“I don’t give a good God Damn about what you think.” The fat man was livid and actually slapped the table as he shouted, his walrus moustache bristled, “If you had enough volunteers you wouldn’t have kids calling the matches for wrestlers in their own age group.”
“Don’t rightly see what we can do about it now.” Drawled the thin man. “Match is over. Besides, Marcus wasn’t on either kid’s team and he’s done the trainin’”.
“Training shmaining, screw your training! This is ridiculous.”
“Look, I we’ve been here waiting all weekend, Nick waited all day to get a match and when you finally called him, he got taken out by a throw that was too high to be legal for his age group. Any real referee would have called it differently.”
“Table judges didn’t. Could’ve overruled him.”
“That’s a crock and you know it. Since when do they ever overrule the ref on the mat? And another thing, what kind of inbreed hayseed prick talks like this as an announcer. You sound like a bad Jeff Foxworthy impression. It’s WISconsin like you take a PISS, there is no Eastconsin. And it’s ILLinois like you take a PILL. How’d you like it if I called your city OOmaha?”
The thin man let the tension build up before he quietly replied, “I don’t care, you ain’t got the microphone.”
And that dear reader, was that.