Robbie Bourbon recently cut a promo from the back of his van, which defies interior decorating logic by being incredibly amazing and spacious, including a staircase hugging the curve of a parabola tighter than flesh against the cup of a 40 E bra.

If you've ever experienced such a phenomenon, or at least close to it, you'll know what I'm talking about or at least empathize very easily.

MY ENTRANCE MUSIC?

We see the Donkey Kong Rape Van sputtering exhaust in some snowbank, somewhere Ice Fishing is common enough that Robbie Bourbon could have shot an ice fishing stylized promo without the bat of an eye, as usual in another day of broadcasting ROB-B-TV on behalf of the whole XWF Universe. Every denizen on every corner of the cosmos in broadcast gets it broadcast free of charge for the betterment of all the people. The doors open, and Robbie lumbers out of the Van, doubled over in hysteria.

Jesus Christ.

A holy light begins to beam down on Robbie. He looks at the sky.

No, no, not...

Suddenly, Jesus H. Christ, the rarest of all Bourbon Men, appears next to Robbie.

You called?

Not, no, not you specifically. Me and the Bourbon Men were watching a few more of Brandon Moore's promos.

And you needed my help?

What? No way, I don't need the hand of God intervening on my behalf, I'm going to break this little Kit Kat bar and have him feeling like a pack of Twix, a left part, a right part, and a huge gap in between when I just rip him in half.

Oh, dad, Robbie, that's pretty brutal.

Nah, for starters this dumb motherfucker went to the Arctic Ocean to go to Antarctica.

Well, you're in central Canada, Robbie, that's pretty far from the Antarctic as well.

I planned for that, I have a jet going to shoot me onto the boat from a missle.

Sweet.

I know. I know, the fucking payload, the King of the Jobbers, the Wednesday Night Wrecker, the Big Bad Big Bad of Big Bads, the ornery bastard who'll make you cross your legs to protect your gonads, the one man riot going ballistic here, I'm crashing through some walls, here we go on our way to bust Brandon Moore's balls before I settle in to my office at the Warfare Building, One XWF Plaza, and get to work as a referee watches me break you while I'm just wracking up pinfalls, get the Hart Championship before lunch, have a meeting, hold all my calls.

Brandon Moore's a fucking who can't get shit right. Arrested, on the lam, got lost in the Arctic on his way to Antarctica, which I admit would be more helpful if the man carried a compass. Maybe I should have gotten you a more practical Christmas present. Instead of a lifetime supply of I Can't Believe It's Not Butter, because there's no doubt that anybody actually believes that you're any better than most of the men who's bodies I've crushed on my way to the top of the XWF, I should have gotten you a nice compass and map and a book on orienteering. We could call you the wayward scout, Brandon Moore.

You can call me Scoutmaster Bourbon, Troop Wreck Your Ass.

Did, uh, did you just make an allusion to being a scoutmaster waiting to wreck a scout's ass?

I did indeed.

Okay. Just making sure. Continue.

Then you just sit around in your hotel room naked, drawing a comic book of you winning the Hart Championship in your fantasy life.

He was naked when he wrote that adorable story?

Did you see him wearing pants? I didn't see him wearing pants. Just completely naked, covered in blood, red crayon up his ass, a stack of phone book pages he ripped out, probably because he's on fucking crack and snorting Comet powdered cleaner while the rest of Havoc, his goofy buddies, actually and actively want nothing to do with him whatsoever after a match and a turn of the gauntlet from Reeve "I'll be gone as soon as you notice" Alexander and Kid "Well, here I went again!" Kool and Snow towards the silly three of you. Seriously, you all get your ass whooped, and I mean whooped on, by some of the most overhyped bullshit, quote unquote "talent" in the XWF, and your answer to it all is playing with a leftover fucking crayon you found in the hotel lobby while looking for dropped pills in the cushions of a couch.

You couldn't even address the fucking Universe properly. Jesus tits.

I don't really have tits, Robbie.

Whatever, can you just, you know, get me to Antarctica, we'd save a ton on gas, carbon footprint, yadda yadda.

Oh, so one of those one set of footprints moments?

Indeed.

Well, what do you mean by failing to address the Universe properly?

Well, did you see that silly bullshit when he got on the boat? Those people were so disappointed, they were expecting something bigger, better, not butter.

It was pretty weak sauce.

Weak sauce? Wow, hold on.

Robbie pulls his phone out of his pocket and puts it to his ear. He nods, then sets the phone away from his face.

It's two-thousand and seven.

He puts the phone back to his face and turns away from Jesus. He nods.

Yes.

He sets the phone down at his side and turns back to Jesus.

They say Hi.

He puts the phone back to his head while staring at Jesus, nodding twice. He puts his phone in his pocket.

They want their sauce back. They say try a new one. Get off of their ketchup, it ain't cutting the mustard.

Well, I was pretty big around the beginning of the forward moving calendar, pardon me if I'm a tad pastiche.

True. Did you know that Brandon Moore also called me out for having Broadway music as my entrance theme as a wrestler?

What?

Yeah, not that there's anything wrong with Broadway music, just me.

He's a ]

[color=#FF6347]I know, Jesus, I know.

You've never come out to show tunes.

Huh?

I paid attention for you. You've come out to some different songs. I don't know why you walked to the ring while "Sympathy For The Devil" played, we're pals.

I know, I know, it was cool sounding.

I liked your original music, that lively jazz ensemble.

Oh, yeah, they were pretty sweet, but looked at me like I was nuts when I told them I was using them as my entrance music.

So you went with classical.

That's right.

So now he's doing even more to hype you up and your match by saying you'll have a new entrance song?

I, uh, guess. I found something from some guy who sounds like he's done something for every movie soundtrack since 2011, I like him. But I guess show tunes...

Robbie pulls his phone back out and for reals uses it because he uses his hands on it to turn the screen on with a swipe and starts rapidly tapping away with his thumbs.

Are you finding some show tunes to walk out to?

I'm finding some show tunes to walk out to.

Good man, good, good man. I may not sound modest in saying so, but I suggest Me, Superstar.

No. I need something that screams what Robbie Bourbon is all about.

Robbie smirks as he confidently finishes his handsy salvo against the face of his smart phone with an emphasized point of his right index finger, signifying sent, as he slides his phone back into his pocket.

Well, are you ready?

Ready for what?

Jesus wiggles his nose just like Samantha from Bewitched. In a flash and five strokes on a piano keyboard, Robbie is thousands of feet above the Antarctic ocean, plummeting towards a ship.

Rock on! Hell yeah, bombs away, bitches!

Robbie pins his arms to his sides as he closes his legs tightly, pointing his connected toes skyward to give him even more momentum heading into the cruise liner hosting Warfare this Wednesday.

Sure, Chris Chaos has passed around a few bloody tampons, Brandon Moore may have walked into a brawl of our drunkest, most hopped up fans doing anything to stay warm, but here comes the real deal motherfucking boat rocker.

As Robbie plummets, we see a series of fireworks going off from the ship, most of which are nailing Robbie head on. They explode, cascading with illuminating violets, blues, reds, golds, and greens, slowing Robbie down as he makes it towards the deck of the ship. A mighty blast of twelve mortars pings Robbie, sending him keeling, just feet above the heads of the XWF fans below on the deck of the ship. As the twelve mortars ricochet skyward and detonate in bright orange, the fans catch Robbie.

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

The people all start to shuttle Robbie's body towards a staircase, and Robbie is giving high fives while swatting stray fingers away from his butt hole while crowdsurfing on the XWF Universe after being teleported by Jesus Christ to Antarctica and then shot down by very precise pyrotechnics. Eventually, Robbie is set on a staircase. He turns.

HELLO XWF!!

The people go wild!

I'm here to wreck Brandon Moore!

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

Brandon Moore's mother left him to work at Darla's Diner, blowing truckers and cops for cocaine, the pinker the finer, till one day she went missing and for six years they couldn't find her, until they looked in the woods by the tree house of some minor. When they found the corpse they didn't need an autopsy or dissection, they identified the bitch by the stench of her yeast infection. That whole damn town stuck their dick in that midsection, and got blowjobs from the whore when John Kerry lost his election, sucking every drop of seed from every filthy erection, hoping, Brandon, beyond hope she would taste a sperm that would produce a better man than you.

Now her killer didn't go out and not get caught, they found the perpetrator they sought, on the bones and the rotted skin there was sperm, quite a lot, so they ran a DNA test on one of those spots, and when they saw the results, you know who they got? Brandon Moore, beating his own dick to his dead lost mother while still sniffing her shit stained, graveworn panties and shoving a few fossilized spinal sections up his fucking ass to pleasure his prostate.

Hoping one day, he'd be good enough for her to love him.

Instead, Robbie Motherfucking Bourbon come to collect on your ass, spewing the high heat that can't be beat because it's molten poison taking away your legs, your arms, your body, your mind, and all that's left is a soul. The faint wisp of a memory, a thought of your being, floating somewhere else, and who gives a fuck where that is after all is said and done. Nobody considers the nail when it has been driven, sir, when the screw has been fully turned, sir, or the concrete when set, sir. When I'm finished working, all the Universe will be able to say is you were another job I finished.

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