(FADE-IN: Joe the Plumber sits, peeling an apple with a filthy hunting knife. As he feeds himself apple slices, the juice running down his chin, through his unkempt beard, his eyes remain transfixed on the camera in front of him. He continues to meticulously scalp the piece of fruit held captive in his calloused hand, as a retarded parrot in the background hangs upside down in its cage, squawking annoyingly.)
JTP: "It never ends. Always got some nobody chirpin' me. Chirp chirp chirpin' away. Tryin' to get some shine off the BOUSE. So I oblige. I play their fuckin' game. And then what happens? Ol' Joe ends their career without even having to step foot in the ring. Verbal homicide. An absolute murking. A self-esteem raping, name tarnishing, suicide inducing trip through the proverbial meatgrinder.
"People always say to me, they say, 'Joe, you must get tired of constantly abusing motherfuckers' psyches with your brand of explicit, hard-as-fuck, up-to-your-elbow mental molestation.' And to that I say, 'Meh. Keeps me fit.' Not really, though. I mean, comin' up with creative ways to call someone a cocksucker ain't exactly runnin' the five-minute mile. I wish it were. Ol' Joe'd be the most in-shape motherfucker on the planet!
"Now, a few minutes ago, I was gettin' ready to eat some fuckin' pasta… A big, ol' plate of the shit. First real meal I've had all week. Ordinarilly, Ol' Joe orders up ten or twelve of them cheesesteak sandwiches from the greasy joint down the street. Half hour later they're digesting in a vat of bubbling bile in my stomach. Tonight, however, I went all out. Ol' Joe went all out. He grated the cheese, even cut the mold off (I'm savin' that for later). Then, went and boiled the water. Little cloudy but whatever. Then, tossed in a bunch of seashells—never had pasta before but I presume that's what those tomato sauce-smellin' Dago fucks are eatin' in the movies. Fuck if I know." (Shrug.) "Anyway, I was just about to sit down to a nice meal of seashell 'pasta' in a lukewarm, expired mayo sauce, when some cunt I don't even like calls me up on the phone and tells me that some nobody named Jared Wells has called me out."
(Joe palms his face, and sighs.)
JTP: "You wanna call out plumbers? You really think that's such a good idea? I know you ain't got a lot of shit goin' for you, but c'mon! You want to wear a shirt that says 'Daddy'? Well, okay. Ol' Joe will save your kids from the late-night penis-jousting sessions you subjet 'em to. He'll come to EPW, that fuckin' piece of garbage fed with its limp-wristed, blonde queer of a champion, and slap the cock out of your cum-glazed fingertips.
"You might be the tough guy where you're from, but up here… at the top… they know a little better. They hear the Greasy Goblin marchin' down the hallway, nine-inch honger slappin' against his knees like a war drum, and they fuckin' scurry like rats out of his path of destruction.
"Ol' Joe's undefeated. I've said it a thousand times, but for you, Jared Wells, I'll say it one more time: Ol' Joe's undefeated. Against tough competition. Not the skinny jean-wearing, sex-offender registry you have over there in EPW.
"You call yourself a four-time world heavyweight champion, and Ol' Joe can't help but laugh. You wouldn't be a considered a heavyweight in NFW. I don't care if you're soaking wet, drenched from head to toe… fresh out of the communal fountain of steaming ejaculate generously donated by your EPW brothren. We're talkin' straight outta some X-rated gay-porn adaptation of the Fast Times At Ridgemont High pool scene. Semenlogged. Still… still… you'd be a lightweight. Unable to contend with the best and the baddest NFW has to offer. Throwin' empty punches, stompin' around like some tantrum-takin' child with a diaper full of piss and shit, and no one would even bat an eye, no one would even notice you. Why? `Cause EPW's Little League; NFW's the Bigs. UGHNNNNNNNNNN!
"You keep swingin' for the ball perched atop the tee, can't get a hit, perpetually missin', while Ol' Joe smashes `em outta the park every. single. time.
"You want Ol' Joe? Come to NFW. No fuckin' way I'm lending my fanbase to your shitty fuckin' fed. I'm outta the slums, no way I'm goin' back! The king doesn't travel to the peasants; he sits on his throne and watches them grovel. I'll put the NFW World Heavyweight Title on the line… on some house show, of course… and I'll whoop your ass! You'll go crawlin' back to EPW, your tail between your legs (since ya ain't got no dick, obviously), and they'll all slap you sweaty fives, waiting with bated breath for you to tell the tale of when you fought the great and powerful Joe the Plumber, the grimiest, most well-known, most dominant champion of all time! They'll see your bruises, your scars, your mangled facial features… limbs torn off and replaced with purple dildos… and they'll heave a sigh of relief… because at one time they dared to contemplate a match with the Filth Fiend, the Sucka-Free fuckin' BOUSE, but luckily they didn't act upon such foolish thoughts! And there, seated before them, will be the consequences of their actions… tangible… the coppery smell of blood in the air… ego snuffed out like a candle…
"It'd be fun consuming your dignity."
(JTP smiles. His remaining teeth separate as his mouth opens wide, and like a door opening to a soundproof room, the screams of small children and grown men emanate, horrifying cocked ears and dog-eared cocks alike.)
"Get at Eddie Mayfield; that is, if he'll even take the call of some nonentity such as yourself. Ol' Joe'll be waiting, table set, silverware in hand. Get on my plate, motherfucker, I's hungggrrrrrryyyyyyyyyy!
"UGHNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNN!"
(FTB)
JTP: "It never ends. Always got some nobody chirpin' me. Chirp chirp chirpin' away. Tryin' to get some shine off the BOUSE. So I oblige. I play their fuckin' game. And then what happens? Ol' Joe ends their career without even having to step foot in the ring. Verbal homicide. An absolute murking. A self-esteem raping, name tarnishing, suicide inducing trip through the proverbial meatgrinder.
"People always say to me, they say, 'Joe, you must get tired of constantly abusing motherfuckers' psyches with your brand of explicit, hard-as-fuck, up-to-your-elbow mental molestation.' And to that I say, 'Meh. Keeps me fit.' Not really, though. I mean, comin' up with creative ways to call someone a cocksucker ain't exactly runnin' the five-minute mile. I wish it were. Ol' Joe'd be the most in-shape motherfucker on the planet!
"Now, a few minutes ago, I was gettin' ready to eat some fuckin' pasta… A big, ol' plate of the shit. First real meal I've had all week. Ordinarilly, Ol' Joe orders up ten or twelve of them cheesesteak sandwiches from the greasy joint down the street. Half hour later they're digesting in a vat of bubbling bile in my stomach. Tonight, however, I went all out. Ol' Joe went all out. He grated the cheese, even cut the mold off (I'm savin' that for later). Then, went and boiled the water. Little cloudy but whatever. Then, tossed in a bunch of seashells—never had pasta before but I presume that's what those tomato sauce-smellin' Dago fucks are eatin' in the movies. Fuck if I know." (Shrug.) "Anyway, I was just about to sit down to a nice meal of seashell 'pasta' in a lukewarm, expired mayo sauce, when some cunt I don't even like calls me up on the phone and tells me that some nobody named Jared Wells has called me out."
(Joe palms his face, and sighs.)
JTP: "You wanna call out plumbers? You really think that's such a good idea? I know you ain't got a lot of shit goin' for you, but c'mon! You want to wear a shirt that says 'Daddy'? Well, okay. Ol' Joe will save your kids from the late-night penis-jousting sessions you subjet 'em to. He'll come to EPW, that fuckin' piece of garbage fed with its limp-wristed, blonde queer of a champion, and slap the cock out of your cum-glazed fingertips.
"You might be the tough guy where you're from, but up here… at the top… they know a little better. They hear the Greasy Goblin marchin' down the hallway, nine-inch honger slappin' against his knees like a war drum, and they fuckin' scurry like rats out of his path of destruction.
"Ol' Joe's undefeated. I've said it a thousand times, but for you, Jared Wells, I'll say it one more time: Ol' Joe's undefeated. Against tough competition. Not the skinny jean-wearing, sex-offender registry you have over there in EPW.
"You call yourself a four-time world heavyweight champion, and Ol' Joe can't help but laugh. You wouldn't be a considered a heavyweight in NFW. I don't care if you're soaking wet, drenched from head to toe… fresh out of the communal fountain of steaming ejaculate generously donated by your EPW brothren. We're talkin' straight outta some X-rated gay-porn adaptation of the Fast Times At Ridgemont High pool scene. Semenlogged. Still… still… you'd be a lightweight. Unable to contend with the best and the baddest NFW has to offer. Throwin' empty punches, stompin' around like some tantrum-takin' child with a diaper full of piss and shit, and no one would even bat an eye, no one would even notice you. Why? `Cause EPW's Little League; NFW's the Bigs. UGHNNNNNNNNNN!
"You keep swingin' for the ball perched atop the tee, can't get a hit, perpetually missin', while Ol' Joe smashes `em outta the park every. single. time.
"You want Ol' Joe? Come to NFW. No fuckin' way I'm lending my fanbase to your shitty fuckin' fed. I'm outta the slums, no way I'm goin' back! The king doesn't travel to the peasants; he sits on his throne and watches them grovel. I'll put the NFW World Heavyweight Title on the line… on some house show, of course… and I'll whoop your ass! You'll go crawlin' back to EPW, your tail between your legs (since ya ain't got no dick, obviously), and they'll all slap you sweaty fives, waiting with bated breath for you to tell the tale of when you fought the great and powerful Joe the Plumber, the grimiest, most well-known, most dominant champion of all time! They'll see your bruises, your scars, your mangled facial features… limbs torn off and replaced with purple dildos… and they'll heave a sigh of relief… because at one time they dared to contemplate a match with the Filth Fiend, the Sucka-Free fuckin' BOUSE, but luckily they didn't act upon such foolish thoughts! And there, seated before them, will be the consequences of their actions… tangible… the coppery smell of blood in the air… ego snuffed out like a candle…
"It'd be fun consuming your dignity."
(JTP smiles. His remaining teeth separate as his mouth opens wide, and like a door opening to a soundproof room, the screams of small children and grown men emanate, horrifying cocked ears and dog-eared cocks alike.)
"Get at Eddie Mayfield; that is, if he'll even take the call of some nonentity such as yourself. Ol' Joe'll be waiting, table set, silverware in hand. Get on my plate, motherfucker, I's hungggrrrrrryyyyyyyyyy!
"UGHNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNN!"
(FTB)
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