The Dimension Z Agenda

[CircularAnswer]

*A TV turns on, revealing the back of a chair. A pair of red-gloved hands appear beside the chair, reading off a piece of paper.*

Someone: The wrestlers in the "stable" known as Dimension Z hereby state their goals to be as follows:

First, to silence Dr. Silicone M. Plants and erase him from BOB before he starts pulling a Terry Bollea and demands a string of titles.

Second, to squash Axl Van Halen and stop his monopolizing the Rant Zone.

Third, to remove the stupider parody wrestlers, including, but not limited to, Dubya, Kurt Angel, Pigeon, and Logonoa. They just aren't funny.

Fourth, to take over all of the available title slots.

We will not hold back in our attempt to fulfill this agenda. So stay out of our way.

By the way, has anyone seen Dr. Thrilla?

*Cut to Dr. Thrilla, driving a monster truck, flattening SMP's car.*

*Fade to black.*

[The Pot]

Pot: You're black!

Kettle: Racist!

Pot: Well you are. Oh, and P.S. Sir Zeno...totally not funny.

Kettle: I think we ALL can agree on that.

Kurt Angel: Holy crap! The pot and kettle are talking again.

Rob Van Spam: Dood! This is your brain. This is your brain on steroids and coke and weed and hash and PCP and...

[Fade out. Fade in. Pigeon runs in and throws eggs at everybody.]

Pigeon: Who said I'm TRYING to be funny? All I want is Michelle! What about ME? What about PIGEON!

[Cut to a crying Logonoa and Generic Foot Locker Employee.]

GFLE: If joo ha! Vanted to! Make him cry! Good on joo! Vay to pick! On a deaf! Sonofabitch!

[Cut to Dubya.]

Dubya: And you thought I was an idiot? I agree with the pot. Give me an S! Give me a U! Give me a C...give me a K...give me a line of coke...*SNORT*...give me some booze...*glugglugglug*...what was I spelling? Dern, cheerleadin's tough...

[Fade out.]

[@xL]

[Fade into the Metal Manor, where Axl is laying on the sofa, bunny slippers and hot pink robe on... Face drenched in make-up and waaay too much eye shadow, and his hair? As big and bad as ever.]

[Axl wraps up taking a look at Dimension Z's promo, before turning off the set, and looking at the camera with a pissed off glare.]

Axl: Dudes... you guys are SOOO not cool. I mean, "monopolizing the Rant Zone"? HEY, atleast I DO Rant! That's a hell of alot more than you can say about half the guys in this turkey hole! I'm radically edgey, off the wall, and in... your... FACE. And I'll hog the Zone as much as I d@mn well please. And then? Come Living in Sin, that little metal mouthed chump-stain you call "Dr. Thrilla" is going to pay a visit... to Dr. Feeeeelllll Gooooodddd, BABE!

Axl: I'm here... I'm metal... get F'N used to it... b!tches. The Awesome Rod of the Rock-O-Lution is cummin'. Can you feel it?

/// rock on \\\

[The Sinister Surgeon]

[Elsewhere, Dr. Silaconne M. Plants is watching the proceedings via a tiny monitor, sipping from a wine glass, almost positively filled with Amaretto. The audio is pretty loud. You can hear the dialog, obviously segregated due to subjective hearing and pre rehearsed counter dialog.]

"First, to silence Dr. Silicone M. Plants and erase him from BOB before he starts pulling a Terry Bollea and demands a string of titles."

*sip*

SMP: Terry Bollea, huh? Pull a Terry Bollea and demand a string of titles? Why didn't I think of that!
Note to self-
Time to play the Hogan card...

"Second, to squash Axl Van Halen and stop his monopolizing the Rant Zone."

SMP: BWAAA HAA HAAA! Axl Van Halen? What a douchebag...

*sound of monster truck crushing car*

SMP: Dammit, man! I feel sorry for THAT guy....

*sip*

"I think we ALL can agree on that."

SMP: Right on, brother! You tell him, you... you.... is that a kettle? My tolerance to Amaretto is slipping...

"Dood! This is your brain. This is your brain on steroids and coke and weed and hash and PCP and..."

SMP: HA! This is great stuff!

"If joo ha! Vanted to! Make him cry! Good on joo! Vay to pick! On a deaf! Sonofabitch!"

SMP: "Charlie" got a new gimmick?

*sip*

"HEY, atleast I DO Rant"

SMP: If you want to call setting up one-siders with no names from federations with no history to build a non existant legacy of somebody nobody cares about. *phew* Whatever! Let me see you beat Sgt. Genocide with two moves, you pillow biting job boy.
Besides, you also have to be the only guy whose fed head dipiction of your face looks better than what your handler came up with...

*chug*
*pour*
*sip*

"The Awesome Rod of the Rock-O-Lution is cummin'. Can you feel it?"

*vomits*

CAPTION: WAS IT THE ALCOHOL? WAS IT THE STATEMENT?

YOU BE THE JUDGE!

[Fade out]

[Fade in]

*wipes emesis from chin*

SMP: douja, I heard your momma tried the other night to smoke some crack, but she couldn't figure out how the get the bitch's pants down.
BWAAAA HAAA HAAAAAA!

*burp*

[Fade out.
Again.]

[CircularAnswer]

*The chair appears again, the red-gloved hands cracking their knuckles.*

Someone: To the random BOBsters: Thank you for proving my point most succintly.

To Axl Van Halen: Look, it didn't work when your handler still called himself Shane'o'mac or whatever the fuck it was, it's not working now.

To SMP: ...actually, this is the first time I haven't had something to bitch about at you. *Thumbs up* Super guy.

[Random BOBsters]

circularanswer said:

*The chair appears again, the red-gloved hands cracking their knuckles.*

Someone: To the random BOBsters: Thank you for proving my point most succintly.

To Axl Van Halen: Look, it didn't work when your handler still called himself Shane'o'mac or whatever the fuck it was, it's not working now.

To SMP: ...actually, this is the first time I haven't had something to bitch about at you. *Thumbs up* Super guy.

Kurt, Pigeon, Dubya + GLFE: No, thank joo for again proving our point. Can't vait to see your crew jobbing out to vomen the rest of your stay in BOB.

[CircularAnswer]

"Can't vait to see your crew jobbing out to vomen the rest of your stay in BOB. "

*Someone chuckles behind the chair.*

Someone: Like you all have?

[@xL]

[Scene: Nowhere Arena. "Extermination Blues" by Robin Trower plays, and the fans come... well, actually, there aren't any fans. The hotdog vendor is the only man in the seats, chowing down his supply of month old wieners. BoB / STWF "legend" Sergeant Genocide comes through the curtains, wearing his customary black pants, beret, and an added addition of an old BoB shirt over his now aging gut.]

Mike Stand: The following contest is scheduled for ONE fall. First, hailing from the great land of Kiev, he is the genocidal, genocidal, GENOCIDAL Ukraine Mad Maine, weighing in at an EVIL 340 pounds, standing at a NO-GOOD 6 foot eleven, he is the MASTER of the Eliminator... please bow down before... Sergeant... GENOCIDE!!!

[Sgt. Genocide carries the Ukraine flag in his hand, displaying his colors proudly, as he lumbers into the ring, and stands tall, awaiting his foe.]

Mike Stand: And now... introducing his opponent. Representing the good ol' U.S. of A.... he is the leader of Rock-O-Lution... the Metal God... and your NEXT BoB Swiss Army Champ... ladies and gentlemen, please put your hands together, for the man that is single handedly bringing BACK Hair Metal... oh, and he'd like me to let you know he is NOT gay, not matter how much it may seem like it... Give it up... for Axl... Van... HAAALLLEEENNN!!!

[Towers of pyro shoot off on stage, as the fans... well, hot dog vendor... comes unglued, cheering... uh... well... leaving. Yeah, he's finished off the batch of dogs, and now he's going back to the concession stand. Well, I'LL cheer for Axl. Yay Axl! Anyway... "Young, Dumb, and Rich, B!tch" hits on the speakers, as Axl comes out with a face full of make-up, and a heart full of fury, ready to kick some Ukrainian ASS!!! Axl walks down the ramp, slides under the bottom rope, and stands toe to toe with the Sarge. They look eachother in the eye... head to head, man to man... before...]

[Axl grabs onto Genocide's head, and starts french kissing him.]

[The Sarge struggles and struggles to break free, but it's useless. Axl has locked on the move, and is slowly bringing Genocide down to the mat... and as he does, Axl's hair falls over the head of Genocide... Axl actually begins to turn Genocide's skin a pale, darkish color, as the Sarge has no way to breathe. Axl shoves his tounge further and further down Genocide's gullet... until Genocide is devoid of respiration... The ref brings Genocide's arm up three times, with no response, and with the final time, the ref signals for the bell. Axl stands up and grabs a mike.]

Axl: Ladies and gentlemen... allow me to introduce you ALL, to my newest finishing manuevre, the greatest and best submission hold in the world... the Lip Lock!!! You see, I'm not gay... but with this move, a move I've derived from the old Mandible Claw used by Mick Foley, I have the power to cut off my opponent's breathing supply. Or atleast, humiliate them into the point of tapping out so they can escape before THEIR manhood is questioned, just as mine has been for so long. The Lip Lock... the very move I plan on using to end Alan Qaida's chances of a Swiss Army Belt victory. Living in Sin is my day... the day I prove to the world that I'm much more than some "jobber". I'm the real f'n deal... the future of the business... the Metal God, and the LEADER... of the Rock-O-Lution. SMP... you wrinkled old nut sack. You can kiss my shiny... METAL... ass. And that goes out as well to guys like Steve StudNuts, the jackwads in Dimension Z, and anyone and everyone who thinks I'm below them.

Axl: Because babe? I'm above you all. And it's only a matter of time before I prove it... once... and for all.

Axl: Rock on... b!tches.

/// cut \\\

[CircularAnswer]

Someone: I propose a truce, SMP. A brief partnership to settle things.

You set aside your feud with douja for now, and I'll set aside my vendettas. We join hands (metaphorically), wipe Axl Van Halen out of BOB for all time, and then go back to stomping on each other.

You have to admit, it would make life a hell of a lot easier.

[Random BOBsters]

Pigeon: I only choose to be beaten by women. It turns me on.

Kurt Angel: I was stoned. DAMN stoned.

GLFE: Logonoa! Has never! Known de touch! Of a voman!

Dubya: Whoa...how'd I get here? And why's my nose bleeding? And why are my twin daughters both giving you a lap dance?

Rob Van Spam: I've got the Viagra, dood...it's better than what they were doing with douja an hour ago.

Dubya: They're only thirteen! Dubya doesn't like this, Spammy.

RVS: If there's grass on the field...I'm gonna smoke it...dood...

[@xL]

[Axl finished up watching the Dimension Z promo, and turns to the camera.]

Axl: Dude... fvck you. I've been busting my @ss to show everyone that I deserve a little respect. I finished my little mini-feud with Reeve, just so I could focus on something a bit more important, such as the Swiss Army Belt. I spend my time actually promo'ing against my opponent, instead of worrying about some guy who couldn't hack it with friggin' Vince Russo on his side. And SMP... while he may be a wrinkled up prune, I'm pretty sure he has better things to do than to fool around with your pathetic @ss. He has a feud with douja going that is bringing some of the history of the great sport of parody sports entertainment back, and personally, I'd like to see where it goes from here. So... to put it simply.

Fvck off. B!tch.

~ rock on ~

[SMP]

[Dr. Plants is now seen sprawled out on a couch, his clothes in various forms of disarray and his right foot propped on a pillow. There's no less that five empty bottles of Amaretto scattered around on the floor in front of him. He knocks his wine glass over reaching for it...]

SMP: Wow, I muss really be drunk. I coulda swore *hic* dat duh Dimension Z guys juss call a troose wit me. *hic*

[He squints at his television]

SMP: And Axl dresses in bunny slippers *hic* and a hot pink robe, looks like David Blowie *hic* and french kisses guys in rasslin' matches, and he's NOT gay?
Riiiiiiiiiiiight...

*hic*

You should be shot for dese... disacrate.... shit. Taking a dump on Sgt. Genocide's legacy like dat. *hic*

He wuz a goot one...

[Holds up a glass-less toast]

*hic*

Wuz dat a tag-team lap dance? Wit young girls?
Lucky bassard...

[Squints at the screen some more...]

*hic*

Oh bloddy hell... yeah, I said bloddy.

*hic*

Hey douja, I heard your momma took a position at a Pork *hic* Processing Plant, and duh manager offered her a job smoking sausage....

..she asked him if the company supplied duh knee pads.

BWAAA HAAAA *hic*

*passes out*

[BOB LEGEND CHAMPION douja]

douja: what da fuck is goin' on around dis motha' fucka?!?! i go away for a day and all hell is breakin' loose!?! WE GOT AXL VAN HALEN MAKIN' OUT WITH SGT. GENOCIDE FOR CHRIST SAKE! you sick sum bitch... as a former memba' of da rogues motha' fuckin' gallery, i just gotta put my motha' fuckin' foot motha' fuckin' down.. look, your bitch ass shows dat nobody watched nor cared about chapped my motha' fuckin' ass to begin wit', but dere aint' enough baby powder in da motha' fuckin' world to fix dis.. i have seen enough, and i can't takes no mo' of dis bull-motha' fuckin'- shit! now, dis would normally be da time dat i would offer to kick yo' cracka ass, den stick your own motha' fuckin' head in ya motha' fuckin' ass and butt fuck you with your own spiky ass hair... but, given the earlier events, dat shit might just seem a little gay... i would offer to kick your ass my damn self, but in case you haven't noticed, i am currently involved in da most important feud in da history of two major companies.. so, obviously i got bigger fish to fry.. but, i do have a solution.. since dr. thrilla and dem circular answer bitches keep tryin' to rain on my parade and take a peice of my big pay day, it is obvious they really ain't got much goin' on in their direction... and we all damn sure know axl ain't got shit important goin' on his life with da amount of pointless bullshit he dreams up and den force feeds to us.. why don't you two parties go off in da corner and beat on each other like some motha' fuckin' rock-em-sock-em robots till' one of your motha' fuckin' heads pop up... i mean dere really ain't no reason for you bitch motha' fucka's to be stickin' your nose where it don't belong.. i mean, c'mon', we all been in dis business a long time.. bookin' 1-0-motha' fuckin'-1 tells us dat a wrestlin' company needs more den one program goin' on to survive.. all we got is me and smp goin' at it all ol' school like while da rest of you bitches try to jump on da bandwagon or stand around playin' with yourself.. c'mon, baby, carve your own niches around dis bitch!! a few years ago dis' place was crackin'! da stwf, dat shit used to be crackin'... now, around dis motha' fucka', we ain't got shit goin' on.. i tell you right now what dis place needs to pull it out of da motha' fuckin gutter.. dat is some actual, real, played out on da rant zone, old school feuds.. instead of doin' a bunch of bitch shit like makin' out with sgt. genocide and attempting to stick your punk ass nose in bidness dat has ZERO to do with you.. instead of dat, how about you motha' fucka's act like company men and make something happen for your damnselves.. you might surprise yourself.. oh, and smp.. last night i fucked nurse heidi until she shit da fuckin' bed.. true story..

[@xL]

Axl: ... You want me to prove myself. That's what I'm getting from what you said... well then... Dr. Thrilla... Living in Sin... it's obvious it's going to be you and me. So I say... Let's make our match... a submission match. The first man to either tap... or pass out... will finally not only win the Swiss Army Belt, but have the privilege of shutting the other one up. Oh... and one more thing...

Axl: Let's add a cage. A cage filled with every imaginable weapon. All the way from chairs... to tables... to purses, to... Well, whatever you can think of. I want to settle this... once and for all. No roof... no room for escape. Because Living in Sin...

Axl: No one can hear you scream.

~ rock on ~

[BOB LEGEND CHAMPION douja]

well, see, there ya motha' fuckin' go.. you lil' tikes have fun..