Vete a la Mierda

Vete a la Mierda

Posted on June 14, 2023 at 11:33 am by El Hombre Blanco

Yo primero, estúpido. 

Believe it or not, I know how to use google translate, you dumb American bitch. Since you come from an entitled, whiny country of cultureless pigs who say things like “learn the language or get out”, I figured I’d save you the ten seconds it would take to translate this yourself. I also figured I’d take the opportunity to post the first promo, since that’s a crutch you’ve been leaning on like Pequeño Tim for the last trece años, and I want to watch you squirm. 

So, what do you want to talk about, amigo?

Maybe we should talk about the fact that you’ve been cutting the same fucking promo for thirteen years, and have only succeeded because no one was smart enough to call you out on it. Pop culture reference. The same statement made three ways for comedy. Pointing out that you do a knee real good. Sure, the words change their relative order, but it’s the laziest shit on the planet. You’ve been phoning it in— you keep winning because you keep winning, and the second that kingdom comes crashing to the ground, it’s going to become obvious to everyone  that it’s been nothing but a house of cards. 

Me? I’m a homewrecker. 

I’m gonna fucking smash you, hombre. I am the HOW LSD Champion, and I won that championship by pinning what might be the single longest reigning champion in history. Not my ninety seventh victory over Scott Stevens or Scottywood or whatever dimwit is dumb enough to face you over, and over, and over again. Not in some cherry picked division where the champion gets to decide on a week to week basis if his title is on the line. Not in a fifteen minute cage fight. Like that rule of three, buddy?

Nah. I did it at War Games, puta. 

I entered at numero uno and survived damn near to the end of the match. And you can tell me how many times you won that match in the past, Mike, but I honestly don’t give a fuck. You aren’t going to bait me. You aren’t going to make me mad. You aren’t even going to impress me. You can talk all the shit you want, but when we step into a real ring on Sunday night, I am going to slap the shit out of you and retain my championship. I don’t want to hear about your stupid fucking knees. I don’t wanna hear about how long it’s been since someone put you in your place. That’s a bunch of shit that doesn’t have a thing to do with me. You’re the fake champion of a fake division used to bully the same four people over and over again… your belt isn’t even listed on the titles section of the fucking website. And the LSD Championship? It’s the one belt. The ONE BELT. That you have never been a success with in High Octane Wrestling. 

Not in fourteen years, amigo. 

Not since you were what… 23?

Not since you were nearly your fucking kid’s age. You can say all you want that you never gave a fuck about that belt, but it’s revisionist history. You cared about everything. Desperately. All the fucking time. If there was something you failed to win, or achieve, or conquer… it’s not because you didn’t care, Mike. It’s because you couldn’t get it done. You hold no title records. You have no memorable LSD matches. A big fat fucking meh every time that belt as ever touched your waist. It’s your Achilles heel and always has been. So tell me, amigo… 

What’s gonna be different this time?

What are you gonna do at thirty seven? 

I’m gonna answer that rhetorical question for you, because the answer is nothing. This is my belt. This is my time. No one wants to watch you make your ninety seventh return to the ring. No one cares about your thousand retirements. No one cares about the bitter mental illness that keeps dragging you back in, even though you keep claiming to be happy being at home on your couch. I am going to end this little return gambit before it even begins, Michael. And I’m going to do it in a way that no one has managed to do it since the year 2010, too— 750 words at a time. 

Viva EL ES D.