Tell Me Why I Suck

Tell Me Why I Suck

Posted on September 8, 2022 at 9:04 pm by Bobby Dean

The match is over, and the Bandits, sorry, the VICTORIOUS Bandits are making their way back to their locker room. Looks of shock and surprise meet them every step of the way, as I doubt many in the back ever thought the Bandits were supposed to win. I mean, it’s HOW, when was the last time a Bandit won in a #97Red ring?

Answer: When our opponents no showed.

Stupid Hollywood Bruvs, stealing our gimmick…

There is no cheering amongst the three and a half Bandits, as Annabelle Dean leads the procession down the hall with her head held high, shoulders back, chest out, pride in every step she takes. Her Uncle Cancer follows in her wake, looking bored with it all, as if victory was simply a foregone conclusion. Doozer is next in line, covered in a glistening shine, his face a stone cold mask of determination, as if he’s simply a man getting the job done and has already moved on to the next task at hand.

The caboose of this train is none other than, your universally loved, Bobby Dean. He’s not smiling. He’s not high fiving everyone he passes, no matter how badly he wants to. Surprisingly enough, he’s not looking to soak up the accolades of a long sought victory. He’s simply following along, sweat pouring uncomfortably out of every pore of his body. Yet, somehow, he’s even ignoring that, for once. His cold, blue eyes are set dead ahead.

The Bandits are now 1-0.

But this is a Best of 5, they know the work has just begun. If anyone can fuck up a lead, it’s them. And if they want to sweep the Highwaymen, they know it’s not time to start celebrating just yet.

~ ~ ~

I’m many things, but a liar isn’t one of them. And, honestly, I’m growing tired of the back and forth. I can’t believe we’re only two weeks into this gig. Really makes me wonder which of the three of us will show signs of cracking first? My money is on Doozer. He seems anxious to return to the #87Blue, where he can go back to being the nice guy, there’s elderly support, and a lot less Carey…

But we find ourselves on a plane, the four of us seated around one another, on our way through the skies to New York from Las Vegas. Each of us are trying to not think about what the Highwaymen might have in mind for their attempt to even this series up.

Maybe more fat jokes? Maybe more comments about how we flake?

For their, and everyone else’s, sake… let’s hope not. Although, I really wouldn’t mind this thing ending in three.

It really makes me wonder, though. Am I so one dimensional as a person? … Yeah, I really shouldn’t think about these things. Nothing good ever comes from it.

“Hey CJ, if you and I were going to face each other in a match, what kind of mean things would you say about me?” I ask with an innocent expression on my face.

The gleam in Cancer’s eyes is easy to imagine. Considering the mirror shades staring back at me, imagining is the best I can do. But the way his body tenses up, anxiously leaning towards me as he grips the armrests on his seat tells the story. He reminds me of a panther on the verge of pouncing, lining up his prey, hungrily licking at his lips. But it’s the smile that slowly emerges that causes me to pause as I catch my breath.

“Boy, oh boy, oh Bobby boy” he begins, sounding like a child on Christmas morning, sitting before a tree surrounded by presents, unsure of which to open first, but knowing he’s going to hit them all eventually! “I think I’d begin with…”

“You’re so fucking lazy!” Doozer announces out of nowhere, causing the happy visage of Cancer’s to drop to a deep scowl, as the COOLYMPIAN’s face snaps to the one that dares intrude on his holiday of hurt feelings. “I mean, in the ring, yeah I get it. You got a schtick to sell, a reputation to live up to… but out of the ring, when the lights and cameras are off? Why is it you never carry your own bags? You always have me or Jiles carry those ugly fuckin’ trash bags of dirty clothes and candies for you, like we’re your Lee-damned underlings.

“You never take a turn driving to the shows,” the Old Goat continues to pile on, the vein in his forehead protruding as the anger mounts. “Like we’re your fuckin’ chauffeurs! You even made me hold the door open for you that one time, AND you tried to make Cancer wear that funny little hat until he almost had you eating it.”

In this moment, I almost had a moment to catch my breath.

“And you’re soooo fucking cheap!” Doozer continues without pause. “You constantly pick where we eat, but every time the bill comes you are somehow in the bathroom, under the table tying your shoes, or on some important phone call that you can’t be bothered with. You NEVER get phone calls ANY other time. Not even from your daughter!”

“Would you call him unless you nee-” Annabelle began to defend herself.

Doozer, however, worked up such a head of steam he didn’t even notice, “You always tell us you’ll either pick up the next one, or pay us back, but I have yet to see you follow through on either!”

For a split second, I thought he was done, but turns out he just had to breathe.

“Speaking of following through,” I have to admit, the Old Man is on a roll. “You are constantly making empty promises. Yet you are the first person to cry foul any time Jiles or I are forced to break our word. Like when I said I’d take you to that all you can eat Brazilian steak house you like so much, but I had to cancel at the last minute. You wouldn’t talk to me for two weeks.”

“It was one of my Top 5 Restaurants!” I needlessly explain, as if that makes it better.

“My second cousin Benny Halkem died!” Doozer shouts back, literally, shouts! “I had to go to his funeral, and you didn’t even bother to send condolences, or to see how I was holding up! And you were his favorite wrestler, for Pete’s book’s sake! How fucked up is that!? I worked for him for years and all he ever talked about was how great Bobby Dean was! It was like living in some fucked up DREAM!”

“Well,” Cancer is about to chime in, but is immediately stopped in his tracks as Doozer spins around and raises a dangerous finger to his face.

“Don’t you even start with that whole “he probably couldn’t see you” bullshit.” As if a sudden lightbulb popped above his head, Doozer spins his attention back to me as he exclaims, “Which was a bit you started in the first place, you fucking fuck! You know how long that stupid joke has been following me? You even started a damned Twitter account just to post empty tweets and ghost memes!”

I didn’t know he kn-

“Yeah, I fuckin’ know about it!”

Annabelle, sitting there looking between Doozer and I with a face full of trepidation can’t help but snicker at that last comment. I will admit, it was genius. Cancer was actually the one who suggested it, but I didn’t want to share that credit, or piss the old man off by elaborating.

“You’re also an absolute whore for the spotlight!” Doozer continues, as if reading my mind. “You win, people love you. You lose, people STILL love you. More, somehow. You haven’t had a successful run in a company since your days in sVo, and that was over 12 years ago. AND yet the people still love your fat fucking ass. All the while, I’m a fucking ghost!”

I wanted to take that moment to point out how I was actually back in sVo now, and currently the Roulette Champion, but I had a small feeling in the back of my head that it might not be the right time.

“Oh, that reminds me,” I begin, ignoring the tingling in the back of my mind for the moment, anxious to share the good news with my friends.

“You’re a fucking liar, too.” Doozer levels my way, completely ignoring my attempt to interject. “You tell us how Mike Best is going to join the eGG Bandits. Never happened. Which was a blessing, but still. You tell us how you’re going to get Lindsay Troy to be the eGG Queen. She hates our ass. Great SCOTT is going to join us, huh? Fucking crinkle-haired crackhead can’t even spell eGG! You tell us that we’re coming back to High Octane on a part time PWA contract; all we have to do is some light pre-show recordings for segments, the occasional match. Easy money. Yet, look around, where are we right now?”

Doozer looks around the cab of the private jet that Cancer Jiles accommodated from a washed up, painted face referee past his PRIME, named Bimbo Shamalamadingdong.

“Flying across the country for ANOTHER match against a pair of opponents that YOU pissed off.” Doozer finishes, panting, red faced.

I liked him better as Ghost Dooze.

“I got you beat, Uncle Dooze,” the timid voice of Annabelle Dean chimes in, causing everyone to stop and stare, waiting for the other shoe to drop. “You’re a shit father!”

For the first time since starting in on me, Doozer turns back to stone.

The admission shocks everyone on the plane, but hits me the hardest. I look at my daughter, who refuses to meet my eye, as hers are focused on the hem of her shirt while she pulls at a loose thread.

“You didn’t acknowledge my presence for the first 11 years of my life,” she says somberly, tears welling in the corners of her eye. “Mom told you about me when I was 3. She then showed you proof of your parentage when I was 8, and that was only after the court forced you to do the DNA test. For 3 years you ignored every letter I wrote, every call I tried to make. You didn’t wish me a happy birthday. You didn’t send me a single Christmas card. And the first summer I got to spend with you, you spent the entire three months trying to convince me that I would be happier going back to my mom’s…”

She was crying at this point, and I felt helpless. Afraid to say anything to make things worse. Afraid to console her in case she attacked me. I was struck with indecision when I’m already a very indecisive person to begin with.

“Oh yeah, let’s not forget how fat you are…” Cancer FINALLY chimes in, sadness clear in his voice, as he knows anything he wanted to say has either 1. Been said, or 2. Won’t even come close to topping the Little Bandit.

Needless to say, I learned a valuable lesson today.

Don’t ask your friends to tell you why you suck, especially twenty minutes into a four hour flight… Makes for a VERY awkward rest of the trip.

Don’t worry, for those of you wondering, I did get up out of my seat. I spent the rest of the trip with my arm around my kiddo, and her head on my shoulder. We didn’t say much of anything really, just sat there, both in our own heads.

I have to admit, it’s not my favorite place to be.

~ ~ ~

Here we are, yet again.

Don’t worry, Mike Best told me this was a lot like anal sex. The more you do it, the easier it is, and the less likely it’ll hurt.

Who am I kidding? Like Doozer said earlier, I’m a liar.

Mike Best doesn’t return my phone calls.

You invite a guy into a side side side Discord, and then the fuck ignores you. Makes you wonder, why did you invite him in the first place? All he’s gonna do is run to Daddy Lee and tell the eyeless fuck “The Bandits are making fun of you again, Papa. Wanna see?”

Get it? Cause he can’t…

See how annoying overused jokes are, road workers?

Anyway, I’ve done my one allotted mention of Mr. P** **y, so let’s get on with it.

I told you last week, Highwaymen, I know what our reputation is. I know what the expectation is for the Bandits. It’s really rather quite simple. We come in hot, throw up a banger, catch some people by surprise. Then when it’s time to follow up, we, well, we shit the bed, don’t we?

It’s like walking onto a porno set with a raging hardon ready to shoot, and two seconds later the director is calling cut and you’re looking for a place to take a nap, while everyone around you is looking at their watches wondering what they’re gonna do for the next 40 minutes.

40 minutes. Shiiiiiit. If you’re lasting longer than 1 1/2 minutes, then you’re my idol.

Sorry, I got sidetracked. I have to admit something to you guys. I’m not quite sure I’ve enjoyed the reception we’ve received since returning. People talking about “why were THEY called in to attack Kostoff? Why are THEY competing for tag titles when THEY couldn’t even win them in PRIME?” Hearing people ALREADY make excuses for the Highwaymen’s first loss, instead of hearing praise for the Bandit’s first victory.

I know I’m supposed to act like it’s no real accomplishment, beating Solex and Bergman, but I can’t lie, I was proud of what we did last week. It’s not like we just beat the Hollywood Boyz, or Scottywood and Carey. I mean, Solex and Bergman are in the HOF for crying out loud!

Wait, Carey and Scottywood are too…

Shit. So is Stevens!?

Fuck me, what’s the requirement these days, how many lashes you can take from Big Daddy Lee?

Do the voting members see the ballot and they’re like, “I don’t give a fuck, I’ve been retired for the last 26 years like a sane person.”

Ooooooh, the requirement must just be not flaking.

Well, Hall of Infamy here we come, eh?

eGG Bandits, Dan Ryan, Dan Ryan, Spooky Butter, and Eric Dane.

Now that’s a Hall!

My whole point is, I see where we stand in the choppy seas of High Octane. When the Bandits win, it has to mean our opponents must have phoned it in, right? They had an off night. Won’t ever happen again, right? While we’re at it, oh let’s make this a non-title match, after the fact, because we can’t have the Bandits win the titles, people might actually start to care about them, then we’d have to retire them. Again. Let’s wait for when the Highwaymen win, and THAT will be when it counts.

Fuck that, I’m one half of the HOWTv Tag Team Champions! I don’t need a belt to prove it, I beat the champs!

You can treat me like the red headed step child all you want. I’m used to the abuse, the scorn, and the apathy from you fucks. Just makes it all the sweeter when we shove our foot up your asses and tickle your tonsils with our toes.

Here we go Highwaymen, Round 2. Make it hurt, why don’tcha?

Fact is, nothing you can say will hurt worse than the shit that 15 year old girl said.