| Monday, August 20, 2001 |
 | Older readers may recall that I am channelling Chris Jericho. The reasons for this have yet to become clear. However, I did feel every thud, thump and thmackeroonie of this epic clash early in the ayem, which made a night of uninterrupted slumber pretty much unattainable. I particularly remember starting out of bed in near-appendicitic agony when that thunder-thighed man-bitch Rhyno hit me with the Gore.
Mind you, the Gore wasn't exactly ecstatic about it, either. Raised from his septuagenarian slumbers in Ravello, transported to the States, just for one hyperthyroidal heavy to smack another in the chops with him in the manner of a home-run hitter. Did he pen Myra Breckinridge for that?
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