Robbie Bourbon, solidly getting both Donald Trump and Hillary Clinton to endorse him, is the top prospect to win the 2016 Presidential Election.

CHICKEN SCRATCH

We open to see the U.S. Capitol Building. The scaffolding around the dome causes the building to look ominous, almost foreboding. On the street we see U.S. Park Police, joggers, tourists taking pictures, a vendor selling sodas, water, Gatorade, chips, candy, popcorn, t-shirts, and most likely weed is seen, smiling brightly towards any potential customers. Strangely, there are far fewer protesters seen here than there were outside the White House. Go figure.

We go inside and see a joint session in progress. The congressional floor is packed to the brim, and the banister on the second floor observation deck is packed, shoulder to shoulder. Several celebrities can actually be spotted, seemingly having had the presence of mind or just the sway to get a better view of what is going to transpire as Mister President Robbie Bourbon addresses the legislative branch of the U.S. government for the first time in his young presidency. Louis C.K., Lorn Michaels, George Clooney (most likely the real one and not the imposter Diamondback with the ultra-high tech physiological appearance changing device Robbie had commissioned over a year ago), Woody Harrelson, Hugh Hefner, Jeremy Piven, Bill Murray, and Dennis Hopper are all shown on screen, each time with the text "Who Is Arby Beef?".

"Please stand for the President of the United States."

The room lights up in applause as Robbie Bourbon walks into the floor, waving towards everybody in the room with a confident, calm smile. He has one of the XWF Tag Team Championship belts draped over his shoulder, which he points to occasionally. He takes to the podium, and the applause continues. Robbie picks his nose, looks at it, almost puts it in his mouth, then wipes it underneath the podium. The applause continues. He looks up in the stands, and gleefully waves at the American public, congregated to witness this historic event. The applause continues. He starts to bellow over the applause.

USA! USA! USA! USA! USA!

The whole room resounds a booming echo.

*USA!*USA!*USA!*USA!*USA!*

Robbie fist pumps in the air, then raises his XWF Tag Team Championship Belt high in the air. The applause continues. Robbie pulls out his cell phone and takes a selfie, with Joe Biden looking on enthusiastically over his right shoulder and Paul Ryan giving a sideways peace sign, looking all 90's wannabe gangster. The applause continues. Robbie puts his arms out with his palms downward, trying to quiet everyone. The applause continues. Annoyed, Robbie pulls out a pistol and fires in the air, causing the room to go silent.

Thank you, thank you.

The applause resumes and continues. After another moment it dies down.

America, I'm here to talk to you all about the problems we all face as a nation. The problems that have been eating away at the American spirit for far too long. Intolerance, both racial and for those with specific gender and sexual identities, runs rampant through the veins of our great nation. This confounds me, and that's because, quite simply, the greatest resource in America are Americans.

The joint session applauds.

There are some here among us today who are completely set in their ways that people of other races, creeds, and orientations are not to be trusted. That they're something to fear, and that they're a threat to the very fabric of our great land. To those of you here today who feel that way, and we have the public records to know who the hell you are, we have actually put chemicals in your beverage to make your tits or balls shrink to the size of a penny.

The joint session applauds.

I'm not fucking kidding.

The joint session applauds, then several members of congress and the Senate all holler in pain as their testicles or chesticles turn into super tiny things the diameter and depth of a penny.

There, now we will hereby have a moment to laugh at all the penny tits and penny scrotes in the room right now.

The joint session applauds. Robbie holds his pistol up.

I said jeer!

The joint session jeers. Robbie puts his pistol away.

There. Now, how do you like it? I mean, from every standpoint, you people are now all genetically inferior to all the rest of us. Men, how in the fuck are you expected to produce semen with a scrotum the size of a penny? Women, how the hell do you propose to feed a baby with tits that are so small they make sports bras look extra saggy? You're not contributing a damn thing to the gene pool at all. Kind of like Unknown Soldier.

That kid wanted a shit talker, but what the fuck is there to say about him, huh?

The joint session applauds.

Let's face facts, there really isn't a ton to say about the guy. I mean, I was wrong earlier when I said he was a Dim knockoff. He's clearly a Morbid Angel knockoff. Copypasta rearing it's amazing head around again and again. This poor sap couldn't come up with anything on his own, so he needed his precious little Doctor to hold his hand and guide him along.

How does D'Ville like his coffee?

A random pairing with Doc D'Ville? You mean the guy you never once even attempted to use that spectacularly worthless in your hands 24/7 briefcase on when he was (key word; was) Universal champ? Why didn't you, or should I say, why couldn't you? Were you too worried you'd get embarrassed? Hell no, hell no I say! You have no shame, you have no sense of self-worth, embarrassing you would be like condemning a puppy for taking a piss on the floor. Sure, the puppy sure thinks it's impressive, but hot damn, you're second rate, old hat, and had to be carried home last Warfare by your Doctor.

How does D'Ville's ass look in jeans?

See, you couldn't go take that belt away from that man because, flat out, you didn't want to harm a hair on his perfectly rounded little head, visions of tossing that eye patch skyward and taking whatever disease infested extension of flesh you have dangling below your belt and thrusting hard and deep into D'Ville's sweet skull pussy. You need to sate him, you need to make him feel bigger, and larger, and better; you feed his ego because it feeds your ego. Like a fifties fucking housewife. Grab the slippers for papa when he comes home, make him some of your best meatloaf, have his beer good and cold, and he'll take care of you and treat you right. See, if I had that little briefcase of yours, you can damn well guarantee D'Ville wouldn't be missing an eye, he'd be fucking decapitated after I knocked his head clean into the fifteenth row with it then pinned his useless corpse to the canvas. You couldn't let your precious succumb to that, though.

What is you and D'Ville's safe word?

And really, what shit is there to talk about how tired, old, and hackneyed SATAN! vision is? Leading off with Godsmack, wow, I guess someone couldn't come up with their own lyrics so the best of two or three years ago had to go dial up something from twelve years ago for a little inspiration? Not only are you riding D'Ville's dick, you're going to ride Godsmack's, too. You did get some awesome Ghost Tank rim shots in there, that was great the first time I saw Dim do it, it was old by the time I saw Vinnie do it, by the time you got around to it, it was a relic. Kind of like a turd that sits out in the sun for too long, it lost it's stink, it's innert. The C. Diff got adsorbed into the soil, and it's sprouting C.Diff carrots and C.Diff onions and C.Diff broccoli, and C.Diff grass for the cows to eat, and now that the cows have eaten it, it's really just a big pile of bullshit now ain't it? You even brought up my losing to Vinnie, which is outstanding, because again, you couldn't let a single flaxen hair on that slightly oblong cranium of his get damaged whatsoever, so you never used that spectacularly pointless in your hands 24/7 case on him either.

Who goes in your mouth with Vinnie and D'Ville spit roast you? What kind of drugs are involved?

Your record with the X-Treme title is pretty damned impressive, I'll admit. Your way of making what was once the second most prestigious championship in the XWF into a sideshow of stupid Tweets blowing up my phone is truly and absolutely one of a kind. You're defending that title against the best of the best out there, now aren't you? Me? Well, more importantly, myself and my partner Arby, we defended our Tag Team Championships as soon as we could, and if anything a drug addled sex addict with a fixation on counterculture is to be believed, and since that's really not very specific these days in the XWF, I'll remind everyone that I mean Unknown Soldier, we're defending them against some the best competition the XWF has to offer. By the dubs, kid, this isn't actually an X-Treme Championship match. This is an XWF Tag Team Championship match. And THAT, as you and your partner seem to have completely forgotten, overlooked, or just never even considered in between your mutual bubble baths in single person bathtubs, is actually my forte.

I'm what some would call a tag team specialist.

The joint session applauds.

Look at last Wargames. My team won. Look at when Trax and E.T. got the tag belts, I busted my ass making sure my team won, and my team won, and I didn't get the gold. Look at when Wallace and I crushed Dim and Gilmour, and if you want legendary tag teams there's your team, inside Gilmour's specialty Hell in a Cell. My team won. Look at when Pest and I teamed up, we won left and right, only to get stalled out when Pest decided trying to get a pair of Ginger Snaps' panties off of eBay was more productive than actually training for a championship match. I was a winner there, save the finals. Look at the King of the XWF tournament earlier this year, my team won, and I even clobbered the shit out of Game Girl during all of that, kinda getting some kind of vindication in my match with her previously, and even after that the only way I got eliminated was because John Madison wanted to protect the then X-Treme champion, who I would have squashed like a grape if he didn't want to see the X-Treme title get hot potatoed around the ring and detract from the King of the XWF tourney. You're right, slick, as a singles competitor my legacy has not been as impressive as yours or your hunky love stud with the semen stick of joy you crave. But you're leaning on that legacy like a crutch, you've both telegraphed yourselves nonstop, all the while you never even bothered to scout the guys you're facing for the Tag Team Championships this Wednesday in Limerick.

What kinds of oils does D'Ville use when giving you your foot massage at night?

Hell, you even think Arby is going to whip his mask off and show to the world that he's really someone else. Put the drugs down, son, they're impacting your head in negative ways, try a little yoga or something. Self-medicating is no solution to any of your problems. You want to know who Arby Beef is? You're wondering what kind of shock could happen that would turn team Doctor SATAN! topsy turvy? Well, fine, I will reveal Arby Beefs true identity right here and now.

He's Arby Beef. You jackass.

And yeah, he's going to turn your whole world upside down, just like I'm doing right now. I know that means he's just going to turn you right side up, but then we're both going to turn you and your butt stuff broski upside down again.

Uh, that's our tag team finisher, it's a tilt-a-whirl into a tilt-a-whirl slam while the first tilt-a-whirler does a reverse DDT.

When did I cry about losing to Bearded War Pig? Oh wait, I didn't. I lost fairly to a clean competitor and decorated war veteran, and I as an American am proud of him. Seriously, kid, clean your head up a little bit. All the answers in life don't come from being smoked in a glass pipe. Go out, get some fresh air, read a book, maybe do a little fishing or something. Who knows, you might actually get enough activity in you'll have an actual chance of winning the Tag Team Championships.