It Stinks

It Stinks

Posted on January 28, 2022 at 7:24 pm by Cancer Jiles

I’m mad.

Well, not really. 

More so slighted. 

Well, it’s difficult. 

Here is why.

Fuck Mario for stealing the name to MY tournament. I have the TAG TITLES ON MY TIGHTS. I am one half of the current TAG TEAM CHAMPIONS cause I never mailed my half back like Meniscus Harrison did. Yet here we are, ALL of us, suffering through the Monstrously Mundane Monstrosity known as the Mario Maurako brings to you his tournament dash carnival of shambles, dandies, “bad” guys, and of course Bandits because why not.

WOMP-WOMP.

In fact. I, KING COOL, TAG TEAMER EXTRAORDINAIRE, WAS SO DOMINANT high octane RETIRED THE BELTS WHILE THEY WERE STILL AROUND MY WAIST.

True story. 

Someone got shot with an arrow in their knee…

…it was Harrifying.

HA.

IN FACT, I WON THEM WITH HIGH KNEE HOLE HARRISON, AND DOOZER. 

WAIT. 

ONCE AGAIN WITH MORE CLARIFICATION AND LESS SPACING FOR A MORE SUDDEN  DRAMATIC EFFECT THAN ALL CAPITAL LETTERS COULD DELIVER. I WON THE HIGH OCTANE TAG TEAM CHAMPIONSHIPS OF THE WORLD WITH DOOZER AND HKHH AS MY TAG TEAM PARTNERS. TWICE.

Doozer and Harry. Sugar and Spice.

TWICE.

YES, the very same corpses you are thinking of!

Not even Max Kael could have done that, and he’s the BEST.

HA.

I’m still mad.

I thought denouncing the… eh, significant people in my life would make me feel better.

It did not.

Maybe the opposite then?

Fuck Bobby Dean for having sleep apnea. Fuck him for screwing me out of the title. Fuck him for faking a coma. Fuck him for ruining my discount at Qui Ney’s. Fuck him tainting Zeb Martin. Fuck him for tearing CBJ in half like he had the authority to do so. Fuck him for even touching CBJ actually. Fuck him for botching so many tag title runs. 

Such a slob. 

SUCH. A. SLOB. 

I’d call him a crumb but he’d gobble it right up, the slob. 

I hope his worthless, pitiful, self loathing, abyss for a belly button gets hacked, and vegetables get delivered into it instead of Hellman’s. I hope he has to snort Viagra in order for it to work– I’d say shove them up his ass but OF COURSE HE’D EAT THAT UP, TOO. Truth is, I hope he starts the match just so I can run my hand through my golden blond hair instead of saving the day and rescuing his FAT ass.

Bobby. Dean.

Son of Fatty McFatterson. Brother to Debbie O’bease. Carried by Cancer Jiles. People might say but Jiles, you picked Bobby Dean. It was your decision. BETWEEN HIM AND DOOZER?!!?!?! LIKE I HAD A FUCKING CHOICE. Should have picked them both and fallen down on my sword– that’s what I should have done. Let them two carry the torch to nowhere while I sat in the back gutted. 

But no.

I’m an idiot.

I don’t think.

I like to do things the much, much harder way as opposed to doing them just the hard way. Like, tell me, have any of you ever stopped and wondered HOW easy it is carrying around a three hundred pound man all of the time? I know. Your favorite COOLYMPIAN makes it look easy, but trust me it is not. In fact, allow me to pose another question if I may. Is it ironic or just a testament to ME being COOL that as soon as I trimmed the fat from MY wildest aspirations I feasted upon them as if I had ZERO regard to the line for the buffet?

Probably ironic?

Not.

Oh well.

I’m a company man.

Even so, I’m still mad.

Fuck High Octane Wrestling for double booking me. Come on now, Olly Olly Oxen Free, how am I supposed to deliver the **PRIME Universal Championship to the ghost of Leeberto if I’m pulling double duty curtain jerking the second show of the new year agianst Shooty McShitshoots and Pop-Pop Pinskis? HOW? HOW IS IT POSSIBLE?

**That’s what they call their World Title. I know. Kids these days.

It is not.

And even though I have aired my grievances against the Nine and the Seven…

…I’ll be damned.

Damn it.

I thought completely thumbing my nose up would at least make me feel a little bit better.

It did not.

Hmmm…

Fuck Darin Zion for keeping me under his boot.

Oh.

Yeah.

I know.

HOTv Studio
The First Day
The Last Day

I’m here.

Company jumpsuit on track.

Hair on point.

Shades on lock.

Fern on pot. 

In pot rather.

aLTHoUgH……

97red velvet couch for me to sit on, which as fate would have it… dun-dun-dun- I am. In fact, I’m even smiling, but only because I’m still thinking about not accepting Bobby’s hot tag.

ACTION~!

My hair radiates. 

My shades shine.

My patronizing tone is nearly unrecognizable.

“Hello new guys. Welcome to High Octane Wrestling. Sorry to disappoint you, but we’re not as bad as people make us out to be. HA. HA.”

They’re not new you say?

They’ve been here for months?

HA.

No, I wasn’t trying to be funny or coy– I just have a natural habit of doing so.

“Usually, now is when I’d wish you guys good luck. and say things like you have a fighting chance and I look forward to mixing it up with out of towners. Sadly, you brought a toothpick to an icepick fight and that’s just not going to poke it.”

I nod, proud of my sly play on words. 

“That said, hopefully you guys wind up sticking around after sucking on an egg in your debut. Then, AND only then, will I learn or care to learn what your guys’ names are.”

I chuckle. Since I’m COOL like that, I degradingly continue, “Piz and Moe from Shoot gonna mozy on in here and beat the Bandits.” A scoff. “Beat me.” I spit, purely out of disgust. “In our opener of the tag tourney.” I snort. Arrogantly. Very arrogantly. “Gonna come in and do what Darn Zion and Noah Handsome and Brian Hollywood have done. Gonna steak their flag in Steven’s turf at the BANDITS’ expense!? No sir. Not on the ghost of Lee Best. Not on Kostoff’s second death. Not on Doozer’s infinity firing. Not on MY FUCKING WATCH.”

I take a breath.

I calm myself.

I remember, I don’t even know what these guys’ names are. That’s how little I think of them. I don’t know what they look like, if one of them has four arms like Goro, or if they pee standing up. They could sprite figures consisting of pixels for all I know.

Oh well.

“POP. POP.”

Pucker.

Kiss.

Goodbye.

EXTRA, EXTRA

“I’ll shit if their names are Will Smith and Martin Lawrance. Or Isiah Thomas and Dennis Rodman. Or Puff and Daddy. I will. I wouldn’t be half surprised because of the, when in doubt HOW rule, but really I’ll shit. BD style.”

I looked across the long table…

Bobby, all the tons of fun that he is, looked back at me.

Seconds seemed like minutes.

Minutes seemed like hours.

Neither of us were going to budge.

Then, amongst the still silence.

Then, amongst the awkward aroma.

Then, amongst the tense tension…

I asked him, sweat dripping from my brow.

His lip quivered with fear.

“Did you fart?”

He smiled. 

I did not.