"Roger and Borden are the reigning and defending Anarchy Tag Team Champions, they won the belts and no shit, beat us on the way, TK. We, however, are the still reigning, still defending, still known as the greatest tag team in history, and history shows we don't have a perfect record. We came out and lost our first two matches."

"We became prolific."

"We will again."

"Roger and Borden sure as fuck will never be us, and goddamnit, TK, we need to and will beat that into the fucking bodies of them. We will spill their blood, break their bones, and rend their flesh in the name of the Bastardly Father. Feel it? You fucking will, and the pain will destroy you, Roger, and it will cripple Jake."

"Oh, brotherest of Knuckles. This here is an old school REVIVAL for the senses, spirit, and soul. This is how we bear the fruits of the Bastardly Father, as well we ought, for it is the 4th year of his word, and that is of sheer eons, of pure limitless nonlinear existence, not here, not when, but always."

"Welcome to judgment."

Roger is the kind of man who could fumble an orgasm alone in a locked room. He’s not just emotionally constipated, he’s spiritually fucking bankrupt. A man so void of goddamn charisma, he makes beige wallpaper look like a Vegas headliner. Every time he speaks, it feels like getting mansplained by a broken Roomba. "My name is Roger."

TK gives his signature, yet not used lately, jerking-off hand gesture.

That's great, isn't it? Give me a fucking break. You sound like someone naming themselves for the first time after being thawed from one of Ozzy's failed cryo-sleep startup incubators.

"I built those cryo-sleep startup incubators; if we thaw them any faster, their nipples fall off."

This is a man who thinks "feeling deeply" means whispering pseudo-philosophical horseshit while looking off-screen like a bootleg Wes Anderson character. Roger’s idea of intimacy is staring off into space dramatically. He doesn’t connect, he uploads facial expressions in low bandwidth and prays you download the fucking meaning. If sadness were a currency, Roger would be the Venezuelan Bolivar. I've heard more emotional range in a voicemail my fucking dentist left. Ned Kaye would be proud if he were around.

The worst part? He thinks he's saving something. Like he's the fragile, tragic hero of a digital opera no one bought tickets for. You’re not Neo, Rog. You’re Clippy, trying to help write a suicide note in Comic Sans. Sarah Lacklan called and wants to file infringement charges. Get the fuck outta here.

Jake, on the other hand, is a human energy drink that’s been left open in a public restroom, attracting flies. Everything about him screams over-fucking-compensating. From the truck-stop fashion to the try-hard tough guy routine. He’s basically a motivational speaker who got banned from every middle school for yelling at janitors with his fly unzipped.

Jake delivers lines like he’s cosplaying his unresolved trauma. He’s the kind of guy who gets into a bar fight with his damn reflection. “You just cut 27 minutes of HOT PROMO FIRE.” What you actually need is the Bastardly Father because that wasn’t fire, that was a verbal garage sale, at best. He sounds like a Twitch streamer trying to explain masculinity during a power outage.

He walks around this mother fucker like an alpha male, but it’s all bark and no bite. The second Roger walks out, Jake turns into a wounded goddamned Chihuahua in a leather jacket. He doesn’t care about Roger; he needs him, like a parasite needs a host that makes bad decisions. Jake’s entire personality is just being around Roger. Take Roger away, and Jake is just a discarded vape and a pair of tights with some cum stains.

"Yeah, but whose cum?"

TK shakes his head ‘no’ dismissively.

Together, they’re not a cold, calculated tag team; Nah, they’re a therapy session in fucking denial. One wants to be understood, the other wants to be adored, and neither has the spine to admit they’re just scared little fuck-boys hiding inside failed personas. They think they’re rewriting the rules of the world. Pfft, bitch please, they’re just playing in the ashes of their championship run.

End the simulation. Block their IPs. Wipe the server because if WE want to reboot the world. We’ll have to start by unplugging these two half-wits. Nothing is more pathetic than two simp-ass losers butt fucking metaphors until they cry episodically.

"Oh, unless they’re making butt-fucking metaphors. Beavis and Butt-Head at least had nuance, when these two fucking jokers get together it ain’t a pair of wild cards at all. Hey, TK, did you know there’s no robots in human sports? It’s illegal, so if they plan on transitioning a robot in our match…"

Wait, Bobby, you really need to stop goofing off.

"Fuck, bro, I’m not, these clowns are why I stopped taking shit seriously anyhow, and now we course correct! Seriously…"

That Promo where Roger and Jake forcibly transitioned a robot. Said:WHAM! Bursting through the auditorium’s ceiling…

A FIRE-RED TWENTY-FOOT-TALL ROBOT!

…With a… gaping hole in its… crotch-region.

Wait, what?

"Yeah, they met a robot with a vagina and called it a gaping hole in it’s crotch-region."

Those fucking sexist pigs.

"That’s not all…"

That Same Promo where Roger and Jake forcibly transitioned a robot. Said:Gripping the rod like a battering ram!

The robot swings rapidly!

They dodge!

Dive!

DICK!

”NOOOOOOOOOOOOO!”

The dick clicks into the port!

”I FEEL…”

…The Red Robot…

”WHOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOLE!”

Turns Pink!

"They forcibly transitioned a robot with a C-List actor, TK."

"For that, I’m going to fucking annihilate these dickheads."

Bobby, I think that was all a metaphor for how if…

"For if someone was actually true to their nature they’d be more successful? Yeah, I fucking know, bro, and it’s high time I got out of first gear. Someone woke the fucking bear, and it was these absolutely mental windowlickers. Look here, chimps. For starters, the XWF deserves a better fucking breed of champion than either of you. These two are, at best, skidmarks, because they ain’t shit. If you want to exploit time travel, pocket dimensions, and Dr. Who knock-off bullshit, on down to metaphorical knock-off bullshit of who your opponents are, on April 17, be anywhere but Spain and have a fucking session with Bob Whiskey and Lightning Hands."

"Most people in the XWF are really fucking successful when going up against paltry, and at best, unimaginatively cheap analogues of real talent, and if I’ve seen it once, I’ve seen it fifty times a year since I got here ten fucking years ago. Check the XWF website, you will see a list of names there, I don’t mean the Hall of Legends, I don’t mean the top 50, I mean the whole history of people who have wrestled here, and at least 90% of the fucking names you see there have gone up against a Wally Whiskey or a Tingle Toes in their lifetime. By all means, boys, I want you to gear up thinking you’ve got a fart’s chance in a wind tunnel of retaining those belts by sparring with the Temu brand of Bastards."

You know what Us No Good Bastards has that Roger and Jake never will? Stakes. Not bullshit emotional stakes either. The real deal stakes. Life and death. Bar fights. A dude gets drowned in a urinal and you believe it. Meanwhile, Roger starts crying because Jake forgot his birthday, let alone remember conceiving him. Boo-fucking-hoo. Grow up, Peter Pan and suck it the fuck up.

Us No Good Bastards don’t waste time cryin’ about who hurt who and whose chakras are all fucked up. We light a fuse and destroy shit with flair. We steal trucks, and scream shit like ‘I hope you choke on your mother’s massive clit!’ that’s goddamn drama, baby! We're Shakespeare with a chainsaw!

We Bastards got grit, balls más grande. Dirt under our nails. Gunpowder in our veins fueling every move we deliver. Every line we spit could punch a hole through lead. These ass-mites don’t need a fucking therapist, I got it all wrong. No, they need a goddamn exorcism. Oh, and we're exercising those belts off them fuckers.

We ain’t just gonna beat Roger and Jake.  Fuck that, we’re gonna ruin ‘em. Break their goddamn spirits, burn their pasts, slash futures, and salt the fucking earth behind ‘em. By the time Anarchy is over, Roger’ll be begging for his life, all like "Hi, I'm Roger, please don't kill me", and Jake’ll be facing down a shotgun on live TV, wondering where it all went wrong.

"Secondly, to touch on what you said, bro, is Anarchy deserves a better brand of champions. Pay attention as hard as you can, take a Ritalin or five if you have to, call in fucking Zach Braff or Thomas Haden Church to explain it to you using pictures or interpretive fucking dance while you zap in time to Hiroshima or the Hindenburg or something else that’s considerably less tragic than either of your existences. Shit, TK, hold on, watch, we’re actually going to do what I called them out for right now, we’re going to deal with a knockoff of Borden and Roger."

TK holds up a trash can, the old school metal kind that only ever appears on wrestling shows it seems. Bobby takes the bag of trash out of the can.

"Welp, Jake, bye bye!"

Bobby tosses the garbage off-screen. He then reaches down and pulls a yet-unseen hose from the ground as TK holds up the trash can at a 90-degree angle, the opening facing the camera. Bobby sprays the inside, the scum and filth flowing out of it as he does.

"Damn, we’re getting Roger all over the fucking ground."

The camera zooms out. We see Bobby and TK are actually in the parking lot of a strip mall. Behind them is a storefront with a tarp covering the signage. Jimmy approaches.

Uh, that was a good promo, but aren’t you guys here to do a commercial for your new business?

TK slaps Jimmy so hard that a single tear runs down his face.

"Jimmy, shut the fuck up, I will break your goddamned thumbs, now is not the time."

Bobby breathes heavily from his nostrils.

"But you’re right."

Jimmy walks off, looking confused.

"Folks, these days, one of the most terrifying things to think about is a woman’s autonomy, their right to choose. Sometimes complications arise, and, well, you have to have a procedure to abort a baby. Those complications can be financial, or even health related."

That’s fuckin’ right, Bobby. The thing is, it’s 2025, maybe it’s time to consider a father’s right to choose, too! Sometimes booting someone down the stairs leads to unforeseen injuries, and protecting the sanctity of gushing inside while raw dogging it is one of the most sacred tenets of the Bastardly Father.

Bobby nods.

"Correct TK, not that most of the incels watching this would know what that feels like. Well, we have a solution for you!"

Jimmy pulls a rope, which removes the tarp, and we see signs for “Unplanned Parenthood”.

Unplanned Parenthood!

An audio recording of Nyan cat saying “WOW!!!” plays.

"The clinic can be a cold, unwelcoming place, but here at Unplanned Parenthood, we have real leather sofas, several regulation-sized pool tables and a full 18-hole miniature golf course. Sink your balls, then come sink ours! All that and a casual dining environment!"

Clean out that womb after cleaning your plate of our signature barbecue spring rolls and enjoying something from our wonderful cocktail menu.

"That’s right! Not only that, but our clinic produces no waste whatsoever, turning those unintentional embryos into farm-to-fork fresh stem cells, which we also convert into some of the best dietary supplements ever innovated! Only at Unplanned Parenthood!"

Go ahead, bust inside her BEFORE going to dinner this Friday!