Post by Dangerous K on Jun 21, 2009 11:14:03 GMT -5
Okay motherfuckers, let’s play.
I’m standing in front of a set, the cameras are rolling and—yes, I’ve just seen the blinking red light turn a solid red, we’re officially recording.
I stand in front of the camera with the FCW Television Championship over my shoulder. In a few minutes, I’ve got to wrestle Sonictaker, but yet the furthest thing from my mind is preparation for the match, or even praying to Buddha—you know, because all of us Slopes do that—it’s actually the state of FCW in general. You know, how the brand split is killing the fed, and how the fact that it seems anybody who walks in can claim themselves to be the best there is in FCW. Guys like Seifer or whatever the hell his name is. You know, the guy that looks like a Chip N’ Dale Librarian Special Calendar reject.
I smile, and look into the camera.
“I came into FCW and I won a title, what did you do, Sonictaker? What did you do except waste valuable promo time and take up space with your lanky, 7’0”-230 pound gangly ass? I wanna know exactly why it is you thinkripping off emulating The Undertaker is going to help you in any way, shape, or form? I could sit here and tell you all the things you’re doing wrong, sure. I could sit here and tell you that you’re not going to walk out on Requiem the winner, yeah. I could even tell you that squeezing you out of her vagina was the worst thing your mother ever wrought upon this world, but what’s the point? Everybody knows the truth, and everybody knows that you, Sonic, ain’t got what it takes to even land a single punch on me.
And yeah, I get it, you’re big and and scary and “evil”. I get it, you’ve got two henchmen who are so totally brain-dead that they make the downs-syndrome kid in the first row of every FCW show picking his nose and eating them delicious boogers look like a fuckin’ mathematician. Then again, that’s not really a fair comparison to the hockey-helmet wearing crowd, now is it?
You’re sub-human, Sonic. You’re a lame, lanky-ass nobody with a lame gimmick and surrounded by even lamer “cohorts”. I mean come on, really? The X? Is X gon’ give it to me on Requiem? Even if he tried, I wouldn’t worry about him since the only thing he’s proven he can do is horribly photoshop an X over his chest, you know, where he drew the lines on it with a Sharpie. And even then that’s stretching it, isn’t it? I mean really, Angellus? There have been more Angelus-type names in pro-wrestling than porn star’s seen dick… but do you know what really bugs me about all of this, Sonic? The one thing that really ruffles my feathers?
It’s the fact that someone like you is allowed to soil the very ring that I go out in and bust my ass off. I go out in that ring every night of my Goddamn life and I give the world everything that I have—what do you, do, Sonic? You hire a couple of brain-dead crack heads to pose as your henchmen for some kind of “dark ministry”, and then you complain when nobody wants to work with you! Man, you’re doing it all wrong! You’re not supposed to let everyone know you’re a brain dead hick with less creative juice than Chris Benoit’s corpse. You’re not SUPPOSED to let the world—and myself—know that in the end you’re just a giant dumb hick who fumbles over words and can’t even pronounce a fuckin’ sentence without sounding like ‘Dubya’. You’re not supposed to—bottom line, Sonic—you’re not supposed to go out into that ring and bring my stock down by allowing Voglur to book this Goddamn match.”
My throat feels raw, almost shaky. I take a healthy spit onto the concrete, trying to work up the energy to keep going. Thinking about Sonictaker seemed to get my anger going, and anger was good. Anger was key to winning.
“And I guess that’s the heart of the issue we have—because really, you’ve got the chokeslam and the tombstone and all of that dumb and hokey shit, but all you’re really telling me, Sonic, is that you want to rub on me. All you’re really telling me, Sonic, is that you want to take our match to the ground and try to ‘dominate’ me. I can’t tell what’s worse, Sonic, the fact that you’re a scrawny-ass white boy trying to be The Undertaker, or that you’re a scrawny-ass white boy with Yellow Fever who can’t WAIT to “choke me out” with a gogo plata.
Fuckin’ homo.”
I shake my head, even stifling a laugh at the silliness that was Sonictaker. Surely someone must know he’s really The Undertaker on crack-cocaine, right?
“But then, there’s more, isn’t there? There’s the two most overrated sons of bitches to be walking the hallowed halls of FCW—we’ve got Original Sin, Parise and Gimmick.
Where do I even start?
Gimmick, you’re a wreck, an accident, you’re nobody and you never will be anybody. You’re somebody who walked into Second Coming for the world title, and Randy Orton—the punk ass that he is—beat you in eleven seconds—and he had just wrestled a match. The funny thing is, you’re still acting like you’ve still got a, haha, gimmick. You’re still actin’ like what you say actually MATTERS in FCW anymore. You’re acting, worst of all, like you didn’t get punked out at Second Coming, that you didn’t face the wrath of a gangly white inbred from Missouri. You’re trying sweep that under the rug like it didn’t even happen, and what’s the worst? You’ve still got that loser Parise sniffing your ass and telling you how fresh it smells every step you take.
It sure takes a lot of balls to have a grown man on your ass, Gimmick, I just want you to know that from the FCW locker room, to you, you’re a pansy.
Faggot.”
Oops! A bad word! Quick! Somebody tell Voglur!
“I just don’t know what to think, man. On the one hand I’ve got Sonictaker, and the other hand I’ve got assholes like Wizz Kidd trying to walk around and tell everyone that he didn’t lose the triple threat—let me ask you something Wizzy, if you didn’t lose, then why don’t you hold the FCW Television Championship?
Seriously, think on that, but don’t strain too hard.”
Of course he would, and of course I’d get another angry email from him telling me I should job a match to him because he’s so great, yet doesn’t have the skills to back it up in the ring, OR on the stick. Fuck ‘em.
“As of right now, I’m putting the FCW on notice. I am OFFICIALLY declaring myself the best man in FCW, and the best WRESTLER to step through that curtain. Throw your Robins and Ravens and Ortons and Jericho’s (oh wait, he’s gone) and even your Gimmicks and JaMarcus Haze—well, not him, he’s still shit—throw anything you want at me, at Dangerous K, at KENTA, and I guaran-damn-tee that you’re going to see one fraudulent bitch after another get exposed as the punk ass white-bread wannabes that they truly are.
The FCW Television Title is the ONLY title that matters, and do you want to know why?
I didn’t beat a faggot to win it.
I beat two of ‘em.”
I’m standing in front of a set, the cameras are rolling and—yes, I’ve just seen the blinking red light turn a solid red, we’re officially recording.
I stand in front of the camera with the FCW Television Championship over my shoulder. In a few minutes, I’ve got to wrestle Sonictaker, but yet the furthest thing from my mind is preparation for the match, or even praying to Buddha—you know, because all of us Slopes do that—it’s actually the state of FCW in general. You know, how the brand split is killing the fed, and how the fact that it seems anybody who walks in can claim themselves to be the best there is in FCW. Guys like Seifer or whatever the hell his name is. You know, the guy that looks like a Chip N’ Dale Librarian Special Calendar reject.
I smile, and look into the camera.
“I came into FCW and I won a title, what did you do, Sonictaker? What did you do except waste valuable promo time and take up space with your lanky, 7’0”-230 pound gangly ass? I wanna know exactly why it is you think
And yeah, I get it, you’re big and and scary and “evil”. I get it, you’ve got two henchmen who are so totally brain-dead that they make the downs-syndrome kid in the first row of every FCW show picking his nose and eating them delicious boogers look like a fuckin’ mathematician. Then again, that’s not really a fair comparison to the hockey-helmet wearing crowd, now is it?
You’re sub-human, Sonic. You’re a lame, lanky-ass nobody with a lame gimmick and surrounded by even lamer “cohorts”. I mean come on, really? The X? Is X gon’ give it to me on Requiem? Even if he tried, I wouldn’t worry about him since the only thing he’s proven he can do is horribly photoshop an X over his chest, you know, where he drew the lines on it with a Sharpie. And even then that’s stretching it, isn’t it? I mean really, Angellus? There have been more Angelus-type names in pro-wrestling than porn star’s seen dick… but do you know what really bugs me about all of this, Sonic? The one thing that really ruffles my feathers?
It’s the fact that someone like you is allowed to soil the very ring that I go out in and bust my ass off. I go out in that ring every night of my Goddamn life and I give the world everything that I have—what do you, do, Sonic? You hire a couple of brain-dead crack heads to pose as your henchmen for some kind of “dark ministry”, and then you complain when nobody wants to work with you! Man, you’re doing it all wrong! You’re not supposed to let everyone know you’re a brain dead hick with less creative juice than Chris Benoit’s corpse. You’re not SUPPOSED to let the world—and myself—know that in the end you’re just a giant dumb hick who fumbles over words and can’t even pronounce a fuckin’ sentence without sounding like ‘Dubya’. You’re not supposed to—bottom line, Sonic—you’re not supposed to go out into that ring and bring my stock down by allowing Voglur to book this Goddamn match.”
My throat feels raw, almost shaky. I take a healthy spit onto the concrete, trying to work up the energy to keep going. Thinking about Sonictaker seemed to get my anger going, and anger was good. Anger was key to winning.
“And I guess that’s the heart of the issue we have—because really, you’ve got the chokeslam and the tombstone and all of that dumb and hokey shit, but all you’re really telling me, Sonic, is that you want to rub on me. All you’re really telling me, Sonic, is that you want to take our match to the ground and try to ‘dominate’ me. I can’t tell what’s worse, Sonic, the fact that you’re a scrawny-ass white boy trying to be The Undertaker, or that you’re a scrawny-ass white boy with Yellow Fever who can’t WAIT to “choke me out” with a gogo plata.
Fuckin’ homo.”
I shake my head, even stifling a laugh at the silliness that was Sonictaker. Surely someone must know he’s really The Undertaker on crack-cocaine, right?
“But then, there’s more, isn’t there? There’s the two most overrated sons of bitches to be walking the hallowed halls of FCW—we’ve got Original Sin, Parise and Gimmick.
Where do I even start?
Gimmick, you’re a wreck, an accident, you’re nobody and you never will be anybody. You’re somebody who walked into Second Coming for the world title, and Randy Orton—the punk ass that he is—beat you in eleven seconds—and he had just wrestled a match. The funny thing is, you’re still acting like you’ve still got a, haha, gimmick. You’re still actin’ like what you say actually MATTERS in FCW anymore. You’re acting, worst of all, like you didn’t get punked out at Second Coming, that you didn’t face the wrath of a gangly white inbred from Missouri. You’re trying sweep that under the rug like it didn’t even happen, and what’s the worst? You’ve still got that loser Parise sniffing your ass and telling you how fresh it smells every step you take.
It sure takes a lot of balls to have a grown man on your ass, Gimmick, I just want you to know that from the FCW locker room, to you, you’re a pansy.
Faggot.”
Oops! A bad word! Quick! Somebody tell Voglur!
“I just don’t know what to think, man. On the one hand I’ve got Sonictaker, and the other hand I’ve got assholes like Wizz Kidd trying to walk around and tell everyone that he didn’t lose the triple threat—let me ask you something Wizzy, if you didn’t lose, then why don’t you hold the FCW Television Championship?
Seriously, think on that, but don’t strain too hard.”
Of course he would, and of course I’d get another angry email from him telling me I should job a match to him because he’s so great, yet doesn’t have the skills to back it up in the ring, OR on the stick. Fuck ‘em.
“As of right now, I’m putting the FCW on notice. I am OFFICIALLY declaring myself the best man in FCW, and the best WRESTLER to step through that curtain. Throw your Robins and Ravens and Ortons and Jericho’s (oh wait, he’s gone) and even your Gimmicks and JaMarcus Haze—well, not him, he’s still shit—throw anything you want at me, at Dangerous K, at KENTA, and I guaran-damn-tee that you’re going to see one fraudulent bitch after another get exposed as the punk ass white-bread wannabes that they truly are.
The FCW Television Title is the ONLY title that matters, and do you want to know why?
I didn’t beat a faggot to win it.
I beat two of ‘em.”
