Dear readers of The Swerved,
I am Stephen Rivera--a legal practitioner, a witch doctor, a level 40 elf, the vice president of the galaxy, and the president of something. I am the personal attorney of Mr. or Mrs. some sort of relative of yours who used to work with the International Take Naive People's Money Away and Laugh Out Loud from My Third World Country Company on the planet of Earth. Your male or female relative used to be my client. In the month of October in the year 2005, my client, his wife, his mistress, their only son, their only daughter, their only dog, their only other son or daugther or dog, and a fish were involved in a car-boating accident along some sort of dangerous highway or lake. Despite initial thoughts, all occupants of the unique vehicle unfortunately lost their lives in the accident for a car-boat is actually a flimsy structure of four wheels glued under a dinghy. The car-boat is made to work on land and at sea, yet it seems to not operate well on either. Since that time, I have made several enquiries to nobody to locate any of my client's extended relatives, but I'm too lazy. Give me your money now while I type from a clandestine internet cafe.
After several unsuccessful tries, I decided to track someone gullible over the internet. Therefore, I thought I would give you a try because you like wrestling. Because mainstream media has taught us that wrestling is for dum-dums, you are a dum-dum. You should be watching quality television instead, such as The Hills. Whatever the case, I have electronically messaged you to assist me in repartriating a sum valued at a look back at the second part of Randy Orton's Legend List, an amount left by whatever relative you haven't seen in a while. You must retrieve this fund before it gets confisicated, stolen, declared unserviceable, or declared unsexy by the The Swerved Firm, the site where this entertaining piece is held. The firm has given me clearance to provide the next of kin with a swindling, replacing this piece with a cornucopia of nothing within the next official one working hour if you do not act soon.
Since I am trying to ruin you over the web, I seek your permission to declare you as the next of kin to your male or female relative because you kind of look like that man or woman if I close my eyes, then envision a completely different person in my mind. If you agree, the total amount of this account can be given to you. After I attain your permission, we will talk about a method to transfer this fund over to you in the most sketchy way possible. To make this transfer happen, you will need to back up your claim as the next of kin. All I require from you is your cooperation, your life savings, your social security number, your credit card number, your area of residence, your workplace address, your family history, your family's social security numbers, your trust, your family's trust, and your life. I assure you that this scam will be executed under legitimate arrangement to protect you from being not scammed.
I can't wait to scam you.
Many thanks and best regards,
The Swerved
In case you weren't aware, Randy Orton is set on killing legends at every opportunity. He has already cemented his legacy by RKOing such extraordinary superstars as "The Sarge" Sgt. Slaughter, "The Nature Boy" Ric Flair, "The Crippler" Chris Benoit, and "WWE Diva" Stacy Keibler. Some speculate that he is far from done. My recent discovery of his hit list only solidifies that notion; I will present it to you shortly.
(Stacy Keibler almost won Dancing with the Stars, a show in which one lucky celebrity can win obtain a tacky mirror ball stuck to a golf tee. She placed third in the competition, losing out to former NFL wide receiver Jerry Rice and former 98 Degrees member Drew Lachey. Even though she wasn't first, I give her credit. When you go up against somebody who used to be in 98 Degrees, you're in for the fight of your life. Hence, Stacy Keibler is not a legend, but a double legend.)
This young man is something else, let me tell you. So what if he is a third-generation superstar? Doesn't it matter to anyone that he's a first-generation, cold-blooded killer? Vince McMahon--what have you done? You’ve created a monster. The chills that run along my spine are not from excitement; they are from fright, terror, and the coldness that emanates from his victims' bodies. If this is sports entertainment, I don't want any part of it. No sir. If I have to stick with something, I'd rather stick with plain old wrestling. As scary as that sounds, I'm willing to try it out.
(When I'm alone at night in my solid gold shanty, the last thing I want to do is watch traditional professional wrestling. This year, watch out for horror films based on stupid teenagers getting strange phone calls from tradtional professional wrestling. They'll be all lathering up in the shower singing to themselves, then the phone will ring. They'll hurry out of the stall and answer the phone, only to witness two hairy, fat guys abdominal stretching each other for one hour straight. The moment they come across that sight and sound, they will die. Whatever, traditional professional wrestling. Where are the chairs? Where is the blood? Where is the partial male nudity that shows up on television for laughs, but is actually kind of creepy?)
Regardless, here is the second part of Randy Orton's Legend Hit List:
Females are wonderful. For one, they don't smell like garbage. Furthermore, mirrors don't melt when they look into them. Finally, a woman is like fine wine: you drink one from a glass and she filters through your body, eventually becoming urine. What's hotter than that?
(What's hotter than that? Absolutely ziltch, self from under three years ago. You hit the nail on the head, you drove that nail into that piece of wood, and then you took that wood and built yourself a fine habitat for humanity. Good work. Reward yourself with a meatball sub. You did the world a solid.)
That fact is what makes Randy Orton's plan so dastardly and devious.
He will destroy the female species by taking away their entire supply of sun tan lotion. Then, Randy will leave all women on Earth in the blistering summer heat for a considerable amount of time. A few hours later, they will be RKO'd simultaneously with the use of a complicated pulley and lever system which will consist of discounted Evolution t-shirts and wrist tape. While the fillies fry like bacon in the sun, Orton will lather the lotion on himself and roll around in a children's ball pit. He screams "Tee hee hee! I'm an earthworm!" with inconceivable delight.
(Dang, Randy. Why you gotta be like a earthworm? You already peed in a children's sandbox. Why does your lotion-y self have to roll around in a ball pit? Haven't you had enough satisfaction? Despite what you've heard in the public domain, at least Triple H doesn't roll around in a children's ball pit. He has better things to do, like wear luchadore masks with Shawn Michaels in Mexico to underhandedly mock the Mexican culture, which is rarely a bad time. Randall, Randall, Randall. No wonder why you'll never pin that man ever again.)
Unfortunately, he has a back-up plan too. If the first one somehow does not work, Randy will dress up as a doctor and build himself a mammography machine. He will invite women to his makeshift doctor's office for a free check-up. As they walk up to the mammography machine, Randy will RKO their left breast followed immediately by an RKO to their right breast. As he stares at his body of work, the mere shock of this event will incapacitate the females. This act will be heralded as the "Tit For Tattoo" medical procedure in the American Journal Of Medicine. He will scream with giddiness, "Tee hee hee! I'm an earthworm!" until he returns to the ball pit.
(This earthworm business has got to stop, Randy. Don't you have any hobbies? You should take up stamp collecting, or coin collecting. Maybe if you collect coins and stamps, you won't have to waste your time RKOing women's boobs. How would you like it if a lady RKOed your wang? Actually, that's a pretty nifty sensation, but not for you.)
Arguably the most charismatic individual to ever step foot in a WWE ring, Dwayne "The Rock" Johnson is now one of the most sought after actors in Hollywood. Of course, that makes him the perfect target. Do you smell what The Randy is cooking? I do--it’s a recipe for disaster... made possible by Betty Crocker's Disaster Helper.
(Similar to Hamburger Helper's Helping Hand, the Betty Crocker Disaster Helper mascot will be a hand of five different colours. The hand will be based on the United States Department of Homeland Security's Terror Alert Chart. Of course, when the mascot glows red, you've got a horrible disaster... on your hand.)
Orton will invite the most electrifying man in sports and entertainment to riverboat gamble. Just as The Rock sits down for a rousing game of poker, Randy will RKO him so hard that he bounces off the edge of the boat and falls into the murky Mississippi swamp. Dwayne Johnson will struggle for his life by raising his eyebrow to try to ascend to the surface, though that will simply excite arena crowds rather than assist him out of the water.
Eventually, The Rock will meet a pack of hungry alligators. They will surround him, then just as they are about to attack, The Rock will take off his sock (in place of an elbow pad) and throw it into the imaginary stands. He will attempt The People's Elbow, but will be devoured in a matter of minutes. "Karma karma karma karma karma chameleon, Rocky," says Randy as he twirls his cane and tips his top hat to the gentleman's remains.
(The thought of Randy Orton channeling Boy George makes me giddy like a school girl who has recently pondered the thought of Randy Orton channeling Boy George. Although, the thought of Kanyon channeling Boy George makes me depressed. Turly, Chris Kanyon's whole run in WWF/WWE made me sad, aside from his "Invasion MVP" shirt. Once the aliens invade Earth, I will duplicate that shirt and give it to the alien leader. If the alien leader starts to channel Boy George, I'll move to Mars.)
Everybody knows San Diego's own Ron Burgundy. The dashing Channel 4 anchorman has been a trusted and fictional news personality for years, consistently being invited into viewers' homes five days a week. You may have even seen a motion picture based on him that has a significant number of admirers. So, who doesn't like this man? Let's just say that The Legend Killer won't be playing jazz flute with him anytime soon.
(I believe that the wrestler most likely to take up the jazz flute is Hardcore Holly. Old Bobert seems like the kind of fellow who prefers his flutes to be jazzy. I guess he's angry because not all flutes can be jazzy. In the world today, conventional flutes are not as jazzy as they once were. When he beat up Rene Dupree, I bet Dupree said something derogatory about jazz flutes. Okay, I'm done.)
In an underhanded and admittedly clever move, Randall Orton will don a maroon suit and black mustache to become Robert Goulet. He will be vehemently set on destroying Mr. Burgundy in any way possible. Randy will pick up a phone in the shape of Goulet's head and dial Burgundy's number. As Ron is about to send off the broadcast with another "Stay classy, San Diego!" salute, he will answer the call from a nearby telephone. Next, Burgundy will be met by a chilling voice that echoes, "Dinkle, donkle, dinkle, donkle, someone's killing you, Orton." Ron Burgundy will instantly die on the news desk by a verbal RKO that magically picks him up and drops him down onto the table. His legend, his heart, and his powder blue suit will be killed instantly. Randy will celebrate on the other end of the line by eating an entire wheel of cheese and defecating in a refrigerator.
I am practically speechless in regards to this plan, but I do have one suggestion: Run, Brick Tamland, run. Don't let Randy Orton invite you to his pants party.
(Randy Orton's pants parties are so dull. Every time I attend one, I end up making an excuse to leave early. My last excuse was that I was being deported by authorities out of all parties hosted by Randy Orton, which is the fifth time I have used that excuse this month alone. As you've seen on World Wrestling Entertainment programming, Randy doesn't even wear pants. Cowboy Bob Orton never taught Randy how to wear pants. What a shame. Randy must think that pants won't let him be an earthworm.)
I like lobster. To me, they're like shrimp on steroids. The food screams out an automatic induction into the WWE 2006 Crustacean Hall of Fame. When it comes down to it, eating lobster is a one-stop train ticket to Yumsville--population: me.
So, as I suspected, Randy Orton is one step ahead of this person before you. In fact, he is so far ahead of me, I won't be able to stop myself from experiencing this inevitability. By the time I fully understand what's about to happen, the damage will be done.
The following will occur at or around 8:26 pm:
I will sit down to eat a wonderful and legendary lobster dinner with an incredibly striking female companion, but will be shocked to see Randy Orton execute a run-in through the restaurant. He will RKO every lobster dinner in the place to the ground. My lady friend will be horrified to the point that her wig comes off. In the end, the woman will be revealed to be not a woman at all, but Randy Orton once more. He will RKO the entire restaurant into bankruptcy. Since he would have killed The Legend of the Female Species beforehand, I will conclude that I should've known better as there are now no more vaginas to go around. I will stand in the ruins in complete disbelief. Next, I will continue to eat the complimentary breadsticks that are rightfully mine to have.
(I'm starting to think that Randy Orton enjoys RKOing people, places, and things. I'm unsure as to which of the three entities he enjoys RKOing the most, so I will assume that he loves to RKO places. As with all wrestling fans, I hope to see Randy attempt to RKO the Sphinx at Giza. Surely, he may have done it before because the Sphinx doesn't have a nose anymore. Quite sneaky of you, Orton. Golf claps and poetry-reading snaps to you.)
Oxygen is the life-giving gas of mankind. Therefore, Randy Orton is its carbon monoxide. Naturally, this plan of his is simple, yet incredibly deadly.
With raining pyrotechnics, Randy Orton will use his "arms spread" pose thingy and release harmful matter into the air. He will repeat this motion hundreds of times. In somewhat of a flapping, bird-like motion, he will waft the toxic fumes outside the arena and into the atmosphere. While he begins to fly into the sky, pollution will start to blanket the city. Not only will the harmful smog level kill the fans in attendance, it will suffocate every human being in the city. The remaining survivors will make their way to a local supply shop to retrieve gas masks, but will die via RKO to their larynxes.
Why isn't Randy Orton dead too, you ask? Well, he will purchase every single gas mask in the area one day before the attack. After the dying humans come to this grave realization, Randy will mock the suffering by wearing all the masks on his face and performing the Mexican Gas Mask Dance.
(For you information, a Mexican Gas Mask is a gas mask made out of cherry pickers' unrealistic dreams for a better life in America. Hey, that's cool. You're right, Triple H. Poking fun at Mexico and Mexicans is a blast.)
Alas, that’s just how Randy Orton does the damn thing.
The list does not stop at this point, though I choose not to read further or reveal more information for the sake of our collective sanity. I don't know how to put this lightly, but Randy Orton is an unstoppable killing machine. His rampage will continue until there are no humans left on the planet, a fate that will force him to RKO species on faraway planets and uncharted moons. One could warn them of such a terrible premonition, but I'm afraid that the message will take billions of light years to reach those helpless beings.
(Watch out, X-Zglorg of Epselon Ten: alien leader of the Jzelgnorp Society. You won't get your "Invasion MVP" shirt if Randy gets to you first. Do you want your shirt or not, whatever you are?)
If I were you, I'd utter my final goodbyes to my friends and loved ones. Also, I'd do the things I have always wanted to do.
Bungee jump off that cliff, skydive over those mountains, take a trip around the world, and enjoy your time left on this 3rd rock from the sun.
Why?
Randy Orton is coming for you. He is coming for all of us.
(On that note, our look back at Randy Orton's Legend Hit List concludes. If you are interested in a mimed transcript of this article, please send ten dollars to that silver guy who never talks and breakdances on your city street. Man, he's so silver. He must be from the future. His father must have done it with a whole tray of silverware.)
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