a show. So, I ask you, Daniel. What'cha gonna do? What'cha gonna do when you hear the millions... and millions of Ripplemagniacs screaming de Magne's name?! What'cha gonna do when Ripplemagnia runs wild on you!? Ou, yeah! Believe it, brother!"
* * *
Fin.
* * *
