A drumroll, please!
Err… no. That's cute, a sweet roll-shaped to look like a tiny drum with little icing drumsticks on the top. But that's not what I was looking for. Try again, minions!
And there we go! We have a proper rolling of the drums as little spotlights move over a red velvet curtain.
And behind that curtains?
IT'S DOCTOR BEES!
No. No, it's not, it's none other than me! Claudia Kajara, star of stage, song, screen, and some other S word that involves the internet. Stream? Does stream work?
ANYWAY! I burst from behind the curtain with a tattered and blood-spattered RonCo apron that has RonCo crossed out and NINERINCO added on below it in big black marker on some duct tape.
I'd say right about where one would position the piece of tape if you wanted to hide a rip that would be, oh, about on a level with the human heart. The kind of rip that could potentially occur when tearing out said human heart with one's bare, taloned hands.
I smile one of my least terrifying smiles; #273: Soulless Prosperity Gospel Televangelist Trying to Convince Your Pension-Ridden Grandma to Send Him $50 She Can't Afford and give a little wave to the crowd of clowny minions who are cheering me loudly.
Well, actually they're cheering me quietly and one of them's got a boom box with a tape of crowd-cheering noises on it. But they're trying!
After all, some of them don't have tongues, or vocal chords, or left lungs.
I suppose how to deal with uppity clown underlings is something you learn at clown college, but I never attended.
Totally blacklisted after the incident at Ronald McDonald House.
"Ladies and gentlemen, Claudia Kajara here with Nine Rings Corporation's newest product to aid the world of professional wrestling!" I say as the drumroll ends.
"Are you fed up with gross, sticky, stinky, ring mats? Covered in sweat, spit, blood, urine, vomit, and in the DTW unspeakably leaky, MSG-tainted, diarrhea doodie, the ring mat is a breeding ground for all kinds of loathsome bacteria. And also "Jersey" Jim Luzzatto and whatever falling apart, 45-year old cellulite sporting ring rat with spider veins and pants that say "JUICY" across the butt he's managed to wring a pity fling out of."
I walk over to the table where I have samples of ring canvas covered in a series of unpleasant stains.
"Now you've seen cleaners deal with chocolate, rust, ink, iodine, and red wine. But come on; this is DTW! There's nobody drinking red wine around here unless it's the Dirty Wizard and it's what was cheapest at the corner liquor store."
I approach a pedestal off over by itself with police caution tape, biohazard warnings, and a "CAUTION! WET FLOOR!" banana cone. Because how could I resist a cute, fruity emblem warning of potential bodily harm?
The piece of canvas sports hideous stains, and appears to smell so vile that it has visible stink-lines radiating from it.
"Look at that! Gross, foul, reeking, and unpleasant!" I step forward and smack the framed photo of Riddick off of the pedestal beside the propped up canvas.
"Just look at this mess! You can't take this to the dry cleaners, and you most certainly can't just give it a good ol scrub with soap, water, and Lysol. Oh no, that way lies the realm of infected cuts, friction burns, and lawsuits over Methicillin-Resistant Staphylococcus Aureus-filled cysts that Doctor Vinny Goombatz up in New York insists are totally fatty tissue deposits."
I smile (#127, Cashier Who Wants to Go on Break But You Insist on Using Your Two Dozen Expired Coupons to Get 5 Cents a Pound Off of Pancake Mix) and hold up a green spray bottle.
"From the makers of Sporf, the all-in-one eating utensil, and Ball, Secret Overlord of the World, May Peace Be Upon Him, comes this revolutionary new cleaning product! It's Mat Acid!"
I give the poo-stained ring canvas a big ol blast from the spray bottle, which causes the filthy mess to start melting off.
And the canvas to catch fire.
And the plastic backing behind the canvas to dissolve.
And the tablecloth of the table to catch fire.
And the tabletop to sport a hole, sending the whole conflagration falling to the floor.
Thankfully I have soulless thralls with fire extinguishers to deal with that as I set down the bottle on a table positioned just right so that Camera 3 can get a nice close-up.
Oh. Yeah. Don't worry about the soulless thralls. I offer health and dental, and according to my surveys, 9 out of 10 horror clowns consider the job far more fulfilling and much less degrading than working retail.
The last one kind of has a fetish about being yelled at and degraded by entitled hose beasts.
"Rub a little Mat Acid on it for all your little day to day pro wrestling problems!"
A flatscreen TV lowers from the ceiling.
"Drunks!"
The display shows none other than the Dirty Wizard singing loudly and off-key with a stein of beer on the table beside him. A rather familiar looking (and shapely) pale arm reaches into the scene with a bottle of Mat Acid and squirts the beer mug, which somehow seems to melt, cause the beer to seem like it's boiling, and also catch on fire.
"Punks!"
Now it shows none other than Damien Hister attempting to sneak up on Hanako Takehuchi with what appears to be a machete. Once again that rather beauteous appendage reaches out from behind a closed door and gives Mr. Hister a good spray of the stuff, promptly setting his jacket on fire.
"Skunks!"
A beanie baby that was probably somebody's retirement dream in the 90's but was probably consigned to the $1 bin at Goodwill sits on the somewhat dirty looking countertop. The camera pulls back to reveal a somewhat grimy looking public restroom.
Mr. Hister bursts in, jacket on fire, cranking the taps open and smothering the front of his jacket with rust-filled water that would not look out of place pouring forth from the backside of the boss lady's championship challenger after All You Can Eat Taco Night at E. Colin's.
He sighs with relief, having avoided that issue. Only for the backside of the tiny plush skunk to spray yet another gout of Mat Acid, this time setting his pants on fire.
It also seems to be thinning out the grime, revealing wonderfully white porcelain sinks and floor tiles.
Aaaand up goes the TV!
"Unfortunately Matt Acid is not Mat Acid, but it's not going to stop me from rubbing him aaaaaaall over the grossest, most grody parts of the DTW ring."
"Nor is it going to stop me from giving him a good shake…"
I demonstrate by giving the bottle of Mat Acid a thorough thrashing that is sure to give some babies out there SIDS just by looking at it.
"Twisting off his top..."
I quickly unscrew the spray mechanism from the bottle.
"Giving him a good slam on something hard and unforgiving..."
Insert your own jokes about your mother's marital aid here as I slam the bottle down onto the table, sending up a spray of Mat Acid into the air.
"And whoops! It looks like I've spilled all the precious liquid inside!"
I give the table a bump with my ample hips, sending the volatile substance spilling all over the place.
"Aaaand come to think of it, I probably shouldn't have..." my words are distorted as the boom mic's covering has caught fire, which comes crashing down, striking the cameraman.
Whoopsie.
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