Once upon a time, there was a trough that seven whores all shat in after taking dick after dick up their ass, a mixture of sperm, diarrhea, and egg laden period blood, all while a rich white man with perfect hair and on enough cocaine to kill a large rhino masturbated to it, eventually ejaculating into the pool after three sweaty grueling hours of whores getting ass fucked by the homeless and otherwise hepatitis and herpes toting chaps for a dollar a go. Their semen all mixing with the wasted womb trash of a monthly rejection, seven whores in sync deep.

Three days later, they found Jim Caedus lapping up the fucking bottom.

UNBLOCKABLE

We open to see Robbie's mastercrafted Boogie Truck, huge and monstrous. A pitcrew, all in black racing suits all with the word "Mutherfucker" written on the back in that all too slick style as seen on the Motherfuckers homepage on XWF99.com. They're all working extremely hard, buffing out scratches, tuning the amps and speakers, checking all the necessary parts. Brake lines, fuel lines, all lines being checked on.

In front of the truck we see Robbie Bourbon in a tank top and gym shorts. He's holding a sledge hammer and standing in front of a massive monster truck tire. Robbie swings the huge fifteen pound hammer into the tire, and knocks it about two feet. For those who need explanation of such an occurrence, go do some physics homework and tell me what kind of force you need to move an eight hundred and eighty pound tire with a fifteen pound sledge.

Wow, Jimmy, just wow.

I thought you wanted to electrify the Universe and pay homage to Luca Arzegotti.

Instead you say I wandered into a trap? What the fuck is this, some shitty superhero cartoon from the seventies? I played a few clips from the TV in my office. That wasn't a trap, Jimbo. I didn't tire myself out because, well, I didn't really do much. Who in their right mind thinks I was exerting any kind of effort the last time you saw me sitting on my ass with a remote control? Wait, that can lead into the tried and true Fat Joke©. Softened and playful in my own home. That's not what to expect in the Punjabi Prison on a Pole Monster Truck Match. God damnit, that name is crazy. Let's just call it what it is; Bourbon Rules. I rambled off some words and bam, you're walking into my trap at Shove-It. Stop being confused, Jimmy, it's unprofessional.

Seriously, here I was getting scolded for not delivering great promos, and you keep on using the Fat Joke©. It's, well, repetitive. Bland. A snooze fest.

Robbie swings the hammer again into the tire. Knocking it three feet. Again, you do the math.

I'm a Blastoise, not a Snorlax, for those who get the reference. The only reason I'm snoring is because Jim Caedus is coming off as boring. It was almost like you're imploring I'm ignoring your work on purpose, but when I get drowsy within the first seven minutes to the point I need a super sized Red Bull, that's on you bud. Wake me up when you're actually going to give a fuck and cut the kind of promo Jim Caedus is known for.

Instead of coming off like Velveeta. Creamy, smooth, but imitation. The highest form of flattery considering I'm the big cheese around here. Quit kissing my ass so much, Jimbo. And of course I wouldn't return Dana Carvey or Mike Meyers's calls. Those guys haven't been relevant since the mid-fucking-nineties as Wayne and Garth and their latest movies were pretty lame. Wayne's World 2 sucked and everybody knows it. I guess you're riding on some nostalgia kick since, well, you can't really explain why you think this is a sequel fight or anything like that. You think I use cue cards only because you're cutting every promo you can after watching one of mine for hours and hours to figure out what parts you should try to emulate to show the fucking world you're almost as good as me. Those fucking parts are obvious, Jim, you try to sound like me all the time. The only hitch is I actually say what fucking matters and get to the god damned point, and make a point, you string words together just to sound like you have some gusto, or panache, when really you have all the makings of a shit snorting, piece OH cunt, sound OH a sheep, smell OH a truck stop urinal cake, look OH a used fucking tampon plucked from a one legged obese toll collector, vomit on his sweater already, mom's Spaghetti-OHs.

Robbie swings the hammer again into the tire. A crowd has gathered around Robbie as he continues his workout as the Boogie Truck starts playing some generic stadium rock.

There's the hitch. I point out how you sound like a fucking moron time and again, Jimbo. You're just trying to catch up to me in terms of what a promo sounds like. Love how I was the topic of discussion anyhow on a show I refused to be on. Isn't like there were any cool lines about how awesome Jim Caedus is, or why we should give a fuck about him, since the story is just going to go "Jim Caedus should have stayed away from going into a Punjabi Prison on a Pole Monster Truck Match". It was kinda cute, though, that you kept on and ON and ON about me and my promos JUST because I refused to be on there and Meyers and Carvey were that butthurt about it. I mean, none of what you said really made a ton of sense; you spent an awful long time picking apart things I didn't say, and, welp, Snorlax here found himself ready to go take a nap, or have a cup of coffee, or go beat my cock, or maybe get another set done at the gym instead of watch the clip of your promo while preparing for a nap while drinking coffee and beating my cock while working my legs on a fucking press machine. Sorry, those were actually fun activities, not whatever you thought you were doing stinking up a twenty-three year old concept on a late-night television show that's a forty-two year old concept. Did you play with Lorne Michaels after? What about any of the current cast? No? No. They'd be cool or relevant, not things Jim Caedus is really known for. Cute job showing your defense mechanism, and letting the world know five solid things I do that annoy you.

Swatting at flies is good and all, son, but I'ma break your spine.

Robbie swings the hammer again into the tire. The crowd surrounding Robbie on what looks like the tarmac of an airport is astounding at this time. Thousands of people have flocked to watch Robbie Bourbon just hit something, as they're apt to do.

But, heh, I will say one thing. The Hitler line was hilarious. When anybody thinks of me running around kicking the shit out of nazis as I'm apt to do, they think Hitler. If it's any consolation, I think that one's funnier than anybody else ever will. You can take that to your grave. That and the fact you'd rather I got fired than faced you in our match. Two sides of the same chickenshit coin. My being shocked you'd retire is one thing. Me caring, well, that's not a thing. Consider that some free wisdom, Jimmy.

Robbie swings the hammer again into the tire. The people roar with approval each time he holds the haft, plants his feet, and delivers the head of the hammer into the massive tire, which makes a hollow "whoomph" with each massive hit it takes.

*ROBBIE BOURBON*CLAP, CLAP, CLAP CLAP CLAP*ROBBIE BOURBON*CLAP, CLAP, CLAP CLAP CLAP*ROBBIE BOURBON*CLAP, CLAP, CLAP CLAP CLAP*

I will say, though, you keep bringing up some make believe trailer fire. Your wife and daughter left you, Jimbo. They came to my dojo. They clean my toilets daily. I have seventy three toilets in this dojo, Jimmy, and my students make an awful mess of each and every one of them whenever they can. She sees it as an improvement.

Not really. It's tragic the child died, Jimbo, it really is. It's tragic your wife decided that your dick, the dick of a champion, wasn't enough, so she left the trailer and walked twenty yards and knocked on a door seeing if the knob needed polishing. It's tragic she left there and went another twenty yards to the next door, going door to door to find a penis that would make her feel. It's tragic that she went up in smoke. Donuts to dollars, though, she sees it as an improvement, and the way you're getting roasted now you'll see your daughter in no time.

*FUCK 'EM UP, ROBBIE, FUCK 'EM UP!*FUCK 'EM UP, ROBBIE, FUCK 'EM UP!*FUCK 'EM UP, ROBBIE, FUCK 'EM UP!*

So, I don't really need to say any more about Jim Caedus's last lame promo, do I? I mean, reaching into a bag and pulling out four shitty tricks is really just scraping the bottom of the barrel. Maybe he's figured out that in order to beat me, he'd better spend a little less time worrying about his promos and more about what kind of onslaught is coming his way.

Jimbo, you've done declared me unblockable as far as I'm concerned.

Jimmy Boy, you been waiting on me your whole life. You don't know it yet, but I'm going to be that guy. I'm going to be the one you go around all next week telling everybody what a low down, awful sumbitch I am, how I'm the worst, and how I'm just not going to be ready for you next time when you slime your way into the fucking ring with a monster like me ready to squash you like the fucking slug you are. A fucking slimy little speck in existence leaving a trail of your own filth wherever you fucking decide existence needs to smell or see your bottom of MY food chain self whenever you square up your shoulders and dare bring that fucking rage of a thousand baby kittens sucking the teets of a thousand huge titted milfs, so soft and fluffy to the fucking senses, into a fucking woodchipper of the most torrential vile and venom ever fucking churned from the fucking gut of a dynamo on the verge of overload, this Motherfucker getting ready to explode on this silly little worthless chode, flush after wiping down the backstage commode. Not really, y'all, I'm just being a bullshitter, I'll just sell Ceadus to Gary Fucking Glitter, that creepy pedophile knows Jimmy's ass sure ain't a quitter. You sure you don't want to come around again playing pretend-rhyme-spitter?

Maybe you'd have more luck in a game of parchesi. War Pig is pretty big on Eucher, maybe he could teach us to play.

Robbie swings the hammer into the massive tire, and with a loud thud the head of the hammer just punctures the massive tire, stuck in the rubber and steel belts inside. The crowd goes absolutely ballistic. Robbie lets go of the haft and looks directly at the camera.

Don't worry, Jimbo, nobody's believing the hype.

I exposed it.