Another Refueled is upon us, another night filled with pain and misery. And another loss for the record books of ole “Beautiful” Bobby Dean. No, that isn’t dejection in my voice, or annoyance in my tone. It’s acceptance.
I’ve told you all, I am here to fill a role.
Someone told me just the other night, “You are such a troll.”
My response? “But I am a merry little fat troll.”
I like to poke the bear in the eye, mainly because he can’t see the finger coming. But also, it’s always enjoyable to rile someone up, especially when they’re dumb enough to tell me exactly what buttons
not to push.
See you next Thursday, if you see, ‘kay!
Eli, you and I have never had the pleasure of meeting. I know you’ve had your hands full with the likes of Jace Parker Davidson in the past, and I’ve heard that a handful is likely an exaggeration when it comes to little JPD.
So I’m sure when you saw you were stepping into the ring with the likes of me you got a little excited. Probably put your party hat on, blew those party favors, popped a few confetti bombs. Because let’s face it, a match with “Beautiful” Bobby Dean is like a match with… Well, you can probably guess the other Texan I was thinking of. No need to name names, I hear if you say his name one too many times, he returns. Chasing that ever elusive HOF.
Shoot, if that guy gets in the HOF then *I* should be allowed in the HOF!
But then a little birdie swoops down onto my shoulder like I’m mother fucking Cinderella! And this birdie tells me that you are under the weather. That you even drank one too many Coronas!!! Probably during your pre-celebration party, eh?
Birdie says that our match might end up being postponed, rescheduled for a future date, because the powers that be would hate to see me be handed a victory. Little do they know, I would be more than happy to have our match rescheduled. Because the less work for me, the happier I become!
I know, I know, I should just put my big boy pants on (size 48 now and growing!); treat our match like a pesky bandaid, just rip the fucking the thing off and get it over with. Meander my way down the ring, roll my lumpy butt in, and do a quick little schoolboy roll up for the one, two, three.
Or if it’s that idiot Hortega, it’ll be more like
What the fuck is that supposed to represent? Jesus, Hortega really needs to go back to elementary school and learn how to count with a little bit of rhythm! How no one else has complained of slow counts is beyond me! Can you imagine the number of wins I would have had, if this fuck knew how to count properly!?
The sad fact, Eli, is I’m afraid I might be living my gimmick a little too much these days. I’ve gone done the rabbit hole and I can’t seem to find my way back out.
I find myself constantly lying on the couch, you know, one of those pleather power recliner that seats three. It’s really fucking comfortable! But I keep finding every little excuse I can to put these things off another 30 minutes. Then another hour. Another day. Then all of a sudden it’s Thursday and I begin to wonder, “where did the time go!?”
The masochist in me knows I’m skating on thin ice. I’m just one phone call away from being back into that box, tucked so far in the back closet it’ll just be me, Doozer, and that Spooky Butter chick. You know you’re reaching the dregs of the barrel of excuses when you finally succumb to the excuse of, I’d rather rub one out to AMFW massage porn, rather than address any upcoming matches, I think I may have a problem…
I too am sick! And not just in the head, I mean, I am that too, but I’m talking about feeling under the weather as well. I even got one of those at home testing kits! I was told to swab my nose, but I always thought you had to pee on the thing… So I did both, and I’m happy to announce, I’m not pregnant!
If we’re to step foot into the ring this weekend, I promise, I’ll make it as quick and painless as I can.
Another thing I hear JPD tells all the ladies he meets.
Either way, I feel for you Ms. Dresden. I really do hope you get to feeling better. Good luck Eli!