“Ugh!” The sound of utter disappointment escapes my tired lips, as I find myself crammed on a plane. In the middle seat. In coach. Between a pregnant woman, and her six year old child.
Please explain the logic of that seating arrangement to me. Please. I’m begging you. No? Can’t explain it? Yeah, didn’t think so. Who wouldn’t want to be seated in between a woman who appears about ready to pop, and her sniveling child who keeps screaming for something to eat? Or something to drink? Or something to play with? Or something to watch?
Someone pay attention to me!
I feel you, Joe.
“Fuck me.” I mutter to myself, yet again, causing the woman next to me to tsk while shooting daggers in my direction.
What really eats at me is the fact that Cancer, Doozer, and my 15 year old child are sitting in Business Class, sipping Miller Lights, Bud Light Seltzer Watermelon Mojitos, and Shirly Temples.
What? She’s 15. She has an excuse. No clue why the other two have questionable taste in drinks.
Meanwhile, I’m back here drinking Diet fucking Coke because that’s all they had left. Not only do I not get a full can, but what I do get is a cup that makes a shot glass look like a stein! And even then it’s filled with more ice than poison. Stupid fake sugar poison, no less.
Needless to say, I’m not a happy camper. But what else can you do when the notoriously cheap fuck running HOW arranges the travel for you, and you find yourself on a plane that is overbooked. You are given an opportunity to live that #1 Dad lifestyle, giving up a prime seat with your buddies in Business Class to your child, instead of forcing her to sit in the back like an animal.
Easy choice to make.
Bah, the truth is, sometimes you’re unlucky enough to lose a game of roshambo to a 15 year old who cheats, and who doesn’t believe in the Best of 5 rule.
It’s One, Two, Shoot. Dammit!
Fucking slow rolling me like a chump.
So here I sit, hating pregnant women, hating children, hating MY child, and hating the fact that I’m on a plane flying from wonderful Las Vegas, to swampy ass Miami, Florida in the tail end of summer. Have you been to Florida in September!?
“Fuck. Me.” I say again, receiving an elbow in my vast man tit, from an irate mother.
I’m trapped in my seat for the next 4 hours and 50 minutes. Trapped, with no one to talk to. No one to entertain me. Alone, with just my thoughts for company.
Yeah, this should go well…
I can hear it now.
Oh look, the Bandits are back.
Think it’ll be different this time?
Wait ten minutes…
Oh look, the Bandits have flaked again.
Bagman, I gotta say, when you’re right, you’re right. We flake. Is that actor who did the Captain Obvious commercials dead? Because, boy oh boy, would there be a gig waiting for you!
But, to your credit, and if I’m being honest, flaking’s about the only thing the eGG Bandits are known for these days. I’m not even going to apologize for it. Why would I? Does a zebra apologize for its stripes? Does an elephant apologize for its trunk? Does a unicorn apologize for its beautiful horn? Does Mandingo apologize for his massive cock?
I mean, if all the big brains in the back are dumb enough to keep bringing us back, knowing that we’ll eventually pull a Houdini on anyone who cares and everyone who doesn’t, who really is at fault? Us for living up to a reputation? Or them for enabling us to waste your time and make a mockery of the effort you put forth?
You know what they say about doing the same shit over and over and expecting a different outcome? Think about it. We might flake. At least we’re not delusional.
But hey, I’m certainly not going to complain about this circle of life. A payday is a payday, am I right?
If you really stop and think about it, how pathetic must you and Solex be? I know it might be tough for you two, but really, think about it. You all, once again, forced Lee to scrape the bottom of the barrel and extend an invitation that he swore he’d never extend again. All to drag the Bandits back into the Hell that is High Octane. Just to give some actual credence to the HOTv Tag Team Titles?
Does HOW even have real tag teams anymore?
Spoiler alert; the fact that I’m doing this gives you your answer.
Zion and Hollywood have divorced. And trust me, that really brings a tear to my eye. I thought their love was that everlasting sort. The kind where the two of them die at the same time, holding hands, under the tree where they had their first kiss. But I guess, when you think on it, if the jubilant Joey Bergman and his lovely Laura can’t survive, who can?
I guess Dooze and I could always whore out Cancer Jiles to ole Scottywood and give that miserable fuck a glimmer of hope? That’s sure as fuck the only way to make Mr. Anarchy relevant again. Does anyone else remember any other tag partner Scottywood had?
Hey crickets, quiet down just in case anyone speaks up.
Let’s just face the facts. You two won a pair of titles that Lee doesn’t think you can carry. So he calls in a couple of ringers; forces us into a Best of 5 with you two bozos in the hopes that 1. We stay long enough to see 5 matches, and 2. By using the Bandit name, he can bring some sort of credibility to a pair of titles that have been retired and vacated more than Lee has been dead and we have flaked, COMBINED.
I do have to say though, Joey, you got the why we flake part all wrong. We don’t flake because shit gets tough. We don’t do it because we can’t hack it. We certainly don’t turn tail and run for the hills because we lose. Shit, when you’ve had all the success we had back in the day, you don’t really give a shit about the record. Losing became what we did best! And it’s so cute that you think that’s because it was “tough.”
The fact is, you need losers like us. If you didn’t, who would you feed to the killers? To the Stronks of the world? Or the Dan Ryans? Or the Dan Ryans? Or the Tyler Bests? Who would pad Solex’s record? You don’t see him doing a Best of 7 with the great Christopher America, do you? You didn’t see him doing a best of 5 with the Sparrow. That’s the part everyone in HOW refuses to accept. The Zion’s, and the Stevens’, and the Hollywood’s, and the Carey’s. They all want to be at the top of that damn totem pole. Refusing to acknowledge or accept that, well, they just plain suck.
You all can suck my totem pole.
The Bandits? We just don’t fucking care. We never did, really. We simply want to light that pole on fire and watch the mother fucker burn. And if we’re lucky, we get to watch a few of you get caught in the flames. But it’s okay, guys and gal we all hope will retire. We’re talking about HOW. No one ever stays dead! Thank god for our sake, or we’d still be buried under the Chaos set…
Anyone remember that?
Who let the crickets back in here?!
Wait, I think I got sidetracked. My apologies. I think we were talking about why we flake…
That’s right, we flake because we get bored.
So. Fucking. Bored.
Week after week it ends up being the same old thing. Over and over and over again. Bobby is fat. Dooze is old. Cancer Jiles is, well, he’s ruined through association. Poor guy. Makes you wonder why he sticks with us? Hmmmm… maybe it’s the same reason Lee keeps calling us back?
Speaking of the COOL, ever notice how one ever really says anything about him? Because of the three of us he’s the one with actual talent, and most of you are scared he’ll blast you in a Crackin’ News submission. Funny how you “tough” guys just go after the easy targets, time after time after time. I don’t know “tough”, but that doesn’t sound much like it to me.
Back to these tired tropes…
How many more times do I have to hear about how lazy I am? Or how unreliable I am? Or how disgustingly fat I am? Or how I’m just some stupid comic relief, and I’m not even all that funny. Oh, oh, or how if I would only put forth a miniscule amount of effort, I could someday be good again?
You fuckers want effort, you got it. But miniscule is about the only amount of effort I think you deserve. I mean shit, it’s not like we’re in PRIME now, are we? I heard it’s #1 by definition. So who does #2 work for?
Hint hint; he’s a bald fuck with fake eyes who once owned a battleship.
Solex, I really feel like I should apologize to you, though, if anything. You’re a helluva guy. I can see why you’re in the Hall of Fame. On merit, more than anything, but still… Your biggest accolade in the last few years is simply because of me. Everyone points to our Best of 7 more than anything else you’ve accomplished? Because you beat a lackluster slob like me who cared more about making a joke out of the series than winning it? God that must suck for you!
A winner, defined by a loser.
That’s gotta hurt.
Like, if I was the winner, I’d really hate that.
Imagine, a fucking Hall of Famer who couldn’t sweep my untalented ass in 4. You had to go the full distance. With someone everyone agrees wasn’t living up to his potential…
That’d be like the shitty fucking Chicago Bulls taking the Golden State Warriors to game 7!
Ugh, I can’t believe I just related US to the Chicago Bulls. Dooze and Cancer are going to kill me. And I’m not sure I’d even blame them. I might be a downright dirty son of a bitch, but I feel like I need to take a shower after that…
Seriously though, Bergerino, ya wonder what the Over/Under is in the HOG on when the Bandits will flake again?
Answer: The next time Bobby faces Bobbinette Carey.
I guess I should let you in on a not so little secret. Because we’re close like that. You see, I did, in fact, flake because I lost to Bobbinette Carey.
Not because it got too “tough” around here.
Not because I can’t handle losing.
Just because it was her…
I mean, you try losing to her and see how you handle it!
I’m not going to lie to you, J-Bone, I’ll own up to it. She beat me fair and square. I don’t know how, maybe it was her time of the month? Everyone knows you can’t overpower Aunt Flow. I hear it gives you the power of 20 angry women. How was I to compete against that? I’m not a fucking shark! However she did it, the fact remains the same, she did it.
I think I’m finally over it now, but back then I was quite distraught. I followed the 24 hour rule, turned it into the 72 hour rule, and yet I still found myself lying awake at night, simply unable to accept it. I lost my appetite.
*Bigger Gasp than before*
I couldn’t laugh anymore, I felt like I was an empty husk. Deprived of all the things I found joy in. The whole time I just kept asking myself, “why did it have to be to her?”
Now you’re probably thinking I harbor some ill will towards Carey, and the truth is, I do! I just can’t stand the thought of me being the “other” Bobby. I always hoped that, if I had to share a namesake with a friend or coworker, they’d be just as awesome as I think I am! Maybe when we’re done with this whole Best of 5, and I’m, you know, still here, I can run that one back…
Nah, who am I kidding, I’ll be looooooong gone by then, there’s no way we’re staying in this shithole for the full 5.
I haven’t seen a single bundt cake for fuck’s sake!
“Please fasten your seatbelts as we make our final descent,” the voice of the flight attendant calls out through the speakers, drawing me out of my thoughts.
Yeah, I’d say we’re going down alright. And there isn’t a seatbelt strong enough to protect me from this aftermath.
And, somehow, I can’t seem to wipe the smile from my fat, lazy, underwhelming face.