JebLund: Rocky, don't kid yourself. If given the chance, that man would fist you and everyone you ever cared about.
KingRockus: It is indeed a terrifying prospect. I mean, he's actually showing us far up he's going to insert that hand.
KingRockus: And even worse, he doesn't fist, he frogs.
JebLund: That other hand clamped on his bicep is also for stability. He's not going to take you thrashing around. Look at the grim determination on his bleach-frog face.
KingRockus: It is a technique perfected over many years on the ranch, manually stimulating the prostates of all manner of cattle, fowl, and manbeasts.
JebLund: His steely gaze tells you in one glance that he's heard screams of terror from all manner of field animals and field hands, and yet he has NEVER BEEN PERSUADED TO STOP.
KingRockus: But it is a noble art. For without science and delicate husbandry, how else can we ensure the survival of the noble, yet shy Irish race?
JebLund: Those Irish can't reproduce on their own. It's like they don't even know how.
KingRockus: We invented whiskey. Unfortunately, we also invented whiskey dick.
JebLund: And he's here to set the breeding record straight. Just look at that fist and what's around it. Look at that art!
JebLund: POW!
KingRockus: Holy violation, FrogMan!
JebLund: KERPLOOIE!
KingRockus: Now if I were designing a wrestling outfit, I'm not sure I would put a freakin' bulls-eye on my mid-section.
JebLund: SPUNK!
KingRockus: With that, you're just asking for KA-POING!
JebLund: Nor would I. It's like he's advertising where one blow radiates into ATOMIC DEATH.
KingRockus: Indeed, we can already see the apocalypse happening behind him.
JebLund: This is what happens when you hit the real-life version of that guy from Mike Tyson's Punch OUT! who you could waste by hitting his bandaged belly.
KingRockus: King Hippo.
JebLund: YES! This is King Hippo, with a new technique: THE FIST. All reality melts and burns behind him.
JebLund: POW!
KingRockus: Ah, but Bleachy Frog Fister has counted on the old technique for beating King Hippo. He's got the straps to keep his tights up.
JebLund: You've forgotten my resourcefulness. I've read "The Nintendo Fun Club News." Nestor tells me that if I punch him in the POW gut, his fist is immobilized. Then he doubles over, where I can punch him in his golden locks three times for a TKO.
JebLund: Take that, Rocko Popinkski!
KingRockus: He telegraphs the fist by twitching his scalp.
JebLund: You can learn from us, kids.

KingRockus: Estelle was the envy of her entire cribbage club whenever she arrived with her Estonian man-servants in tow.
JebLund: The guy on the left, Rodion, is demonstrating his willingness to punch out all cheaters, while Akaky on the right is just happy to be there. And drunk. Akaky will not be driving himself home.
KingRockus: He knows that the apricot wine is a fickle mistress. And so is Estelle!
JebLund: To be sure. But Estelle has learned to show him the love recently. At least as recently as that horrible accident when her thumb was chewed off by a Romanian who thought it was a "shoot." Misguided or no, Akaky is happy that there are no more "shoots" in his "backstage." Look at those pearly whites.
KingRockus: I think I downloaded that match, "Ceaucescu Invitational Winner Takes Thumb, Over the Iron Curtain Balkan Death Rumble."
JebLund: "Thumbs in the middle. Recommended only for those who like balalaika and accordion music."
KingRockus: She thinks they appreciate the experience and wiles of an older woman. Of course, they just like tagging along when she goes south of the border for cheap meds.
JebLund: Maybe you can help me here: is there a rule that, if you hit 55 and are a single woman, you must shave your head to a fluffy 1.5-inch muss? She seems to be telling me that she spoke with Vidal Sassoon and came up with this haircut. They call it, "Gelle Surprise!"
JebLund: I call it: "UGLY."
KingRockus: It's a post-menopausal thing, when the testosterone kicks in. They shave their head, start kicking dogs, touching nephews. All the activities of a healthy older man.
JebLund: Mary Tyler Moore here is going to kick the tar out of both of us. She's smiling, and those dudes are smiling, but they're doing it because of FEAR.
KingRockus: She's been kicked around by Van Dyke and Asner for all her career. Now it's payback time!
JebLund: That's why the thumb isn't there. She ain't putting it up or down until she sees how well her minions kick Rhoda's bitch-ass.
KingRockus: Perhaps Ms. Moore is hosting a benefit for Atypical Male-Pattern Baldness, and is flanked by its most pathetic sufferers.
JebLund: The guy on the right has been told that he needs to look jolly. He'll be sent to a mainstream sitcom as a "mole."
JebLund: When the time comes, he'll be activated and kill everyone.
KingRockus: Fearsome. Indeed, if looks could kill, he would certainly be guilty of encroachment by the defense.
JebLund: He's offsides.
JebLund: SEXY offsides.
KingRockus: I think the photographer's directions here must have been, "OK, on three: shit-eating grins. One. Two..."
JebLund: I think that conflicted with the kidnapper's direction that they all look "completely natural" for a proof of life. Neither man got what he wanted.
KingRockus: As we can see by the mic she's caressing, this wench is slave to the Fox network, firmly cementing her status as an evil succubus.
 

KingRockus: Now I well remember Greasy Owl Man from back on the block. Kinda jittery, but not a bad soul. But this cowboy transformation has taken me totally by surprise.
JebLund: He had to reinvent himself after he skipped his bail bond. The confused bondsman said he was a painted black man in a thresh skirt and carrying a parrot. This picture shows he's a master of disguise.
KingRockus: I never liked the parrot. I mean, who teaches Armenian to a bird? You can't even tell if it's speaking human or not!
JebLund: All birds are liars, but not all birds are women. Wrap that around your brain, Spinoza.
JebLund: You know what this picture says to me? "VH1's Kid Rock: The Heroin and Corndog Years."
KingRockus: Poor Mr. Rock. He traded scabies and a mouthy bird for hepatitis and Pamela Anderson.
JebLund: He traded one bird for the other. His first bird squawked at the wrong time and became a cloud of feathers and shot. Pamela Anderson is impervious to conventional weapons.
KingRockus: Owl Man's championship belt appears to be under some strain, as though to remove it would allow his viscera to spill upon the interview stage.
JebLund: Speaking of which, I've been looking into getting a sweaty pale white gut. As a fitness guru, Rocky, how many chickens should I eat per night to be able to carry a belt like that just by standing languidly?
JebLund: And should I listen to them speak Armenian first, or just kill them to prevent my hearing their lies?
KingRockus: Go to Sonny's Real Pit Bar-B-Que for their all-you-can-eat chicken special for $6.95. The key is to lubricate the esophagus with cole slaw, and don't bother chewing the chicken.
JebLund: Kid Rock Owl Man sparks another question: is that the 20-Piece Championship Belt, or just an 8-Piece Family Belt?
KingRockus: Or perhaps OwlBoy is actually some kind of marsupial. Down the happy trail and under the belt are three pink, wriggling owlspawn, sucking away at pseudo-teats for nourishment.
JebLund: That's the first reasonable explanation I could read or think of for his baring his glutinous man-teats. Soon the young-'uns will feed. He must wear the vest to cover his suckled teats when his owlpossum-children are not feeding.
KingRockus: When they have matured, they'll crawl to the top of the 8-piece belt and let out a long strand of silk to catch the wind and carry them away to new hunting grounds.
JebLund: Some may call it "ballooning," but "smarts" call it "greasing."
KingRockus: Speaking of grease, I think I now know where all the petroleum in Texas comes from. This guy's forehead!
KingRockus: Yee-haw! Sink that rig right here 'neath my hat!
JebLund: Aside note: Kid Rock Owl Possum Dad must use the white tape on his wrists to write down his lyrics in case he forgets them.
JebLund: "BAWITA DAWB BA DANG A DANG DIGGY DIGGY!!!/FEED!!! FEED, MY GARBAGE-BOUND TAIL-HANGING CRAP-CHILDREN!!!"
KingRockus: "Mommas don't let your blind, pink hellspawn litters of evil grow up to to be owlboys...."
JebLund: Amen. Or if you do, keep 'em away from that goddamned hat.
 

JebLund: Is that a cane in his hand, or a long wood-handled needle he forgot to remove?
KingRockus: That's how the old school junkies get their fix, a vintage whaling harpoon right into the finger. And I can't tell what's in the other hand. Is it an Ace bandage?
JebLund: I prefer to think it's a small mouse he's successfully tested the "product" on.
KingRockus: "If de rat don't die; baby, you gonna fly!"
KingRockus: I think this pimp has a fundamental misunderstanding of the business. Traditionally, pimps sell the services of women, and ideally somewhat attractive women. He appears to be offering the services of chubby men in masks.
JebLund: Absolutely. He's not even looking at what he's selling. He's all chest and ME ME ME. Come on, I'm looking at him and I'm not even thinking about one hour with his Hand Rat.
KingRockus: The hat is what gets me. It's basically a Santa hat. It's like Jolly Old Saint Nick was bitten by a radioactive pimp.
JebLund: It's a very Tropical Santa attitude. Sure, Santa had to sit still while leopards "made babies" with his hat, but he clearly went overboard trying to make sure the rest of his outfit didn't clash. Let it be known that Santa is not at all afraid of a little purple.
JebLund: Or rats.
KingRockus: I think I understand how Saddam so successfully hid his weapons of mass destruction. We must radio Rumsfeld! Get a message out to the troops in Iraq to be on the look out for fat guys with masks, and the words "War Machine" stenciled on it. Damn Saddam is a clever cat!
JebLund: Saddam never had that many sweatshirts. I mean, "War Shine" has deployed at least three layers of fleece. I want to be suplexed by him if only for the cuddliness. It's not a "bump"; it's too plush for that.
KingRockus: Perhaps that's how Pimp Daddy Santa shills his product: "Hey kids, come hop on War Machine. More fun than the Bouncy Castle. Only $10 an hour. $15 to keep your shoes on."
JebLund: "And don't startle the rat. He's coming down." Okay, another question: is that white thing around Pimp Santa's neck a vial of cocaine? I like to think it is.
KingRockus: It's ground up hip bone from the Hulkster's last operation.
JebLund: As for time with him, I think "War Shine" is the tester and the brand. "Was it decent?" "Hell yeah, baby, that's 100% Shine."
KingRockus: Pimp Santa's outfit looks like it was made entirely from stuffed toys won at the county fair.
JebLund: Pimp Santa is the county fair. Except for his dangling wood-needle. Wait, check that: he's the happy family face — and the ugly needle-laden underbelly — of the county fair.
JebLund: I would have said something more profound here, but I'm trying to hold back a personal story. I punched "War Shine" as hard as I could once at a 7-11. He was trying to pick me up, and my wife didn't like it. She wanted to hit him, but I said, "No, honey, as the man, I should punch man-whores." I punched him with all my might, but my fist traveled right through his plush core and pummeled a packet of Funyuns on the other side. All that "War Shine" suffered was a redistribution of fleece. That showed him.
KingRockus: True, my stomach was undamaged. But you broke my heart that night, Jeb.
JebLund: Let us put our feelings to bed. Without either of us being involved.
JebLund: I think we're missing something here, and that's what they're seeing and what they're saying. To me, Grandpa Santa Pimp has obviously espied a cache of glucosamine guarded by a busty redhead in a nurse's uniform."Joint pain, joint salvation, fat reddy, here I come!"
KingRockus: The Shine definitely seems more skeptical.
JebLund: Maybe we've misread him. Maybe he's the brains of this outfit. After all, look at Santa Velvet's mouth.
KingRockus: It is apparent that Santa Velvet pawned all his teeth to pay for the threads.
JebLund: For all we know, he's saying, "Abba dabba abba dabba abba dabba abba dabba said the monkey to the chimp."
KingRockus: I'm sure he comes to life, in his ass-peddling glory when the local Shriner's Hall hosts the wrestling every third Wednesday night. But for every other day of his life, he has to go around with that asinine facial hair.
 

JebLund: Wow, Thurman Munson has pulled a thigh muscle. Pity it wasn't his own.
KingRockus: Funny, I was wondering why Bob Backlund hated Magnum so much.
JebLund: The 1979 Yankees will never be the same. Or Higgins will throw a fit. One of the two.
KingRockus: Those are some interesting tats. My favorite is the bug on his leg.
JebLund: For a guy who's not on the receiving end of the devastating maneuver, Backlund's just turtling up awful hard. And I say that's a real bug. These guys are doing nothing in such a magnificent way that a beetle just said "fuck it," and started wandering.
KingRockus: I wonder if everyday in the shower, he's like "Oh crap, sea spider! Oh, I forgot..."
JebLund: Wait, crap! I got it all wrong. Bug Leg isn't wincing because he's putting on a Body Scissors. It's because he's putting a Body Scissors on Elliott Gould. His career is spiraling the drain with each successive minute. "Awww! Awwwww, Christ!!! You're going to be Monica's guest-star dad on Friends. Choke me out now!"
JebLund: I'd give Elliott Gould a thousand dollars if he could choke Courtney Cox the fuck out. Two thousand if he hit her in the face with a chair.
KingRockus: I have a feeling she'd hit him with the green mist. Of course the mist would just be her ritual purging. I read in "US" magazine that she eats nothing but saltpork and raw lentils.
JebLund: Or maybe she'd hide him in her carapace, then compress him.
KingRockus: And let's not forget, she's the wife of a former WCW champion. The grappling talent is a family affair.
JebLund: As for Elliott Gould and BugLeg here, I think something we've overlooked is the chest hair.
KingRockus: He's like a big cuddly grizzly bear. Roar!
JebLund: And the leg hair. And probably copious ass hair. They got a lotta hair. Which prompts the question: which hair rubric prevails?
KingRockus: Hair harbors the lice, which has always been the secret weapon of any war of attrition.
JebLund: But those who are slick of flesh and lacking of hair have often escaped certain doom through natural oiliness. We call these people "Hairless Escape Weasels."
KingRockus: I think this picture could be very effective for a program dubbed "Scared Straight."
KingRockus: Their expressions remind me of a particular gastric ailment I acquired in Thailand that I named "The Ring of Fire."
JebLund: In light of that, it would seem that the man on the left is preparing the man on the right for an aggressive rightward propulsion.
JebLund: Or maybe their wincing is part of a mutual affliction. If so, Elliott Gould seems to be saying, "Ahoy, Backlund... CLENCH!"
KingRockus: You can't fight it. You just have to surrender to the process.
JebLund: Nothing will stop the flow.
KingRockus: Except for perhaps Dianetics.
JebLund: Or Anti-Lava Monsters.