It’s Easter Blaire!

It’s Easter Blaire!

Posted on April 16, 2020 at 9:01 pm by Bobby Dean

Ever feel invincible?

Wait, stupid auto correct. God damn fat fingered it.

People tend to start these things with famous quotes, so here’s one for my friends Cancer and Dooze.

“And remember, I love you!” – Barney, the Purple Dinosaur.

I’ve got a heavy heart today.

I know, I know. It’s because I’m fat, yeah? No. I mean, yeah, I’m still kind of fat. But my heart is heavy because I may have lied to you all.

You see, I may have claimed to have made weight to appease the rising tensions between my friends. But the truth is, I’m still over the limit. In my defense, I’m only 4 pounds over, but I still feel guilty. You guys and gals seem more interested and invested in my weight loss, that I feel terrible getting your hopes up.

I’d do anything to make my friends, friends again. It’s just nothing I do seem to help. I’m worried, because without the eGG Bandits, what will I do? I can’t wrestle singles matches! I’ve been made for tag team matches. I’ve been specifically designed to stand on the ring apron and cheer my partners on. You’ll never find a better cheerleader than ole Bobby Dean!

Now, I’m faced with an even bigger dilemma.

Lethal Lottery.

When Mike announced this upcoming event I was stoked! Like a twelve year old reading his first Playboy. Wait, does that analogy work these days? I mean, do 12 year olds read Playboys? I guess, the proper analogy would be like a twelve year old watching his first interracial gangbang!

Porn. It’s a lot more interesting when I was twelve!

Anywho, Lethal Lottery is one of the greatest inventions of all time. I’ve never been involved in a HOW Lottery, let alone a Lethal one! So there I was, the second person to sign up, happy and excited at the endless possibilities.

Andy Murray.
Cecilworth Farthington.
Mikey Unlikely!
Cancer Jiles!

Hell, I even heard rumor of possibly facing Lee mother fucking Best!

All these possibilities cross my hungry eyes. Then reality begins to set in.

I would lose to Andy Murray.

No way I could beat Cecilworth Farthington.

Mikey? He’d run circles around me. Literally, just to show me he could. The asshole.

Mike Best? MIKE! BEST!? I’ve been in this game a while now, and I’ve faced Mike countless times. And I mean that literally, I’ve lost count. But you know what I have kept count of? The number of times I’ve beaten Mike Best. Twice. Once in HOW, and once in sVo.

Every other time it wasn’t even close. In fact, I think the only reason why I beat him those two times was because he was menstruating. I’ll have to ask MJ Flair or Ms. Troy about that. How does your period affect your in ring performance? I’d ask Mike, but he doesn’t talk to me anymore. I don’t know if it’s because I’ve beaten him twice or because he’s afraid if he talks to me I’ll pull a Frosted Flakes on him the next day.

Back to the case at hand. I’ve now realized that all the happy thoughts and endless possibilities of a Lethal Lottery are stacked against me. There isn’t a single person on the roster I could win against. I’d lose to Hollywood. I’d lose to Scottywood. Thank goodness Stevens is retired, because I don’t know if my ego, as small as it is, could handle losing to the Lonesome Loser.

There is only one person I can think of, that I could probably stand a chance against.

Blaire fucking Moise.

That bitch refuses to be a part of any interview involving ole Bobby blue eyes. She said if I try to talk to her one more time she’ll file a restraining order against me! I simply asked if her name was Winter. Apparently telling her it should be because she’d be coming soon wasn’t appreciated.

I then asked her simply if she knew telekinesis. She said no, and I made my doubts known because she made parts of my anatomy move without even touching it.

Seriously, harmless, casual conversation. If I said any of these innocuous things to Ms. Troy, she wouldn’t threaten me with restraining orders. She’d smile at me, pat me on the head like a good lil’ boy and go on about her day.

Not Blaire… Ugh!

So, while all these other fools go on and on about who they want to face. I say good for them. Match them up. Give them what they want. Leave little tiny Blaire Moise to “Beautiful” Bobby Dean. And if I can’t get a win over her, we REALLY need to rethink this whole I want to be a wrestler profession.


“Here comes Bobby Cotton Tail
Hopping along the skinny trail
Hippity hoppity, hippity, hoppity
Easter Candy on it’s way!

There! There it is!

I run across the grass and snatch a plastic egg just as a small child reaches out for it. The young child’s bottom lip immediately begins to quiver. Tears begin to form in her little shit brown eyes as I gently place the faux egg in my basket.

“Yes!” I yell out in triumph as my basket is near overflowing. The joy I feel rivals that of winning the HOW tag team titles!

Muttering and murmuring can be heard just across the expanse of the backyard but I ignore it. Something I’m very well trained at doing, especially here lately, as I’ve been forced to ignore the mutterings of Cancer and Doozer. Besides eating, ignoring people is probably my next best skill in life. Turning my attention back to the task at hand I happen to spot my next target hidden in the branches of a nearby bush. Charging across the field I accidentally knock the crying child down onto her butt, but my focus is laser like, like Kael’s eye.

I kind of feel like Mike Best. Here I am stealing candy from children and then knocking them on their ass! Man, I miss old school Mike!

“Yes!” I yell out again as I run, my hand outstretched. “Yes, yes, yes!” I keep crying out as I put my next trophy egg, a real hard boiled, and dyed goodie into my basket. Dyed eggs look pretty but are completely useless. They don’t have any fucking chocolate in them!

“Hey!” the voice of an angry man calls out as he marches up to me, an unruly mob at his back. “What do you think you’re doing!?”

“Hunting eggs.” I answer honestly, wondering why he’d be asking such an obvious question.

“But why are you doing it here?” he asks, waving at the backyard.

“Huh?” I ask, clearly confused.

“No one invited you!” he yells, spittle flying in my face as the vein in his neck bulges out drastically. “You just walk in here and start taking the eggs from the kids, and you think that’s okay?”

“I didn’t know this was a private party,” I admit sheepishly. “I just saw some people heading towards the backyard and figured I’d follow along.”

“And you brought your own basket?” he asks, in disbelief.

“It’s Easter!” I answer as if that were obvious. “I wouldn’t leave home without it!”

The guy shakes his head, and simply points towards the gate. My shoulders slump, my head droops, and my bottom lip begins to quiver similar to the young child’s. I begin to head towards the exit reluctantly, but before I can take more than three steps the man reaches out and snatches my basket from my hands.

Dumping the eggs out, I can do nothing but stand and watch as all that sugar hits the grass at my feet. With the basket empty, he returns it to me, by roughly shoving it into my chest.

“Here comes… sniff. Bobby cotton… sniff. Tail.
Hopp… snigh.. Ing along… sniff. The starving trail.

That’s as far as I get before the emotions overwhelm me. The basket falls from my fingers as I begin to run out the backyard crying hysterically.

Every fucking Easter…


Night of the Lottery is upon us. Cancer and Doozer still aren’t talking. But fuck them. Let them shoot daggers at each other. Let them snipe at one another. My head’s in the game tonight. I’ve only got one name on my mind tonight.

Blaire Moise.

I’m coming for you.