When I heard Jimmy Hart, in that slow rolling coffin, mutter the words “Five Meltzer Stars” brother, I knew the answer to the problem Ric Flair. The Five Star Match, jack. That's what Jimmy Hart was calling for, brother!

And now that I know, with the Wrestling Observer backing me, I can box you in on Twitter, I can corner you in brother, and if we're bonded together in a kinorino match, as I backflip towards you twenty times, as I kick out of your finisher every thirty seconds, as I throw chop after chop that looks like a seven year old slap fighting his older brother Ric Flair, you will understand what the journalist means by Five Star Match, brother. As I hit the Meltzer Driver, as I make a yummy callback to my days in Japan by hitting the axe bomber, as I take you to the world's deadliest Superkick Party Ric Flair, you are gonna visually plea for mercy, but no one will be able to hear it. This Wednesday night, on Dynamite brother, when you visibly cooperate with the Hulkster to take fifteen Canadian Destroyers in a row, all the middle aged white transexual Hulkamanics will be cheering “This is wrestling,” brother. They'll be cheering so loud in the Tokyo Dome that Aubrey won't be able to hear you when you scream out for mercy. That's what you're gonna get, Ric Flair, five of the yummiest stars you've ever seen in your life, and that's not a threat jack, that's a promise.