Post by Kobe Gyant on Apr 16, 2009 13:14:48 GMT -5
Kobe Gyant is seen lying down on a brown leather couch in a psychiatrist's office. The camera slowly spins around in a 180 during the length of Kobe's tale, starting from behind his head, which is on a black pillow on the arm of the couch, until it eventually shows his "haunted" face by the end of the promo.
It was a Wednesday like every other Wednesday, to not quote a quote. The Gyant Bananas were wrestling tag team matches just like always. In the BOB it was the spring of 2009, but it was merely nearing the end of the tax avoidance season in the area known as the Riviera Hotel in Sin City on Google Maps.
The show dragged on as it would for minutes more yet. The Gyant Bananas had been together in the BOB for almost a month, dedicated to kicking Entities of Destruction butt and inserting our bananas into friendly young white girls. These matches and segments were calculated to mete out swift and sure violence, but not so much as to totally destroy them until the On-Demand event, because we need to make some money, son. But then, there was a new enemy; Viet Kong, joined by "Charlie" and Jerri Li. They had become our enemies as sure as a steel chair wearing an EOD T-shirt. There was even one occasion where I thought Joe was the enemy, but we were just really high. We were both saddened, but unable to recall, the four 17-year-olds we partied with the night prior, who received a special delivery from our big black cannons.
A wrestler, you see, does not fight for duty, honor, or country. He fights for his life, and those of his friends. As an 18-year-old, I had learned that in barbed wire. Today's mission was to do battle with Viet Kong and Jerri Li in an elimination Vietnamese Deathmatch. Many, many, many of these matches consisted of several minutes of tedium since most of the time I didn't know where "Charlie" was. Sometimes, we stumbled on him, and there was hell to pay on the floor or in the ring, or both, but not often enough to win any titles. I've chosen, though, to tell you about a slow day in the business of parody e-wrestling, but perhaps a day of significance.
We had banged a number of shorties, inserting our gyant bananas on several landing strips, you know. It had been "warm" all day as we expressed it, boring, but the only thing that hurt so far was my rear end from sitting on a heel of one Tifa's stilettos by accident. My match was the first "official" one of the night, which was actually logical considering it took The Flunky such a long time to string up the ropes. We had just finished a spliff at about 8:15 when we were directed toward the ring. My bowels needed to be evacuated, but it would have to wait until the fight upon the Pirate's ship was won.
Joe became P. According to the International Gyantetic Alphabet, P was shorthand for PIA, or pinned in action. Personally, I preferred W, because wins mean that I am better that somebody else in an ultimately meaningless, but very fun, scripted athletic televised event. All I could think about was flying in and out of Tifa's landing zone all day. I was surprised, especially after her queefing. But on this night, "Charlie" was in the mood to speak broken English at anybody.
As I turned my KG model toward the JL, I wondered about the man who went home early from the Full Metal Strait Jacket. Who was he? Where was he from? What was his weight, and his height? I probably could've answered all these questions by checking out his bio page, but I wasn't near a laptop at the time. She charged at me, wrapping her tight yellow legs around me, and clawed at my eyes. I could tell she wanted me in her landing zone and to unload my love grenade inside her.
Then I dropped backward, and the horny little devil smiled, while wrapped in the barbed wire. She grabbed my head and stuck her bloody pierced tongue in my mouth. I was pretty sure that if I dropped my drawers, she would've blown it good. Here was a young Hot Asian babe, bleeding and smiling. So, since I'd probably get arrested for indecent exposure, I decided to stick something else hard inside her head to really turn her on. Wire cutters. Then I put her head between my legs, and she knew there was no escaping. With a rising anger and thoughts of my fallen partner Joe Bananas fresh in my mind, I proceeded to powerbomb her into the barbed wire ropes.
After we landed, Slam Dunking had to be done, and I was obliged to take care of "Charlie" once and for all. It was unwise for the commentators to describe my complicated submission hold I locked Jerri Li into. Vicky made the call, and eliminated Jerri Li from the match. This left me alone with Viet Kong and what seemed like 7,000 miles of barbed wire surrounding us. I tried to get under Viet Kong's attacks. I requested a time out, but Kong only roared at the crowd like a retarded gorilla.
As soon as I had finished with business with Kong, making him submit to his own move, a fellow BOBster texted, wondering if she might swallow a load. She had picked up a Vivid DVD from somewhere, and since she hadn't been getting any action, she wanted a new ride. She knew I had a big shoe size, and figured I could get her off. I didn't want her especially, but the power of the penis seemed to win out. I was granted the obligation of bringing my banana out of my shorts and all up in her.
I returned to my hotel room, and they had already taken away my fallen friend I never knew, but somehow missed. I then hovered over the toilet to finally drop the kids at the pool, but somehow missed. That's why they have maids, right? Then some Canadian guy stopped by with his camera and yelled "take me where the pussy at, eh!" I hit him with his cheap-ass camera, climbed over him, taking care to avoid the puddle of urine on the floor.
I took off, first visiting the roof where I found my lost comrade, and reunited once again, we went off to brawl with the EOD with some help from some old steel enemies. I had hoped that after the brawl, Hamster Girl would still be hanging around because, I'm ashamed to admit, that I wanted a threeway.
You see, the fight they were looking for was never out there on the roof. It was several floors down, on the pirate ship, in the ring, on the mat. It is on the television screens of drunk wrestling fans in America, England, New Zealand, and possibly a few other places. They all knew I was gonna win, because that's how I do. Kid Pirate's gonna feel some anguish next week, sobbing in pain, and fear of dying, as I race to end his title reign, and later, make him sorry he ever lived or joined the EOD. His name will be on a Web page featuring former BOBsters starting with the letter K.
My tag team's motto was "Bananas Always Come On Chick's Backs." We said it to each other until we almost believed it, but that night, I accidently came inside that BOB chick. Hope she ain't pregnant, son!
<--Kobe Gyant-->>
It was a Wednesday like every other Wednesday, to not quote a quote. The Gyant Bananas were wrestling tag team matches just like always. In the BOB it was the spring of 2009, but it was merely nearing the end of the tax avoidance season in the area known as the Riviera Hotel in Sin City on Google Maps.
The show dragged on as it would for minutes more yet. The Gyant Bananas had been together in the BOB for almost a month, dedicated to kicking Entities of Destruction butt and inserting our bananas into friendly young white girls. These matches and segments were calculated to mete out swift and sure violence, but not so much as to totally destroy them until the On-Demand event, because we need to make some money, son. But then, there was a new enemy; Viet Kong, joined by "Charlie" and Jerri Li. They had become our enemies as sure as a steel chair wearing an EOD T-shirt. There was even one occasion where I thought Joe was the enemy, but we were just really high. We were both saddened, but unable to recall, the four 17-year-olds we partied with the night prior, who received a special delivery from our big black cannons.
A wrestler, you see, does not fight for duty, honor, or country. He fights for his life, and those of his friends. As an 18-year-old, I had learned that in barbed wire. Today's mission was to do battle with Viet Kong and Jerri Li in an elimination Vietnamese Deathmatch. Many, many, many of these matches consisted of several minutes of tedium since most of the time I didn't know where "Charlie" was. Sometimes, we stumbled on him, and there was hell to pay on the floor or in the ring, or both, but not often enough to win any titles. I've chosen, though, to tell you about a slow day in the business of parody e-wrestling, but perhaps a day of significance.
We had banged a number of shorties, inserting our gyant bananas on several landing strips, you know. It had been "warm" all day as we expressed it, boring, but the only thing that hurt so far was my rear end from sitting on a heel of one Tifa's stilettos by accident. My match was the first "official" one of the night, which was actually logical considering it took The Flunky such a long time to string up the ropes. We had just finished a spliff at about 8:15 when we were directed toward the ring. My bowels needed to be evacuated, but it would have to wait until the fight upon the Pirate's ship was won.
Joe became P. According to the International Gyantetic Alphabet, P was shorthand for PIA, or pinned in action. Personally, I preferred W, because wins mean that I am better that somebody else in an ultimately meaningless, but very fun, scripted athletic televised event. All I could think about was flying in and out of Tifa's landing zone all day. I was surprised, especially after her queefing. But on this night, "Charlie" was in the mood to speak broken English at anybody.
As I turned my KG model toward the JL, I wondered about the man who went home early from the Full Metal Strait Jacket. Who was he? Where was he from? What was his weight, and his height? I probably could've answered all these questions by checking out his bio page, but I wasn't near a laptop at the time. She charged at me, wrapping her tight yellow legs around me, and clawed at my eyes. I could tell she wanted me in her landing zone and to unload my love grenade inside her.
Then I dropped backward, and the horny little devil smiled, while wrapped in the barbed wire. She grabbed my head and stuck her bloody pierced tongue in my mouth. I was pretty sure that if I dropped my drawers, she would've blown it good. Here was a young Hot Asian babe, bleeding and smiling. So, since I'd probably get arrested for indecent exposure, I decided to stick something else hard inside her head to really turn her on. Wire cutters. Then I put her head between my legs, and she knew there was no escaping. With a rising anger and thoughts of my fallen partner Joe Bananas fresh in my mind, I proceeded to powerbomb her into the barbed wire ropes.
After we landed, Slam Dunking had to be done, and I was obliged to take care of "Charlie" once and for all. It was unwise for the commentators to describe my complicated submission hold I locked Jerri Li into. Vicky made the call, and eliminated Jerri Li from the match. This left me alone with Viet Kong and what seemed like 7,000 miles of barbed wire surrounding us. I tried to get under Viet Kong's attacks. I requested a time out, but Kong only roared at the crowd like a retarded gorilla.
As soon as I had finished with business with Kong, making him submit to his own move, a fellow BOBster texted, wondering if she might swallow a load. She had picked up a Vivid DVD from somewhere, and since she hadn't been getting any action, she wanted a new ride. She knew I had a big shoe size, and figured I could get her off. I didn't want her especially, but the power of the penis seemed to win out. I was granted the obligation of bringing my banana out of my shorts and all up in her.
I returned to my hotel room, and they had already taken away my fallen friend I never knew, but somehow missed. I then hovered over the toilet to finally drop the kids at the pool, but somehow missed. That's why they have maids, right? Then some Canadian guy stopped by with his camera and yelled "take me where the pussy at, eh!" I hit him with his cheap-ass camera, climbed over him, taking care to avoid the puddle of urine on the floor.
I took off, first visiting the roof where I found my lost comrade, and reunited once again, we went off to brawl with the EOD with some help from some old steel enemies. I had hoped that after the brawl, Hamster Girl would still be hanging around because, I'm ashamed to admit, that I wanted a threeway.
You see, the fight they were looking for was never out there on the roof. It was several floors down, on the pirate ship, in the ring, on the mat. It is on the television screens of drunk wrestling fans in America, England, New Zealand, and possibly a few other places. They all knew I was gonna win, because that's how I do. Kid Pirate's gonna feel some anguish next week, sobbing in pain, and fear of dying, as I race to end his title reign, and later, make him sorry he ever lived or joined the EOD. His name will be on a Web page featuring former BOBsters starting with the letter K.
My tag team's motto was "Bananas Always Come On Chick's Backs." We said it to each other until we almost believed it, but that night, I accidently came inside that BOB chick. Hope she ain't pregnant, son!