“Suspended… and Loving It!” by RANDY ORTON
Well I guess by now, all of you have heard. Hell, WWE.com even posted it on their website. Yes, it is true, I, Randy Orton, have been suspended by WWE.
In other words, I’m going on a 60-day vacation, at a minimum. Boo hoo, poor me. Let’s see, is this going to teach me a lesson? You tell me. Here now is my plan for the next 60 days. I’ll let you be the judge.
Days 1 through 10: BANG, BANG, AND BANG SOME MORE
F*ck those “Diva” bitches who like to tell everyone they turned me down. I guess it makes them feel good to lie about it, but the truth is that the Legend Killer slipped the bone to Christy Hemme, Ashley Massaro (sorry Matt Hardy, but Edge got away with pounding your girl, so I am too), Candice Michelle, and all the runners-up from the 2005 and 2004 Raw Diva Search contests. The DNA on the “vag” doesn’t lie; they’re notches on my thin-as-a-splinter bedpost.
With those hags now used and abused, I’m going to unzip my pants all over town, and I have 60 days to do so. Look at me. I’m 26, young, handsome, rich, muscular, tan, and famous. I can bed any lady I wish. On the road, I was stuck with white trash hoes in the middle of Iowa that I had to convince myself were f*ckable. At home, I can cherry pick the hottest babes and not worry about making my flight the next day. That’s not to say I’ll see these broads the next morning, because I won’t. Make no mistake about it, girls, when 6am hits, you’re out the door. I’ll just go out and find me more meat, and the meat just gets better and better. 60 days? That’s 500 chicks, and that’s a minimum.
Oh WWE, poor little me. Gee, I feel so punished. You’ll show me, huh.
Days 11-20: SLEEPING THE DAY AWAY
After I roll those skanks out of my King-size bed and off my King-size schlong, it’s time for a little breakfast. And then? Sleep. Lots of it. And no one to knock on my door telling me to pack up and check out of the hotel.
I think I’ll watch the Godfather trilogy, followed by some vintage Traci Lords porn, and then top it off with some sports. Anything but WWE, because that sh*t sucks. I might even watch some TNA. And I’ll watch all of it from my bed, popping popcorn, chugging sodas, and ordering some Chinese food. A little Kung Pao before I pow-wow my date’s pelvic region. A little butter on the kernels and then I’ll shoot some butter in Miss Miami’s face. I’m gonna blow my load so hard in her mouth that it’ll look like her teeth are melting.
And then I’ll kick her out of the house, and do the same thing all over again.
Days 21-30: HEAL BOY, HEAL. GOOD DOG.
All that wrestling nonsense is a big pain in the ass. Bump here, bump there… what the f*ck! That sh*t hurts. It’s bad enough I have to pop 20 pain pills just to fall asleep, and finally I’m gonna get the chance to heal up.
Oh I’ll be bumping, mind you. But I’ll just be bumping different body parts. I’ll have to pop pain pills, but the pain will be on the only muscle in my body that I can’t lift weights with: EL PENE. How’s that, you Hispanic SmackDown viewers? I LIKE EL SEX-O. Me llamo Randy, and I’m gonna screw-o your wife-o.
I’ll hit the weights every now and then, sure. But weight training isn’t what made me so muscular. Steroids did. When you’re on steroids, you just have to lift a mug of beer and your muscles get huge. Just look at 80s WWF guys. Me? I’m no different. Plus, my balls could use some shrinkage, because my shaft is gonna be “ocupado,” if you know what I mean.
Days 31-40: COUNT CASH-ULA
I don’t need the money. I’m already rich. I wrestle for the poon. And quite frankly, I don’t even think I need wrestling to score poon anymore, and these 60 days will be a test of that.
In the meantime, I’m gonna count my cash. Interest rates are going up, and my money market funds and CD’s are performing handsomely (just like I am). While I’m coming and pounding, my interest will be “com-pounding.” And we all know the power of compound interest. Well, maybe you don’t. After all, you’re wrestling fans.
In other words, I might pay off a few mortgages and Rolls Royces, and still have enough left over to buy and sell everyone reading this… twice.
But don’t tell my dad that. That leach won’t leave me the f*ck alone. The WWE Pension Fund (ha) doesn’t pay well, apparently. And then there’s Uncle Barry, who many of you might remember as Barry O from WWF jobber fame and early 90s WWF sex scandals. Family: they’re a big fat pain in the ass.
Days 41-50: V-A-C-A-T-I-O-N
You might think I hate traveling, since I’ve been doing it for years. And I DO hate it, but only when I have to wrestle.
Think about it. Whenever I go overseas, it’s some sh*thole like India, and WWE makes me do these lame media interviews or go visit some sick kids. Screw the sick! I wanna sight-see and pick up locals, not sign autographs for these booger-balls who are crawling with disgusting germs. And it definitely won’t be India. Last time I went there, I shat for 6 days straight.
Nah, instead I’m going somewhere cool like Sweden, where I’ll pork the entire bikini team… at the same time. I’ll go to Amsterdam and smoke some serious weed, without having to worry about failing some stupid drug test. I’ll go to Rome and swallow some serious pizza and not have to worry about getting a little gut. I’ll go to Ireland and drink myself silly, and then pass out. I’ll go to Bangkok and bang with my c*ck. I’ll go to Hong Kong and do everything wrong. I’ll go to Singapore and buy a whore. I’ll go to France and drop my pants. I’ll go to the Great Brit and lick some clit. I’ll go to Panama City and suckle on some titty. I’ll go to Milwaukee and do some bukake. And I’ll finish off in Mexico and engage in some Sexico. Catch my drift?
Days 51-60: TNA
By this point, I figure WWE will be missing me so much that they’ll be begging me back. And I’ll respond to them by flipping the bird.
I’ve been watching some TNA, and I like what I see. The idea of making half-mil a year and working twice a month appeals to me. It’s a total party scene, and the babes in Florida are as hot as they come. I just might mozy on down to the Orlando studio and get Vince’s panties in a bunch. You know, the forbidden fruit theory? He’ll want me so bad he’ll practically double my salary. And then I’ll tell him to f*ck off.
So, my friends, don’t worry about ol’ Randy boy. I’ll be just fine. And trust me, you’ll be seeing me again very soon.
The Legend Killer, Signing Off
Disclaimer: Randy Orton didn’t really write this. The Armpit did. But we know it’s what Randy would say.