Post by Jay O'Brien on Jan 23, 2007 16:21:54 GMT -5
[Start.]
“Hey Jay! Guess what I got?!”
[We fade up to see Jay O’Brien’s brother, retired wrestler “Awesome” Andy O’Brien with a brown paper bag in his hand. He holds it up and waves it about, like bait. Jay, lying flat out on the couch in their Edmonton apartment, barely looks up from the television.]
AOB: Well?
JOB: Well what?
AOB: Guess what it is!
[Andy grins like a child, excited and expectant. Jay sighs like an adult, bored and tired. You’d never guess Andy was Jay’s older brother...]
JOB: I dunno... What?
AOB: Guess!
[Jay sighs again, and sits up. He flicks the TV off and looks at the bag.]
JOB: KFC?
[He jokes, dryly.]
AOB: Nope! Come on, Jay, you can do better than that.
JOB: Look, I dunno, it could be anything. Is it really that exciting?
AOB: You God damn right it’s that exciting! This, Jay, is...
[Andy’s tongue protrudes from his mouth, as he slowly unfolds the bag. He reaches in, slowly, slowly... and pulls out… a burger?]
JOB: The (BLEEP) is that, a Big Mac?
AOB: That’s right, Jay, I got us a couple of Big Mac’s!
[Jay looks perplexed. Then just plain pissed off that he wasted ten seconds of his life on that. Could you say... pointless?]
JOB: I don’t eat McDonald’s.
AOB: Huh?
JOB: I don’t eat fast food.
AOB: SINCE WHEN?
JOB: Since, you know, forever.
AOB: Oh wait, wait, I get it. You watched that stupid ‘Supersize Me’ shit, didn’t you?
JOB: No.
AOB: Yes you did. You watched that shit and you got brainwashed by it.
[Jay turns away. He flicks the TV back on.]
AOB: That’s dumb, Jay.
JOB: Whatever.
AOB: You can’t expect me to eat TWO?
JOB: I don’t really care what you do.
AOB: Geez... you’re such a drag, li’l bro.
[Jay shakes his head, puts in his hands.]
JOB: Andy... I’ve got better things to do with my life than eat McDonald’s, all right?
AOB: Yeah, sure, Jay... like sit there and watch TV?
[Jay doesn’t respond.]
AOB: You know, you need to chill out, Jay. Let your hair down every now and again.
JOB: I’m an athlete, Andy. We’re not all fast food junkies and booze hounds.
AOB: Yeah, yeah...
JOB: Yeah. Some of us take this shit seriously.
AOB: Too seriously.
[Jay glares at Andy.]
AOB: What’s wrong? Hit a nerve?
JOB: No, you didn’t hit a (BLEEP)ing nerve.
AOB: Then what?
JOB: Good God, Andy, I don’t want your (BLEEP)ing McDonald’s, what’s the big deal? Get over it. How can you make a drama out of me not wanting to eat your burger?
AOB: Because I bought you it.
JOB: Well thanks, but no thanks. I don’t eat McDonald’s. I happen to be one of the few people in the world that actually give a shit about their job. I happen to want to be the best. I’m not going to sit in front of everyone like some out of shape slob and eat junk and drink beer all day. What the (BLEEP) does that say about me? It says my life’s mundane, that I’ve got (BLEEP) all to do. Well, Andy, I’ve got things to do. Like weights. And jogging. Studying my craft. Bettering myself. Anything wrestler’s do, SERIOUS wrestlers. I don’t want to look like that piece of crap Krusty Kid Paul, whose daily highlights seem to include searching for irrelevant shit in his basement, kicking bums and eating KFC’s. Or McDonald’s. Or any other pointless, meaningless dribble. I don’t need to fill my promos with that trash. Okay?
[Andy looks aghast.]
AOB: Well excuse me for breathing!
JOB: Andy, just... just sit the (BLEEP) down. I’m watching last week’s TNF. You can help me study. You know, something worth-(BLEEP)ing-while. Right?
[Cut.]
[Back.]
[It’s promo time! Jay, a seat, and you. That’s all you need, that’s all you’re getting.]
JOB: Paul, buddy, did you even listen to one word I said, or did it all go in one ear and straight out the other? I mean, seriously, you try to help a brother out and all you get is the same old shit, only maybe the worst version of it you’ve ever seen. I try to let you in on the worst kept secret in pro wrestling and you just overlook it, giving some spiel about how you’re on your way to the top? Well, geez, Paul, where the hell did you get that idea? Perhaps it was the fact that last time we saw you on our television screens at an Action show, you were getting stomped? I don’t mean to keep droning on about it, but let’s face it... you might be picking up momentum, but it’s NOT in the direction you seem to think you’re headed.
JOB: I mean, let’s face it, you got crushed. Jumped from behind? Yeah, maybe. But hey, it’s nothing that might not happen in a match, is it? So if I jump you from behind this week, I’ll just pretty much kill you, and you’ll still be satisfied with it because you weren’t expecting it? That’ll be your excuse, and you’ll just sit there with that retarded drunken expression on your face and think you’ve made a good point? I mean, what the hell kinda logic is that, Paul? This is wrestling, these things happen. Usually, however, and I should really stress the usually, most people do a little bit of a better job defending themselves. You? Hell, you might as well have applied the lube to your ass yourself, the way you let Krenshov just take advantage of you like that. Shit, dude, it was embarrassing. And yet there you are, in all seriousness, and with all earnestness saying that I’m in your way to the top?
[Jay smirks.]
JOB: I don’t think that washes with ANYBODY, buddy. I mean, am I missing something here, or does getting squashed within seconds count as some kind of perverse tribute to a guy’s manliness around here? Regardless, you can play it down all you want, I really don’t care, you can claim that you weren’t a pawn in the game between Krenshov and Deathrow, even though, let’s face it, you clearly were – perhaps you don’t realize that in chess, pawns are the pieces fed to the other player so that the important ones can get closer to each other, but believe me, everybody else does – and you can puff your chest out and tell me that he was scared of you because he blindsided you, and that I’m scared of you because I called you some nasty names, but Christ, guy... all you’re doing is denying what’s so obviously true. That is to say, Paul, that however much you try and polish the god damn turd around you, it’s still pretty clear that you’re in the shit. Pardon the French.
[Wink.]
JOB: But yeah, all that aside, you’re right, I’m in your way to the top... I mean, you’re well on the way, aren’t you, Paul? That’s why you’re the first ‘name’, if you will, that’s getting fed to me. You, the drunken slob, you, the guy at the bottom of the ladder here in NAPW.
JOB: REALITY CHECK, ANYONE?!
JOB: Paul... the very fact that you come out here and admit that you don’t know anything about me, or who I am, yet you’re pretty sure I’m a jobber and you’re going to have your way with me, an assumption that you don’t seem to realize you’ve actually admitted is based on precisely (BLEEP) all at the same time – oh the irony! – just tells me everything I could pretty much guess about you anyway.
JOB: You’re out of your league. You don’t where you stand – as Marilyn Manson might put it, you can’t see the forest for the trees, and you can’t smell your own shit on your knees – you don’t know what I’m all about, you don’t know who I am, and, I quote, “couldn’t give a shit”, either, and yet above all this, on top of EVERYTHING...
JOB: ... You, the guy that thinks it’s a good idea to show himself eating KFC a few short days before his match, you, a self-admitted alcoholic, you, a guy who can’t be bothered to research his opponents, you, who seemingly don’t know the meaning of the word PREPARATION, are going to “bring me back to back to my birth”, as you so retardedly put it, are going to beat ME?
JOB: I don’t think so, honey.
[Jay smiles.]
[Out.]
“Hey Jay! Guess what I got?!”
[We fade up to see Jay O’Brien’s brother, retired wrestler “Awesome” Andy O’Brien with a brown paper bag in his hand. He holds it up and waves it about, like bait. Jay, lying flat out on the couch in their Edmonton apartment, barely looks up from the television.]
AOB: Well?
JOB: Well what?
AOB: Guess what it is!
[Andy grins like a child, excited and expectant. Jay sighs like an adult, bored and tired. You’d never guess Andy was Jay’s older brother...]
JOB: I dunno... What?
AOB: Guess!
[Jay sighs again, and sits up. He flicks the TV off and looks at the bag.]
JOB: KFC?
[He jokes, dryly.]
AOB: Nope! Come on, Jay, you can do better than that.
JOB: Look, I dunno, it could be anything. Is it really that exciting?
AOB: You God damn right it’s that exciting! This, Jay, is...
[Andy’s tongue protrudes from his mouth, as he slowly unfolds the bag. He reaches in, slowly, slowly... and pulls out… a burger?]
JOB: The (BLEEP) is that, a Big Mac?
AOB: That’s right, Jay, I got us a couple of Big Mac’s!
[Jay looks perplexed. Then just plain pissed off that he wasted ten seconds of his life on that. Could you say... pointless?]
JOB: I don’t eat McDonald’s.
AOB: Huh?
JOB: I don’t eat fast food.
AOB: SINCE WHEN?
JOB: Since, you know, forever.
AOB: Oh wait, wait, I get it. You watched that stupid ‘Supersize Me’ shit, didn’t you?
JOB: No.
AOB: Yes you did. You watched that shit and you got brainwashed by it.
[Jay turns away. He flicks the TV back on.]
AOB: That’s dumb, Jay.
JOB: Whatever.
AOB: You can’t expect me to eat TWO?
JOB: I don’t really care what you do.
AOB: Geez... you’re such a drag, li’l bro.
[Jay shakes his head, puts in his hands.]
JOB: Andy... I’ve got better things to do with my life than eat McDonald’s, all right?
AOB: Yeah, sure, Jay... like sit there and watch TV?
[Jay doesn’t respond.]
AOB: You know, you need to chill out, Jay. Let your hair down every now and again.
JOB: I’m an athlete, Andy. We’re not all fast food junkies and booze hounds.
AOB: Yeah, yeah...
JOB: Yeah. Some of us take this shit seriously.
AOB: Too seriously.
[Jay glares at Andy.]
AOB: What’s wrong? Hit a nerve?
JOB: No, you didn’t hit a (BLEEP)ing nerve.
AOB: Then what?
JOB: Good God, Andy, I don’t want your (BLEEP)ing McDonald’s, what’s the big deal? Get over it. How can you make a drama out of me not wanting to eat your burger?
AOB: Because I bought you it.
JOB: Well thanks, but no thanks. I don’t eat McDonald’s. I happen to be one of the few people in the world that actually give a shit about their job. I happen to want to be the best. I’m not going to sit in front of everyone like some out of shape slob and eat junk and drink beer all day. What the (BLEEP) does that say about me? It says my life’s mundane, that I’ve got (BLEEP) all to do. Well, Andy, I’ve got things to do. Like weights. And jogging. Studying my craft. Bettering myself. Anything wrestler’s do, SERIOUS wrestlers. I don’t want to look like that piece of crap Krusty Kid Paul, whose daily highlights seem to include searching for irrelevant shit in his basement, kicking bums and eating KFC’s. Or McDonald’s. Or any other pointless, meaningless dribble. I don’t need to fill my promos with that trash. Okay?
[Andy looks aghast.]
AOB: Well excuse me for breathing!
JOB: Andy, just... just sit the (BLEEP) down. I’m watching last week’s TNF. You can help me study. You know, something worth-(BLEEP)ing-while. Right?
[Cut.]
[Back.]
[It’s promo time! Jay, a seat, and you. That’s all you need, that’s all you’re getting.]
JOB: Paul, buddy, did you even listen to one word I said, or did it all go in one ear and straight out the other? I mean, seriously, you try to help a brother out and all you get is the same old shit, only maybe the worst version of it you’ve ever seen. I try to let you in on the worst kept secret in pro wrestling and you just overlook it, giving some spiel about how you’re on your way to the top? Well, geez, Paul, where the hell did you get that idea? Perhaps it was the fact that last time we saw you on our television screens at an Action show, you were getting stomped? I don’t mean to keep droning on about it, but let’s face it... you might be picking up momentum, but it’s NOT in the direction you seem to think you’re headed.
JOB: I mean, let’s face it, you got crushed. Jumped from behind? Yeah, maybe. But hey, it’s nothing that might not happen in a match, is it? So if I jump you from behind this week, I’ll just pretty much kill you, and you’ll still be satisfied with it because you weren’t expecting it? That’ll be your excuse, and you’ll just sit there with that retarded drunken expression on your face and think you’ve made a good point? I mean, what the hell kinda logic is that, Paul? This is wrestling, these things happen. Usually, however, and I should really stress the usually, most people do a little bit of a better job defending themselves. You? Hell, you might as well have applied the lube to your ass yourself, the way you let Krenshov just take advantage of you like that. Shit, dude, it was embarrassing. And yet there you are, in all seriousness, and with all earnestness saying that I’m in your way to the top?
[Jay smirks.]
JOB: I don’t think that washes with ANYBODY, buddy. I mean, am I missing something here, or does getting squashed within seconds count as some kind of perverse tribute to a guy’s manliness around here? Regardless, you can play it down all you want, I really don’t care, you can claim that you weren’t a pawn in the game between Krenshov and Deathrow, even though, let’s face it, you clearly were – perhaps you don’t realize that in chess, pawns are the pieces fed to the other player so that the important ones can get closer to each other, but believe me, everybody else does – and you can puff your chest out and tell me that he was scared of you because he blindsided you, and that I’m scared of you because I called you some nasty names, but Christ, guy... all you’re doing is denying what’s so obviously true. That is to say, Paul, that however much you try and polish the god damn turd around you, it’s still pretty clear that you’re in the shit. Pardon the French.
[Wink.]
JOB: But yeah, all that aside, you’re right, I’m in your way to the top... I mean, you’re well on the way, aren’t you, Paul? That’s why you’re the first ‘name’, if you will, that’s getting fed to me. You, the drunken slob, you, the guy at the bottom of the ladder here in NAPW.
JOB: REALITY CHECK, ANYONE?!
JOB: Paul... the very fact that you come out here and admit that you don’t know anything about me, or who I am, yet you’re pretty sure I’m a jobber and you’re going to have your way with me, an assumption that you don’t seem to realize you’ve actually admitted is based on precisely (BLEEP) all at the same time – oh the irony! – just tells me everything I could pretty much guess about you anyway.
JOB: You’re out of your league. You don’t where you stand – as Marilyn Manson might put it, you can’t see the forest for the trees, and you can’t smell your own shit on your knees – you don’t know what I’m all about, you don’t know who I am, and, I quote, “couldn’t give a shit”, either, and yet above all this, on top of EVERYTHING...
JOB: ... You, the guy that thinks it’s a good idea to show himself eating KFC a few short days before his match, you, a self-admitted alcoholic, you, a guy who can’t be bothered to research his opponents, you, who seemingly don’t know the meaning of the word PREPARATION, are going to “bring me back to back to my birth”, as you so retardedly put it, are going to beat ME?
JOB: I don’t think so, honey.
[Jay smiles.]
[Out.]