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HULK HOGAN AND FAMILY

It’s HULKAMANIA, BROTHER! It’s also steroids, obsessive tanning, creepy incestual glances, gruff, idiotic dialogue and selfish insanity. Chew on that Hulkamaniacs! As if you didn’t know, I’m the brutish monster known as Hulk Hogan. I’m a 99-year-old bleached-out burn-out and I’ve got my own TV show. It features me, of course, my wife (make that ex-wife), son, Nick (incarcerated crybaby) and fabulous daughter, Brooke (steroid abusing male – seriously, have you seen that chin....MY GOD!) My TV show pretty much sucks, because it exposes me and my family for what we really are...which is boring, dysfunctional and decrepit. I’ve got the personality of a stack of bricks, walking around with a chip on my shoulder, ready to fake-wrestle anyone that shoots two glances my way. Seriously, don’t make me put on my wrestling boots, because I’ll tear this shirt off and your fate will be sealed, BROTHER. That’s right, sealed, like the dissolution of my marriage. Whatever, Hulk doesn’t care about a wife. I’ve still got two shining beacons of light in my life, my son and my other son.....wait, daughter. Brooke is an amazing physical specimen; she bench presses 275, gets into bar fights and has an Adams apple the size of a fast pitch softball. She’s more of a man than my son, Nick – literally. He’s pretty much a pansy. He gets locked up in a cage and starts crying for mommy, incoherently babbling about how awful he’s being treated. Hulk’s been thrown in cages and I took like a man, with honor and perseverance. If he was more like his brother.....I mean, sister, then he’d quit his bellyaching. He’d start benching and taking steroids until his chin was the size of a genetically modified Washington apple and he’d have HULKAMANIA running wild throughout that joint. Instead he cries himself to sleep at night while getting used up like a piece of leftover, tenderized meat. Pathetic.

LAZY/DISRESPECTFUL NEIGHBORS

Hi there, I’m your neighbor. I resemble a pirate. Crooked teeth, gnarly facial hair, oily pony tail and faded tattoos--I’ve got everything but a parrot on my shoulder. Don’t mind me; I’m just sitting out on the step, having a smoke. I know I should probably be mowing my overgrown lawn or picking up the miscellaneous crap littering my property, but the sun is out, and I don’t work when the sun is out. It’s just too damn hot. Plus, after this smoke, I’ve got to get back inside and watch the rest of Judge Judy. She really burns those suckers up, kind of like me with my Kools. Count me out on Sundays too. I don’t go to church or work; matter of fact, I don’t like work so I don’t go at all, but I digress. Anyway, Sundays are dedicated to Junior. 88 till I die, sonofabitch that right! Matter of fact, I’m using next months utility money to get the honorable 88 tattooed on my back next week. The wife might be a bit upset, but I doubt she’ll know anyway; she’s always on the couch, drunk. Gotta show my loyalty though, it’s in my blood. You say anything bad about Junior, and we’ll have a fist-fight on the front lawn. Say, I noticed you picking up my kid’s toys when you were trying to mow the lawn the other day....hell, just leave em’ lay there. Run em’ over with the mower for all I care. He’ll find something else to hold his interest; sure won’t be his homework though. That boy is dumb as a rock! Well, nice talking atcha neighbor, I’ll probably be out in five to let my dog crap in your yard and smoke another Kool.

ADVERTISING MAJORS

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