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THE MOVIES . ..PULP BOOKERMAN . ..RASSELIN' WAR DOGS THE MUSIC . .."BENOIT WILL SURVIVE" . .."HI! MY NAME IS. . ." . .."THE STYLE AND THE PROFILE" . .."BOBBY BRAIN" THE NOTES FROM THE ROSS REPORT . ..OLD . ..CURRENT THE MAILBAG . ..OLD BAGS . ..CURRENT THE MADLIBS . ..DIESEL TURNS TWEENER . ..HIT MY MUSIC THE MEGASITES . ..WRESTLEWHINE . ..CRANKSYLVANIA THE OTHER . ..2000; YEAR IN NOTES . ..THE JF'N SHOPZONE . ..HUNK OF THE WEEK . ..BANNERS . ..LIST OF LINKS |
New to Rasselin' War Dogs? Read the introduction and old episodes of this Tarantino movie spoof. We see the outside of a restaurant: It's WWF New York. Hulk Hogan enters and walks up to a table where the Rock is sitting. Hogan: Say hello to a brutha -- sucka! -- who's inside. Dusty's doing a hit and take a big fat guess who he wants on the team. Rock: The Rock says this better not be some kind of pretty joke, jabroni. Hogan: It's no joke. I'm in there, I'm up his ass. Like always when it comes to bookers. He sits down at the table. Hogan: Nice Guy Dustin tells me Dusty wants to meet me. Says I should just hang around my appartment eating fruit and being cool, and wait for a phone call. Well, after waiting for three damn days by the sucka phone -- I never even had to wait for a world title that long after coming into a new fed, brutha! -- he calls me last night and says "Dusty's ready. We'll pick you up in fifteen minutes." Rock: Who picks you up? Hogan: Nice G--. . . Rock: IT DOESN'T MATTER WHO PICKED YOU UP!! Hogan: Then why'd you ask, brutha? Anyway, we get to a bar. . . Rock: What bar? Hogan: Smokey Pe--. . . Rock: IT DOESN'T MATTER WHAT BAR HE TOOK YOU TO!!! Hogan (annoyed): Can you please not do that, brutha? Rock: The Rock says he's sorry. Reflex. Won't happen again. Continue. Hogan (a bit hesitant): We get there, and Dusty and a guy named Mr. Wight... It's a phony name, my name is--. . . Rock: IT DOESN'T MATTER WHAT YOUR NAME IS!!!! Hogan: Hey, brutha! You promised. Rock: The Rock says he's sorry, but you just keep setting them up, you know. . . Hogan: Anyway. My name is Mr. Orange. Rock: Mr. Orange? Hogan: Mr. Orange. Rock: OK, Mr. Orange. . . (chuckles) Did you ever see this jabroni before? Hogan: Who? Mr. Wight? Rock: Yes, Mr. Orange. Mr. Wight. Hogan: No, he ain't familiar. He. . . He isn't one of Dusty's soldiers either, he's gotta be from out of town. Dusty knows him a little bit. Rock: How can you tell? Hogan: The way they talk to each other. Wight seems to understand some of the words coming out of Dusty's mouth, for one thing. You can tell they're buddies. Rock: The two of you talk? Hogan: Who, me and Dust? Rock: Mr. Wight. Hogan: A little. Rock: About what? Hogan: You know, the usual. Me. My career. How I deserve to headline everywhere for all eternity. The usual. Oh, and he mentioned something about Leviathan. Rock: WWF hopeful Leviathan? Hogan: Yeah. Apparently he won the night before. He made a killing out of it. Rock: This is sweet, man. The Rock says that if this jabronie's a Leviathan fan, his candy ass has got to have been working in Ohio Valley. And I'd bet you everything from a jar of monkey piss to a filling of poontang pie that in Ohio Valley they've got a sheet on this Mr. Wight jabroni's candy ass. So what the Rock wants you to do is to go through the bios of all of the guys from all Ohio Valley with a reason to be bitter with Vince. Might take some time. Put a name to the face. Nice work, Hulkster. Hogan: Thank you, brutha. Rock: How was Long Horns Terry's referral? Hogan: Perfecto. He's backing me up a long -- sucka! -- way. I told 'em it was Long Horns Terry I did the poker game with. Nice Guy called him to check it out. . . Said it was A-OK. Said I was a good belt stealer, I didn't sell, I was ready to do a shoot. You should do right by him, he's a nice old man. I wouldn't be inside if it wasn't for him. Rock: No. No, no no. Long Horns Terry is not your goddamn amigo, jabroni. Long Horns Terry is a goddamn hermaphrodite. He is selling out his amigos. That's what kind of a nice guy he cookin' is, alright. The Rock says he'll lay the smack down on his candy ass, but you keep that lowlife jabroni out of mine, and you take care of business, you hear the Rock? Hogan: Gone. They quiet. The Rock turns his head slightly and raises an eyebrow. . . Rock: You use the commode story? FLASHBACK. Hogan is standing on a roof top somewhere, holding a stack of papers. Also there is The Rock. Hogan: What's the commode story? Rock: It's a scene, jabroni. Memorize it. Hogan: A what? Rock: Look, jabroni, undercover company boys've gotta be Ric Flair. To do this job, you gotta be a great interview. You've gotta be Nature Boy-istic. You've gotta be Nature Boy-istic as hellllalalalala. If you're not a good interview, you're a bad interview. And a bad interview means Brahma bullshit in this job. Hogan (holding up the stack of paper): What is this? Rock: That is an amusing anecdote about a roid deal. Hogan: What? Rock: Something funny that happened to you when you were working the cookin' indys, man! Hogan: Damn! I gotta memorize all this? This is over four -- sucka! -- pages long... Rock: Look, jabronie, just think about it like it's a, a... a pre-recorded backstage promo, alright? Memorize what's important, the rest you make your own, alright? You can do a promo, can't you? Hogan: No. Rock: Pretend you're Shawn Michaels or some cookin' body and do the promo, alright? Now the things you've gotta remember are the details. It's the details that sell your story. Now this particular story takes place in a men's room. So you gotta know all the details about the men's room. You've gotta know if they've got paper towels or a blower to dry your hands. You gotta know if the stalls ain't got no doors or not, jabrone. You gotta know if they got liquid soap or that pink candyass powder shit they used to use in high school, remember? You gotta know if they got hot water or not. If it SMELLLLLLALALALALALLS. If some nasty, midcard, scum-ridden hermaphrodite sprayed monkey piss all over one of the bowls. You gotta know every detail there is to know about this commode! And what you gotta do is take all them details, jabrone, and make them your own. While you're doing that, you gotta remember that this story is about you. And how you perceived the events that went down. And the only way to do that, my jabronie... Is to keep saying it, and saying it and saying it. FLASH FORWARD. Hulk Hogan is walking around his appartment, practising the commode story. He's mostly just reading directly off the paper at the moment. Hogan: This was during the pro wrestling steroid drought, 1993... I still had a connection which was insane because you couldn't get any roids any -- sucka -- where. Anyway... I had a connection with this facepainted lunatic down in Arizona and all my friends knew it. They'd give me a call and say "Hey, Hulkster." ... BZZT! "Hey, dude. You getting some? Can you get some for me too?" Like, they new I still injected so they asked me to buy some for them when I was buying for me. But it got to be... Got to be... Temporarily lost, he reads through the text. Hogan: It got to be... every time I bought some roids I was buying for four or five different -- sucka! -- people. Finally, I said "Sucka, shit! I'm making this dingo bitch rich." He didn't have to do jack shit, he never had to meet these people. I'm doing all the work while he's sitting at home, eating fruit and being cool. And rambling incoherensies. FLASH FORWARD. On the roof again, Hogan is telling the story without any help from ,the text while the Rock looks on, pleased. Hogan: And then it got to be a pain in the ass. People calling me on the phone all the -- sucka -- time. I couldn't even rent a -- sucka! -- tape without six -- sucka! -- phone calls in a row. "Hey, when's the next time you're getting some?" Brutha, sucka! I'm trying to watch Body Slam, you know. "When I get some, I'll let you know." And then these sloppy-ass roid freaks comin' round... -- They're my friends and everything, but still, you know. I got my crap laid out in sixty dollar bags. They don't want sixty dollars' worth. They want ten dollars' worth. Breaking it up is a major -- sucka! -- pain in the ass. I don't even know what ten dollars' worth looks like! FLASH FORWARD. Hulk Hogan -- as Mr. Orange -- is in a bar, telling the story to Dusty, Mr. Wight, and Nice Guy Dustin. Mr. Orange: This was a very weird situation... I don't know if you remember, back in -93, there was a major -- sucka! -- drought. Nobody had anything. People were living off nothing and injecting the air from their needles for months! This loon had a bunch. And he was beggin me to sell it! So I told him I wasn't going to be Terry the wrestling pot-man anymore, but I would take a little bit and sell it to my close, close, close friends. He agreed to that, said we'd keep the same arrangement as before; 10%, free roids for me, as long as I helped him out that weekend. He had a pack of pills he was selling; he didn't want to go to the buy alone. His old tag partner usually goes with him, but he's on leave unexpectedly. Dusty: Whad fo'? Mr. Orange: Allergic reaction to some hair bleach or something. Anyway, he doesn't want to walk around with all those steroids. I don't wanna do this. I have a very baaad feeling about this. He keeps asking me, keeps asking me, keeps asking me. Finally I say OK, cause I'm sick of hearing his ramblings about "Warrioricity" and "foke". Now, we're picking the guy up at a house show--... Nice Guy Dustin: Wait a minute. You're going to a house show to pick up the buyer... with the roids on you? Mr. Orange: Hey, the brutha needed it right away, don't ask me why. Anyway, we get to the house show and we're waiting for the guy. Now, I'm carrying the roids around in one of them little black leather fannypacks; I gotta take a piss. So I tell the connection I'll be right back, I'm going to the boys' room to drain the 2.4 inch python. We see the imagined men's room. Hogan walks in, but there are already a few wrestlers inside. Mr. Orange (voiceover): So I walk in the mens' room, and who's standing there? The Four Horsemen and a Dog Faced Gremlin. Rick Steiner: Woof! Woof! Woof! Nice Guy Dustin: They're waiting for you? Mr. Orange: No, it's just a bunch of company boys hanging around in the men's room, talking... Mr. Orange (voiceover): ...but when I walked through the door, they all stopped what they're talking about and they looked at me. Mr. Wight: Ha ha ha. That's hard, man. Well it's a big hard fucking situation! Mr. Orange: The Dog Faced Gremlin starts running around in a circle, barking. Rick Steiner: Woof! Woof! Woof! Mr. Orange (voiceover): He's barking at me. I mean it's obvious, he's barking at me. Every nerve-ending still intact after the steroid injections, all my senses, the red, white, and blue blood in my veins, everything I have is screaming: "Take off, brutha! Just bail! Just get the -- sucka! -- out of there!" Panic hits me like Doink throwing a bucket of water, first there's the shock of it: "BANG" right in the face. And I'm just standing there, drenched in panic, and all those Horsemen looking at me... and they can smell it! Sure as that -- sucka! -- Steiner Brother can! They can smell it on me! Rick Steiner: Woof! Woof! Woof! Flair: Shut up, fat boy! Steiner whimpers. One of the Horsemen continues to tell the other three a story, and Hogan walks over to the urinals to take a piss. Arn: So anyway, I got my safety scissors drawn, right? And I got it pointed at this guy. And I tell him "Freeze. Don't fucking move!" And this big ol' idiot's looking straight at me, nodding his head 'yeah', saying "I know, I know, I know..." And meanwhile, his hand is creeping toward the glovebox. And I scream at him, I go "Asshole! I'm gonna fucking job you away right now, put your hands on the dash!" And he's still looking at me, nodding his head, smiling, blinking his eyes, you know? "I know, buddy.. I know, I know..." But meanwhile, his hand is still going for the glovebox! And I say "Buddy! I'm gonna stab you in the face if you don't put your hands on the fucking dash!" And then this guy's manager, this real dressed-up Southern guy, you know. He starts screaming at him: "Sid! Sid! What are you doing? Listen to the company boy and put your hands on the dash!" And then like nothing, the guy snaps out of it, and casually puts his hands on the dash. Flair: What was he going for? Arn: His fucking squeegee! Flair: Ha! Ha ha ha! You're kidding? Arn: No, man. Stupid fucking stiff didn't know how fucking close he got to being jobbed out! Hogan, who's been washing his hands, calmly walks over to the blower to dry his hands. The Horsemen just look at him. Dusty: Yuh know how to handul dat situation. Juth shit in your pantth and dive in an' swim. Back to present, where Rock is talking to Hogan in the restaurant. Rock: Tell me more about Dusty. Hogan: I dunno. He's.. he's a cool brutha. Rock: Huh? Hogan: He's funny. He's a funny brutha. Remember Ghostbusters? Rock: Uh, yeah, with that slimy jabrone and Egon and all that monkey crap, right. Hogan: The Marshmellow Man... Brutha-sucka looks just like the Marshmellow Man! |
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All material on this website © 2001 JF Productions. All material written by “Mr. JF” Jeeves Fakurkle unless otherwise noted. Protected by International Patent Law #666. All rights left. This shite is not affiliated with the WWF, WCW, ECW, WXO, IKEA or Bob Ryder. No material herein may be copied, reproduced, recopied, re-reproduced, distributed, attributed, sold or told without the express written consent of The Man. Violating this rule will lead to me violating your sister. No exceptions made. |