The General Concensus seems to be
that I get my work published on here because I suck a
mean cock. Well, let me tell you, buddy, although I have
never had a blow of the old meat trombone, if I had…
well, my friend, I would be the best damn nads-nibbler
this side of your mother. Who is good, by the way.
So no, I didn’t get this opportunity… AGAIN… because I have
no gag reflex. HELL NO. Welcome to The Dungeon. A place in which your worst fears
are realised. That’s right, we play Booker T vs. The Boogeyman ALL DAY LONG
BAYBEH!
…I got the opportunity
AGAIN because I describe it really well. Whoever said cyber-sex is sleazy is a
douche. And Sean, I’ll catch you later. ALL of you.
If there is one thing that the TWF needs, it is a real
insider. I mean, now that Bacon has won the lottery and is too busy swimming in
notes and sleeping with women but not really, the TWF is lacking a man who KNOWS
the stars. A man with connections. And finally, FINALLY, that man…
…
Isn’t me. I’m English, dipshit. It isn’t even the right
continent.
But as all of my faithful readers know, (and thanks again
you three, the checks are in the mail,) I am a man who will go OUT OF MY WAY,
against all logic, to get the latest scoop in the wrestling industry. Even if
that means making the whole thing up. Fuck you.
This means that I have to be on the ball at all times. I
mean, seriously, no breaks. No sleep. I look like Vince Vaughn, on crack, twelve
years after his death.
I have to have my thumb
on the pulse of the industry. I have to keep my eye on the future stars. And it
is one of those VERY people of whom I am here to talk to you about today.
Now, once upon a time,
I played a game with a friend. We had to combine all of the body parts of the
world’s worst wrestlers to see what it would look like if Dr. Frankenstein
decided to make the VERY ULTIMATE IN TERRIBLE wrestler. The following
is a picture of the result, after piecing it all together. ..
And here is a list of all of
the wrestlers whom comprised this… this… beast.
Arms:- The Great Khali.
Legs:- The Great Khali.
Head:- The Great Khali.
Torso:- The Great
Khali.
Penis:- Al Snow.
Because some people were born lucky, and Al Snow was born with two inches of
extra vagina. Seriously, ask Mick Foley. Chyna has a bigger dick than Al Snow.
Thusly, my decision was made. The logic being that Vince
McMahon has a history of taking the very worst workers, the guys who wouldn‘t
know work-rate if they were on a slave-ship (sorry, Joe), and pushing them
regardless, purely down to their size. And if there is one thing you can
honestly say about Khali, it is that he is shit.
…
…
…
…
…
…Oh, fine. If there is
another, he is also really big.
I decided to get in
touch with the Great Khali, and see if he would let me film his antics for a
day. I wanted to get the true insider view of the Great Khali, doing what he
does best, for a whole day. Hell, I was just intrigued to see if there is
anything the guy does well.
Think of me as the
Martin Bashir to his Michael Jackson, as we begin upon the journey that is…
A Day In The Life Of The Great Khali
(After catching wind of this article, Khali’s lawyers got
in touch with me and threatened to sue. I sent them a letter back saying that it
is all satire, and there isn’t a damn thing they can do. I then shat in the
envelope, licked it (didn’t think that one through) and sent it back. I just
hope that they don’t think I’m in cahoots with Orton….. Hey, it’s old stuff, but
Orton shat in a bag. It’s still funny.)
Now some of you might be thinking, ‘hey, this shit is out
of date! Where the hell is Khali? Out with an injury. This is ridiculous’.
WRONG. This little story isn’t out of date, for a couple of reasons. Recently,
there have been some bombshell announcements in wrestling that will change the
landscape blah blah. This piece, ladies and gentlemen, captures everything that
happened JUST BEFORE these blockbusters! So, maybe in the words to come, you may
find some answers to the questions how, why, and does anybody even care….
Upon hearing my request to follow him for a day with my
tape recorder in tow, The Great Khali responded to my request to film him for a
day… with… with…
…something
unintelligible.
I was later informed that what he said was, in fact, no.
And, alas, as the tumbleweed solemnly blows past, that
would indeed be the end of my story… IF IT WASN’T for the fact that Sean will
kick my ass if I don’t stretch it further, and if I didn’t have a pretty active
imagination. Heh heh.
I needed a plan, a
monumental way of getting into The Great Khali’s inner circle, aka Daivari,
without being caught. Now, if Khali’s inner circle usually consisted of one man…
and all of a sudden there were two… he might get suspicious. And so I relied on
what wrestling has taught me. Three simple rules that applied.
1) Anybody Sikh is a terrorist, and therefore an evil heel
who must be spat on.
2) Nobody ‘dies’ in Wrestling, unless it is the Undertaker
who is doing the killing, (Or unless some silly twat forgot to check that the
harness could hold the weight of an actual man. D’oh!) The Undertaker
especially likes killing Sikh’s, but this is okay, because there is only one
race in
Bill Watts:- And those bastard Pakistani’s! They get
feckin’ everywhere!
SHUSH, Bill. Back into your box you go.
Ahem. Anywaaaaaaaay…
3) The Great American Bash is a god-awful pay-per-view. It
is so bad, infact, that every year the McMahon family send up a sacrifice as a
peace offering to the Gods. Past sacrifices have included Percy Pringle,
Muhammed Hassan, various livers, continuity, and a number of fans whom could not
take the pain anymore. The Gods, of course, are still not happy with this, and
punish the McMahon’s by no-showing events. Right? Right.
It was obvious what I had to do. Right there, in black and
white . Staring me in the face.
I must, of course,
dress up as Daivari and infiltrate Khali from the inside.
See, told you. Obvious.
And as the old
wrestling proverb goes, ‘If you don’t inject steroids in your ass, you aint
getting a job with Vinnie Mack’. As ANOTHER, more relevant one goes, ‘there is
the easy way, and the hard way.’ Unfortunately, the easy way isn’t FUNNY.
The plan was simple. I had to somehow persuade somebody in
the back to take out Daivari, (figuratively I mean, Lita, put your fucking hand
down). It had to be somebody who would not be around for long enough to boast
about his actions… a part timer, say… somebody who enjoyed hurting Arabs…
And as it was two days
from The Great American Bash, the event of Ritual Sacrifice… I thought I’d try
my luck with the Dead Man.
Word soon circulates in the back if you suggest that
SOMEBODY, somebody in a turban, was talking shit about a veteran. Ask Tiger Ali
Singh.
As for Daivari… he is recovering. At first, he refused to
take the choke slam. Until The Undertaker threatened to knock his orange bald
fucking head off. He eventually took the choke slam, but it looked like shit. He
then Hulked up, pointed at the Undertaker, and shouted ‘YOU!’ To which The
Undertaker responded with a bullet to the kneecap, and a ‘NO SELL THAT, BITCH‘…
where the hell was I going with this? Oh yes, Daivari is okay, now. And Hogan is
a prick.
Let me tell you, getting to
So after my four
hour interrogation, when I was finally sat on the plane, I thought, ‘ah! At
last, some pleasant company.’ Wrong. Nobody would sit next to me, for Allah‘s
sake! I couldn’t understand it. I thought for a second that they might
think that I am Joe, and be avoiding me, but hey. I’m like half the guys size.
Maybe I should stop carrying my lucky wall clock with me, because apparently, I
was the only one that finds the slow tick-tocking emanating from my rucksack
relaxing.
- I arrived at
-First wrestler I bump into? Lashley. And when he says he
is a gentle speaker, this guy isn’t kidding. I couldn’t understand him for shit.
It was like holding a conversation with that girl I have tied up in my basement.
Before I take off the masking tape off and remove the pair of socks, that is.
So, after about half an hour of him going,
mmmmfffffffmffffhprrr and me going whatyallsaynah and he’s all like yo
mffmfffmffffghfffmfmffppfhffh and I’m all up in his grill wit yo bitch y’all
sound like some jive ass niggah and lots more racial slurs that everybody does
in every article they write, he told me that Khali was in the mmmmpmmmmghgmmm.
And sure enough, Khali WAS on the toilet. Apparently, Eddie
Guerrero’s corpse put something rotten in one of his burrito’s. (Maybe it was
his hand or something). Apparently, Eddie likes playing food poisoning jokes on
giants. Or just enjoys the sound of a big man shitting. CAN I GET A
Khali falls for the disguise, because as Vince teaches us,
tall guys are dumb. I rule. Khali ‘reminds me’ that tonight we are performing at
a mmmmmmpgggghgmgmghggggg. Jesus, talking to wrestlers is turning out to be a
lot like talking to the bad guy from Police Academy Two.
Officer:- …and anything
you do say may be given in evidence.
Bad-Guy:-
AWWGRRRRRYAHHWWWOCAAAAUGHHHHHTHTHTHMEEEEEZSUMBEEEEBURPTTTCHH.
Officer:- (Notepad in
hand) Mmmmmhmmmmm.
Bad-Guy:-
AHHHHHHHHHHHHLLLGETTTTTYOUUUIUZZZZZZSUNMNMNTIGRRRRRRRRRME
Officer:- Aha. Yes.
Bad-Guy:-
YOUYYOYUYYOKNOWWWWWWWWWWWWWWHDDIDIMEANSAZGRRRRRBURP
Officer:- Yes. I’m not
quite sure what you just said, so I wrote down ‘I confess that I am a
paedophile.’ Any coherent argument?
Bad-Guy:-ARRRRRGHH!!HEILHITLERHEILHEILHEILMONOWPENGOWPENFEEELA!!!
Officer:- No. Good.
- Before the house show, Khali is required to nip into the
WWE Headquarters to discuss Vince’s plans, character development, and
such. I, of course, record the whole meeting. Below is a transcript of the
entire occasion. (Note, I have translated Khali’s lines for you. There was no
translator present at the meeting, because Vince seems to understand every word
that Khali says without needing one. I surmise that this is because Vince can
relate with the language of complete bullshit.)
Vince:- Ah! The GREEEEEAT KHAAAAAAAAAALEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!
Khali:- Hey Vince! How
are you? Have you lost weight… you look magnificent…
Vince:- Yes, yes, that
will do.
(Gerald Briscoe tries
to crawl out from under the table.)
No, not you! You may
proceed. So… KHALLLLLEEEEEEEEE!
Khali:- Yes?
Vince:- We have FINALLY
come up with a gimmick for you! Want to hear it?
Khali:- Pray, tell.
Vince:- Right. Here it
is. And I’m particularly proud of this one… right…you are BIG.
Khali:- … yes…?
Vince:- (with a smug
smile on his face). Indeed!
Khali:- Wha… is that
it?
Vince:- (Smile
faltering slightly) Indeed…
Khali:- So… the whole
crux of my character is that I am foreign, and… big.
Vince:- That’s the
general gist, yes. My thinking is that you will be a MONSTER!
Khali:- A monster.
Vince:- A MONSTER!!
Khali:- So, I’m
foreign, and big.
Vince:- A MONSTER.
Khali:- And a monster.
Vince:- Yes.
(Brief silence)
Khali:- I love it.
Vince:- I knew you
would. Gerald did too, didn’t you, Gerald?
Gerald:- MMMMFFFFFPT.
Vince:- (Picks up
trashcan). Now….. PUKE!
- Ah, the journey to the house show. That staple of road
life in wrestling. That very thing that defines whether or not you have paid
your dues. The road is a wrestlers biggest enemy. The road is a means to an end,
the only way to get from show to show, but the one thing that takes you further
and further away from your family. Indeed, Tenacious D said it best when they
said, ‘The road is a BEE EYE ITCH my friend, but it’s the only fucking road I
know’. And that is why it is essential to have good road buddies.
Unfortunately, Khali travels on a little minibus with
Funaki, Estrada, Bobby Lashley, Ric Flair, Eugene and Todd Grisham.
(If anybody is thinking, ‘that doesn’t make sense, these
guys aint even on the same show!’, well done. Move to the left to claim your
prize. A little more… that’s it… that’s it… I’m not pulling this lever until I
KNOW you are stood on it… ah. Good There we go.)
Things start off slowly, but before long, Ric Flair
suggests that everybody play the soggy biscuit game. I refuse to play, and sit
in the front seat staring forwards. The noises coming from behind me are
incredibly disturbing, a mixture of WHOOOOOO’s, INDEEDS, and
IAMDEGREEETKHALEEEEeEEEE’s. Apparently, everybody comes before Todd Grisham,
because he is the biggest wanker. Or something funnier. Ahem.
We are not half way before the arguments start to break
out.
Flair:- Right, who broke my cigars up THIS TIME!! For FUCKS
sake!
(Everybody stares at
Estrada)
Estrada:- …What?
Todd:- Oh, COME ON,
Estrada.
Lashley:-
Mmmmmmffffffmmm.
Estrada:- For fu… IT
WASN’T ME! I swear.
Flair:- Sure. Fine.
Estrada:- … typical.
Nobody ever listens… ahaa… to ME.
(Everybody muttering to themselves, nobody notices
Flair:- Well, that’s done it. We need to stop somewhere,
coz I need a smoke.
Funaki:- INDEED.
Todd:- Dude, we can’t
stop! I have to introduce some crappy DVD’s today! I’m doing a guest announcing
spot with Hogan for his match with Andre.
Funaki:- INDEED.
Flair:- What are you
gonna ask? Why his muscles had deflated by Wrestlemania Nine?
(Everybody laughs)
Todd:- Shut it. Just
shut it.
Flair:- Because Chris
Benoit LOVED it when you did that to him, right, Tard?
Todd:- Look, can we
just leave it!
Flair:- Sure we can.
So, what ARE you gonna ask Hogan? ‘How did you keep SO PERKY during the
Hulkamania period!? Is there any truth in the rumours that you took ‘taking a
powder’ TOO literally!?’
Todd:- I’m gonna kick
your ass, old man.
Funaki:- INDEED.
Estrada:- Funaki, that
saying was popular for like, what, a month in 1999. Will you just fucking LEAVE
IT.
Funaki:- (Silence)… … …
it’s all I have… … … (Silence)
Lashley:-
Mmmmffffmmmmmmmfm.
More problems arise when somebody suggests that it was
Lashley:- MFFFFFFFMMMMMMMMM!!! (SPLAT).
(Silence)
Todd:- Oh my god, you
killed Lashley!
Flair:- You bastard!
Bill Watts:- That’s
okay! There is no place for blacks in Wrestling regardless!
BILL! BOX. NOW.
Anyway. Lashley is okay; his head is so small and the
surface area so tiny that he merely made a tiddy hole in the wall. No problem.
So, after Ric Flair walks down the middle of the bus naked and makes Todd
Grisham touch his penis, we finally arrive at the arena.
- As we enter the
arena, Khali hits his head against the doorframe hard enough to give himself a
concussion, and definitely hard enough to kill a few brain cells. Khali doesn’t
notice. That says it all really, doesn’t it.
- Walking through the back, I see some interesting
sights. My personal favourite follows.
… Johnny Ace and Kurt Angle stood in a corner of the
building. I missed some of the conversation, but here are the bits that I heard…
Johnny:- …….. ruptured SPLEEN, a broken kneecap, two open
arteries, dysentery, scurvy and AIDS. Kurt, seriously.
Kurt:- (Manic smile,
almost unnatural, on his face) Heeeeeheeeee nope! Johnny, Johnny, Johnny…. Why
are there three of you Johnny?
Johnny:- I’m the one in
the middle.
Kurt:- Heeeeeeeheeeeee.
Johnny, I’m ffffiiiineeee! I can do this. I’ll blow this joint wide open.
Heeeheee. (Lays on his back for ten seconds, and tries to tickle the moon.
Upon realising that it might be getting angry, he stands up, and continues.)
Look, Joh…
Johnny:- Kurt. That’s a
plant. Focus.
Kurt:-
Heeeeeeheeeeeeeeee! Look, I’m wrestling tonight. Heee. Kerry Von Erich
wrestled with one leg. Hey, can I get some more of this shit? I can’t even FEEL
my fractured spleen.
Johnny: - Kurt, I can’t
in good conscience let you wrestle tonight. Go home.
Kurt:- Oh PLEASE.
Johnny:- No. It’s our
policy not to let wrestlers who have CONCUSSION IN THEIR TOE wrestle.
Kurt:- Hmmmmpfffh.
Okay. Well could you at least take this tortoise off my shoulder.
Johnny:- (Sigh) Kurt.
There isn’t a tortoise on your shoulder.
Kurt:- There is SO! His
name is Mister Jeebles. (shouting) Sabuuuuuu! Can I get some more of your
special Kain Pillars???’
Randy Orton also put his cigarette out on me, and Stephanie
McMahon informed me that no amount of damage that I was going attempt to do
backstage in my suicide mission would ever equal what her father had to go
through when he sold steroids to his stars. I have to get rid of this damn
M&S towel!
- Khali meets up with the guy who he’s wrestling tonight. I
never catch his name. Sad way to go, without a name.
- They block the match, running through each and every
intended move before they have to perform it on the big stage… Karate chop to
the head, big boot, pin. Khali requests that the guy play dead after the match
like all of his other opponents seem to. It’s a good gimmick, he says. How
little he knows.
- Johnny Ace comes wandering over with what appears to be…
a… needle. To take blood with. I look around, and what three seconds ago was a
vibrant backstage area is now a deserted corridor, except for a packet of French
Fries blowing casually past and The Big Show stood in a corner shrugging
casually. It dawns on me that it is random drug test time.
I don’t see a wrestler
other than Paul Wight for three hours.
- Eventually everybody reappears, and the event starts.
Khali is curtain jerking tonight.
- I watch the Khali match from the guerilla position,
as ‘Daivari‘, me, is out of action with injuries. The match? It is so painful
that I take it upon myself to go all New Jack on my retina’s. Fortunately for
me, the BLINDNESS is only temporary. Unfortunately for Khali’s opponent, death
isn’t.
After the match, Khali
enters through the curtains and asks me, ’How was that?’. I tell him that he is
improving, and that only killing one person in the ring is quite a step up. And
when he turns away with the glint of satisfaction in his eyes, I spit on him.
Twice.
- I follow Khali as he walks through the backstage area to
get to his locker-room. The man clearly needs a shower. On the way, I pass
Scotty 2 Hotty, Funaki, Cade and Murdoch, Paul London, Charlie Haas, Big Vis and
Val Venis. THIS PROVES THAT EVERY BACKSTAGE SEGMENT EVER IS TRUE! THESE GUYS
REALLY DO JUST STAND AROUND IN THE BACK AT SHOWS DOING FUCK ALL! These guys
don’t do a damn thing, they just stand in the back, waiting for a Rey Mysterio
or a John Cena to win a title so that they can all tap him on the back, as if to
prove that wrestlers are actually nice. Or alternatively that they DO still
exist. Fuck Heat.
At this point, I start
to feel a little sad. There was a time when I would have even gone crazy for
these guys, and rushed over to shake their hand… now, I look at them as guys I
berate on the net… it doesn’t feel so good. I carry on
- Khali gets into the shower, turns it on, begins to
whistle Brimful Of Asha…
Bill Watts:- YEAH! Because that Cornershop band were a
bunch of…
BILL WATTS! BOX!!
The door to the shower-room slowly creaks open… and in
creeps JBL, a bar of soap in one hand, a Durex in the other. He then sees me,
says, ‘GODDAMIT!’, and leaves, slamming the door behind him.
-After his shower, Khali casually walks out of the shower,
without a towel, and HOLY SHIT THE GUY REALLY DOES HAVE AL SNOWS PENIS!
Jeez, was somebody up there having a laugh. When he notices my shock, he mumbles
something (literally) about the showers being cold, and calls me a gay for
looking. But when you expect a Schlong that you could knock a nail into a wall
with, and you don’t even get something the size of the nail… its just hard not
to gawp.
Jeez Louise, God didn’t
short change Khali. He just gave his real penis to me.
Form an orderly queue.
- Khali is now fully dressed, and we are ready to leave the
arena, until JBL sends one of his lackeys… I think his name is Doug Bishom or
something stupid… to inform us that there will be a wrestlers court in five
minutes in the male changing room. We are not sure who will be facing the firing
squad, so we go along out of blind curiosity…
- I am here to tell you that Wrestlers Court is NOT WHAT
YOU ALL THINK IT IS! Dear god, it isn’t. For a start, we have been spelling
‘Court’ wrong all these years.
If you have seen
‘Family Guy’, think ‘Greased Up Deaf Guy’. We enter the room to see Sylvan,
soaped from head to toe, shouting mincingly, ‘Oooh! Catch me! Catch me!’, with
Pat Patterson, JBL, Ahmed Johnson, Kanyon and Orlando
We
shudder, and edge ourselves back out of the door to Wrestlers Caught, just as
Patterson grabs a leg and drags him to the floor. And as we exit the building,
echoing down the corridors we hear…
‘WHO BETTER THAN KANYON!’
‘AUUUGH! NOBODY’
‘WHO BETTER THAN
KANYON!’
‘NOBODY! NOBODY!
OWWW!’
Lovely.
-Final call of action on the day, the interview with Khali.
But I have to do it subtle. I am supposed to be his colleague after all. I
decide to go all Stasiak on his ass and tape the convo ‘on the road.’ Again, I
have translated Khali’s words for you rather than mash the keypad with my palms
and leave it at that. It would come to the same thing, but…
Me:- So, Khali, me old
mucka, fancy a curry?
Khali:- I thought you
hated curry…
Me:- Surely not, I’m
Indian!
Khali:- Ha! I like
that, playing off the racial steriotype. Very funny.
Me:-…… yeeeeeeees. Heh.
Heh. So… erm… what do you think of your role as monster in the ‘Dub right now?
Khali:- I tell you
what, the job has its perks. Plenty of ‘rats’, if you know what I’m saying. I
mean, you’ve seen them!
Me:- Yeah…. They were…
hot. I’m sure.
Khali:- Yup. Especially
that Kanyon. I got his number, you know.
Me:- ……what!?
Khali:- Oh, women are
too… delicate. You ever seen ‘Of Mice And Men’? Seriously, I give a woman a hug,
I crush the bitch.
There was plenty of this. It went on for a long time. I
ended that part of the conversation by giving him Nicole Bass’ cell-phone
number.
Look, I want to say that the interview was insightful, a
real look behind the scenes of Pro Wrestling, but it wasn’t. And here is where
the moralistic part of the story comes in. I was sat there, remembering the
times that I DIDN’T WANT to be an insider. Remembering marking out for Hogan
hulking up for the zillionth time. Marking out, even as late as when McMahon
pissed himself for Austin. I have walked behind the scenes of wrestling today,
and I have seen NOTHING that I didn’t already know. There was no air of mystery,
no surprises. Just obvious jokes and guys that will be picking up money from the
state in a few weeks no doubt.
And I started to miss
being a mark.
And so I got out of the car, took off the towel and removed
the tape recorder that had been sat on my head. And I jumped on the next plane,
came home, sat by my computer and wrote this, feeling increasingly sadder and
sadder, longing for the days when Wrestling, to me, was unpredictable.
So, I lay down a challenge to Vince McMahon, and the
writing team. Here’s the challenge. Within the next month, I want to see a BIG
TWIST in a storyline. Something that not even the Smarks expect. MAKE WRESTLING
FUN AGAIN. You have a month, McMahon. And if you do not do it, I am going to
write a piece. I am going to create my own little DVD for the readers. I’ll call
it True McMahon, and it will reveal the truth, THE TRUTH, behind McMahon. My
next column is set out Vince. Surprise me, or I will write this column. This
column that you will probably never see, or care that it even exists… but know
this… there is a small wrestling community that will be laughing at you Vince.
Oh yes, laughing at you oh so hard.
And finally, an update.
Since my stint as Daivari, a few things have happened. Kurt Angle has left the
federation, and is now working in a company which hired Jeff Hardy and Scott
Hall. The guy is an understated genius.
Khali has been out for
a while with an injury, which of course is sad news. Not for us; it means that
we haven’t had to watch the big lug in the ring. Not for the roster, who
received a sigh of relief when they heard and put back the writing of their will
for a little longer. And not for Khali… who has been paid to sit on his ass… did
I say this was a bad thing?? FUCK NO.
Feel free to send me some
feedback saying that this article wasn’t as good as my other
one.
Send Feedback to The
Anvil's
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The Anvil's Swagbag has eight girlfriends (two for
Thursday) and lots and lots of fans. He says this is because it is very hot in
his Dungeon. He states that his most embarrassing moment was when he forgot to
tuck his penis into his sock one time, and kept having to pick pebbles out of
his foreskin. He also loves Mick Foley.
Lots.
TWF FLASHBACK
November 2006
SATIRE: DISCONTINUED WWE XMAS PRODUCTS!
With Christmas just around the corner, what better way to spend your few remaining dollars (left over after the seemingly infinite line-up of fucking pay-per-views ) then on the following "quality WWE merchandise!" After all, if they don't move this stuff, and fast, stockholders just might get time to figure out what "plummeting domestic buyrates" means!... and well, I don't think they need to tell you what that means! (Seriously. They're not telling you. Everything is fine! Ahem.).
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