Ay dios mio.
How’s all that festering rage working for you? Is it a big hit at the “I was in HOW back when everyone loved slurs” parties you throw at your little Hall of Fame nursing home? My guy, you are fucking exhausting. The biggest little try hard at the try hard convention, sweating and grunting and using as many F words as you can in a paragraph, because everyone knows you mean business when you say the F word a lot.
You gatekeeping little narcissist.
Everything in the wrestling world is your way or the highway, but the problem is that no one gives a shit about the highway anymore, man. No one is paying the tolls. No one is respecting the speed limit, because they don’t respect the man who put down the signs. You are the boss of nothing. The maker of the laws in the land of nothing. You project like an opera singer, and we’re all sick of the song you’re singing. You’re tone deaf, chief. The music went out of style a decade ago. The only one left desperately clinging to 2012 is you, because you’re the only one that the world actually ended for. Does it hurt? Does it hurt that you never got your flowers? That every time you log online, they aren’t singing your praises anymore? Because let me tell you a secret, Senor El Besto.
They never were.
You have, at best, been tolerated for your entire career. You’re Lee’s boy, figuratively and literally, and he’s been jamming you down everyone’s throat from day one. No one asked for you. No one begged for your presence. You’re the politician that no one voted for, always blathering on about Make HOW Great Again… but it’s been fine without you. Better, even. Who’d have thunk, a wrestling company better off without the slimy boss’ kid inserting himself into every major title match and pay-per-view main event. CAN YOU BELIEVE IT?
No one likes you, amigo.
Your biggest fear and your biggest insecurity come to life. You are not needed in this business, this company, or this fucking decade. You’re corny, bro. No one is listening, because you haven’t said anything worth hearing in a long, long time. And while we’re on the subject, HOFC doesn’t keep dying because everyone is… afraid of you, or whatever the fuck you said. HOFC keeps dying because no one cares. It isn’t fun for anyone else. It pops you and three other people in the universe, the rest of us are fucking over it. You took a cool idea and turned it into an opportunity to bury, demolish, and brutalize anyone dumb enough to step into a cage, and no one wants it.
Keep your title, man.
The shit’s made of plastic.
It’s a division of… uno.
I do not fear you. I do not respect you. I do not value you, nor do I see the value anyone else sees in you. You’re a useless old vase pretending to be an antique, but there’s nothing precious about your existence. And I’m going to prove it on Sunday night, when I fucking smash you into a thousand pieces in the middle of the ring. When I climb the ladder, retain my championship, and send you into whatever spiral you’ll inevitably fall into when you fucking lose. Maybe you’ll retire again. Maybe you’ll spin off into your third wrestling academy and introduce the world to another shitty wrestler who might stick around for four weeks. Shit, maybe you’ll go join another shitty side company to dominate for a few months, while pretending that anything but you in the world is Fisher Price. Because that’s the truth, Mike– you’re the biggest. Fucking. Snowflake of them all. The biggest diva. The highest maintenance wrestler in the world. The biggest crybaby on the planet. The King of the 24 Hour Rule.
So what exactly is it that I’m supposed to respect?
How about this? On Sunday night, when I’m standing over you with the LSD Championship held proudly over my head, maybe you can get down on those famous knees and beg me for mercy. Really dig them into the mat. Give that fucking ring CTE, drive them deep into that canvas. And beg, Michael. Beg me not to fucking end you. Beg me to leave you with your dignity. Beg me to let the illusion of you live a few more days, or weeks, or fucking years. Because if you don’t? If you keep up this nepotism fueled, borderline addictive narcissism?
I’m going to fucking expose you.
I’ll drive you to a place that you can’t unretire from. I’ll put you in a fucking hole with an eight ball of cocaine and nothing but your own shame to keep you company. I’m well over 750 words at this point, but who gives a fuck, dude. It’s about time somebody told it to you straight. It’s about time somebody didn’t play into your bullshit. Maybe a lot of people are expecting some bullshit swerve at Chaos, but let me promise every single person reading this that you are not going to see Mike Best wrestle a fucking mannequin. I am not a joke, or a bit, a wink, or a fucking nod– I am El Hombre FUCKING Blanco.
Now go ahead and make a few more poker puns.
You fucking mark.