Post by Level-Two on Apr 20, 2008 14:05:31 GMT -4
(We open up to Justin Job and Gilbert Worthy sitting at a small table, sipping on trees—with the birds out singing lovely tunes. The sun shines down through the window illuminating the room ever so nicely…
...Wait, we’re superstars now! We don’t open our scenes up with that shit, NAH-UH!)
(The scene re-opens to Justin Job & Gilbert Job worthy rocking out on guitar hero in hurricane Jeff fashion—this is the shit they’re talking about! They upped their budget (Justin Job broke into Gilbert’s piggy bank) and now they’re living like rock-stars. The groupies will be over at 8…Seriously)
Gilbert: So I says—bitch give me some head, arggggggggg!
Justin Job: This guitar hero really gets your blood pumping huh? Hey, Gilbert. Did you hear about the new T.V deal we got?
Gilbert: T.V deal? What T.V deal, Justin?
Justin Job: Well, I spoke to the producers of the show called ‘’The Simple Life’’ basically were to dumb broads go place to place working, because they haven’t done shit with their lives…
Gilbert: Where going to be on T.V, Justin? I never been on TV!
Justin Job: What? Of course you have, what about APW?
Gilbert: …Justin, you said APW doesn’t count. You said nobody even watches it…
(Justin Job drops the guitar before looking around wild eyed, and scratching his head. Hopefully come Monday Night…he still has a job)
Justin Job: Look, I’ve got a few visitors coming over—so I want you to stay quite and let me do all the talking, I don’t need you blowing this deal—okay?
Gilbert: …Okay, Justin. I be good.
(The door bell rings, as Justin Job reaches into his pocket pulling out a mint. He pops one in his mouth—the kid has got to smell fresh for the ladies! Justin Job pulls open the front door, as two blondes step inside the house. Gilbert drops his guitar, before looking over at the two girls with his eyes budging half way out of his head)
Justin Job: It’s Paris Hilton and Nicole Ritchie, what a surprise.
Paris Hilton: …That’s hot.
Justin Job: …Your hot.
Nicole Ritchie: I’m hungry, he better have something hot to eat!
(Justin Job throws his arm around Paris Hilton—who at this point is looking kind of…you know her usually slutty…We mean, sultry self. Justin Job has plans of his own. After Paris Hilton downs a couple of beers—a DUI later—but not before hitting the sheets and getting a little something something going, if you know what we mean)
Nicole Ritchie: Uh, who is this brain dead moron.
(Gilbert stands straight up, with his tongue out of his mouth—with dribble dripping from his mouth. Damn it! I thought I told Gilbert, it’s rude to stare! As for touching…ha-ha…It’s all legal here, baby!)
Justin Job: This is my cousin—he’s mentally challenged.
Paris Hilton: …That’s hot.
Nicole Ritchie: Aw, now I feel sorry for him.
(Nicole Ritchie extends out her arms for a hug as Gilberts eyes widen further. He hugs Nicole Ritchie tightly, as she starts to grunt in pain. Justin Job and Paris Hilton, have already began making out on a nearby couch…That’s safe, right?)
Nicole Ritchie: …Let go…
(Nicole Ritchie struggles to escape the wrath of Gilbert but he has his hug in to tight. She passes out, and falls to the floor—momentarily distracting Justin Job & Paris Hilton, as they look down at her…Ah, it’s probably not the first time she lay on her back in a house she only stepped foot in for two and a half minutes…Wait, is it wrong that I know that?)
Justin Job: Hey, Paris. You know I’m sorry I have to take over your T.V show, but I promise to make it up to you.
Paris Hilton: …That’s hot.
Justin Job: …Yes, I know.
(Justin immediately goes back to making out with Paris Hilton, before lifting her off the couch and out of the room…Fuck; he just may regret all this in the morning…)
Commercial time!
Are you embarrassed? Does your right arm hurt, due to the repeated attempts to pump your penis up to a respectable size? Well put down that pump, put a smile on your face—Sabur and many men alike—we’ve got the deal for you!
No more pumps—it’s time to be proud of what you got! We know your tired of those extra small condemns—just being too big for your little tiny penis. So we’ve created these!
The Trojan -100! Yes, no matter how small your tiny penis is—this will fit, guaranteed! These condemns now come with, heads! Heads of your favorite superstars! Because let’s be honest—Jason Royce is SO going to be wearing the Sabur specialty condemn while ramming Kenny Lombardo up the poop-whole! And yes, Sabur is sporting a shit eating grin…literally!
If you order these condemns now—we’ll even through in the special large condemn covering! This is one big condemn—in which will cover up even a bigger dick! Are you tired of watching Sabur on APW television weekly? We are!
Call 1-800-MOOO TO ORDER!
(And we’re back! We open to a bathroom—were Justin Job is taking a piss. What? He can’t take a piss with-out you perverts watching?)
Justin Job: Uh…OWWWWWW…DAMN IT! SHIT, THIS SHIT BURNS! STOP THE PAIN, STOP THE PAIN!
(Uh, yes. How could we forget? Justin Job fucked Paris Hilton…Or do you need anymore of a fucking explanation to as why, his penis is on fire? You don’t suppose he caught it on the stove or something do you? Well, that was once…)
Justin Job: Man, banging the chick—Didn’t feel half as bad as this shit. Ow-weeeeeeeeeee!
(The sound of a flushing of a toilet is heard, before he walks over to wash his hands at the sink. He turns to the camera as his eyes roll to the back of his head, still feeling the effects. Gilbert Worthy walks in hearing the commotion)
Gilbert: Justin, are you alright? I heard you scream, in here.
Justin Job: Gilbert, can I have a second alone? I have to pray to god I don’t die from Chlamydia…You can die from that right?
(Gilbert shrugs his shoulders and walks away. Justin Job doesn’t want to die—he’s too young to die! All over a stupid T.V show…oh, it would be wise to plug it now. Check out The Simple life—The Job Squad addition, at NBC at 8’o clock tonight. It’s going to be the shit…Alright, back to business. Justin Job has something to say!)
Mooove on over bitches. Milk your boobies’ ladies, and fill a glass of cold milk—because Sabur is in town--and he’s going to need something to wash down, when my fist comes crashing into his face, and my foot enters his throat.
(Justin Job begins to reach down his pants, before scratching in desperation. What the fuck did that bitch have!?)
So you beat Jason Royce, to earn a shot at this title. Fuck, I’m sure that took a valid effort. No really, all you really had to do is show up—and bamo you win! Whilst in this company shooting promos are rewarded with title shots and what not—management are actually happy when he decides NOT to shoot one. It saves them time—and it saves them from a nasty eye-infection and un-wanted sleep during working hours.
Regardless, you’re my contender—and I fear not. I just would have thought they would have you do something in which you actually earned this match. I don’t know; pull names out of a magic hat. Or even the first one to raise their hand gets a first shot at the overdrive title. Or maybe even, beat someone who is actually a valid contender!
(Justin Job nod’s his head, before shrugging his shoulders)
But it seems I’m the only one who has a bit of sense around here. While you run around with your little dick—coming up with lame sex jokes and puns, I’m here doing…Well, fuck I do the exact same thing—but much better. Much more crisper, much more original. I mean, does anyone even find your antics funny?
You run around shooting commercials about Jobber Juice—right after gulping a glass down yourself. I heard that shit gives you the runs, does it not? I feel sorry for whoever wipes your shit on a daily bases—I mean cow dung? Your shit is huge! APW should
Throw your ass back out on the stables, were you can eat hay—and get your titties milked for profit.
Sabur—I’m the overdrive champion. You don’t become champion around here, with-out no wrestling ability. Oh, but I know why I’m not a wrestler. I don’t have a head bigger than the rest of my body—and I’m not jacked up on needles filled with steroids. Nah-Uh! Pass me a blunt, put me in the ring, and I’ll pump and ass kicking straight into your veins--that will put your little performance enhancement drugs, right into the swinging baseball bat of Barry Bonds so he can smack it right out the fucking ball park.
Sabur—you may have big muscles, but you have a little brain. You couldn’t think out-side of the box, even if it had a fucking front door! You’re small everywhere else, just ask your girlfriend.
(Justin Job winks, before throwing up both of his thumbs up in the air)
So I’ll tell you this in terms you can understand, alright Mental Midget? You come to ring, I kick your ass. Nothing will change. I will be champion. You? You will continue to be the butt of all jokes, diving your face straight into the ass crack of oblivion. If you come back up? That’s fine. It just means nature took its course and oblivion farted, and I’ll simply have to knock you ass back down again.
(Justin Job extends his hand for a handshake, despite nobody there making a mockery of Sabur)
Sabur, welcome to the Job Squad.
...Wait, we’re superstars now! We don’t open our scenes up with that shit, NAH-UH!)
(The scene re-opens to Justin Job & Gilbert Job worthy rocking out on guitar hero in hurricane Jeff fashion—this is the shit they’re talking about! They upped their budget (Justin Job broke into Gilbert’s piggy bank) and now they’re living like rock-stars. The groupies will be over at 8…Seriously)
Gilbert: So I says—bitch give me some head, arggggggggg!
Justin Job: This guitar hero really gets your blood pumping huh? Hey, Gilbert. Did you hear about the new T.V deal we got?
Gilbert: T.V deal? What T.V deal, Justin?
Justin Job: Well, I spoke to the producers of the show called ‘’The Simple Life’’ basically were to dumb broads go place to place working, because they haven’t done shit with their lives…
Gilbert: Where going to be on T.V, Justin? I never been on TV!
Justin Job: What? Of course you have, what about APW?
Gilbert: …Justin, you said APW doesn’t count. You said nobody even watches it…
(Justin Job drops the guitar before looking around wild eyed, and scratching his head. Hopefully come Monday Night…he still has a job)
Justin Job: Look, I’ve got a few visitors coming over—so I want you to stay quite and let me do all the talking, I don’t need you blowing this deal—okay?
Gilbert: …Okay, Justin. I be good.
(The door bell rings, as Justin Job reaches into his pocket pulling out a mint. He pops one in his mouth—the kid has got to smell fresh for the ladies! Justin Job pulls open the front door, as two blondes step inside the house. Gilbert drops his guitar, before looking over at the two girls with his eyes budging half way out of his head)
Justin Job: It’s Paris Hilton and Nicole Ritchie, what a surprise.
Paris Hilton: …That’s hot.
Justin Job: …Your hot.
Nicole Ritchie: I’m hungry, he better have something hot to eat!
(Justin Job throws his arm around Paris Hilton—who at this point is looking kind of…you know her usually slutty…We mean, sultry self. Justin Job has plans of his own. After Paris Hilton downs a couple of beers—a DUI later—but not before hitting the sheets and getting a little something something going, if you know what we mean)
Nicole Ritchie: Uh, who is this brain dead moron.
(Gilbert stands straight up, with his tongue out of his mouth—with dribble dripping from his mouth. Damn it! I thought I told Gilbert, it’s rude to stare! As for touching…ha-ha…It’s all legal here, baby!)
Justin Job: This is my cousin—he’s mentally challenged.
Paris Hilton: …That’s hot.
Nicole Ritchie: Aw, now I feel sorry for him.
(Nicole Ritchie extends out her arms for a hug as Gilberts eyes widen further. He hugs Nicole Ritchie tightly, as she starts to grunt in pain. Justin Job and Paris Hilton, have already began making out on a nearby couch…That’s safe, right?)
Nicole Ritchie: …Let go…
(Nicole Ritchie struggles to escape the wrath of Gilbert but he has his hug in to tight. She passes out, and falls to the floor—momentarily distracting Justin Job & Paris Hilton, as they look down at her…Ah, it’s probably not the first time she lay on her back in a house she only stepped foot in for two and a half minutes…Wait, is it wrong that I know that?)
Justin Job: Hey, Paris. You know I’m sorry I have to take over your T.V show, but I promise to make it up to you.
Paris Hilton: …That’s hot.
Justin Job: …Yes, I know.
(Justin immediately goes back to making out with Paris Hilton, before lifting her off the couch and out of the room…Fuck; he just may regret all this in the morning…)
Commercial time!
Are you embarrassed? Does your right arm hurt, due to the repeated attempts to pump your penis up to a respectable size? Well put down that pump, put a smile on your face—Sabur and many men alike—we’ve got the deal for you!
No more pumps—it’s time to be proud of what you got! We know your tired of those extra small condemns—just being too big for your little tiny penis. So we’ve created these!
The Trojan -100! Yes, no matter how small your tiny penis is—this will fit, guaranteed! These condemns now come with, heads! Heads of your favorite superstars! Because let’s be honest—Jason Royce is SO going to be wearing the Sabur specialty condemn while ramming Kenny Lombardo up the poop-whole! And yes, Sabur is sporting a shit eating grin…literally!
If you order these condemns now—we’ll even through in the special large condemn covering! This is one big condemn—in which will cover up even a bigger dick! Are you tired of watching Sabur on APW television weekly? We are!
Call 1-800-MOOO TO ORDER!
(And we’re back! We open to a bathroom—were Justin Job is taking a piss. What? He can’t take a piss with-out you perverts watching?)
Justin Job: Uh…OWWWWWW…DAMN IT! SHIT, THIS SHIT BURNS! STOP THE PAIN, STOP THE PAIN!
(Uh, yes. How could we forget? Justin Job fucked Paris Hilton…Or do you need anymore of a fucking explanation to as why, his penis is on fire? You don’t suppose he caught it on the stove or something do you? Well, that was once…)
Justin Job: Man, banging the chick—Didn’t feel half as bad as this shit. Ow-weeeeeeeeeee!
(The sound of a flushing of a toilet is heard, before he walks over to wash his hands at the sink. He turns to the camera as his eyes roll to the back of his head, still feeling the effects. Gilbert Worthy walks in hearing the commotion)
Gilbert: Justin, are you alright? I heard you scream, in here.
Justin Job: Gilbert, can I have a second alone? I have to pray to god I don’t die from Chlamydia…You can die from that right?
(Gilbert shrugs his shoulders and walks away. Justin Job doesn’t want to die—he’s too young to die! All over a stupid T.V show…oh, it would be wise to plug it now. Check out The Simple life—The Job Squad addition, at NBC at 8’o clock tonight. It’s going to be the shit…Alright, back to business. Justin Job has something to say!)
Oh yeah, it’s the TRASH-TALK BABY!
Mooove on over bitches. Milk your boobies’ ladies, and fill a glass of cold milk—because Sabur is in town--and he’s going to need something to wash down, when my fist comes crashing into his face, and my foot enters his throat.
(Justin Job begins to reach down his pants, before scratching in desperation. What the fuck did that bitch have!?)
So you beat Jason Royce, to earn a shot at this title. Fuck, I’m sure that took a valid effort. No really, all you really had to do is show up—and bamo you win! Whilst in this company shooting promos are rewarded with title shots and what not—management are actually happy when he decides NOT to shoot one. It saves them time—and it saves them from a nasty eye-infection and un-wanted sleep during working hours.
Regardless, you’re my contender—and I fear not. I just would have thought they would have you do something in which you actually earned this match. I don’t know; pull names out of a magic hat. Or even the first one to raise their hand gets a first shot at the overdrive title. Or maybe even, beat someone who is actually a valid contender!
(Justin Job nod’s his head, before shrugging his shoulders)
But it seems I’m the only one who has a bit of sense around here. While you run around with your little dick—coming up with lame sex jokes and puns, I’m here doing…Well, fuck I do the exact same thing—but much better. Much more crisper, much more original. I mean, does anyone even find your antics funny?
You run around shooting commercials about Jobber Juice—right after gulping a glass down yourself. I heard that shit gives you the runs, does it not? I feel sorry for whoever wipes your shit on a daily bases—I mean cow dung? Your shit is huge! APW should
Throw your ass back out on the stables, were you can eat hay—and get your titties milked for profit.
Sabur—I’m the overdrive champion. You don’t become champion around here, with-out no wrestling ability. Oh, but I know why I’m not a wrestler. I don’t have a head bigger than the rest of my body—and I’m not jacked up on needles filled with steroids. Nah-Uh! Pass me a blunt, put me in the ring, and I’ll pump and ass kicking straight into your veins--that will put your little performance enhancement drugs, right into the swinging baseball bat of Barry Bonds so he can smack it right out the fucking ball park.
Sabur—you may have big muscles, but you have a little brain. You couldn’t think out-side of the box, even if it had a fucking front door! You’re small everywhere else, just ask your girlfriend.
(Justin Job winks, before throwing up both of his thumbs up in the air)
So I’ll tell you this in terms you can understand, alright Mental Midget? You come to ring, I kick your ass. Nothing will change. I will be champion. You? You will continue to be the butt of all jokes, diving your face straight into the ass crack of oblivion. If you come back up? That’s fine. It just means nature took its course and oblivion farted, and I’ll simply have to knock you ass back down again.
(Justin Job extends his hand for a handshake, despite nobody there making a mockery of Sabur)
Sabur, welcome to the Job Squad.
