- Event: Chaos 037
HOLY SHIT! Michael went 4 whole hours without saying a word. He didn’t feel the need to hop on HOWrestling.com and publish something immediately. He didn’t rush to Stabber, bragging about peeing while posting. He didn’t feel the need to talk about fighting with his eyes closed or make another snarky PRIME comment.
Lord knows I’ve prayed for that moment over the past few years. But I damn well know nothing I said will ever shut him up. The only way I get that peace is to land my fist in between his shifty little eyes, nail him right between the nose and knock him the fuck out. I pray I take THAT privilege Sunday, but I digress.
It’s a sad state of affairs to see what the legendary Michael Lee Best has become. You’re the living, breathing, walking epitome of Steve Stifler from the American Pie Reunion film. You’re always playing your Greatest High School hits, failing to evolve. Still bragging about how many NERDS you’ve kneed into lockers, making them shit themselves silly. You still get goosebumps from our blood curdling screams of horror, using the same old tired adage about wrestling being your drug.
It’s the same line you’ve repeated incessantly to pad your shit. You love the thrill of fucking over everyone because it’s your yard. And you’ve been quite successful at it.
It’s just a shame it’s the only fuckin’ thing you have in your life.
Most successful retired people find a hobby to distract themselves; climb the ladder, exploiting their first success to hit the mother load again. You’ve got a lot of talents to challenge that big, swollen CTE filled brain of yours. You could have jumped into graphic design, making the big bucks making wrestling posters and marketing materials. Shit, you could have improved on the failures of SIX TIME ACADEMY, earning billions. It’d be your favorite job in the world. You could charge those penniless, worthless hacks money. Yell at those fat little fuckers and pocket their money. I bet Stevens will waste $97 Zillion on TEN-X to fail winning his fourth World Title.
Hell, you could have done the altruistic route. You could have won the Father of the Year award—making up the time you lost with Tyler. Instead of buying your entitled prick of a son his own wrestling school; you could have toured the World, posting Instagram stories, making all your weebs jelly as the GEN Z kids say.
Instead, you became your father’s personal secretary. You evolved into a fat stoner bro, sitting on your ass, gobbling down Häagen-Dazs Mint Chip all day long. You probably wore the soccer mom jeggings to show off them curves.
I came here wanting to fight the LEGENDARY Mike Best—the one who won epic matches with creative AF stories. You were the man who wrestled after contracting an STD and bludgeoned your opponent to death, spitting some sick bars.
Now it’s the same old, broken record stuck on repeat. You’re stuck in the same cycle of repeating old, boring Mike Best promos demanding all the riff raff retire. Hell, maybe you should take the advice of those internet dweebs. Force an AI to watch 1000 hours of Mike Best promos and regurgitate it. It’ll be more creative and funnier.
You could crank out 5 promos in one day that way so you could flaunt it over us. It’s better than sending a WikiHow link.
I’m still out here waiting for that tactical nuke you’ve promised…but at this point I feel like Special Agent Brian Hollywood’s team could do a better job, and they cross the wrong wires every time.
Your feeble attempts at shortcuts haven’t gotten under my skin, and that’s my one weakness. I’m an overly emotional, sheltered child. That’s easy target practice for someone with your merits.
Right now, it feels like I’m watching Oceangate happen again.
You’re fucking around, tempting fate, hoping you won’t find out like me. But I’m hungry Mike. I’m hungry to have the retirement you should have gotten. At the rate I’m performing—it’s not in my future.
Beating you is my only path forward to that dream.
If you want to sleep on the damn job, be my guest. I’ll lock in the Love Handle Lock and suffocate you within an inch of your life. I’ll give you the freedom from the drug you cannot escape.
No matter the result on Sunday; I’ll give you that silence you so desperately you want.