Hey! You! Yeah, you, Dirk Masters! It’s me, the heart-eating pro-wrestler who’s gonna get medieval on your ass this Friday at Clobbermania. And I don’t mean high medieval, neither. The Literator is gonna get early Middle Ages this Friday, Old English and all, and you better believe that my translations will be well-researched and preserve the poeticism of the original text.
You don’t believe it? Well then, you got another thing coming, Dirk Masters, because the Literator is the world’s first pro wrestler with a PhD in English Literature.
Does that frighten you, Dirk Masters? Does it? Well, it should, because I spent seven years learning how to read critically, and I’ve been spending the last six months reading up on you. I know all your weaknesses, Dirk Masters. And at Clobbermania, I’m gonna exploit each and every one of them, and I’m gonna make you my bitch like your name was Orlando.
Classic novel, by the way. One of Woolf’s masterworks. But who’s afraid of her? She can’t elbow-drop you. But I can, Dirk Masters, and I will.
I think you’ll find, Dirk Masters, that literature can make a massive impact on you. More specifically, “Moby Dick” will make a massive impact on you, when I swing my 10-pound large-print edition at your groin at top speed. They’ll have to call you male-ish afterwards.
You don’t know, Dirk Masters, the world of hurt you’re in for. How could you, you simple-minded brute? I mean, I had to dumb down all the references for you, because I know your sorry ass got a Communications degree from a state school. I’m not even gonna bother referencing “A Passage to India,” because I know you don’t even know enough to be insulted by it, you rube!
Yeah, I bet you’re angrier than Tea Cake right now—sorry, who am I kidding, I know you didn’t pay attention to “Their Eyes Were Watching God” in high school. I bet you’re pissed, though. You’re so angry it makes you stupid, Dirk Masters. You’re easy prey. You’re the Grendel to my Beowulf, tromping around with your dumb fuckin’ arm off.
I don’t even know what else to say, Dirk Masters. It’s so over for you right now. It was over for you from the beginning. You were doomed from the moment of your birth, and every second your stupid ass spent practicing your lariats without even thinking about “Lady Chatterley’s Lover” just reinforced it.
Brains beat brawn, Dirk Masters, and you’re sorely lacking in both. See you at Clobbermania, Dirk. I’m already drafting a beautiful eulogy for you.