Have you ever been in a gym after hours? Not one of those 24 Hour Fitness joints, but an actual gym that’s been closed for the evening. The lights are off, save for a few emergency ones scattered throughout.The racquetball courts are silent. The basketball courts are just as empty. Weights aren’t being slammed. ‘Roid monkeys aren’t grunting. Women aren’t walking around in tight outfits simply looking for their next muscle daddy.
It has a sort of peaceful aura to it. No judging eyes following me from one piece of equipment to the next. No snide remarks made at my expense. No “helpful” trainers offering to watch me lift 20 pound weights at the wonderful rate of 50 dollars an hour.
I’m not sure why, maybe it’s because Mike’s words got to me, but I find myself in this eerie silence of an empty gym. I’m running full bore on one of those self propelled treadmills. My dripping sweat forms puddles down at my feet. And this only after 2 hours of working out.
No music, no talking, no racket, no jeering, just me, the sweat, the silence, and my thoughts.
I’m beginning to realize that you and I are polar opposites, Mike. I thought about calling you Michael, you know, because this is SRS BSNS and you used the forbidden Robert and all. But honestly, I’ve never liked the name Michael. It sounds pretentious. It sounds like someone you just want to hate.
Man, I’m really starting to rethink this Mike/Michael thing now.
If the shoe fits.
A couple of days have passed and it’s given me time to process your ranting and raving. There are a few things that I can’t seem to get past. Normally I have no problem ignoring the droning on and on of my opponents. Half the time, I don’t even hear what they say. I usually just have Cancer paraphrase it for me. He’s got this uncanny ability to break things down in a way I can understand.
Don’t read that as I’m too stupid to understand. It’s more like I’m fucking lazy, and couldn’t be bothered to even try.
With you, Mike? With you, I bothered. I heard every word you said. Every insult. Every comparison. Every. Little. Thing.
And I’ve got to admit, it made me think. A lot.
I’ve noticed a trend: You sure do like to throw your quotes around Mike. I don’t fully understand the mindset behind it though. Are you trying to show everyone that you’re smart? Parroting words from people more famous than you doesn’t prove that you’re smart. Or perhaps you do your little quotes to show people that not only CAN you read, but that you do it often!
Ultimately, it proves nothing. It just shows that you have adequate retention skills.
Which, don’t get me wrong, is commendable. Especially considering I have shitty retention skills. I once worked with Steve Harrison many years ago, and I’m told we were quite good friends. But when I found out he’d joined HOW, for the life of me, I swore I’d never met the guy.
Perhaps that’s why he has been taking jabs at me week after week. I know for sure that’s why I haven’t responded to said jabs. I felt bad for the guy. As if I let him down, almost. Like he’s a Make A Wish kid and I unfulfilled his wish. So if he can elevate his name off of mine for a bit, you go right ahead little Stevey.
Now Mike, I might forget why I went to the kitchen by the time I got there, but what I do have is an uncanny ability to Google Search! I’m sure you’re way above all this… BUT, in fact, here’s something special just for you; the famous W.W. Jacobs wrote a line in The Tale of the Monkey’s Paw, “Be careful what you wish for, for you may receive it.”
This may be an apt quote for you Michael…
You keep talking about ‘Old Bobby Dean,’ how you wish he would make a return. As if I was unaware of the differences between then and now. This theme’s not just in your latest ramblings, but for a long while now. You keep talking about how much you miss ‘Old Bobby Dean’ and how you wish ‘Old Bobby Dean’ was back. Over and over and over.
I’m confused by that train of thought though. If ‘Old Bobby Dean’ were here, the first thing you would do is try to recruit him for some sort of faction. It couldn’t be the eMpire, because I don’t have an M in my name. It couldn’t be the Group of Death, because I missed out on the LBI sadly. It couldn’t be the reformation of The Industry, because neither you, nor I, can even remember WHO WAS IN IT! Seriously, it was so long ago, and ran for such a minuscule time that I know neither of us can be 100% certain who was in it with us.
So, you talk about The Industry like it was a trendsetting, remarkable experience. But, in truth it was just another attempt by you to remove your competition and make yourself seem more important. It’s similar to fighters beating cans. Cans are easy opponents that serve a purpose. It pads their record, making them look better and stronger. When they aren’t.
I’m your tomato can Mike.
Isn’t that right? I’m here to make you seem better. You beat me and what do you get? Your rank goes up, surpassing Max Shell for the umpteenth time this year. I know I should call him Minister Kael, but he’s a Bandit dammet. He’ll always be Shell to me!
By beating me, you also add a defense to your title reign. Once again, padding yet another statistic for you. And we all know Mike Best loves to game the game, work those numbers, and weasel your way around statistics. You apparently get to avenge some loss from 8 years ago that no one but you can remember. I swear, when I heard you tell that story I couldn’t believe it! Apparently, I haven’t played beach volleyball in 8 years!?
While you were having the worst day of your life that night, losing to me, you know what else happened that day? Another Michael died. Yeah. That’s right. While you think a measly loss to Bobby Dean equates the worst moment of your life, one Michael Clarke Duncan died. Great, now you’ve ruined the Green Mile for me! I can never watch Talladega Nights again without thinking about you and your arrogant, self-centered bullshit!
News Flash: The world does NOT revolve around you, Mike!
Honestly, I didn’t even know. I just Google Searched it, just to prove to you that my Google game is stronger than yours!
Beating me is to be expected, no? I’m not here to win, according to most. I’m simply here to make you all chuckle. I’m here to sing and dance, because no one does the Truffle Shuffle better than ole Bobby Dean. And if you could earn a title on jokes alone we all know who would be the reigning, undefeated World champion! Cecilworth Farthington! That guy is laughable!
You refer to the Bandits as Mid card talent, yet the Bandits have been in the Main Event for the last 3 shows. While the Group of Death is imploding, with the eGG Queen on the shelf, Max Shell doing his Minister thing, and Dan Ryan being, well, Dan Ryan… who else is left? Meanwhile the Bandits are increasing their strength and getting better and better by the week.
So you keep on wishing, Mike. Keep wishing that you had the ‘Old Bobby Dean’ back. I, for one, don’t miss him. I say, “Good riddance.” All that hard work I had to put in to maintain that physique. All those hurtful words I had to spew forth to maintain my spot at the top. All those bruises and bumps, on top of bumps and bruises, just to compete with guys like you on a regular basis!
How about, instead, you try being the funny guy for a change? You’d find it more relaxing, easier on the mind, body, and soul. No worries about upsetting people. No concerns about how someone might misconstrue your venomous words.
You wonder why I don’t want to go back to being ‘Old Bobby Dean’ and that’s it right there; staring at you in the mirror. It’s too much fucking work!
You’re too much fucking work.
I learned that, if you set the bar low, you’ll never disappoint people when you under-perform. They’ll simply shrug and say, “Well, what did you expect from Bobby Dean?” Then the few times I go above and beyond that low hung bar, people will flip their shit! They’ll be crying out, “Oh my god! Put a World Title on him! NOW!”
While I was crying about my 1-5 record, secretly I was quite happy. No pressure, no expectations, and no disappointment when I failed to meet the expectations that come with success. I was only sad because people told me that’s the way I should feel. The only thing that was upsetting to me was seeing the looks on the faces of my friends.
Speaking of friends, I’m very cross with you, Michael. Because of you, and this “opportunity” you’ve so graciously shared with me, I’ve now missed cuddle time with my friends! While they’re bonding and having the sleepover to end all sleepovers, I’m here sweating my balls off for a match with you! All because you have a problem with me, and went crying to Papa Leonardo.
Ultimately, I think your problem with me is that you’re jealous.
Jealous that I’m able to live my life to be true to myself. I get to love life, laugh, and cry. You wish you could be the happy go lucky, fat guy full of joy, instead, you are stuck being you. You haven’t changed in the 10+ years that I’ve known you. I feel kind of bad for you. I mean, to be so spiteful and filled with hate, letting your ego drive you for so long.
You tell me I should take things more seriously, but what am I supposed to do? Look to you to be my role model? Snorting coke every chance you get? Caring about nothing and no one, but yourself? So I can win some matches and maybe hold gold? Should I apologize? “Uh, sorry for not being a drug addict?”
I stutter in my pace, causing my rhythm to falter and the self propulsion to slow. Coming to a halt, I take a minute to wipe my sweat off the machine before I walk down to the bathrooms. I’ve got a singular goal in mind, and for once the focus drives me.
Entering the bathroom, I make a beeline to the scales. With no care in the world I stomp my way onto the cold, stainless steel plate and watch as the numbers begin to rise on the digital display. And continue to rise. Finally stopping, I simply stare down, my mouth agape.
With a sigh of pure frustration I step down and stomp my way across the bathroom to the adjoining sauna. Fiddling with the knobs and buttons before I walk into the closed off space, I plop down on the bench and begin the excruciating process of sweating.
If you know me, you know there isn’t a single thing I hate more than sweating.
The things I do for you, Mike.
You know why we’re polar opposites Mike?
You are at the top of the ladder looking down at the peasants below. Perched up there, wondering why they aren’t scrambling to overthrow you at the top?
I am at the bottom of the ladder, not even bothering to look up. Because I can’t fathom why anyone would want to climb said ladder.
You care too much about your Legacy. You want to be remembered as the Best, so much so that you legally changed your name. Every time you talk, you somehow manage to bring up some past accolade that you can tie into whatever conversation may be happening.
“Oh did you hear, my mom has menopause?”
Mike will then say, “Oh you know who else has menopause? Kirsta Lewis, after I beat her for the World Title, which happened to be my third World Title.”
I actually Googled that, because you know me, I’m all about beating a dead horse! It was at Rumble at the Rock 5 on October 28th, 2012, for those of you with doubts.
I, on the other hand, don’t give a rat fart about my legacy. Why should I? Mike seems to know more about my past accolades better than I do. He reminded me that I won the LSD title from him the night MCD died. I didn’t even know I had won a title outside of the tag titles.
Mike, you are in a lose/lose situation here. Beating me is expected. If the HOG were still going, everyone outside of the Bandits and possibly Eric Dane would be putting their money on you. The Bandits would bet on me simply for the solidarity it would show. Dane? He’d bet on me for the loathing he has for you. If it were up to him he’d probably like to Tanya Harding my ass, and insert himself in said match.
You beat me and you gain nothing. No bragging rights. No vindication. No new, shiny titles. No accolades to somehow work into future conversations. Nothing.
You lose to me, and you follow the way of MJ Flair. MJ Flair thought of me as a tomato can. Look what happened there. You delete your twitter. You contemplate packing your ball and going home. You cave, like your nose will, if you keep it up.
Can you imagine it? Mike Best. Defeated by. Bobby Dean! Loses his 9th World Title! Oh my god! Bobby Dean, HOW World Champion!
I’m not afraid to admit, the thought gives me a chubby.
Mike, You are success.
I am failure.
You are an Adonis.
I am a Hunchback.
You are a Savior among the flock that is HOW.
And I am simply one of the sheep.
The timer sounds, drawing me once again from my contemplation. Leaving the sauna is both a relief and utter torture. Having your body grow accustomed to the debilitating heat of a sauna only to leave, and re-enter a world of air conditioning causes my very skin to hurt.
Grimacing through the pain of rock hard nipples that could cut glass, I begin the arduous process of drying off. Wiping away all the sweat from every conceivable inch of my vast body. All while swearing Mike’s name, for pushing me to this point.
Once dry, I make my way over to the scales once more. Gingerly stepping one foot after the other onto the cold, steel plate. I can’t tear my eyes off the rising numbers:
85. 110. 140. 175. 200. 205. 210. 215. 220. 225. … 225.
Smiling to myself, I finally give a sigh of relief as I step off the scale. Walking over to the nearby bathroom, I stand before a sink, looking at myself in the mirror.
I am a wolf dressed like a sheep.
You want the ‘Old Bobby Dean’ back Mike?
Remember what W.W. Jacobs once wrote.
“… For you may receive it.”