Post by Dr. Matt on Dec 21, 2008 22:06:49 GMT -4
We open with a shot of Dr. Matt sitting in big leather armchair next to a roaring fire. Dr. Matt is reading from a large book, dressed in a very festive smoking jacket and ascot tie. He takes a sip from a glass of brandy, licks his lips, then downs the whole glass before throwing it into the fire place. He drunkenly smirks at the shattering, then looks into the camera. You can tell by the look in his eyes that he isn't just Dr. Matt drunk; he's Dr. Matt at Christmas Time drunk:
Dr. Matt: Hey kids, Dr. Matt here. I just love Christmas Time. I mean, I love any holiday where it's socially acceptable to spike everything you drink with hard alcohol. Regardless, this year, Christmas is going to be extra special for me, because Santa Claus is going to bring me what I always wanted. Yes, boys and girls, because I was very nice this year, ol' Kris Kringle is going to bring me the APW World Heavyweight Championship!
Dr. Matt hiccups.
What? You don't believe me? You don't think I've been good? What the fuck are you, retarded? You know how hard I've worked for this company. You know how much I've bleed? How many bones I've broken? How many years I've taken off my ticking time-bomb of a life? No, Santa's going to see things my way, and Sabur's going to be left with a big lump of coal. Trevor Blackwell, on the other hand, can sit around spinning his fucking dreidel all day for all I care.
Dr. Matt hiccups again, but this time he stops to supress a puke.
Sure, I may have done some bad things. I may have faked breaking my neck so I could beat the shit out of Trevor Blackwell. I unfairly bullied John Green so badly he went scampering back to his mother's basement. But, are either of my opponents more deserving than I? Bullshit.
Dr. Matt closes the book on his lap.
But, I guess it's time I put the last big push on, eh? Do one final good deed so that St. Nicholas, in all his magnificent glory, will grant my festive wish. That's why I went back into the animation studios and I prepared a new Christmas Special for all the children of the world to enjoy. Sure, it's no Charlie Brown Christmas or Bad Santa, but I think it'll truly teach every the real meaning of Christmas-
The camera zooms in close to Dr. Matt. The flames from the fire dance off his face, leaving bizarre shadows that make him look truly terrifying.
Cutting the throats of everyone you love to make sure you get everything you want!
We zoom back out, and Dr. Matt is smiling again.
Enjoy!
We then fade out to a title card, which reads "A Visit from Saint Matthew -or- 'Twas the Night Before Christmas Chaos". That then fades out, and we have an animated view of a conjested city street. The narrator can be heard speaking, and he sounds like a very sensual mix before Morgan Freeman and James Earl Jones.
'Twas the Night Before Christmas Chaos, and all through Long Island,
not a wrestler was worried, nor were they cryin'
We've faded into Nassau Coliseum, and we realize this is actual computer animation made to look like an old Rankin Bass special. We see both a "claymation" version of Trevor Blackwell and Sabur, both preparing for their match.
The wrestling boots were tied to their feet with care,
In hopes that they could soon shove them up Saint Matthew's derriere.
That's french for "butt".
The wrestler's were restless, wound up in their rooms,
While visions of after party's danced in their heads.
An "imagination bubble" appears above Sabur, and he and Lil Dick are in a strip club, making it rain hundred dollar bills on hookers; while Trevor is dreaming of taking Tabitha Crowley out for some Chinese food, then to the movies.
With the "faithful" in leather, and covered in plaid,
Filled the arena, thirsty for the carnage to be had.
A shot of the crowd outside of the ring. Pretty much just a bunch of Trevor Blackwell clones, but with different heads cheesily put on.
When out near the ring, their arose such a clatter,
They sprung from their rooms to see what was the matter.
"Encore" by Eminem begins to play, and Dr. Matt steps out into the entry way of the ring, except he's dressed like Santa Claus.
Down to the ring, he stumbled and he crashed,
The fans booed so loudly, and pelted him with trash.
Well, that's pretty self-explanatory. Dr. Matt got drunk and wore a Santa suit out to the match. He pukes on the ramp, and makes his way to the ring.
When, what to his blurred eyes appear,
but a miniature man, and an eight-packed man-steer.
Steer's another word for a male cow, for those of you not paying attention. Sabur and his Lil Dick have appeared at the top of the ramp, and make their way toward "Saint Matthew", he has stumbled into the ring.
You know, thinking up these rhymes, that follow along with the original poem, it's getting really hard. You could've at least given me a script to work off of, Matt.
The narrator seems to be fed up with his job, yet left the microphone on. Meanwhile, Trevor Blackwell and Tabitha Crowley have gone down to the ring. I bet there was some awesome rhyme planned for this, but Dr. Matt got drunk and forgot to write it down.
Nope. I'm done. You write me a script, and then I'll come back. Until then, I'll be in my trailer, drinking Egg Nog out of a prostitutes belly-button.
The three competitors are in the ring now, and appear to be saying things that would've timed up perfectly to a script, had it been written. Too bad it wasn't. Because, what ensues is cartoon violence of epic porportions.
Limbs are being sliced off with barbed wire. Faces blown to bits by C4. All the wrestlers have hunks of glass sticking out of them, almost comically. They get shocked, and you can see their skeletons. It's just a massacre. Meanwhile, a drunken Dr. Matt can be heard getting to microphone.
What the fuck? Where the fuck did that guy go? Son of a bitch, I spent hours getting this shit to sync up! What? No script? It's right fucking here! (Papers are heard rustling.)
Meanwhile, Saint Matthew has given Trevor Blackwell a Doctor's Orders straight through the ring, then gives Sabur an Induced Paralysis that tears Sabur's head off.
Why is it buried under all of this shit? How the fuck did you expect me to find it?
Saint Matthew pins Sabur.
With your eyes, douchebag!
Saint Matthew hops up in celebration.
Well, let's just start over.
Saint Matthew is handed the belt.
I can't! I spent so much on the animation there isn't time or money left to record audio twice. We better save face here. Quick, read the last line.
Saint Matthew climbs to the top rope, and lifts the APW World Heavyweight Championship belt in the air.
But I heard him exclaim, joyous in victory,
Merry Christmas to All, and 100% Mattisfaction Guarenteed!
We freeze frame with Saint Matthew holding the belt as we fade back into Dr. Matt sitting by the fire. There is vomit on his shirt, and he is passed out; snoring. Someone throws a balled-up piece of paper at him, and he wakes up.
Fuck, is it over already? Well, if that doesn't make you puke out Christmas Spirit, I don't know what will.
Dr. Matt stares down at the puke on his own shirt. He rolls his eyes, then continues to speak.
It's going to be a Gold Christmas for me. Guarenteed. I mean, do you honestly think that Sabur's going to walk away from me again? After all, twice already, I, the broken down, drunken old fool has taken this physical speciman, in his prime, to his limit, only to barely fall short. Does Sabur honestly believe he can last past me one more time? What he seems to forget is that I've already fallen off the deep end. I've already taken more punishment than humanly possibly, and to try to dole out more is just physically impossible. Meanwhile, once this young buck has barbed wire raked through his flesh and has face disfigured by a blast of C4, he'll go through an experience he's never felt before. You can't power out of this one. You can't just flex your muscles and throw me around, because it'll take a helluva lot more than that to take me down.
And as for Trevor Blackwell? Fuck him. He's here transitively. Sure, he'll probably try to get in my way. But, hell, he's going to have such a chubby that he's in a Long Island Death Match in front of all his illegitimate children that he won't be a factor. I've proved Trevor is irrelevant. I've proved Trevor doesn't even deserve to be in an APW ring, yet I still have to deal with him. Fine. It'll be just as much sweeter to have his broken body lying in the ring when I win the APW World Heavyweight Championship.
Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got to clean myself up. I'd retort to more of Sabur's arguments, but, Christ, I just don't know how to deal with such original arguments as "I'm gay", "I'm retarded", and "I'm sucking the bosses nuts". Hey, fuckwad, ask Santa for a new insult book because you've been rehashing those same fucking gems since you walked in the door.
And with that, Merry Fucking Christmas.
Dr. Matt smirks, before turning green, and throwing up onto the fire as the scene fades to black.
Dr. Matt: Hey kids, Dr. Matt here. I just love Christmas Time. I mean, I love any holiday where it's socially acceptable to spike everything you drink with hard alcohol. Regardless, this year, Christmas is going to be extra special for me, because Santa Claus is going to bring me what I always wanted. Yes, boys and girls, because I was very nice this year, ol' Kris Kringle is going to bring me the APW World Heavyweight Championship!
Dr. Matt hiccups.
What? You don't believe me? You don't think I've been good? What the fuck are you, retarded? You know how hard I've worked for this company. You know how much I've bleed? How many bones I've broken? How many years I've taken off my ticking time-bomb of a life? No, Santa's going to see things my way, and Sabur's going to be left with a big lump of coal. Trevor Blackwell, on the other hand, can sit around spinning his fucking dreidel all day for all I care.
Dr. Matt hiccups again, but this time he stops to supress a puke.
Sure, I may have done some bad things. I may have faked breaking my neck so I could beat the shit out of Trevor Blackwell. I unfairly bullied John Green so badly he went scampering back to his mother's basement. But, are either of my opponents more deserving than I? Bullshit.
Dr. Matt closes the book on his lap.
But, I guess it's time I put the last big push on, eh? Do one final good deed so that St. Nicholas, in all his magnificent glory, will grant my festive wish. That's why I went back into the animation studios and I prepared a new Christmas Special for all the children of the world to enjoy. Sure, it's no Charlie Brown Christmas or Bad Santa, but I think it'll truly teach every the real meaning of Christmas-
The camera zooms in close to Dr. Matt. The flames from the fire dance off his face, leaving bizarre shadows that make him look truly terrifying.
Cutting the throats of everyone you love to make sure you get everything you want!
We zoom back out, and Dr. Matt is smiling again.
Enjoy!
We then fade out to a title card, which reads "A Visit from Saint Matthew -or- 'Twas the Night Before Christmas Chaos". That then fades out, and we have an animated view of a conjested city street. The narrator can be heard speaking, and he sounds like a very sensual mix before Morgan Freeman and James Earl Jones.
'Twas the Night Before Christmas Chaos, and all through Long Island,
not a wrestler was worried, nor were they cryin'
We've faded into Nassau Coliseum, and we realize this is actual computer animation made to look like an old Rankin Bass special. We see both a "claymation" version of Trevor Blackwell and Sabur, both preparing for their match.
The wrestling boots were tied to their feet with care,
In hopes that they could soon shove them up Saint Matthew's derriere.
That's french for "butt".
The wrestler's were restless, wound up in their rooms,
While visions of after party's danced in their heads.
An "imagination bubble" appears above Sabur, and he and Lil Dick are in a strip club, making it rain hundred dollar bills on hookers; while Trevor is dreaming of taking Tabitha Crowley out for some Chinese food, then to the movies.
With the "faithful" in leather, and covered in plaid,
Filled the arena, thirsty for the carnage to be had.
A shot of the crowd outside of the ring. Pretty much just a bunch of Trevor Blackwell clones, but with different heads cheesily put on.
When out near the ring, their arose such a clatter,
They sprung from their rooms to see what was the matter.
"Encore" by Eminem begins to play, and Dr. Matt steps out into the entry way of the ring, except he's dressed like Santa Claus.
Down to the ring, he stumbled and he crashed,
The fans booed so loudly, and pelted him with trash.
Well, that's pretty self-explanatory. Dr. Matt got drunk and wore a Santa suit out to the match. He pukes on the ramp, and makes his way to the ring.
When, what to his blurred eyes appear,
but a miniature man, and an eight-packed man-steer.
Steer's another word for a male cow, for those of you not paying attention. Sabur and his Lil Dick have appeared at the top of the ramp, and make their way toward "Saint Matthew", he has stumbled into the ring.
You know, thinking up these rhymes, that follow along with the original poem, it's getting really hard. You could've at least given me a script to work off of, Matt.
The narrator seems to be fed up with his job, yet left the microphone on. Meanwhile, Trevor Blackwell and Tabitha Crowley have gone down to the ring. I bet there was some awesome rhyme planned for this, but Dr. Matt got drunk and forgot to write it down.
Nope. I'm done. You write me a script, and then I'll come back. Until then, I'll be in my trailer, drinking Egg Nog out of a prostitutes belly-button.
The three competitors are in the ring now, and appear to be saying things that would've timed up perfectly to a script, had it been written. Too bad it wasn't. Because, what ensues is cartoon violence of epic porportions.
Limbs are being sliced off with barbed wire. Faces blown to bits by C4. All the wrestlers have hunks of glass sticking out of them, almost comically. They get shocked, and you can see their skeletons. It's just a massacre. Meanwhile, a drunken Dr. Matt can be heard getting to microphone.
What the fuck? Where the fuck did that guy go? Son of a bitch, I spent hours getting this shit to sync up! What? No script? It's right fucking here! (Papers are heard rustling.)
Meanwhile, Saint Matthew has given Trevor Blackwell a Doctor's Orders straight through the ring, then gives Sabur an Induced Paralysis that tears Sabur's head off.
Why is it buried under all of this shit? How the fuck did you expect me to find it?
Saint Matthew pins Sabur.
With your eyes, douchebag!
Saint Matthew hops up in celebration.
Well, let's just start over.
Saint Matthew is handed the belt.
I can't! I spent so much on the animation there isn't time or money left to record audio twice. We better save face here. Quick, read the last line.
Saint Matthew climbs to the top rope, and lifts the APW World Heavyweight Championship belt in the air.
But I heard him exclaim, joyous in victory,
Merry Christmas to All, and 100% Mattisfaction Guarenteed!
We freeze frame with Saint Matthew holding the belt as we fade back into Dr. Matt sitting by the fire. There is vomit on his shirt, and he is passed out; snoring. Someone throws a balled-up piece of paper at him, and he wakes up.
Fuck, is it over already? Well, if that doesn't make you puke out Christmas Spirit, I don't know what will.
Dr. Matt stares down at the puke on his own shirt. He rolls his eyes, then continues to speak.
It's going to be a Gold Christmas for me. Guarenteed. I mean, do you honestly think that Sabur's going to walk away from me again? After all, twice already, I, the broken down, drunken old fool has taken this physical speciman, in his prime, to his limit, only to barely fall short. Does Sabur honestly believe he can last past me one more time? What he seems to forget is that I've already fallen off the deep end. I've already taken more punishment than humanly possibly, and to try to dole out more is just physically impossible. Meanwhile, once this young buck has barbed wire raked through his flesh and has face disfigured by a blast of C4, he'll go through an experience he's never felt before. You can't power out of this one. You can't just flex your muscles and throw me around, because it'll take a helluva lot more than that to take me down.
And as for Trevor Blackwell? Fuck him. He's here transitively. Sure, he'll probably try to get in my way. But, hell, he's going to have such a chubby that he's in a Long Island Death Match in front of all his illegitimate children that he won't be a factor. I've proved Trevor is irrelevant. I've proved Trevor doesn't even deserve to be in an APW ring, yet I still have to deal with him. Fine. It'll be just as much sweeter to have his broken body lying in the ring when I win the APW World Heavyweight Championship.
Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got to clean myself up. I'd retort to more of Sabur's arguments, but, Christ, I just don't know how to deal with such original arguments as "I'm gay", "I'm retarded", and "I'm sucking the bosses nuts". Hey, fuckwad, ask Santa for a new insult book because you've been rehashing those same fucking gems since you walked in the door.
And with that, Merry Fucking Christmas.
Dr. Matt smirks, before turning green, and throwing up onto the fire as the scene fades to black.
