"Why can't Randy Orton be my best friend?" I ask Jared at work. He looks at me stupidly, his round little eyes showing no comprehension.
"Who?" he asks.
"The Viper. The WWE's Apex Predator. The Legend Killer..."
"Is that some gay wrestler?" interrupts Jared. I've never hated him as much as I hate him this moment.
"Why are you the way that you are?" I ask.
"You know that shit is fake, right?" says Jared.
"Goddamnit, Jared." I walk away from him, desperately wishing that Randy Orton was here, at this moment, to deliver an RKO out of nowhere.
I'm at a sandwich shop, some ripoff place where they charge you ten bucks for six inches of mouth-gagging staleness. As I'm checking out, I lock eyes with the cashier. She's young, blonde, and full of teenage dispassion.
"Why can't Randy Orton be my best friend?" I ask her.
"That'll be sixteen seventy-five," she replies.
"That's really all I want in life," I say.
"There's a line," she says, indicating several people behind me.
"Do you watch wrestling?" I ask.
"That's the worst pick-up line I've ever heard," she replies. "No one's ever asked me that."
Where is Randy Orton when you need him? This chick deserves a swinging neck breaker like no other.
I'm sitting in the park, eating my sandwich while drinking malt liquor out of a paper bag when I'm approached by a homeless man. He shows me his hands, which are covered in blood and bear signs of stigmata, possibly self-inflicted. Despite my offer of a piece of sandwich, he shakes his head and won't leave.
"What do you want?" I ask.
"Have you seen the yellow sign?" he asks back.
"Have you ever experienced an elevated DDT? That's vintage Orton, you know," I say. He looks confused, his eyes swimming in blue fluid. I try to pantomime a DDT, though I don't think I get through to him.
Randy would know what to do. Why won't you answer my letters, Randy?