Text By Jed Shaffer
What if…I Just Did a Bunch of Random “What If’s?”?
What if Triple H used his sledgehammer to solve all his problems?
Triple H looks to the left and snarls. To the right; more disappointment. People are paying for a pack of gum and a National Enquirer with a debit card. Someone has seventy-eight cans of chicken noodle, and they’re using the 12-items-or-less line. All the U-scans are down, and there’s only three lanes open out of twenty.
For Triple H, however, this isn’t really a problem. There’s one thing he never leaves home without. No, not American Express … his sledgehammer.
BAM!, and an old bitch with the walker hits the tile floor. Triple H swings andWHACK!, the hammer sends the dipshit with the soup flying into a end-cap display full of cookies. CRACK! and some moron from Europe with about three English words in his vocabulary is dropped like Joanie Laurer.
With an aisle cleared, Triple H snags a bottle of Dasani from a nearby cooler, rips off the cap, takes a swig and does his pose, spraying water into the air like a geyser. “I AM THE GAME-AH!” he bellows, then spits the last of the water directly at the clerk, who casually wipes off her face on her sleeve.
“And how will you be paying for your protein bars?” she asks, ignoring the pleas of Triple H’s victims to call 911 as she runs his purchases over the UPC scanner.
Triple H flashes that (so he thinks) charming smile that stole Stephanie’s heart. “You wouldn’t perhaps be able to cash a payroll check from the WWE, would you?”
What if the WWE tried recasting other roles as they did with Diesel and Razor Ramon
“Thanks for coming, Al, ” says Jim Ross, offering a seat to his visitor.
Al Snow nods and sits. He’s had to sit through meetings like this before, and they always ended badly: Avatar, Leif Cassidy, the list never seemed to end. Being called in like this meant another dumb gimmick change that no one in their right mind would ever find entertaining. “So, what’s this about, JR?” Al asks, hoping the nerves-and irritation-don\’t show in his voice, or on his face.
“Well, we’ve been doing some research,” JR explains, “and we’ve discovered that, since we brought back Hogan five years ago, the fans are kind of clamoring for more nostalgia.”
“I think I see where you’re going, and I don’t think anyone finds Avatar nostalgic, JR, if you don’t mind my saying so.”
“No, that’s not in, Al. We followed up that research by polling the fans and seeing which wrestlers fans miss the most. I have those results, and I was wondering if you’d be interested in playing one of these roles.”
Al cannot hide his disappointment now. “JR, I’m in semi-retirement. I train youngsters. Haven’t you put me through enough stupid gimmicks to last a lifetime? And why would this work in the first place? The fans shit all over those fake Razor and Diesel guys you did years ago!”
“I know, I know, but that’s a distant memory, Al!” JR waves the research file in the air, as if doing so makes the idea any better. “The fans have spoken, Al! And we can’t go switching gimmicks on Triple H or Randy Orton or The Undertaker. But you … they’ll never notice you!”
Al’s response is as dry as a mummy’s ass-crack. “Thanks a lot, JR. Way to motivate me.”
“Al, Al, I didn’t mean it like that. ” JR shakes his head. “Never mind that. Just hear me out. What would you say if I told you Vince believes you can carry off this first recast? He and I agree … Al Snow, repackaged as … get ready …Yokozuna!”
Al’s mouth drops comically low, his mouth big enough to fit a volleyball. “You gotta be shitting me.”
“Al, he was a two-time WWE Champion! A Tag Champion with Owen Hart! You’d be playing a former World Champion, Al! Think of the prestige!”
“He\’s dead! I mean, isn’t that disrespectful!” Al shakes his head. “What the hellam I saying? Jim, never mind the dead thing; don\’t you notice a little something … different … about me and Yokozuna?”
JR blinks, his face as blank as Stephanie\’s head in math class. “Like?”
“HE WAS SIX HUNDRED POUNDS!!! AND JAPANESE!!!”
“Only in the role. In real life, he was Samo—”
“Who cares? I’m white!”
“Well then, what about Andre The Giant? He’s white! A perfect fit!”
“Are you out of your mind? I’m not French! And he was seven feet tall! And five hundred pounds!”
“We’ll get you some shoe lifts, Al.”
“I’m six-foot-one! What’re you gonna do, get me circus stilts?”
JR’s glare across the room tells Al that JR is every bit serious about this as he is his barbeque sauce. “I get the feeling you’re just being obstructive, Al. Or maybe ungrateful. We could just as easily ask someone else to do this.”
“I’d be more interested if this idea made any sense! I mean, what’s your next idea, Chyna?”
“Well, we’d considered it. Would you rather do that then Andre?”
Al stands up, lifting his shirt up to his throat. “Do you see tits, JR? No, you know why? Because I’mm fucking guy! Do I need to pull out my pecker too?”
“So was Chyna when she first came in. Should I take it that’s a no?”
Al slumps back in his chair, all hope of an honorable final curtain washed away like Lita’s mascara in one of her “acting” moments. “Jesus, JR, why you don’t you just shoot me and get it over with. Seriously, what’s next? Haystacks Calhoun?”
“No,” JR says without a shred of irony, “we’re saving that for Ultimo Dragon.”
What if Sycho Sid sought therapy?
Jim Ross stands in the ring, ready to interview the number-one contender for the WWF Title, Sycho Sid. Sid looks focused and ready, smiling that Sycho Sid smile everyone knows means someone is bound to get hurt.
“Sycho Sid, we’re just six days away from your date with Shawn Michaels and the WWF Title at Survivor Series,” says JR. “Where is your head at right now?”
Dripping as if he’s just stepped out of a dunk tank, Sycho Sid steps up to the microphone being held out by (a nervous) JR. “Don’t call me psycho, JR,” he says through a clinched jaw.
“But Sid, you’ve never been known as a well-balanced person-”
“Would you like it if I called you a hick, JR? No, that would be judgmental.” Sid claps Ross on the shoulder as if they’d be going for beers later. Suddenly, the clinched jaw is relaxed and his psychotic smile has melted into a serene grin. “See, I’ve been seeking therapy for my anger management issues, JR. And the labels you apply to me make me feel belittled, and for that, I want to powerbomb you into oblivion. But my therapist has helped me to see that these labels people use are a way of deflecting criticism about themselves, and reflecting their own iniquities in others. By calling me psycho, you’re projecting your anger over some issue onto me. Tell me JR, what makes you angry?”
Ross raises an eyebrow, confused by this newfound transcendence. “I don’t think we’re here to talk about that, Sid. We’re here to talk about Survivor Series and Shawn Michaels.”
“And we’ll get to Shawn,” says Sid in a voice so serene, Ross starts to wonder if he’s on Valium, “because Shawn needs more help then anyone I’ve met. But right now, I wanna talk about Jim Ross. You seem to have a lot of pent-up rage, Jim. Is there something you’re angry about?”
“Er, no …”
Sid puts his arm around JR’s shoulders and pulls him in; JR looks grossly uncomfortable, as uncomfortable as his last prostate exam. “Oh, but I think you are angry, Jim Ross. Very angry.” Sid stands in front of JR, squatting down so they are face-to-face. “You’re angry about Vince firing you a while back, aren’t you?”
“No, that’s behind us, we worked it out,” JR says, his gaze cast down to the mat.
Sid looks at the crowd, shaking his head and smiling very self-satisfactorily. He ducks under JR’s hat and looks up at him. “I think you’re hiding your true feelings, Jim. You’re still upset over it, and you’ve been bottling it up inside for some time now. And you vent by calling people names … I’m ‘psycho’ … Sunny is a ‘tramp’ … Mankind is Ôderanged’. Your labels are a way of releasing frustration over Vince firing you years ago. It’s in the way you speak and the way you hold yourself, JR. Talk to me! I’m your friend!”
Suddenly, Sid stands up, wraps his arms around Jim Ross and embraces him in a rib-crushing hug. Even with the microphone caught between the two of them, the crowd can still make out, albeit a bit muffled, Sid exclaiming; “I love you, man!” Smothered in Sid’s chest, JR starts to sob. “Shh, there there,” Sid says, patting JR’s back. “Let it out, Jim, let it all out.”
“It hurt, dammit, it hurt!” JR yells into Sid’s chest. One by one, wrestlers are coming out and offering sympathy; JR notices none of it, he just keeps sobbing and screaming. Sid leans over to Vader, who has come into the ring to discuss his own rage issues, and says; “Better get a chair or two; this could take a while.”
What if The Ultimate Warrior were a contestant on The $25,000 Pyramid?
Donny Osmond smiles his best toothy, down-home, welcome to the show grin as he explains the rules. “Welcome to a special professional wrestling edition of The $25,000 Pyramid! You all know how the game is played; each contestant will have 40 seconds to guess six clues explained by our celebrity guests. They cannot use any words in the clue to get the contestants to say the clue. As per the coin flip before the show, Bob, you and your partner …” Donny looks down at his index card; his eyebrows go up. “The … Ultimate Warrior?” He looks up at the man sitting in the chair; he is a beefy, but short man, covered in multi-colored face paint that looks like a rainbow threw up, naked save for boots, brightly colored underwear and tassels hanging from damn near every limb. And, from the looks of him, he is seething and about ready to explode; his jaw is clinched, his fists two tight balls, and his eyes bulging out of his skull like the Taco Bell Chihuahua. “Well, you’ll be going first. Select your category.”
Bob surveys the game board. “Um … I’ll take ‘Around The House’.”
“Okay, um … Mister … um …”
Warrior points up at the sky, looking up into the rafters (and, somehow, ignoring the bright stage lights which would blind any other person) “By the gloriosity of the gods above, they cast down upon mine soul, the name of The Warrior! Call me that!”
“Call you what?”
“The name of The Warrior!”
“The Warrior, you simpletonian! Now stop wasting valuablisified Warrior time!”
Donny pauses, then nods. “Fine then … um, The Warrior. Warrior—”
“That’s The Warrior!”
“Right. Anyway, your clues will appear on the screen in front of you. Your clock begins now.”
Warrior glances down and checks his clue, nods and begins. “Oh, by the powerful of this sphericized device’s luminosisness, driving the demons and the un-non-believers into the darknitude of their own consciousosity -”
But The Warrior continues as if Bob isn’t even there. “Woe to those who fight against the arising illumificacity brought forth by the orbloid I speak of-”
“Dude, I have no clue-”
“-for they have forsooken their ancestors’ descendants and forgotten their future past, wallowing in the destrucity-”
“Donny, can I pass?”
“-of their hardified black internalizified souls. They shall all tremble and bow-”
“What are you talking about?”
“-before the combagnified strongthness of the One Warrior Nation! All it takes is a single group of a alonely Warrior-”
“Would you shut the hell up?!? We’re gonna-”
The buzzer cuts through the chatter. Warrior leaps up out of his chair, running his hands through his fingers. “Where is he? Where is that witch doctor?” The Warrior lets loose a of a primal, kidney stone-passing scream, rips the chair off the stage and throws it across the stage; he reaches into his tights, pulls out a handful of something and throws it down, producing a thick cloud of smoke to cover his exit.
“I’m sorry,” says Donny. “The answer was ‘light bulb’. No points for you this round. However, since your partner has … left, so to speak … we have booked a replacement. Your new partner … Kamala!”
What if Vince Russo’s life was as crazy and nonsensical as his booking?
“All rise,” the bailiff announces. The gallery, the lawyers and the defendant all stand; the defendant, Vince Russo, has his hands in front of him, trying to look as penitent. “Court is now in session; the honorable Judge Mathers presiding.”
The judge comes out of chambers and takes his seat, then orders everyone else to be seated. The court clerk stands again, reading from the docket; “The people versus Vince Russo; Mister Russo stands accused of driving while intoxicated. How do you plead?”
“Not guilty, your honor,” says Vince.
“Mr. Sneed, call your first witness,” says the judge.
Phil Sneed stands and proudly says; “The State calls Officer Lyons.” A doughy guy who makes Ed Ferrara look like Lex Luger waddles up to the stand and is sworn in. “State your name for the record.”
“Officer Bill Lyons.”
“Good. Now, then, Officer Lyons, if you would turn your attention to the monitor here …” Sneed steps over to a television monitor. The image, a grainy black and white piece of footage, shot from the inside of a car, pointing out towards another car. “On the night of November 21st, you had occasion to stop the defendant and pull him over, is that correct?”
“Yes, that is correct.”
“For what purpose?”
“His car was swerving erratically across four lines Interstate 80. I figured it would be prudent to pull him over and issue a sobriety test.”
“Your honor, I now wish to show you the video of the traffic stop.” The video rolls, showing a car cutting across lanes on a fairly quiet highway. “And when you pulled over the defendant, did he show signs of intoxication that enforced and explained the erratic driving patterns?”
“Yes, he did.”
“No further questions, your honor.” Sneed sits down as the defense lawyer, Joe Bell, stands up.
“Officer Lyons, how did you determine that Mr. Russo was, indeed, drunk?” asks Bell.
“Well, I administered the usual tests; saying the alphabet backwards, walking a straight line, touching the tip of his nose.”
“And he failed all of these?”
“Oh yes. He almost poked his eye out.”
“In fact, did you not give him an on-the-spot breathalyzer test?”
“Yes, I did.”
Bell leans over the retaining wall, getting into Officer Lyons’ face. “And did he not, in fact, blow well over the legal limit?”
Lyons looks up at the judge, totally confused by the line of questioning. The judge shrugs and looks to the prosecution, who shrugs as well and holds a hand up, as if to say go right ahead, let him build the case for me. The judge says; “Please answer counsel’s question, Officer Lyons.”
Lyons looks nervously from the judge to the lawyer. “Um, well, yes, he did. Almost double the legal limit.”
“In fact,” the defense lawyer says, “was he not so terribly, piss-stinking drunk that he offered to make love to your shoes?”
Lyons looks up again at the judge nervously. The judge leans forward, peering at Bell. “Just where is this line of questioning going, counsel? If I didn’t know any better, I’d swear you’re working for the prosecution.”
“That’s because I am, your honor!” The gallery, Russo and the officer all gasp as Bell grabs his briefcase and papers off the defendant’s table and deposits it on the prosecution side. “I have been all along, secretly feeding the prosecution damning evidence to so we can send this sick, pathetic son of a bitch to the firing squad!”
The judge and shakes his head. “Did you just say the firing squad? Need I remind you that we use lethal injection as a method of execution, Mr. Bell, and that the charges don’t even come close to qualifying for such a penalty?”
“We must draw a line in the sand somewhere, your honor. Why not here, why not now?”
The judge’s head falls into his hands. “Do you realize what you’re advocating? We haven’t even convicted this man yet!”
Russo raises a hand. “Um, pardon me, but aren’t I innocent-”
“No!” Bell yells. “Now sit there and take your death sentence like a man!”
“Mr. Sneed, do you have anything to add to your new co-counsel?”
“I do, your honor.” Sneed stands up, straightens his tie, clears his throat and swings his briefcase at Bell’s head. “There’s no fucking way I’d be on a legal team with this asswipe!” Sneed composes himself, calmly transporting his papers and briefs to the other side of the courtroom. “I now, and in truth, always have represented Mr. Russo. It is my intention to show that my client was slipped a mickey earlier on in the evening by this unscrupulous policeman whojust so happens to be Mr. Russo’s long lost half-brother!”
All heads whip around to the new defense lawyer, mouths agape. “It’s true. Officer Lyons and the defendant share a father, a devious, cheating bastard who happened to seduce someone under his protection years ago while married to Mr. Russo’s mother. It is our intention to prove that the arrest of Mr. Russo is a diabolical plot hatched by Officer Lyons, launched decades ago, so as to send Mr. Russo to prison for a crime he did not commit.”
“Wait a minute, wait a minute,” the judge says. “You mean to tell me that Officer Lyons enrolled in the police force, suffered through training and the rookie years of being a police officer, all so he could frame a man for driving while intoxicated?”
“Not just any man, your honor, his half-brother.”
“Is this making sense to anyone?” the judge asks.
The clerk stands up, clearing his throat. “It is to me … perhaps because”-he jabs a finger at the judge, his brow knotting, the veins in his neck sticking out further then Joanie Laurer’s fake chest-“this man is an imposter!” The clerk springboards up the railing for the witness stand and up onto the judge’s desk, tearing at the judge’s face. A wig flies off, followed by putty make-up. The clerk moves aside to reveal to the gallery and all assembled the real identity of the judge: Hulk Hogan.
The clerk/judge jumps down to the floor as Hogan tries to cover his face. “Officer Lyons was hired by Hulk Hogan to deliver Vince Russo to this court to exact revenge for Bash At The Bash 2000!” he proclaims.
Vince Russo stands up, grabs the water pitcher and crashes it over the clerk’s head. The clerk goes down in a heap, blood and water soaking his head, laughing maniacally. “You all fell for it! This was my master plan to humiliate Hulk Hogan once and for all! I have gotten my revenge for Bash At The Beach 2000! BWAHAHAHAHA!!!”
The gallery sits, confused, save for one man, who cups a hand over his mouth in the direction of the man sitting next to him, Eric Bischoff. Vince McMahon whispers; “Still makes more sense then the Higher Power story.”
What if the Presidential race was flooded with wrestling personalities?
Dan Rather, seated at the moderator’s desk, clears his throat and begins talking, bringing the murmur in the crowd to a halt. “Good evening, and welcome to the first debate between the independent candidates for the President of the United States. With scandals of corruption, drugs and extramarital affairs crippling the campaigns of both the Republican and Democratic candidates, a virtual army of men have stepped forward and thrown their hat into the ring to compete for the highest office in the land. And, perhaps conspicuously, the 8 leading candidates all come from one similar background: professional wrestling. The 8 candidates are”-the camera for the home viewers switches to static shots of each man as his name is announced-“World Wrestling Entertainment Chairman Vince McMahon, former WWE and WCW Champion Hulk Hogan, former WWE Champion and motion picture star The Rock, former governor of Minnesota Jesse Ventura, former WWE star and televangelist Ted DiBiase, former WWE and WCW Champion Randy Savage, former NWA and ECW Champion Terry Funk, and former NWA, WCW and WWF World Champion Ric Flair.” Rather turns to the platform, and adds; “You are all aware of the rules; due to the number of participants tonight, a question will be asked of one person, who will be allowed a 60-second response. Each person thereafter will be allowed a 30-second rebuttal, in an order predetermined by …” Rather checks his notes; an eyebrow jumps up in an arch. “Does this say pose down?” Rather shakes his head incredulously. “This is dumber then a sheep in a horserace. Anyway, the order has been predetermined, so, without further ado, we shall begin.”
“Oooh, yeah,” says Savage. “Not so fast, slick. The Macho Man has a beef, has a beef, not a Slim Jim, just a beef, ooooh yeah!”
Rather blinks and shakes his head. “What? What did you just say?”
“The Macho Man doesn’t wanna stand next to this“-he jabs a finger to his right, at Hogan-“punk! Dig it! The Macho Man won’t continue unless I’m guaranteed limo service to and from this venue, and I want the Oval Office, oooooooh, yeah! Dig it!”
“Mr. Savage, the limo service was already provided, with security from the Secret Service. And we cannot guarantee you the Presidency.”
“Then the Macho Man is outta here! Dig it!” Macho pushes his podium over and stomps backstage, muttering the whole time.
Rather sighs, then, ever the professional, carries on and turns to DiBiase first. “Mr. DiBiase; Social Security has been under the gun in the past several years. Estimates by the General Accounting Office and prior administrations have declared that, unless the system is repaired or revamped, Social Security will as broke as Marlon Brando’s pogo stick. What would a DiBiase administration do about this fiscal pig in a poke?”
DiBiase snaps and, from the curtains, comes Virgil. “Ya know something, Dan,everybody’s got a price for the Million Dollar Man,” he says with a grin. Virgil pulls out a wad of cash and fans out five 100 dollar bills. “What kind of price does Dan Rather have to make this question go away?”
“Mr. DiBiase! I am a journalist, and the moderator of this debate! I am not-”
“Are you daft?” declares Vince. “Or am I alone in recalling your debacle with the Texas Air National Guard and certain memos?”
Rather looks down. “Touche. Nevertheless, I am not going to allow you to buy your way our of questions, Mr. DiBi-”
“Virgil.” Virgil whips out five more bills. “Name your price, Rather. No matter how it is, I can hit it.”
Rather sighs. “Fine, we’ll come back to Mr. DiBiase. Mr. Ventura, same question. You have 30 seconds.”
“The problems facing Social Security cannot be ignored,” Ventura says with stateman-like authority. “To do so would cost future generations of the money they have worked for. I will authorize a task force to investigate the cost of overhauling the system, be it through privatization-”
“Privatizing anything is a disaster,” interrupts Vince. “Letting people make their own decisions is ludicrous. If the wrestlers can’t manage their money on their own, it’s their problem, not mine. I shouldn’t have to bend to the will of some stupid union-”
“Mr. McMahon, it is not your turn yet. Please wait-”
“Do you know who I am, Rather? I’m the Chairman of a multi-billion dollar company! I’m the genetic jackhammer! I’m-”
“The guy who created the World Bodybuilders Federation and the XFL,” says Ventura. “Can we stay on topic?”
“Ya know something, brother,” says Hogan, “me and The Body don’t get along, but he’s got a point. McMahon … you may have made Hulkamania, but Hulkamania made Vince McMahon! And whatcha gonna do … when the largest arms in the world run wild on you, Vince?”
“Are you threatening me, you insufferable, ignorant clown?”
“GENTLEMEN! PLEASE!” The panel turns back to Rather, who has his head in his hands. When he finally raises his head again, his eyes are weary, but furious. “Can we please focus?” When everyone nods, Rather continues. “New question. Mr. Flair; recently, Canada has indicated that they may pass legislation to legalize and recognize same-sex marriages, mirroring the efforts some states have already pioneered. This has created a massive moral backlash here in the United States, dividing the country in half in a way few other issues can manage. What stance would a Flair administration take on it?”
“MEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE” (Vince looks at his watch) “EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE” (Funk takes a drink of water) “EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE” (Savage pokes his head out of the curtains, sees Hogan still there, and ducks back in) “EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE” (Hogan applies another layer of bronzing lotion) “EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE-” DiBiase walks behind Flair and slaps him in the back of the head. Flair shakes his head, as if rattled, then goes right back to what he was doing without pause. “WOOOOOO! BY GOD, GENE!”
“Um, Mr. Flair, who is Gene?”
“Mean Gene, the Nature Boy is here, in Charlotte-”
“Actually, this is Dayton, Ohio.”
“-I got the Horsemen with me … and we are set to style and profile and walk that aisle like only the Horsemen can do it! Cause when you-” A woman in the front row catches Flair’s eye; he points at her and winks. “Just you wait, honey, cause Space Mountain is a ride that don’t close. Anyway, cause when you got the Horsemen behind you, you-”
“Aww, shut up, Flair, you old egg-suckin’ gasbag,” barks Funk. “Ya wanna know what I’d do, Rather? I wouldn’ta chickened out; I woulda dropped a goddamnatomic bomb on them camel-fuckers!”
“Excuse me? Ladies and gentlemen, I apologize for Mister Fu-”
“Shut up, Cronkite! Your momma’s a two-bit whore! If you wanna piece of the Funker, I’ll shove a branding iron up your ass, just like I’d do that goddam towel-head Osama!”
“Sir, aside from your profanity and numerous racial epithets, which are totally unnecessary, the current question regards gay marriage, not the war on terrorism. And, for the record, I am not Walter Cronkite.”
“Are you sassin’ me, boy? I’ll tan your hide faster then you can say one of them stupid fucking catchphrases you got! I’ll show you courage, ya sniveling turd!”
“Okay, time for a new question.” Rather selects a card and turns to Hogan. “Mr. Hogan, racial tensions have long been a thorn in the growth of this country. There is still a perception of certain races as lower class, no matter how hard they work or what success they achieve. What would you do to help ease the tension and bridge the gap between races?”
“Ya know something, brother, Hulkamania stands for all people! Hulkamania stands for the United States! And that’s why the Hulkster would enlist all his little Hulkamaniacs to help drive out all those dirty, no-good, lying cheaters who helped blow up our buildings!” Hogan steps out from behind the podium and rips off his shirt, then tosses the remnants into the crowd.
“Mr. Hogan, this debate is on race relations, not national security.”
“It doesn’t matter, Dan Rather, cause the Hulkster isn’t a coward; the Hulkster isn’t a man who backs down from anyone-”
Savage pokes his head through the curtain. “Oooooh, yeah, you want a piece of me, Hogan? You wanna piece of the Macho Man, a piece of the madness? Dig it! Why don’t you come snap into it, dig it!” Hogan barely flinches before Savage disappears into the curtains again.
Hogan opens his mouth, but is cut off by the one person who has, up to now, maintained a strange silence. “Ya know, The Rock has heard a lot of talkin’, a lot of jib-jabberin’ by a bunch of jabronis who think they got what The Rock has, can do what The Rock can do, is who The Rock is. Who is The Rock? He is The Great One, The Chosen One, The People’s Choice and The People’s Champion! What does The Rock have? Why, The Rock has millions …” The Rock waits for the audience to finish his sentence; after several uncomfortable seconds of silence with Rock’s head spent pointed to the spotlights, eyebrow raised, he continues as if the crowd had done as he’d hinted at. “… and millions of fans. And what can The Rock do that no one else can? Why, that’s layeth the smacketh down on aaaaaaaaaaaaalllllllllllllllll these candy-asses!”
“Can we please get back to the questions?” Ventura says. “It’s bad enough that I gotta share a stage with these morons … but can we just get through one debate-”
“You’re just envious,” says Vince, “because I have succeeded in making stars out of these men, while you amounted to nothing!”
“I was governor of Minnesota!”
“And a real success would’ve been governor of a real state! Not Canada’s half-witted step-brother!”
DiBiase interrupts, sending Virgil over to Rather with a briefcase. “Can we just skip this nonsense?” Virgil cracks open the briefcase; it is filled with bricks of money. “A million dollars for the White House. A million dollars, Rather. Think about it.”
The Rock comes out from behind his podium, glaring at DiBiase through his sunglasses. “Why don’t you think about taking that briefcase, turning that sumbitch sideways and sticking it straight up your candy-ass!”
Suddenly, Savage comes sprawling out of the curtains and collapses on the stage. A bulky, psychotic looking man in a leather jacket covered in a denim vest with a sledgehammer. BAM!, and Terry Funk eats hammer, going right off the stage. Hogan gets the hammer next; DiBiase throws Virgil into it and runs from the madman with the hammer. The Rock catches Triple H’s arm mid-swing and sets up for a Rock Bottom, but Flair crotches him and The Rock crumbles. Vince joins the two as they pose at the edge of the stage, Triple H dripping in sweat, while Flair struts around, ripping his suit off piece by piece, while Jesse walks off stage, shaking his head in exasperation.
“Well,” Rather says, addressing the audience and populace of the country. “here they are. Your candidates for President, every one of them as dumb as a porcupine stuck to a watermelon. These are the types of idiots we produce for public office. Do your duty in November: move away.”