And Now For Something Completely Different
The MGM Grand has some lovely spaces built for entertainment, live events, and hospitality. This? It ain’t one of ‘em. The viewer at home finds themselves looking into a long room, whose walls are lined with boxes and crates, some spilling their decorative contents out onto the floor. All told, it looks like the Room of Requirement threw up – the closing shot to an episode of Hoarders, where the house could still use a yard sale or ten before it’s up to code, but hey at least all the dead cats are gone. Allegedly.
In the middle of this cardboard disaster is a throne that looks like it would be better suited at Caesar’s Palace in the mid-90s, but is instead here amidst the boxes, the feather boas, the Half-Blood Prince’s potion book, a gaudy “Happy New Year 2015” banner, and, presumably, Harry Potter’s virginity. The throne itself has been positioned off-center, and tilted ever so slightly. Perhaps it’s to make the scene look more inviting, perhaps it’s a desperate attempt to give off some hardcore “Masterpiece Theater” vibes. Regardless, it’s currently home to a dork in a white suit and blue lucha mask. Oh, and a crown.
King Blueberry: Greetings and salutations friends and fellows, and welcome to the dawning of a new era. The sun has risen and cast its warm, gentle glow across the fields, bathing the brilliant bounty of berries in beautiful… uhh… In… you know…
There’s a flash of panic, only partially obscured by the royal blue luchador mask, as the focus of our attention has very clearly forgotten what was probably a painstakingly crafted and well-practiced monolog full of alliteration and poignant fruit references. Which is a really fancy way of saying that the big dope forgot his lines. No surprise there, really. In fairness, it was probably never going to be very good.
Let’s see if this schmuck can reassert himself.
King Blueberry: For those of you who don’t know me, hi, I’m King Blueberry, the Viscount of the Vineyards! The Antioxidant Ambassador! The Prince of Produce! Now, I know what you’re thinking. “Wait, how can you be a king of one thing and a prince of another at the same time? That makes no sense.” Well here’s the deal, okay. There’s like a whole hierarchy that I have to deal with, you know? Carrots, and celery, and whatever? They’ve got their own thing going. I don’t mess with them, they don’t mess with me, and everyone’s happy. Otherwise it turns into a whole thing, and the lawyers get involved, and buddy let me tell you that you do not want to be on the other end of a rutabaga that decided to lawyer-up. It’s not a good time for anyone. Brassicas got themselves a Scrooge McDuck money vault and zero chill.
Oh well. He tried.
King Blueberry: But we’re not here to talk about that. Oh no. What I have for you instead is much, much better. Much cooler. See, I have traveled the world and found a partner worthy of helping me subjugate the PRIME…
He shouts the word, not understanding the difference between modern marketing stylization and internet message board capslock screaming.
King Blueberry: …tag team division. A luchador of renown from the hallowed halls of Mexico, whose offense is so electric that it will leave you convulsing. A second-generation star of immeasurable talent. I present to you the newest member of my royal food court. Get ready PRIME…
Again with the shouting.
King Blueberry: …for El Hijo de Super Cool Guy!
He gestures back over his shoulder and waits. Nothing happens.
King Blueberry: I said… for El Hijo de Super Cool Guy!
Again, nothing. There is an awkward twelve seconds of silence before the figurative lightbulb flickers to life. That’s when ol’ KB gets up from his throne and scurries to a space twenty feet back that had until now been obscured by darkness. A literal lightbulb flickers to life, illuminating the silhouette of another person.
This other figure – still not clearly visible, mind you – stands with his feet shoulder length apart, and one hip popped to its side in a pose that says “I’m sassy, but still like to have fun.” One arm hangs slightly bent, hand hovering a good 2 inches away from the hip, with the other arm raised into the air. He is, for all intents and purposes, a little teapot short and stout.
The king reclaims his throne, but not before reaching down to pick up something that the camera doesn’t quite catch.
King Blueberry: Surprised? You should be. My partner is different from anyone you have ever seen compete inside the squared circle, and with far too much talent to be stuck at that Guadalajara Macy’s where I found him, that’s for damn sure. Wave to the nice people, hombre!
Once again the king looks back over his shoulder, all the while his left hand moving like he’s trying to start a tiny, invisible lawn mower. Once again nothing happens.
King Blueberry: Oh for the love…
He mutters that last bit, and then starts tugging harder. It’s here where the camera picks up a tiny reflection of light coming off the monofilament line that the King is holding. Super Cool Guy’s arm moves in an awkward wave, as if it’s only articulated at the shoulder, and then only to rotate north to south.
King Blueberry: You’ll have to forgive him, he’s still learning the customs.
The arm falls off, clattering to the floor.
King Blueberry: Cool Guy, no!
The crowned weirdo leaps from his seat, but forgets to drop the filament in the process. The ensuing chain reaction plays out as follows: the filament is pulled taught; the arm it is attached to is dragged along the floor; it catches on the lamp that had been crudely stood up in the background, which then also topples to the floor; the lightbulb shatters and the back half of the room is dark again; King Blueberry trips over the arm now occluded by shadows; he falls into a case of long, red, fright wigs.
At last, mercifully, the camera cuts to something better.