Which wasn't as easy as one might think, considering how straight-legged jeans and the flannel look overall had gone way out of style--way, way out of style--since the mid-nineties. Jeff, in his desperate search for the perfect grunge outfit, soon found himself knocking on the doors of every tackily-dressed contestant he saw, hoping to borrow an old flannel shirt or a pair of almost-white faded jeans, all the while trying to grow a goatee in fifteen minutes at the same time.
"Ma'am? Ma'am?" Jeff urgently flagged down a large black woman decked out to sing Aretha Franklin's "Respect." When the woman finally spared a glance at him, Jeff proceeded to ask in the most innocent voice conceivable, "Do I look like a coke addict? Well, do I?" While the poor woman did a double take, Jeff continued to banter, "Seriously, ma'am, this is really important for my act--I mean, I can go back and redraw the little bags under my eyes or add some more red bruises on my arms! Please, I would really value your opinion...Uh, ma'am, why are you looking at me like that...? Oh, I get it...Look, as much as I think you're a, ah, big and beautiful woman, I already have a girlfriend, and I really don't want to cheat on her...Hey, where are you going! I still need to know your opinion; do I look like a grungy drug addict or not? Dude, get your fat ass back here and give me an input, dammit, my look can seriously affect my chances of winning! Come back here!"
Fortunately, before Jeff could continue making a fool out of himself, a fellow WWE wrestler heard his outraged squawks and demands of whether he had the angst-ridden drug addict rock singer look just right, as Rey Mysterio, who'd previously been busy glancing at his schedule sheet, warily approached the taller man and mumbled, "Uh, Jeff? Aren't you up in fifteen minutes?" Jeff whipped around, confusion evident on his face when he saw the shorter, masked man, demanding to know, "Mysterio? What the hell are you doing here, me and Jericho didn't sign you up." Rey shrugged, admitting with a sigh, "Yeah, well I really needed the money, and when Shannon mentioned that Matt's seriously pissed off at you because signing up for a karaoke contest to win money is going directly against Mattitude, I thought I'd give this thing a shot." Jeff had spaced out during Rey's explanation, returning to Earth only to shoot the shorter man a confused look and mutter ditzily, "Huh? I'm sorry, I wasn't listening...Hey, Mysterio, do you think my hair's just the right shade of bleached blonde?" Rey cocked his head, noticing with interest for the first time that Jeff had actually washed all the crazy hair dye and body paint off, and would have looked like a normal young man, save for what appeared to be two black eyes and a series of bruises and stitches drawn all over his arms and legs with what appeared to be Lita's Dark Cherry lipstick.
"Uh, Jeff?" Rey tapped at his own chin, then pointed at the scraggle of what looked like straw that seemed to be stuck on Jeff's jaw. "You seem to have a little, ahem, dirt on your face..." Jeff's left hand shot up to his face as he rubbed at the "dirt" on it, before replying carelessly, "Oh, that? That's just the goatee that I'm growing...Jeez, can't you tell?" Rey's eyes widened incredulously, and he replied, "Not really, no...Jesus Christ, man, what are you doing here, trying to go for the whole Courtney Love look or what!" Jeff's eyes lit up.
"Hey, pretty close, but no," he informed him sunnily, and Rey about fell to the floor when he heard his words.
"Uh...oh-kay." Rey began to discreetly back away from the younger high flyer, but right before he was about to reach safety zone, Jeff popped a question out of left field as he steered the subject away from his look and asked, "So, which song are you singing?" Rey shrugged, digging his hands into the pockets of his jeans and admitting with a sigh, "I don't know...Apparently, I was too late to get into the first round, but since the director of this event happens to be a huge fan of me, she said she'd accommodate for me to squeeze into the second round after half the contestants have been eliminated. And, as it turns out, in the second round you don't get to choose your own song--they're randomly assigned for you, that way it's supposed to judge your versatility and vocal range."
Jeff opened his mouth, looking like he wanted to say something, but at that moment both men heard the festival host boom into his microphone, "And now that we've gotten "Stayin' Alive" out of our systems, it's time for Contestant No. 23, ladies and gentlemen! Please give it up for the Mouth from the South, Mr. Jeff Hardy!" A wave of mad shrieks and squeals from young girls greeted his announcement, and Jeff grinned and chirped, "Well, that's my cue," before further messing up his hair to get the scraggly, unwashed look just right and hopping on over to the stage.
"EEEEEEEEEEE--huh?" The teenyboppers looked confused when they saw their precious iddle widdle Jeffykins strutting out dressed in the tackiest flannel and faded jeans outfit conceivable, while made up with what appeared to be two globs of purplish-black bags underneath his eyes and an array of needle bruises painted on with lipstick. Jeff, however, ignored the confusion of his Teenybopper Army, and instead concentrated only on the music, beginning to sing...er, harmonize...er, yodel out the lyrics after the first couple of guitar chords struck.
"Ah!" The little thirteen-to-sixteen-year-old girls gasped as well, realizing that their widdle Jeffykins knew a dirty word!
"Our virgin ears!" If they looked surprised and dismayed when Jeff had warbled out that he knew a dirty word (God only knows how they'd managed to decipher the incoherent muttering!), the teenyboppers were positively dumbfounded and upset when widdle Jeffykins sang out about his libido, following by a high-pitched cheer of, "Yay!"
"NOOOOOO!"
Jeff screeched to a stop amidst his warbling, blinking in bewilderment as a wave of wailing and shrieking fangirls stormed up the stage, upset beyond belief and determined to strip widdle Jeffykins of all his hideously tacky flannel and wash his mouth out with soap.
"Aw, shit," he muttered; unfortunately for him, the microphone conveniently placed in front of his mouth amplified his words into a booming screech, making the teenyboppers even more determined to purge his mouth of all profanities. Jeff took one good look at the massive swarm of teenage girls rushing at him in a mad frenzy, and for once it appeared as if all that bouncing and bumping around had spared some working brain cells, because the young daredevil wasted no time in taking off like a shot, running for his life with the teenyboppers in hot pursuit and closing in fast.
RVD, meanwhile, watching poor Jeff scramble around like mad in an effort to dodge his teenybopper fans, shook his head and clucked his tongue in what might have been sympathy. Remembering back to how he'd been assaulted with loose bras flying all over the stage during his own performance, RVD grumbled to himself, "Great, just great--the little glow-in-the-dark rainbow just has to outdo me, doesn't he!"