As Jericho warmed up for his upcoming performance by reacquainting himself with his good friend Mr. Jack Daniel, a fake redhead with breasts even bigger than Sable's sidled up to the blonde Canadian, giggling flirtatiously, "So, I hear you're a huge rock star." She batted her long, fake lashes seductively in his direction. "Is that true?" Jericho tore himself from his conversation with one of his Fozzy bandmates, flashing a boastful grin while puffing his chest out like some bodybuilder.
"Of course I am," he bragged. "The Ayatollah of Rock n' Rollah himself, Chris Je--er, I mean...um...Axl Jericho." The redhead raised her hands to her cheeks, gasping in an awestruck voice, "Really? The Axl?" Jericho began to nod vigorously, his long blonde hair nearly smacking her right in her vivid purple contacts, and the redhead proceeded to coo, "I mean, wow! I didn't even know that the same figure skater guy who invented the axle kick is also a huge rock star! I mean, like, how totally cool is that?"
"Eh heh!" Jericho's bottle of Jack Daniel's slipped from his hand and tumbled right onto the floor, and Jericho himself nearly followed in his booze's example as he struggled to remain seated in his chair just before he was about to fall out in frustration. The redhead, meanwhile, had begun to rant and rave about his figure skater and rock star status, and the wary Jericho, who wasn't quite wasted enough to sink down to her level of stupidity, stumbled out of his chair and none-too-subtly inched as far away from her as he could.
Jericho wandered around his dressing-room-turned-nightclub, slapping high fives with his other, equally drunk Fozzy bandmates and tottering over to the long table set up at a corner in the room to switch drinks. He hadn't had a chance to take one lousy swig of vodka when he caught sight of another surgically augmented groupie wannabe, this one a snobby-looking girl with a loud fake British accent and a bleach job so bad, half her hair was still its original mousy brown color. Arrogant smirk already in place, Jericho checked his hair, conveniently reflected in the silver shades perched atop the nose of a willowy dark-haired girl nearby, before quickly making his way up to the blonde (fake) Brit and grinning, "Hey, how you doing? I'm Ax...er..." Remembering the little axle kick incident, Jericho quickly changed his mind and proceeded to introduce himself as, "I'm Bon Jovi. Jericho Bon Jovi." The girl turned to him, laughing so loudly she nearly snorted her gold tequila straight out her nose, before remarking in a snide tone of voice, "Then the Bon Jovi high cheekbones gene must have stopped with big brother Jon, eh luv?" It took Jericho only ten minutes to figure out that the buxom blonde was laughing at him, and not with him, and move on.
Jericho stomped off back to his booze table, grumbling none too flattering things about the blonde girl under his breath. As Contestant No. 38 finished "Jailhouse Rock" onstage and Contestant No. 39 prepared to sing "My Heart Will Go On," backstage Jericho was playing around with the ice cubes in his brandy glass when an amply-built Costa Rican girl ran up to him and asked loudly, "Is it true that you're a real rock star and not just some wannabe?" Jericho, the snotty blonde (fake) Brit's remark about his lack of high cheekbones already forgotten, turned around and flashed his least modest grin, shaking back his long mane of blonde hair and somehow managing to flex his pecs at the same time.
"Of course it's true," he scoffed arrogantly. "Why I'm..." Remembering his Bon Jovi disaster, and then remembering his Axl disaster before that, Jericho quickly improvised, "I'm Christopher Lee Roth!"
At that moment, an exotic-looking Hawaiian vixen with shiny raven-black hair glided gracefully by, and Jericho forgot all about the busty Costa Rican brunette squealing in delight two inches away from his nose, as he turned to whistle at the Hawaiian and sing out, "Hey, how you doing? I'm a huge rock star you know! Er...Chris Mustaine, of Megafozzydeth!"
"What!" the Costa Rican girl turned to him, huffing, "I thought you were Christopher Lee Roth!" Jericho blinked.
"I am," he shrugged carelessly, but the Hawaiian girl chose that moment to pipe up, "Didn't you just say that you were Chris Mustaine?"
"I am that too," Jericho protested, but one look at the huffy expressions on his Costa Rican and Hawaiian princesses told him that they weren't quite dumb enough to believe him, and the Canadian rock star wisely made the decision to get the hell out of there before one of them had a chance to stick her pump up his ass for blatantly lying.
Jericho stumbled about, shaking his head and nearly sloshing his drink right into someone's lap.
"Women," he was grumbling darkly to himself...when his head lifted and his eyes at that moment just happened to land on a most exquisite specimen of human beauty. Long, wavy blonde hair that shimmered and kissed the face, eyes that were enchanting dark pools, and a playful smirk that indicated both style and sass. A silly grin found its way to the drunken Jericho's face, and he stumbled as though in a trance toward the blonde beauty and drooled goofily, "Hey there, gorgeous. What are you drinking?" Now why were all those other people staring at him like that?
Stephanie McMahon sighed irritably to herself as she picked her way through the trashed dressing room, sidestepping a slobbering drunk who looked like he hadn't gotten a haircut since he was twelve. While enduring several brushes with slipping on whiskey bottles, Stephanie tried at the same time to find Chris Jericho, the lucky WWE Superstar set to go on after Contestant No. 40 was done belting out her rather unique version of No Doubt's "Hella Good." The Smackdown! general manager took nearly five minutes before she finally spotted Jericho, who seemed to be caressing a dusty, cracked mirror and warbling nonsense to it at the same time. Stephanie rolled her eyes, squared her shoulders, and began pushing and shoving her way through the sea of people, nearly getting groped several times along the way and finding herself bitch-slapping the few who did succeed in groping her. When she reached Jericho, she heard him saying to his reflection, "Listen, I understand if you want to take it slow...Here, I promise: Nothing past second base on the first date, okay?" Stephanie's eyebrows lifted in a pretty good imitation of the Rock, before she cleared her throat loudly and remarked, "So, Jericho. Ready to go out there and show us just how big a rock star you are?" She decided--for Jericho's sake and her own--to ignore his narcissism and mirror-groping. Jericho blinked, suddenly remembering that he was here to sing and not just chase after women, and mumbled, "Oh, is it my turn already?" Stephanie nodded.
"Sure is," she told him. "You're up after this next girl." Jericho snapped up.
"Aw, shit!" he cursed. "I have to go find my fellow Fozzsters before that fat chick is done yodeling about how I've gotten her feeling hella good!" Stephanie's eyebrows shot up.
"You brought a live band with you?" she nearly screeched. "And you haven't even rehearsed yet!" Jericho waved his hand back and forth, as though that was no big deal.
"Don't get your panties in a knot," he scoffed, ignoring the vein that was beginning to twitch dangerously on Stephanie's forehead at his words. "The Mighty Fozz has got Guns N' Roses' "Welcome To The Jungle" down pat! We'll ace this thing and rock the roof off--if this crappy outdoors stage had one, anyway!" Stephanie shrugged.
"All right, then," she conceded slowly. "But are you sure that--"
"Now let me worry about finding the rest of Fozzy," Jericho told her cheerfully. "You just get ready to hear a version of "Slave To The Grind" that's even better than Skid Row's original one!" Stephanie began to frown.
"Didn't you just say you were going to do that "Welcome Whatever" song?" she reminded him suspiciously, and Jericho shrugged.
"Fine, fine, Steph," he mumbled. "If it means that much to you, then Fozzy will just forget all about the rehearsing it didn't do and change the song to Kiss's "Detroit Rock City."
"Oh, no," Stephanie muttered slowly to herself. "Chris, for your own good--and for the WWE's classy reputation if it had one--I really don't think you should go out there. You're too drunk and you'll just make a fool out of yourself and Daddy's company--how do I know that in your wasted state you won't just drop your pants down in the middle of the song and start humping the mic stand? Besides, you couldn't sing even if you wanted to--you can't even remember the song you're doing!" Jericho gave her a what-are-you-nuts? look, scoffing, "Course I do, Stephanie! It's Twisted Sister's "We're Not Gonna Take It," duh! Here, I'll even sing a few lines, see, just to prove I can remember--ahem...Ahem! Ahem! Okay, here we go: Oh, you're so constipated/La dee da something something...burp, whoops, 'scusie moi..." Stephanie rolled up her sleeves, getting ready to haul Jericho as far away from the stage as possible by force, when Jericho breezed out of her grasp and sang out, "Now you just enjoy the show, Steph, while Fozzy and I kick the assclowns' asses with the best damn rendition of Van Halen's "Hot For Teacher" that you've ever heard!"
While Stephanie braced herself for the humiliation that was to come, Jericho happily pranced out onstage, and the remaining members of Fozzy just sort of trickled in, as the festival host announced, "And here's Contestant No. 41--oh, lookie, and he seems to have brought a live band too, good for him. Anyways, hailing all the way from Winnie the Pooh in Canada, here's Mr. Chris Jericho to sing...Er, I can't read what it says here; this is the worst chicken-scratch handwriting I've ever seen in all my twenty-six years of life!" Jericho glared at him, before grumbling into the microphone, "Yeah, well as soon as you hear this song that my band and I are doing, you won't even need to announce the title! It's classic! It's timeless! It's--" At that moment, Fozzy's lead guitarist finally managed to plug his guitar into the amps, and proceeded to let loose on his instrument with a screech so loud, Jericho had to turn around to make sure Stephanie wasn't lurking around, protesting his soon to be historic performance. When he was sure the GM was nowhere in sight, Jericho smirked in satisfaction, struck what he thought was a rock star pose, wobbled on his feet and nearly fell over in his drunken state, before finally beginning to sing.
Song lyrics to Motley Crue's"Girls Girls Girls"removed, in accordance with FFN's newest brilliant idea
Unfortunately for Jericho, he seemed to be struck with a sudden hiccupping attack just then, and his band had to improvise and lag on as Jericho made weird faces and whined that somebody get him some peanut butter. Finally, when his hiccups started going away, Jericho resumed singing.
That last part, unfortunately, wasn't exactly improvisation on the Canadian wrestler's part. Unknown to Jericho, all the teenyboppers had ditched the festival in an attempt to strip Jeff Hardy of his hideously tacky grunge attire, so that all that were left of the female festival-goers were the tight-lipped feminists, who at that moment also decided to storm the stage and chase after Jericho...only with not quite the same intentions as the young girls had had during Jeff's performance. Jericho's eyes bugged out when he saw all the angry middle-aged and almost-middle-aged feminists throw away their anti-male-chauvinism, let's-castrate-all-men-because-they're-slovenly-pigs pickets, roll up the sleeves of their shoulder-padded business jackets, and stampede onto the stage to unleash their wrath on him for his choice of song. Jericho quickly responded by ad-libbing the little What the! line into the middle of Mötley Crüe's "Girls Girls Girls" lyrics, before letting out a little girlie scream and running off the stage.
Meanwhile, momentarily hidden from his teenyboppers, Jeff watched Jericho careening crazily around with a wave of angry feminists on his ass, and broke out into a huge grin.
"Serves him right," he muttered, "for all those times he made fun of my hair!"
"Oh, Mr. Hardy? Why, he's right over there..." Jeff then heard RVD coolly inform the teenyboppers of his exact hiding place, swore under his breath, and took off.