Thank You For Being a Friend

Please, take a seat.

Fear not, there will be refreshments and a small Q and A afterwards. No, I do not plan on answering, and I won’t be asking any either. Now, let me first start by promising all of you the following will be both quick and painless. Just like peroxide cleaning a fresh wound, or a person sitting inside an old running car with a green garden hose duct taped to the muffler. Oh, and do know that the cause for my brevity is not because I do not care, and view Clay in the same light Eric Dane views Conor Fuse. No, my swiftness, my brevity, stems from there being absolutely nothing left to say about the Different Byrd.

Dust ball gif.

Hook em horns.

Clay is taller than I am– probably from going spurs since the age of two. He weighs more than me, too. He’s not some pencil necked ranch hand. No, Clay not only milks the utter, but he drinks straight from it. 

Crazy Texas Bastard.

Since he’s from Texas, he’s second cousins with both Stevens and Zeb Martin, making him a true confederate. What else? What else is there? He was thrown overboard once. He was the first person eliminated from War Games. He rode a horse to his senior prom. He went stag, unsurprisingly. He’s not Clayface from Batman, which would honestly be much cooler.

Just. Kid. Ding

Oh well.

Here goes nothing.

I looked at the tapes. I beamed my cool ass down to the basement, sat there on that crusty couch with a bowl of popcorn in my lap, and watched Clay’s recent in ring life or death spats. 

Intently.

Some, Keen Eye for the Wrestling Guy type of stuff. 

Microwave, by the way. I can hear all of you collectively wondering as to what kind of popcorn. So yes, nothing fancy. I guess you could say I’m still waiting for Data to update his hardware if you catch my jiff.

Pop.

Anywho. Clay. Bold.

I almost feel bad for the guy. Almost. I do. Swear. And it’s not because he’s ugly like everyone else I know from Texas, and it’s not because he gets to face me next in his, “when will he win a big match tour?” Hear me out… here. This guy. Hard Way Clay if you will. I thought I had it bad with my schedule, but him? He might have it worse. MIGHT. As far as I’m concerned, a slight edge goes to me since I’m cool and not from Texas, but he’s close, and definitely has the second toughest. Don’t believe me? Dare to think otherwise? Is this the same Clay Byrd we are talking about?

Jerry Jones is an alien.

Clay Byrd has taken on the very best that High Octane has to offer. He’s faced the current World Champion for my old belt. He’s faced my appointed executioner, Little C, in the pit of despair. He’s faced Silver Surfboarder a few times with LSD implications. He’s even fought against the PRIZE that comes inside the bottom of the Cracker Jack box.

There’s a natural progression joke here that Clay has been working his way down the ladder and now fate smiles upon him since he’s made it down to my short winded rung– I just hope he doesn’t use it against me. 

Well, I guess you could look at it the other way and say now that he’s battled against the best, MAYBE he’s ready for his toughest challenge yet… COOLYMPUS. 

Or, maybe it’s just inevitable that he’s going to lose again since he’s a loser from Texas and losing is in his Republican red blood.

Anyhow.

That said, I don’t care if all the cool kids are saying that only the Cowboys lose more big games  than Clay Byrd does. I will vouch that he is as battle tested as they come. Tough. Rigid. Big. Obtuse. Unlucky and from Texas, sure, but I saw it with my own TWO eyes. Plus, I said kids. I’m at least an adolescent. 

Cheshire wink.

I know just how uphill my jaunt against Clay will be this Saturday night. 

Spoiler, it will not be a rolling one. AKA, I will not enjoy it. I am weary, so much so, I will not promise victory as if I were squaring off against Harrison. 

No offense, buddy.

I know after the bell sounds and my ten minute entrance has finally concluded, that I’m going to take some lumps, some bumps, and gonna leave the ring more black and blue than tan skinned cacausin.

That’s the gig. Along with great hair, cool shades, and dope tights, and MAIN EVENTING.

Will I prevail? I don’t know. Will the Alliance prevail? One way or the other, so I guess that’s okay.

Cricket.

Not to mention, if Clay wasn’t Texas tough enough, he is due. Overdue. LONGLY. Pregnant, with a win inside his big Texas belly just waiting for the water to break. Meaning, will he finally be able to lasso, hog tie, and then drag his blue chip victory around the town square for all to see? 

Time will tell.

Best of luck, Clay.

Pucker.

Kiss.

“I’m sorry, Jiles. I get it you’re cool and all that, but I need this win. I don’t care that we are in the Alliance together. You are going down. Hard. Like, if hard had a heart, it would be the deepest hard part possible. Dez caught it. HOOK EM.” — Teddy Palmer’s awkward son when asked about his upcoming midcard escapade against World Renown Main Eventer, Cancer Jiles.

What? You thought it was going to be Martins and Cream?

THINK AGAIN.

My buddy, Clay. My Alliance mate. The Sheriff of Notwinningham.

Shruge. That’s french for shrug. That’s what they speak in Texas, ain’t it?

Big, oafy, Clay Byrd. I wonder, how is Larry? He spells his last name like the animal, so maybe they aren’t related. Oh well. Both of you are big, pasty, white men who have no doubt experienced some form of privilege during your life. 

Way to go, Clay. 

Way to go.

Just not here, in High Octane I would suppose.

HA.

Hmm.

What else is there to say? I don’t hate Clay, so this is much harder than it seems. Oh, I know. I do find it weird that he doesn’t know what a napkin is, and how he often wonders why it’s not okay to carry a gun on an airplane. 

That’s a little weird. 

I do consider him among my finest acquaintances, and to be a real chum of a guy.

That’s saying something, since Philadelphia runs through the veins.

Hmmm.

I look forward to seeing what his finisher is? 

It better not be a clothesline, or an elbow, or something-something Scorpion.

That is, of course, if the bird known as Clay Byrd can finally take flight? Get it? Sorry. Like I said, I don’t hate him. He’s a nice fellow. He is. He wears a cool sombrero– probably picked it up at the Alamo on a school trip.