They may break my bones, carry me out flat on my back. They all look like Martha Stewart clones, after a 72 hour session of hookers and crack. There, see, now insults are out of the way, so I can go back to my ramblings - hooray, hooray!

I sparkle and go bang like works of fire, unlike most of these clowns with not an ounce of desire; I go through their efforts and almost die from boredom, please WWA bring back Jay Jordan! At least he wasn't bland; he was controversial, non-commercial, I guess he just wasn't part of the marketing plan.

Alas, am I forgetting to introduce yours truly? The name's Jork, I'm wild and unruly. Perhaps you know me, perchance you do not; can I climb through the rumble and grab a title shot? The odds are far from in my favor, but hey, I signed the waiver, I'll savor the flavor of being a winner - unlike Brett Favre.

The constellations tell me the night is my mistress, so cruel and unusual, like a kitten in distress - a-hah! I cry - avast! - pass the drink fast, or I might lose a step and break the ceiling of glass. Some may love me, others will hate. That's just ... great.

It is what it is and it is how it will, I'll toss and turn and dance with skill; I'm not just a clown in a suit made of clouds, I'm here to make big daddy happy and proud. A speck of dust on your jacket's lapel, don't blink or I'll nail you to the floor with a staple; I'll whack and thwack to prove a point, I'll snap a neck and crack a joint.

Blaha, blaha, they'll run their mouths to no end, keep talking, my precious, start walking, this is a leaking bucket you can't mend. Cheer up, dear Georgie, dear Liza, the hole is your friend.

The Rumble approaching, the thunder encroaching, the head hunters poaching - who will stand tall at the end of it all?