The intellectual equivalent of a ham sandwich.

If I Was a WWE Wrestler

All fear the mighty APOCALIPS! Woe, woe, ye who defy me cry out in fear, agony, and dare I say, a trifle excitement? For I AM APOCALIPS! The wrestler who pins, smashes, mauls, maims, destroys, crushes, humiliates, and smooches.

YES! FEAR ME!

Note, you plebian, insular, simple-minded mongrels. NOTE I SAY. Note my bombastic biceps, my people-pleasing pectorals, my absurdly awesome abdominals, my thoroughly thick thighs, my catastrophically kick-tush calves, and my luscious lips. These are the lips you have heard of, the lips that have not gone for more than an hour without having a fresh coat of Blistex applied. Lips so soft, so kissable, so intoxicating to behold … that they could only signal … THE END OF DAYS.

Hark! What happens there? In the corner of the ring!? COULD THAT BEEEEE?

Lo, it is. My oldest foe … The aggravatingly short man who won’t let things go, who specializes in the trifling, the insignificant, the unimportant … Who works in a salon by day, wrestles by night, and haunts dreams incessantly … Known only as the the PETTY-CURIST!

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