Hello, hi, I’m back. Do you remember me?
Oh wait, some of you are new.
Let’s see here… Jatt Starr, no idea who that guy is, must be new. Teddy Palmer? That’s a made up name from a stuffed bear you buy off television from Fox News at 4am. Zigzag Artichoke? I’m pretty sure I had that as part of my 3 tapas for $4.99 yesterday. What a great deal that was.
Anyhoo, those of you who do know me, I’m certain that you got a good feeling where your toadstool situation station presides. You probably watched the end of Refueled and got all angry, maybe you sent a tweet or text going “HOW DOES THAT GUY GET THE LAST SEGMENT?” and now you have a desire to try your luck.
Mayhaps you thought that because you clearly couldn’t take me down in a good ole fashioned grapple fest, you might have actual luck in the punch sport festivities that happen aboard the Good Ship Octane.
Did we ever investigate how much that cost to move from Normandy?
I can see the drool dripping down your sad, lonely face as you rub your electric eel. An electricity bill you haven’t paid for in years, I should add. You hope this news will give you a lil bit of feeling, that you’ll get down to the 7-11 and get that special meter card. You probably think that perhaps by getting me in the cage, you will finally find that righteous vengeance from that one time I made you mad on the hit website twitter dot com.
Here’s the fun fact, just in case you have already forgotten what happened during my year and a half long undefeated streak…
I break arms.
I do it not out of some psychopathic desire to break a man down.
I certainly don’t do it to get rid of a threat
I break arms because it’s amusing. Your misery, your pain, it… it’s funny to me. I have a hearty chuckle and then I’ll likely log in to my HAITCH OH WRESTLING news account and make fun of it some more. I’ll probably title it something like “BREAKING NEWS: YOUR ARM” and then just post a picture of your face.
I tend to break the arms of only the truly pathetic garbage who convince themselves that somehow, someway they’re going to find their adorable FIGHTING SPIRIT and boy howdy, they gonna power right out of my vice like grip around their arm.
They never power out.
The discerning gentlemen have the good nature to tap out almost immediately and by acknowledging me as their absolute alpha, get to use both arms for when they fire up the Porn Hub in the bathroom of a Chicago hotel.
Lee Best takes eyes, I take arms.
Jesus, if there was a member of the HOW roster who took legs, Scott Stevens might actually turn into a weeble wobble.
So, why am I talking to you today? I’m not even on next week’s card. I’m sure you’re already firing up your rage machines in the silly assumption that I’m just going to get given an HOFC title match against my best friend at War Games because you are denser than a pile of constipated pig shit.
You forget the rules of High Octane.
We all start 0-0.
I plan to actually earn a shot at the fight belt, I plan to actually show everyone why I am deserving of entering that cage with Michael Lee Best, the greatest kneeman I have ever done known. Sorry to disappoint those waiting for the other shoe to drop, but I have always earned my accolades.
What does this mean for you, John Q. Crotchfire, who has been scratching that itch over and over in the hopes of smothering the soothing balm of Cecilworth defeat?
Very simply, my fight card is open.
There is one small item I’d like to address though. Something I like to call my Rules of Engagement. No, not that David Spade sitcom that somehow went 7 seasons.
I want my matches to be big money bouts, I want hype levels to be off the chains, I want the fiery back and forth before the battle to blow the minds of everyone watching.
So, if you plan to mention how you were a big deal seven years and two presidents ago, you kill our heat dead. Don’t do it. I barely give a shit about what I was doing in 2014, never mind anyone else.
Don’t pretend this is your chance at redemption either. That sad violin was so stained in pathetic tears that it’s now out of commission.
Most importantly, don’t try to get cute. Those fans out there, they don’t care that my father died from a tragic cum incident, they have very little interest in what UTAH was or ever will be, they care not a jot about whatever little insider jab you feel you are making. They’re just going to hear you eat your fat tongue as you try and eek out your sweet burn, looking bewildered and confused because no one has ANY earthly idea what you are talking about.
The year is 2021 and we are going to fight.
Fuck you, fight me.