“Lad-d-dies and Gentlemen! In this corner, weighing in at 130-kilograms wearing the scarlet singlet trimmed in cobalt, sporting a pair of industrial eye-glasses is the Maniac Marshal, the First Chairman of Calamity, the Master Lord of Missile Mayhem–yes, that’s right!–give it up for Craz-z-zy Fat Kid!”
Wild applause interspersed with equally wild booing. A fight breaks out in the nosebleed seats but is quickly squelched by monitors firing Beyonce tshirts into the fracas.
“And in this corner, claiming to be 236 pounds wrapped in red, white, and blue is the Awesome of Awesomes, the Pet of St. Petersberg, the Meshugganah of Mar-a-Lago: Oran-n-nge Cr-r-rush!”
More cheers, jeers, brawls, and cannoned Psy tshirts.
“Okay, men, bring it in. Let’s keep this a clean match…”
“Who does your hair, Fat Kid? Sad.”
“You no 2…3…6 poundage, more like 6…3…2. After I beating your big butt, you down to 2…3…6. Hah!”
“…no poking eyes, pulling hair, and–of course–no grabbing genitals…”
“The only thing not fat on you is your so-called sausage. I’m told women can’t feel it. Weak.”
“Mine ICBM; your toy pistol cannot even make gold shower. Hah!”
“…shake hands and come out at the bell.”
Crazy Fat Kid turns over Orange Crush’s hands and hisses, “Gecko has bigger fingers.”
The wrestlers return to their corners while their side men massage their enormous heads. The hatred between these two champions is palpable as the defeated must wear a placard proclaiming “I’m a Loser” for 24 hours.
And of course the winner gets to nuke one city in the loser’s country without retaliation.
The wrestlers circle each other probing for weaknesses.
“Big Butt, everyone hate you!”
“People love me!” The Crush turns to the crowd. “Show this slanty, four-eyed elite how much you love me!”
A hundred bottles of Orange Crush rain into the ring, bruising both men and knocking the referee down for an eight-count.
As always, The Crush strikes first with a frontal charge. Even though he knew it was coming, the power and velocity of the simplistic move takes Crazy Fat Kid by surprise, and if not for his own bulk, The Kid would have been successfully launched into orbit. The stadium shakes from the collision knocking a rafter from the roof, killing the referee.
The Crush squeezes The Kid in his arms not sure of what to do following his initial charge, for he never mastered the art of wrestling. Without any novel ideas, he defaults to his bread-and-butter: offensive language.
“You should send your barber to Siberia!”
“Stupid! Siberia in Russia! Here is present from lover Putin!”
Crazy Fat Kid frees a hand, plunges it deep into his singlet, and brings out a gooey substance.
“Don’t let him smear you with the goop!” Orange Crush’s corner yells.
“Not VX neurotoxin,” The Kid slyly explains to Orange Crush. “Special lotion make you unresistible to Russian women. Try.”
The Crush breaks from the clinch. “Let me see that.”
“No!” screams his corner. “It’s a trick!”
The Crush looks confused. In his moment of pause, The Kid suddenly shrieks, “Special lotion eat through glove! Hand on fire!” He yanks off the glove and throws it to his corner. His cornerman immediately keels over.
The Crush bellows, “Trying to take advantage of the hard-working people of my country by not buying our neurotoxins and flooding our market with your poorer quality junk! I will no longer buy foreign!” The Crush reaches into his singlet, brings out his goop, and tosses it to the side bringing on the demise of the replacement referee.
The crowd unable to be contained by their seats rush the ring. Only a desperate effort by monitors showering Starbuck and Target gift cards on the mob stops them from climbing in. “Kill the tyrant! Kill the tyrant!” they chant. Both Orange Crush and Crazy Fat Kid address the crowd, “I’m trying, but I didn’t think it would be so hard!”
A third referee body surfs into the ring as the two exhausted combatants hope to deliver the knockdown blow that will enable a flop on the prostrate wrestler and seal victory.
“Your mother,” wheezes The Crush, “is so fat <gasp> that when she sits around the house, she <gasp> sits around the house.
“Nobody talk trash about <gasp> Dear Mother,” pants Crazy Fat Kid. “Your daughter so ugly, look in dictionary under ‘ugly’ <gasp> see daughter picture.”
“Too far, Kid!”
Both wrestlers reach out to throttle the other’s neck, but clutch their hearts instead and collapse on the mat. The referee calls for a doctor, nurse, or an EMT. The plea cannot be heard over the tumultuous applause, so Smackdown ends with only the audience and billions of home viewers able to claim victory.