Relapse

Not a great week to be booked against me. 

Just being honest. I’m fucking irritated. It’s not just that Scott Stevens been playing pretend again, trying to convince us all that he’s a once in a lifetime talent and being literally too fucking stupid to realize he’s been verbally concussed so many times he’s got virtual CTE. It’s not just that Brian Hollywood is still showing up to work this week despite me forcing him to take a knee so hard that he can’t get the National anthem out of his head. Nah, it’s not just that. On top of it all, I have a whiny fucking nineteen year old crashing on my couch because he bet a little too big in Las Vegas and lost it all. 

Tried to tell him the House always wins. 

He was a little too optimistic, I suppose. 

So I’m annoyed. I’m irritable. My Jimmies are rustled sufficiently to lay waste to any motherfucker who stands in my way, and hey, guess who happens to be standing directly in my path? Scott Stevens and fucking Brian Hollywood, the only two motherfuckers on my shit list this week who don’t wear powder blue panties. 

So let’s rock and roll, dickheads. 

You’ll notice I’ve chosen the “direct address” format again this week. It feels like the most efficient way to verbally destroy two of the three most useless tumors on High Octane Wrestling’s otherwise healthy frame. The spiritual successors to Dumb & Dumber, call them Delusional & Delusionalest— two McDonald’s dollar menu entries who have become so proficient at calling themselves filet mignon that they’ve started to believe their own bullshit. I could beat you dumb motherfuckers in a handicap match with two broken arms and an actual handicap placard on my Corolla, but I don’t even have to do that. 

I get John Sektor. 

I get the Gold Standard. 

What a waste, honestly. Two HOW Hall of Famers who went in on the same day, two all time rivals and allies who have never ever really had a proper run as a team. Isn’t that insane? We’ve maybe tagged up a handful of times over the last fourteen years, and it’s always against two overrated pieces of garbage in need of a good humbling. Is it absolutely bizarre? Yes. Am I complaining? I mean, not really— I do enjoying humbling overrated garbage, and this week it’s the most overrated garbage since Milli Vanilli won a fucking Grammy. 

So which one of you is Vanilli?

You fucking pro wrestling lip syncers. You absolute frauds. You think that your “never admit defeat” attitudes are a positive trait, but it’s just fucking annoying. It’s irritating to beat the shit out of a man, beat him clean, and then listen to him talk about how next time will be different. It’s even more irritating when it happens time and time again, endlessly repeating like a broken record on Groundhog Day inside of a time paradox, and doesn’t. Fucking. Stop. How many more times are we gonna meet a “New Brian Hollywood”? How many times is Scott Stevens going to buck up and “get back to the way things used to be?” New Brian Hollywood is like New Coke— it’s a fucking failure in a can, and old Brian was already RC Cola in the first place. And Stevens? 

There’s a reason your shit is tired, bud. 

You had one Goodyear. 

2012 was a decent time to be Scott Stevens, but that’s it. Glimmers since. Moments. Brief dalliances with the idea of being credible again, but you haven’t been worth a fuck in a long time. If this sounds like shit I’ve said before, and you wanna call me repeperive, hey… you’re right. But how many more times do I have to say it? Wouldn’t you agree that it’s fucking pathetic that I have to repeat myself, every single time we face eachother? As much as I enjoy bouncing my knees off your skull like the world’s most dangerous game of racquetball, facing you has become really, really taxing. It takes a lot out of me, emotionally and spiritually. It’s like training a dog that never learns to shit outside, so I spend my whole life just rubbing your nose in it and pretending you speak English. 

Bad dog, Stevens. 

That’s a bad dog. 

I’m legit running out of ways to tell the two of you to retire. You are cumulatively like, what, 4-17 this year? Out of 21 matches, the two of you fucking idiots have managed to win FOUR OF THEM total. Holy SHIT. I bet a bookie killed himself the last time one of you morons actually won a match, just to avoid bankruptcy. I bet they shut Vegas down like the stock market when COVID started. I tried to gamble on this match the second I saw it booked, and my guy in Atlantic City told me that I’d have to mortgage my townhome to win back $50. It is literally no longer financially viable to bet against you, so I put down a five spot that you beat me just in case. 

Make me a billionaire, douchebags. 

Back up that shit talk for once. 

Seriously. Do one thing you say you’re gonna do. This alleged wrestling talent you two possess is like Bigfoot… I hear a fuck of a lot about it but I’ve never seen it. Just rumors. Just whispers. Just a couple of broken branches in the forest that virgins and neckbeards never shut the fuck up about. You are nothings. Big, fat, cumulative nothings. Nothing to be proud of. Nothing to brag about. The two biggest bags of underwhelming hot air since the Hindenburg exploded, and at least the Hindenburg got some heat right there at the end. 

You guys are fucked. 

Especially you, Brian. Last week, you at least had something going for you. You got tagged up with Rhys Townsend, one of the best to ever lace up the boots. You had a human suplex machine that literally and figuratively bends motherfuckers to his will. And on the other side of the ring? You had to guys who have never been friends. Who have never seen eye to eye, from literally the day that they met. It was as close to a stacked deck as you could have gotten, and what happened? You still ate a fucking knee like your doctor told you that your diet lacked patella. So exactly what do you think you’re in for with Stevens in your corner? 

Scott Stevens. 

The Scorned-Peon. 

The man who’s only true accomplishment this era is maybe accomplishing even less than you have. Two fucking losers playing a game of hot potato and trying not to be in the receiving end of a lion’s share of the ass whooping. And you aren’t facing a pair of estranged wrestlers who spent years warring for the love and affection of Lee Best, either. You’re facing THE MACHINE. You’re facing the greatest tag team there never was. MUSTACHE HEAT and LION HEAT. The Gold Standard and the 97 Red Menace. I can continue to elaborate all day, but the point is, you guys are going to get fucked destroyed. Merced. Nuked. Utterly and completely devastated. 

I don’t know what else to say, guys. 

Like, I just fucked Hollywood up a week ago. 

What’s changed since then? Everything I said stands. You still fucking suck. You should still quit. I still don’t like you. You think I’m gonna throw all that shit into a Thesaurus and come up with a new way to say it? Make like Stevens and CTRL+V? You were a dumb fuck then and you’re a dumb fuck now, so I can’t imagine what you think changed from Chaos to Chaos that is going to have an impact on this match. Do you fight better concussed? Is the internal bleeding the secret to getting an edge up on the single greatest wrestler on the planet?

I’m bored. 

I’M BORED. 

You know what? Fuck this. It’s currently like 7:00 PM Eastern time, I’m pissed off, and I wanna go get some chicken wings. So I’m gonna step away from this shit for a few minutes, unplug, grab some chow, and smoke a fucking jay. I’ll be back to dunk on your bitch asses again in awhile. 

 

———————-

 

Okay, it’s 9:13 PM Eastern, and higher than giraffe pussy sitting in front of everything I’ve written about today. I thought maybe I’d feel like I was a little harsh once I got over the hangry and pumped a little bit THC into my system, but honestly I think it’s probably fine. You guys fucking suck and I just need to keep getting blunter and blunter about it until you stop going “Oh boy, that Mike sure is a jokester. Great rib, buddy!” 

Fuck you. 

Leave.

Get out. 

Quit. 

Hey Siri, what’s a list of phrases that mean “go away”? Adios, ciao, peace out, see ya later, sayonara. Whatever man, I’m legit toastier than campfire marshmallows right now and you guys are still the itchiest part of my taint. 

Oh. Right. Elephant in the room. 

I’m still basically on the wagon. I still don’t drink. I have still not done cocaine in a very long time. I don’t even smoke cigarettes anymore. But yeah, your boy smokes a lot of weed now. I mean not Townsend amounts, but like, a pretty solid amount of weed. Anyway, it’s legal in Illinois now, so I feel kind of okay about the whole thing, and I also feel like I’m not a liar for saying I’m still on the wagon. You can disagree if you want, but please do it in private. It would be very disrespectful to do it in public. And definitely don’t just make a passive aggressive joke about it in your promo knowing that I’ll probably read it, because that would be about the most disrespectful thing you could do. 

Jesus. Okay. In the weeds. 

Where was I? 

Oh, weed and wanting the Sadboy Express to eject themselves from HOW with the pure speed force of Sonic the Hedgehog jerking off in a bullet train. I don’t know man, if I’m gonna be really honest about it, and stop just saying intentionally mean for a second, maybe we should just… talk. Everything that I’m about to say is from the heart, guys, and I really do sincerely mean it. I don’t even know what I’m going to say. I’m just going to… say it. And I’m sorry, because I am legt so, so high right now. That’s a shoot. 

Stevens. 

C’mon, Stevens. It’s been over ten years. You were rookie of the year in 2012. I legit thought you had so much promise, man. Like, you’ve always been kind of a goober, but mostly a likeable one. I really thought that at some point, something would click in your head and you’d just… get it. Right? It’s not outlandish, is it? There was a time when no one thought that Evan Ward would main event. Christopher America. Even a guy like Rhys Townsend, who literally debuted here as a rookie. I think all of us just assumed that at some point, you’d either “get it”… or you’d get out. 

But you did neither. 

And maybe that’s a point of pride for you, but you’re just stagnant water, man. No idea what to do with you. Hollywood too– you know how hard it is to even face you guys anymore, and not bury the shit out of you? The fuck am I supposed to do, honestly? Like, what would you do differently? You guys have won so few matches, even between you, in the last year that I literally can count them on one hand, and I’m fucking Mike Best. I’m Mr. Ten Time. I can win a World Title literally anywhere in the world, except probably PRIME. You and I don’t even sit at the same table at Thanksgiving… I’m supposed to treat either of you like a threat? 

And Jesus, Brian. 

I’ll be honest. I feel bad even talking all this shit about you. Stevens earns it. He never shuts the fuck up, he smells his own farts constantly, and just refuses to be humbled. But you’re just such a sad little dude. I’m always afraid that I’m gonna drop one of these bombs on you, and it’s gonna end up in a really sad documentary someday. You’re a nice enough dude, Brian, but you’re just… you’re not good. You’re for sure better than Stevens, when you want to be, but what the fuck are you doing? Are you even a wrestler? Or are you just some super secret hitman investigating murders and shit? Is this an episode of 24 or 97? Like… what the fuck is even going on with your life? 

How do you find time to wrestle? 

I’m not even making fun of you anymore. I’m just confused. By both of you. I was all aggro earlier but now I’m just bewildered and a little sad. I shouldn’t have gotten this high and then finished cutting this promo, because it is becoming an absolute existential nightmare. I’m thirty seven and I’ve now returned from like two different real retirements just to come back and pull wedgies on desperate nerds in the playground again. What am I even getting out of this? Why the fuck am I still doing this? I don’t know the answer to that question, but honest to God, I’m absolutely going to keep doing it. 

I fucking love this shit. 

I fucking love wrestling. I fucking love HOW. I fucking love smashing my knee into the center of some idiot’s forehead and ruining his ability to enjoy time with his children later in life. I love emasculating needy, vulnerable opponents and shattering their confidence. I lost my motivation for awhile, and I lost my engagement, but I am fucking back. I am back. The monster under your bed has returned. This is the greatest addiction I’ve ever had, and it’s the one I’ll never kick. The coke, the drinking, the pills, all that shit has been out the window for years and years. And I might smoke a little weed from time to time, but the competition? The absolute, break neck, don’t stop till someone dies, fight for supremacy? I’ve officially cashed in my chip. The greatest relapse of all time, and I’m never, ever getting the fuck back on that wagon. 

Beating the shit out of clowns like you is a drug. 

And this weekend, you’re getting smoked.