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“I’m no longer in a mood to entertain your foolishness.” – D.R. Green Thumb, Refueled XX
We open up on a set.
This isn’t just any set, though. Context clues, barely visible in the darkness, indicate it to be a television show recording set. One, from what’s visible, that’s been fashioned out of the Doozer prepubescent era.
A spotlight switches on in a most timely fashion; illuminating a rather bulky podium that measures about six feet wide and four feet tall. The podium’s decor is oddly nostalgic; adorned with X’s and O’s, and tiny built-in scoreboards on each of its sides.
A flashing applause sign hangs ominously from the ceiling.
Most important to this whole setup?
That’s nine, big enough to fit a human somewhat comfortably, squares. The squares, all together, are the blocks creating a three by three matrix in front of a nonexistent studio audience. Each block contains its own seat, table, and microphone. Neon lighting outlines their edges. Some flash blue. Some red.
The backdrop wall has been wrapped with a group shot of the eGG Bandits. The scene captured in the massive, wall spanning photo depicts Jiles, Doozer, and Dean celebrating after High Octane Wrestling’s 2019 War Games. For those who weren’t around, they won some crazy, double caged, ladder, cluster fuck of match.
For the HIGH OCTANE TAG TEAM CHAMPIONSHIPS.
“… remember guys, he’s no longer in a mood to entertain our foolishness. I say it’s time we put that to the test.” A confident voice proposes off screen into a hot microphone. “Oh, and don’t forget the celebrity editing is already done. We just need to do OUR part.”
Right on queue, the lights turn up to 11 and a catchy little jingle begins to play.
A sharp dressed man strides elegantly out unto the stage. Grin agape, he takes a couple moments for the world to appreciate him. That mainly pertains to his pearly, white teeth and dashing, cream-colored suit with yolk-yellow tie. Also on showcase, the slickest golden-blond hair you’ve ever seen. Some real, eat your heart out Valdez type of shit. And under those better than perfect locks sit mirrors, doubling as sunglasses, which rest over the bridge of his smug nose.
“Hello everyone! THANK YOU FOR TUNING IN! I’m your host, Cancer Jiles, and I am very excited to welcome you all to this very special edition of Hollywood Squares: March 2 Glory, brought to you by HOTv!”
Cue the already cued applause sign.
“Please join me in welcoming our contestants.”
The applause sign starts to barely flicker.
“Our first contestant has an affinity for Superman, is from Boston Mass sans the wicked accent, and takes long naps during the day. He’s the second cofounder of the eGG Bandits, a Dream Wrestling Hall of Famer, and a one time High Octane Wrestling Tag Team Champion. He doozes. He abuses. He often snoozes. Representing the Fraggle Rock Red X’s, I present none other than the Doozer Abuser! Come on out, my friend.”
Doozer, wasting no time after Jiles’ friendly introduction, jogs out from stage left and waves to the nonexistent audience. His pace should be less attributed to being excited to put on the show, and more as a desperate attempt to cut The Maestro short.
“Doozer, welcome! I’m glad the old folks home lifted your curfew and allowed you to join us. Thank you for being here. It’s an honor. I mean that.” A salesman smirk and wink from the MC.
“Cool,” The Dooze snidely chirps at the host-with-the-most while shooting him a disgruntled glance. With some unnecessary instruction from his friend, the man with Fraggle Rock ties takes his spot on the right side of the podium. His lobstah red face seems a fair indication that he did not appreciate the benevolent fanfare, at all. However, being a Titan among men, he decides to take the high road for sake of the show.
Dooze’s partner in yolk and shell, however, remains as eager as ever to get in the final word. “I know I am, old pal. Now please try to keep quiet, it’s not your turn to talk yet. It’s okay. I know you get easily confused these days. I’m sure it’s even worse with all these flashing lights.”
Doozer rolls his eyes so hard he almost pulls an eyelid muscle.
The host shakes off the mild disruption and continues with the cordial introductions. “Our second, and final contestant on Hollywood Squares is none other than my close, personal friend. A man I respect more than anyone else on the face of this Earth. A brother. A Bandit. A Beautiful Man from Honalee, but his stomach is from Parts Unknown.”
A suspenseful gasp.
“Representing the Beautiful Blue O’s, it’s Beautiful Bobby Dean!”
The applause sign starts to shake it’s flashing so fast. It might have something to do with the host of the show, who obnoxiously claps at a blurring rate while staring menacingly at the Fraggle Rock Red X contestant.
“You’re a real piece of shit sometimes, Jiles.” The Dooze mutters. His use of the word ‘sometimes’ could at least indicate that he’s in a better mood than previously thought.
“At least I, A, don’t look like it, and B, don’t smell like it.” After corresponding hand gestures towards each of his fellow Bandits – a point of the finger and then a wave of the hand in front of the nose – Jiles continues. “Now folks, as Bobby slowly makes his way out here, I want you all to know that he’s been diligently working his way towards thindom so he can once again grace a High Octane wrestling ring with his glorious presence. Ah, here he comes now.”
Jiles grabs the podium to brace himself.
The sound of enthusiastic plodding can be heard.
“Welcome, Bobby. I’m glad you could finally pry yourself away from Quiy Nei’s to join us here, on HOTv, for an EGGSTRA special edition of Hollywood Squares: March 2 Glory.”
Dean, now out of breath and enthusiasm, stumbles his way to the left side of the podium. After taking a moment he exhaustedly quips, “Uh, there’s no chair out here? You said there would be a chair out here!?!”
Jiles quickly sheds any form of concern and calmly pats Bobby on the back. “No rest for the wicked, Bob.”
Doozer shakes his head at Jiles’ second, thicker attempt at being Bostonian. Any true New Englander would know it was used in the wrong context.
“I think I’m feeling light headed, Cancer.” Bobby says faintly, to which everyone ignores.
“How about a hand for our lovely contestants?”
The applause sign briefly catches fire.
“So guys, we got a big match coming up over in Rome, care to share any thoughts about it before we get going here?”
Bobby is first to answer The Maestro. “I am NOT looking forward to that flight. No sir. After all the money we spent on this, I could only afford ONE coach seat.”
“I told you to hammer us last show.” Jiles coyly responds. “Now, Papa COOL is riding first class, and, well, I don’t know about you, Doozer. Frankly, I’m a tad concerned the length of the flight might not be the smartest thing to do for a man at your age.”
“I’m 47 years old, you twit.”
“Don’t you call me a twit! I’m the host of this show, DAMN IT! I’ll make Bobby the winner right now and then he gets to be my partner in the tag team match!”
The winner of Hollywood Squares: March 2 Glory will be teaming with Jiles in the five team, show stealing, Tag Team Championship matchup. I suppose for the COOLYMPIAN’s own sake, either Doozer wins, or… Doozer wins. Bobby, although progressing in the right direction, would need a miracle, liposuction, tummy tuck, and another month to make weight.
“Do you have anything else to add, other than insults?” A poignant Jiles asks.
“Yeah, I do.” Doozer responds with razor sharp focus. “This is easily the greatest collection of wrestling talent we’ve ever been up against.”
Jiles yawns. “And?”
“And we better fucking win. I’m putting all my eggs in your basket for this one.”
That’s a lot of Doozer eggs.
An aplomb COOLYMPIAN reassures his risk taking brother of the yolk, “It’s a Pay Per View, Doozer. These are the only matches we do win.”
Dooze nods favorably. “Got me there.”
The Count of COOL turns his attention away from the two contestants. “Now, it’s time to meet the Squares! I mean–” In a rare event, the host finds himself at a loss for the right word. Could have something to do with the ‘twit’ comment still irking him from just prior. Then, he realizes, “Nah, that’s about right. These are by far the biggest SQUARES of the wrestling universe, folks!”
The catchy jingle from before begins to play yet again. Then, the rather large apparatus housing the nine squares begins to slowly turn atop a platform; revealing the ‘celebrities’ – ah, that was the word – inhabiting them. These, dubbed in early promotional footage as, ‘Legends of the Ring’, will be aiding or ribbing Doozer and Bobby Dean in their quest to become the King of the Squares.
We know; not over your dead bodies.
Jiles clears his throat.
“In our top left square sits royalty, of her own accord. She might not dance, but she sure does make money moves. She was the first person to eat a Popeye’s Spicy Chicken Sandwich, allegedly. Let’s hear it for, LaQueendra Troyyyyyyyyyyyyy! WHAT WHAT.”
A pale, overweight, jerry curl sporting, world renowned wrestling superstar, with a ‘L
GBQT’ sticker on her man-breasted chest gives an enthusiastic and overly friendly wave to the contestants. With a, oh lets call it a Dean-esque skirt, she shouts, “I swear you can trust me!”
Like how you feel trying to make it through a HATE promo.
“Next up in the top middle square is the still reigning CSWA World Champion!” A pause for wow factor. The shortest pause possible, mind you. “Which, as fate would have it, would be the last title he won righteously slash wasn’t gifted.”
“He is a true coward’s coward, who has effectively lost all credibility since joining High Octane Wrestling. He’s a mover, albeit a slow one, and a hand shaker, even though he deadfishes it. I present to thee, Benedict Ryan! OR, the artist formerly known as Dan Arnold! How are you doing, you yellow-bellied-backstabber?”
The dumbfounded neanderthal in the top middle box scratches at the backwards Boston Red Sox cap resting atop his swole head. His facial expression is a blank, lifeless canvas that looks much better with yolk on it. After wasting precious seconds trying to process Jiles’ complicated question, he takes off his hat and blurts, “I love Rosanne.”
Glowing, King COOL keeps the show moving at a breakneck pace. “Wonderful news! Filling out the top row is the brand new Fist of Defiance, whatever the fuck that means. When I was there, the top belt was called the World Championship.” Pause, for obvious reasons. “I know because I brought the house down winning it.”
“ANYWAY, I hear he’s one of the most likeable guys around. That is, if moronic blabbering is your thing.”
Somewhere a kettle blackens.
“In the top right square, let’s hear it for, Likeablllllllllllle Michaellllllllllllll!”
Of the three men standing at the podium, Bobby is the only one who begins to hoot and holler. He’s a BIG fan of moronic blabbering.
“Underneath Mikey is, quite likely, a street performer with a close to famous last name. No, he doesn’t light guitars on fire while playing them. BUT, if you ride the right subway train you’ll find him serenading all walks of life with his trusty ukulele.”
The life of a sidekick isn’t an easy one.
The shadow can be rough.
Just ask Doozer.
He’ll tell ya.
“OF COURSE, we’re talking about none other than Mr. Smoke on the Frappe, James ‘Guitar Riff’ Kendrix!”
Literally, countless plastic crickets fall from the rafters in front of a bemused Cancer Jiles. It’d be tough to find a moment in history where he looked more proud of himself.
Aside from the picture wrapped across the entirety of the back wall.
The lack of a real ovation doesn’t stop Watch Tower from trying to speak. Sadly, his silence is more to do with the fact that no one remembered to turn on his microphone.
“James Kendrix, everybody!”
Just figurative this time.
Upon seeing who’s in the next square, The Slayer of Mongoloids perks up.
He’s been waiting patiently for this.
“The man in the middle square needs NO introduction, but, I’ll give him one anyway.” A classic Cancer grin comes and goes in a flash. “On his best day, his hair would be considered utter dog shit in comparison to mine. He’s the Cliff Booth to my Rick Dalton. That’s a stunt double for the Under Rocks Community. He’s also my personal organ harvester. It’s Mr. Per— uh, rather, it’s Not Me! Let’s hear it everybody, Not Me!”
An egg goes soaring through the air, barely missing the three men standing at the podium.
“Hey, Not Me! Knock that off! And get a haircut you vagabond!” Jiles shakes an angry fist while continuing to berate his escaped organ donor. “And when this is over, get your ass back in cryostasis. Chances are I’m going to need a new spleen to go along with my Tag Team Championship GOLD come the close of business on March 28th. I don’t pay you nothin’ for nothin’!”
The thought of Jiles suffering, AND the the Bandits winning at M2G, brings a wide smile to Doozer’s face.
“And in the square to Not Me’s left, a man who has been here, there, and everywhere in between. He’s got a more accomplished brother who I could also care less about. Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, he’s not who you think he is. No, he’s not The God of Thunder, but he does hail from another planet. England’s own; Sir Andrew Murray!”
The man from across the pond stands up and twirls a red cape he has draped across his shoulders. The wig atop his head falls off in doing so, and the shot quickly cuts back to Jiles.
“Filling out our bottom row. First, an old acquaintance who owned the famed, question mark, yet now defunct wrestling federation known as NGW. He had a belly button tattoo removed, but we here at The Squares never forget. He drinks. He stinks. He’s got pepperoni nipples. He’s a former High Octane Tag Team Champion with yours truly. He is Scoots McWoodson! Welcome to show buddy!”
After pounding a Fruit Rollup Truvia IPA extra beard, Scoots belches, “Happy to be here. Wait, this isn’t a Rangers game! Damn it I blacked out again!”
“Yes, it would appear you have.” Jiles smirks. “Now Scoots, much like old Jimmy Matchsticks in the middle right square, not much is known about your new tag team partner. What we do know is this, you guys looooove to HATE. That said, how’d you two meet? Dwight and Satan’s bed and breakfast? A Trump rally? An AA class? Drinking at a Trump rally? Did he ring you up at the liquor store?”
Scotty chugs another beer. This time around it’s a Penny Licker IPA Stout with Fruit Berry Jasmine sauce. “Rangers LAOG!!! Go Rangerseses!”
“Lovely. Just, lovely. Next to my old partner, who might I add carried me to plenty of victory, is his new partner in HATE crime! The Unknown, Devil Boy! Who, happens to be another guy with two first names! It’s Dan Ryan! Oops. Nope. He’s in the mossy square two rows above. No, it’s not Dan. It’s Damien. Still Ryan, sadly. Sorry. Too many Ryan’s. Anywho, tell us a little bit about yourself, son of Kostoff.”
The Devil Boy ignores the boisterous host, and begins chanting in tongues, “Etah….ETah… ETAh…………..ETAH!!!!!!!!!!!!”
Amazed with the synchronization, The Mongoloid Slayer jokes with the man on his left. “Looks like we’re gonna need to exorcise the set after this, eh Bob!”
Dean starts to sweat profusely. He utters with a whimper, “Please no, my legs are weak enough from standing here this whole time.”
Doozer shakes his head in disappointment.
Jiles chuckles. Loudly. “Not that. Well, I guess yes that, but that’s not what I meant.” The host’s words do nothing to quell Bobby’s anxiety. He continues to sweat.
“Our last square happens to be a man that all three of us standing up here are very familiar with. Actually, even some of our Squares over there know of him as well. A RETIRED EGG BANDIT, he’s the thinner, smarter, more lively version of the crumb magnon residing in the top middle square. He’s number one in your heart, and also number one in your program. LAST BUT CERTAINLY NOT LEAST. The. MAN. THE. MYTH. THE. LEGENDDDDDDDDDDDDDD. CARDBOARD. DAN. RYANNNNN!!!!!!”
The crowd goes wild.
The crowd being the three Bandits.
And the applause sign.
Brothers in arms, till the end.
“Welcome to show, CBD. I know it couldn’t have been easy getting here after being folded in half and all. GOD BLESS YOU.”
Cardboard Dan, still his old, stoic self, does what he does well.
He’s almost as good at this as his flesh and blood likeness.
“WITH THAT, WHADDAYA SAY WE START THE SHOW!! LADIES AND GENTLEMAN, IT’S TIME TO PLAY, THE HOLLYWOOD SQUARES! We’ll be right back after a quick word from our HOTv sponsors!”
Have you ever seen grass grow?
Hi, I’m Dan Ryan, the bottom for the Group of Death. I see grass grow all the time, especially when reciting my ABD’s in front of a mirror. If you’ve ever watched me wrestle, or talk, or can’t beat them join them, or eat a nice steak, or shake hands, or clang and bang big weight, or talk, or be a bridesmaid, then I’m here to tell you that you too, have seen grass grow.
Thank you for coming to my grass talk.
Hollywood Squares returns from commercial break.
You just have to check out part 2 to watch it!
We’ll see ya over there!
Image Credit: #1 Dad
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