So CM Punk is sitting in my office. He’s still wearing Stone Cold’s shirt, because Punk and Austin are feuding on Twitter and apparently they’re going to settle it in a steel cage at Twittermania in a year over my dead body.

“Punk, we need to chat about a few things,” I calmly sit down.

“Of course, Mr Chairman,” he says, smirking, sucking on a lollipop he probably got from Ken Kennedy.

“Chris Masters Punk,” I say, “If that is your real name.”

“It is,” he quips.

“Look, I have to come out of my pretend coma to suspend you tonight. I have to do it on the Internet. You know how I despise the Internet.”

“Yup.”

“If I’m going to do something like that, it has to be huge. It has to be the Rock’s return huge. And to be honest, I didn’t like your speech.”

“Yeah, you cut me off.”

“Can we go over the script?” I took the notes out from my briefcase. I passed a copy over to Punk. “This is what you were supposed to say.”

Punk looks at the script. He shoots a look back at me and Laurinaitis. He says, “Honestly, I know I let you down. But I’ve never been good at following these things line for line.”

“Well, that’s clear now,” I say. “But you’re missing the point. What were you supposed to call Stephanie?”

Punk sighs. He says, “A two bit gutter whore.”

“That’s right,” I say.

“I really didn’t think that was necessary.”

I growl. “You’ll say what I tell you to say. Now, what were you supposed to call HHH?”

“A kiss ass nepotist with no real wrestling talent.”

“That’s right,” Laurinaitis proclaims. “I was up all night thinking of that line. And you just called him an idiot. What a waste!”

“I’m sorry,” he says. “It’s live TV. What was I supposed to do, go backstage and check?”

“That’s not even the worst one,” I say, flipping the page.

“Look,” Punk says. “I’m gone in a few weeks. Write me off. Erase me. Do what you did with Jericho.”

“Who?” I say.

“Chris Jericho,” Punk stammers. “He worked here for like, ten years.”

“Never heard of him,” I say. “Was he that short Mexican guy?”

“Chavo,” Punk corrects me. “His name was Chavo.”

“Who am I thinking of?” I think to myself. “Chyna? I must have been thinking of Chyna. Does she still work here?”

“She’s a porn star now,” Punk says.

“Heavens.”

“Yeah,” he replies.

“Look, we’re getting off the point. You were supposed to hit these marks, and you fell way short. What were you supposed say about me?”

“That the whole locker room wanted to piss on your ashes.”

“Right,” I say. “Then what?”

“Shoot those ashes into a toilet.”

“Then what?”

“Have Booker T…” He pauses. “I don’t want to say it. It’s really racist.”

I put the papers back into the briefcase. “And you wonder why you’re not in the main event.”

Punk flips through his script to the end. “Mr. McMahon, to be fair, there’s a lot of stuff in here that doesn’t make sense. Like, at the end you have me spelling out WCW with my finger. What does that even mean?”

“Duh,” Laurenitis says. “It means you’re leaving for WCW.”

“But…they’re not around anymore. You bought them.”

“Right, but do you have any idea how many people still think WCW exists? They think there’s some place down south where Jeff Jarrett and Sting and Hulk Hogan wrestle each other on national television.”

“I think you mean TNA,” Punk says.

“Tnwha?” I stammer.

“Nevermind,” he says. “Look. People think I won’t be around after the PPV. Let me lose to Cena and disappear for a while. Then you can bring me back and job me out to Tyson Kidd on Superstars.”

“What’s Superstars?” I ask.

Laurinaitis says, “You’ve been in that coma for a long time, sir.”