Freddie Prinze Jr. has finally landed himself a job, as a writer for the creative team of the WWE. Wait, whuuuuut? This guy used to be in movies, and is married to Sarah Michelle Gellar. Couldn’t his job just be husband of Sarah Michelle Gellar? That’s a job. He should do that job. Besides, I’m not sure that his having a public forum for his creative ideas is that smart of a career move. Some of his early scripts are a little uneven.
Undertaker: I’m going to make you disappear, just like how movie offers can disappear as soon as the fickle entertainment industry decides they’re done fucking you in the ass. That kind of disappear.
[The Great Khali asks a member of the audience to throw a folding chair into the ring. He catches the chair, sits in it, and begins to cry.]
Triple H: Get ready to feel some pain. Just like the years of pain Freddie Prinze Jr. felt being ignored by Hollywood. Who’s laughing now, Hollywoo–I mean Edge?
Domino: You think that hurts? Try looking my wife in the eyes every morning. Here, here are my keys. I’m serious, go to my house and look her in the eyes. Try not to burn in the thousand fires of emasculating shame that is her visible disappointment. [Domino suplexes his own heart backwards onto the mat.]
Admittedly, it’s hard to write with conviction and authority when your editor is on steroids and the only food they sell in the cafeteria is Red Bull and Muscle Milk.