My Saturday night was spent laying down hay, wrapping water pipes, covering turbines, chopping firewood, and after all of that, sitting down on my recliner in front of the TV and watching a VHS tape of Saturday Night's Main Event recorded in 1987.
Ooooooh yeeeeeaaah! Mean Gene, stand right there, hold that microphone right about here, oh yeah, and keep your trap shut, 'cuz the Macho Man has something to get off his chest. Dig it?
I want you to pay real close attention, Hulk Hogan, yeah. I'm the cream of the crop, yeah. The stick used to measure all others athletes against, yeah, and you put your greasy, no good hands on Miss Elizabeth, yeah? Uh uh uh, Hogan. *wagging finger* You greased up slimeball, yeah! That's where you made a pivotal mistake, oh yeah! You let your ego cloud your judgement, and now you must feel the power of the Madness, uh-huh, and when I get through with you, Hogan, yeah, there's gonna be nothing left but a slick puddle of baby oil, yeah, and a feathered boa wrapped around your scrawny little pencil-thin neck! Ooooooh yeeeeeaaah!
Too soon to fall back into your old habits, WMC. The redneck can't give you an inch, or you'll try to imminent domain a mile.
...and that's the bottom line, 'cuz the half-drunk, ramblin' redneck said so.