Post by Azurine Vebbins on Nov 24, 2020 23:59:11 GMT -5
A gelid glance from her Camerasphere VRD signals Azurine Vebbins to pause primping her pilgrim garb. The jovial jaunter warms up with varied vernacular exercises. She stands behind a tofurky with “SPAYED” spraypainted across it, a “Say Anything”-style boombox, and one french vanilla cake. “Da Hardheaded Housewife” intends to harness her happiness onscreen as a means of radiating contrast with a contentious Women’s Champion.
Azurine Vebbins: Genuine giddy-gargled greetin’s on da eve precedin’ da eve of dat Gracious American Gala takin’ place Dursday. I’m amply appreciative of da bountiful blessin’s bestowed unto me. First and foremost, deyr’s my super supportive spouse. Mrs. Nidia Vebbins knows when she should remove da upper unmentionable from my chest. She’s also lovin’ly lenient durin’ phases of pronounced performance anxiety. I’m critical hit climax clock-sure dat’s why she slips an oral obedience aid between my demure denticles. Da entire experience’s extremely elevated euphoria echoin’ even-keel eccentricity. Basic as an early computin’ language, folk, my lawfully-wedded lady’s prepared me plenty. Imagine dat dame swayin’ wid me in strictly-adhered, social distanced spirit. Well, y’know, until I become your brand-“Shush My Tush”-new Action Wrestlin’ Women’s Champion, right? Here’s hopin’ Tropicana Field feels ten times tranquil when I tango da current curmudgeon at Turmoil.
Swear dat barnstormin’ bleep’s ardently averse to audience participation. Hence, “Da Adorkable Angel” challenges her asymmetrically assembled choir. You all oughta chant in carefully-crooned cacophony. Such a righteous rin’-in’ ’round da rafters might repulse Martinez. For once, it’d be nice havin’ her Gracious American Gala reflex spew some-din’ besides what shocks sensible systems: septic speech. Every syllable spoken seeps like sordid sludge. Each miniscule mumble she emotes masquerades as flavorless frostin’ on a burnt bundt. Happy National Cake Day in advance. Could claim Spayde’s a choke artist since she’s a pain in da proverbial pharnyx. However, unlike a moist marble cake dat kind of trash talk’s not particularly palatable.
Instead, I’ll state Martinez’s a choke artist since she’s an expert at exterminatin’ excitement. She also possesses a horrible habit of cuttin’ off heat from a potentially fiery feud. I’m not some run-of-da-pepper mill peon for her to pommel horse over. No, I’m da trick candle she’s incapable of blowin’ out. I’m “Dat Azz” who’s gonna cheekily clap back and take da one din’ she cherishes: her credibility. A fledglin’ few may still view her as a destroyer akin to a freakish female Kurgan followin’ Turmoil’s streamin’ broadcast. Your future Women’s Champion, dough, will be waltzin’ away holdin’ da prize which keeps dat damned dastardella’s head on a swivel. Call me da Highlandrix of Hype, honey, ’cause when your ocular cavities flicker da last din’ you’ll view is myself. Why? ’Cause deyr really can only be one and dat’s an amazin’ achievement to appreciate.
Camera fades to black.
Azurine Vebbins: Genuine giddy-gargled greetin’s on da eve precedin’ da eve of dat Gracious American Gala takin’ place Dursday. I’m amply appreciative of da bountiful blessin’s bestowed unto me. First and foremost, deyr’s my super supportive spouse. Mrs. Nidia Vebbins knows when she should remove da upper unmentionable from my chest. She’s also lovin’ly lenient durin’ phases of pronounced performance anxiety. I’m critical hit climax clock-sure dat’s why she slips an oral obedience aid between my demure denticles. Da entire experience’s extremely elevated euphoria echoin’ even-keel eccentricity. Basic as an early computin’ language, folk, my lawfully-wedded lady’s prepared me plenty. Imagine dat dame swayin’ wid me in strictly-adhered, social distanced spirit. Well, y’know, until I become your brand-“Shush My Tush”-new Action Wrestlin’ Women’s Champion, right? Here’s hopin’ Tropicana Field feels ten times tranquil when I tango da current curmudgeon at Turmoil.
Swear dat barnstormin’ bleep’s ardently averse to audience participation. Hence, “Da Adorkable Angel” challenges her asymmetrically assembled choir. You all oughta chant in carefully-crooned cacophony. Such a righteous rin’-in’ ’round da rafters might repulse Martinez. For once, it’d be nice havin’ her Gracious American Gala reflex spew some-din’ besides what shocks sensible systems: septic speech. Every syllable spoken seeps like sordid sludge. Each miniscule mumble she emotes masquerades as flavorless frostin’ on a burnt bundt. Happy National Cake Day in advance. Could claim Spayde’s a choke artist since she’s a pain in da proverbial pharnyx. However, unlike a moist marble cake dat kind of trash talk’s not particularly palatable.
Instead, I’ll state Martinez’s a choke artist since she’s an expert at exterminatin’ excitement. She also possesses a horrible habit of cuttin’ off heat from a potentially fiery feud. I’m not some run-of-da-pepper mill peon for her to pommel horse over. No, I’m da trick candle she’s incapable of blowin’ out. I’m “Dat Azz” who’s gonna cheekily clap back and take da one din’ she cherishes: her credibility. A fledglin’ few may still view her as a destroyer akin to a freakish female Kurgan followin’ Turmoil’s streamin’ broadcast. Your future Women’s Champion, dough, will be waltzin’ away holdin’ da prize which keeps dat damned dastardella’s head on a swivel. Call me da Highlandrix of Hype, honey, ’cause when your ocular cavities flicker da last din’ you’ll view is myself. Why? ’Cause deyr really can only be one and dat’s an amazin’ achievement to appreciate.
Camera fades to black.