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Introducing Your Soon-To-Be World Champ... A True "Man-of-the-World."


League Member
Jan 1, 2000
(FADE-IN: A tall, tanned, barrel-chested man, with a Fabio-esque flowing shoulder-length mane, stands confidently before a mural of a setting sun and several undressed women painted on a brick wall. Arms extended outward on each side, blue and yellow tassels hanging limp from his biceps, Bruce Springsteen-style plaid vest open and shrugged partially off his shoulders, the man turns his attention to the camera. There’s something disarmingly fetching about the man’s perfectly symmetrical profile and square jaw that draws your attention, and you wonder, if only for a second, if maybe, just maybe, you might be gay.

You are. For him. For...

WANDERLUST! Mystic-wanderer and explorer of places and women!

Let’s get to it.)

WANDERLUST: “Aloha, torpid couch potatoes! Please, sit back down and return to your sluggish state of idle⎯wouldn’t want you to pull something! You need not adjust your television sets⎯rest assured, everything is fine; what you’re viewing is, in fact, very real, and not a side effect of the bathtub-brewed meth you smoked just prior. It’s difficult to imagine, a body so perfectly sculpted, a face so... uh... perfectly sculpted! ... but it’s real⎯honest-to-Columbus, it’s real!

“First impressions are everything, so, with that said, allow Wanderlust to properly introduce... WANDERLUST! And allow me to deliver my “elevator pitch.” I’ve made wet, passionate love to the faces of over 5,000 so-called “unavailable” women, on the sandy beaches of over 5,000 continents! I stand here afflicted with over 5,000 different venereal diseases; and no, I do not use, nor have I ever used, prophylactics. You see, I do not carry a wallet and my pockets have been permanently sewn shut⎯the work of a trickster tailor bent on ruining Wanderlust by craftily putting a stop to his nickel-accumulating ways! Nevertheless, I shant speak of that flandering freebee-giving prostitute of a seamstress! With pockets hushed, where would I tote such as deplorable instrument of pleasure reduction? ...I shall stand here for the next 5,000 milliseconds and await your answer!”

(Wanderlust gazes absentmindedly off to the side, his ocean blue eyes squinted, deep in thought; or rather, in reminiscence of his seventh-ever public six-some. It should be noted, however, that, in Wanderlust’s opinion, an orgy is only considered to have transpired when two-thirds of the town, village, or metropolitan area has been participative in the act. He holds himself to a higher standard than most.)

WANDERLUST: “Time has expired and you’ve all failed to answer my question! Therefore, it shall be concluded that, YES, Wanderlust’s lustrous salad has flourished for NINE years, not eight! Did you hear that, Duke Brunostein? That’s 63 dog-years YOUNG!”

(Wanderlust’s arms cross over his chest, while a proud smirk forms on his face.

All of a sudden, Wanderlust’s sorta-kinda-but-not-really manager and tirade-transcriber TRASHY ROMANCE emerges on-screen, out of breath. His paisley pattern button-up shirt fully open, he clutches a tiny, black journal to his naturally hairless chest.)

TRASHY: “So sorry I’m late, Lusty, but traffic was a real slut! Like, it was bent over the bar, chattin’ up the boys, tits peeking out from its whore-hoop shirt!”

(Wanderlust nods understandingly and playfully ruffles Trashy Romance’s already messy ‘do.)

WANDERLUST: “That’s why I mosey, meander, or strut (but never, EVER saunter) to locations requiring my presence! You’ve missed many a sentence and therefore they have been lost to history forever! For shame, young, unpunctual Trashy! For shame!”

TRASHY: “Well, actually, this is being taped...”

WANDERLUST: “OH, I see, so my exploits will be captured via film from now on...?”

TRASHY: “Yeah.”

(Wanderlust pinches his bum chin, thinking.)

WANDERLUST: “...So, why do I need you around mucking in my sordid affairs?

(Trashy, recoiling from his mentor’s hurtful rhetorical statement, fumbles with his thick-rimmed geek glasses for a moment, before stuttering and stammering a half-baked response...)

TRASHY: “I, er, uh... wait...

“You don’t pay me, so what’s the big deal?”

(Wanderlust ponders this for a second. Like really ponders. Hard. For 5,000 milliseconds he ponders Trashy’s statement, and then...)

WANDERLUST: “Well, make yourself useful! Flag me a gentlewoman, not too loosey-goosey, and we’ll call a spade a spade; bygones be bye-bye. OR I’LL TOSS YOU WITH A HIP-TOSS! ...Kidding! I’m sailing to some poor, undeveloped country tomorrow, and I don’t want to accidently tweak my toned, rippled back! You can just front-flip yourself onto the concrete! AND TAKE THE BUMP WITH SOME OOMPH!”

(Trashy, downcast and disappointed in himself, takes a moment to psyche himself up, before performing a sloppy front-flip that lands him with a SPLAT! on the cold, unforgiving concrete floor! He... doesn’t get up at first; instead, writhing in a supine position, gasping for air.)

WANDERLUST: “Almost as amusing as the time I saw a VHS inserted in a woman’s vaginal canal. Except not even close, at all. Wanderlust out!”

(Wanderlust triumphantly marches off in search of his next great adventure. Moments later, he returns on-screen, pointing a truculent forefinger.)

WANDERLUST: “NLW... lock up your daughters; shove your wives into the crawl space! If they possess especially feminine features, you may even want to hide your bitched sons! For the Scourge of Monogamy is coming! Coming for every piece of untouched vag you’ve been saving for a rainy day! Rainy days ahead! I shall venture to the farthest corners of the earth, collect many bountiful treasures, get my dick wet in the process, and on weekends, when I’m home, I’ll win your most glimmering-est of prizes! The big one!

“Trashy, let’s take to our heels! It’s time to be off!”

(Wanderlust wanders off... as the scene FTB.)
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