Post by megtorlas on Dec 2, 2006 2:12:43 GMT -5
So, you're gonna step up? The big bad guy gets beaten down like a bitch, and now he's gonna do something about it? Sad, he couldn't do much about it while lying helpless during the most recent broadcast. I trust it's been awhile since he felt like that, but he shouldn't be afraid. It's going to happen much much more.
Let's hear what you've got, Meathead. For some reason you've felt it necessary to create miniature versions of yourself and further plague the planet with a population of half-minded apathetic numbskulls. It's bad enough you exist, but now your children are going to grow up just like you and the future generation will be burdened with cleaning up after these self-absorbed ignorant children that are the products of these self-absorbed ignorant people. The new generation is going to be reduced to nothing more than potsmoking bags of breathing body organs zoning out to whatever cartoon is blinking on the screen, and a few of them will further disintegrate the air waves by getting together while stoned, cutting themselves, and bitching about how bad their teenage surburban life is, and they somehow call that music. Thank you, Jason Willard, for contributing to the downfall of this planet. Granted, it started long before you, but you alone will be held responsible for your contribution.
PCW management had alerted me to the fact that I had not yet said a word to the roster or the fans of this product. They didn't know whether to hate me or love me or anything about me. While at the end of the day they wouldn't know anything about me, they sure as hell wouldn't love me. They wanted the cameras and the words, I'd be more than happy to provide them. It's a damn good thing I'm under contract.
The cameras pointed at me. It felt so unnatural to be speaking to a plastic box being pointed at me by some minimum wage fruitcake who probably jumped the border a few days ago in order to get a job like that. He sputtered off something that involved spit, which I guess meant start, so I did.
"I guess it's a requirement in this business to speak about things you're going to do to someone. I'd rather just do them, but you idiots of this current generation need words, catch phrases, and witty sayings to go along with your actions, don't you? Since you have about a two-second attention span before you jump back to your game of Halo where you put on a headseat and talk to other morons with absolutely no life and nothing to do but fiddle with a joystick and pretend to kill imaginary characters that all look like. What a riverting fucking day, people. And at the end of that day, I'm expected to speak on a level that these people can understand? These people who have turned the English language into a grammatical abortion filled with letters, z's, and numbers. They put on these fake accents to either appear sensitive or ghetto, and both of them can take speech classes and learn to speak like a normal fucking person. And if I see one more person with a sideways hat, I'm kicking the shit out of them. No one will ever take you seriously with a sideways hat, you stoned ghetto piece of shit."
"There are those who were wondering why I attacked Jason Willard at the most recent edition of Trauma. I of course ask why the fuck not? What's there to like about this being? He's a walking organ donor, and his brain is certainly not one of them, so why has anyone allowed this ingrate to continue surviving on this planet? Oh, I forgot... He's in the majority, and I suppose enough of these people could relate to him. Wife and kids, picket fences, and swingsets in the front yard, what a bunch of shit, he just got done beating a woman recently, didn't he? Am I supposed to care that you have children? As far as I see it, you're nothing more than a plague, and your children are the germs spreading the disease that has become the majority of the population of this world. Why wouldn't I beat the hell out of you? If more people put down their cigarettes and their recent issues of Cosmo and took a look around, more of them would do it. And that'll probably happen about the time that Skylar Marshall grows a pair of testicles and runs this place with an iron fist instead of a rubbery pussy. If he had a set at all, he'd make this match non-sanctioned. I imagine Willard sees the opportunity to end a rookie's career. I see the opportunity to send a father back to his children with a broken jaw and brain damage. Come at me, I'll drill you with a boot to the fucking temple, Willard. I don't care how tough you think you are, I will dispose of you. You belong in the sewers somewhere providing fertilizer to the planet."
“At first I wondered what the hell was wrong with this place, but it’s all in the song you use every week for your Trauma shows. ‘SCREAM! SCREAM! PITY ME! PITY ME! MY LIFE SUCKS! YOU’VE FORSAKEN ME!’ Give it a fucking rest already! Why has the entire world come down with a disease that only Zoloft can cure? Slice your throats so you rip out your vocal chords with razor blades so I don’t have to listen to you anymore, and don’t get any blood on my fucking shoes. Jason, I bet you’re like that. I bet you’re a sad sack of shit despite the fact that your life doesn’t suck at all. Oh wait, are you going to respond to me with a backstory? Did you get abused as a child, or did your parents die? Did you not have any friends, or did all the girls turn on you and throw you into the locker room naked and let you get plunged by the closet case linebackers? How many girls broke up with you to turn your heart into a black gaping void that can only be satiated by the sensitive tears of the caring soul? Come on, what’s your story, I wanna know. Actually, I don’t, because it’s going to be same shit, different day, just like everyone else in this business, in this country, and probably in this world. Cry me a fucking river, dickface. I don’t care how hard you’ve had it; after I get done with you, the only time you’ll ever have had it harder is when your uncle molested you, and that’s a whole different realm that what I’m going to get into. I’ll cut you a break and let your head meet my boot so many times that you won’t even remember that you’ve been out of action for three months when you finally wake up. Least your children will get a break from having to listen to someone like you, who in ten years they’ll be embarrassed to admit they’re even related to you.”
“Retaliate all you want, bitch. Your funeral. This sucks, I’m sick of wasting my time with people who are only going to bitch about how insensitive and cruel I am. I’m out.” I walked out past the immigration squad and retreated back to emptiness and solitude. Who needs this shit? Just let me fight, maim someone, and get it over with. Who needs all this talking?
Let's hear what you've got, Meathead. For some reason you've felt it necessary to create miniature versions of yourself and further plague the planet with a population of half-minded apathetic numbskulls. It's bad enough you exist, but now your children are going to grow up just like you and the future generation will be burdened with cleaning up after these self-absorbed ignorant children that are the products of these self-absorbed ignorant people. The new generation is going to be reduced to nothing more than potsmoking bags of breathing body organs zoning out to whatever cartoon is blinking on the screen, and a few of them will further disintegrate the air waves by getting together while stoned, cutting themselves, and bitching about how bad their teenage surburban life is, and they somehow call that music. Thank you, Jason Willard, for contributing to the downfall of this planet. Granted, it started long before you, but you alone will be held responsible for your contribution.
PCW management had alerted me to the fact that I had not yet said a word to the roster or the fans of this product. They didn't know whether to hate me or love me or anything about me. While at the end of the day they wouldn't know anything about me, they sure as hell wouldn't love me. They wanted the cameras and the words, I'd be more than happy to provide them. It's a damn good thing I'm under contract.
The cameras pointed at me. It felt so unnatural to be speaking to a plastic box being pointed at me by some minimum wage fruitcake who probably jumped the border a few days ago in order to get a job like that. He sputtered off something that involved spit, which I guess meant start, so I did.
"I guess it's a requirement in this business to speak about things you're going to do to someone. I'd rather just do them, but you idiots of this current generation need words, catch phrases, and witty sayings to go along with your actions, don't you? Since you have about a two-second attention span before you jump back to your game of Halo where you put on a headseat and talk to other morons with absolutely no life and nothing to do but fiddle with a joystick and pretend to kill imaginary characters that all look like. What a riverting fucking day, people. And at the end of that day, I'm expected to speak on a level that these people can understand? These people who have turned the English language into a grammatical abortion filled with letters, z's, and numbers. They put on these fake accents to either appear sensitive or ghetto, and both of them can take speech classes and learn to speak like a normal fucking person. And if I see one more person with a sideways hat, I'm kicking the shit out of them. No one will ever take you seriously with a sideways hat, you stoned ghetto piece of shit."
"There are those who were wondering why I attacked Jason Willard at the most recent edition of Trauma. I of course ask why the fuck not? What's there to like about this being? He's a walking organ donor, and his brain is certainly not one of them, so why has anyone allowed this ingrate to continue surviving on this planet? Oh, I forgot... He's in the majority, and I suppose enough of these people could relate to him. Wife and kids, picket fences, and swingsets in the front yard, what a bunch of shit, he just got done beating a woman recently, didn't he? Am I supposed to care that you have children? As far as I see it, you're nothing more than a plague, and your children are the germs spreading the disease that has become the majority of the population of this world. Why wouldn't I beat the hell out of you? If more people put down their cigarettes and their recent issues of Cosmo and took a look around, more of them would do it. And that'll probably happen about the time that Skylar Marshall grows a pair of testicles and runs this place with an iron fist instead of a rubbery pussy. If he had a set at all, he'd make this match non-sanctioned. I imagine Willard sees the opportunity to end a rookie's career. I see the opportunity to send a father back to his children with a broken jaw and brain damage. Come at me, I'll drill you with a boot to the fucking temple, Willard. I don't care how tough you think you are, I will dispose of you. You belong in the sewers somewhere providing fertilizer to the planet."
“At first I wondered what the hell was wrong with this place, but it’s all in the song you use every week for your Trauma shows. ‘SCREAM! SCREAM! PITY ME! PITY ME! MY LIFE SUCKS! YOU’VE FORSAKEN ME!’ Give it a fucking rest already! Why has the entire world come down with a disease that only Zoloft can cure? Slice your throats so you rip out your vocal chords with razor blades so I don’t have to listen to you anymore, and don’t get any blood on my fucking shoes. Jason, I bet you’re like that. I bet you’re a sad sack of shit despite the fact that your life doesn’t suck at all. Oh wait, are you going to respond to me with a backstory? Did you get abused as a child, or did your parents die? Did you not have any friends, or did all the girls turn on you and throw you into the locker room naked and let you get plunged by the closet case linebackers? How many girls broke up with you to turn your heart into a black gaping void that can only be satiated by the sensitive tears of the caring soul? Come on, what’s your story, I wanna know. Actually, I don’t, because it’s going to be same shit, different day, just like everyone else in this business, in this country, and probably in this world. Cry me a fucking river, dickface. I don’t care how hard you’ve had it; after I get done with you, the only time you’ll ever have had it harder is when your uncle molested you, and that’s a whole different realm that what I’m going to get into. I’ll cut you a break and let your head meet my boot so many times that you won’t even remember that you’ve been out of action for three months when you finally wake up. Least your children will get a break from having to listen to someone like you, who in ten years they’ll be embarrassed to admit they’re even related to you.”
“Retaliate all you want, bitch. Your funeral. This sucks, I’m sick of wasting my time with people who are only going to bitch about how insensitive and cruel I am. I’m out.” I walked out past the immigration squad and retreated back to emptiness and solitude. Who needs this shit? Just let me fight, maim someone, and get it over with. Who needs all this talking?