Title: Confessions Of An Awesome-holic
Featuring: Mike Best
Date: September 12th, 2009
Location: MPlowsia.com (Mobile)
It’s early.
It’s not rush hour early. It’s not ‘get your coffee and head off to work’ early. It’s not even ‘hit the snooze alarm because you don’t have to be at work for another hour’ early. No, it’s the time of morning that makes you wonder where the hell the sun is hiding. It’s the time of morning that cheating husbands sneak back into their homes after having a ‘late night at the office’. It’s the time of the morning when the rooster backhands his hen whore and tells her to go the fuck back to SLEEP.
It is the ass… crack… of dawn.
Crickets are chirping their way to sleep right now, anticipating another day of Nevadan dreamland as the sun cascades over the horizon, illuminating the sky in pinks, oranges, and magentas. Really, it’s as serene a day as one could hope for flying into Las Vegas International Airport. At this most obscene of twilight hours, your personal hero is soaring gracefully across a cloudless sky. In a plane, of course. Or a jet, rather. To be most accurate, a private jet. But that really doesn’t need to be clarified, does it? Because let’s be honest here, if you think I’m ACTUALLY flying… you know, like, by flapping the shit out of my arms? Well, then you’re an asshole. People can’t fly, douchebag. It’s a fact of life, and a simple one at that, so close your fucking browser window and go kill yourself with some high caliber.
I’m strapped into a seat right now that might as well have been built for a child. Or Cancer Jiles. This whole cabin seems barely large enough to keep my ten inches of Virgin-Be-Gone in a full upright position, and yet somehow they have managed to cram five full grown adults into this less than infinite space with all the zest and zeal of The Mexican Express and each of their thousand person families shoving into a VW Beattle. Doesn’t sound bad? Now accommodate for an entire crew’s worth of camera equipment, four crew member’s luggage for a week, all my own personal effects and ring gear, and a two sizes too large karaoke machine that I cannot even begin to explain the origins of, and you might be getting a picture. If you can’t? Then picture China. A billion people, no fucking space. Then, levitate China thousand feet off the ground, give it twin engines, and throw in a hot stewardess with a totally out of place but totally fuckable Swedish accent, and you might have some idea what exactly I’m talking about.
For me, this is just another stop on the illustrious Bashed In The USA tour. What a crock of shit. The entire DREAM crew is expanding week after week, crowding us up in tiny arenas in places akin to third world countries, putting on show after show for a bunch of retards who’s average goal for the day is to try not to eat dirt or get Chlamydia. This week, we’re at least headed for greener pastures… Las Vegas, Nevada. If I could squeeze myself out of this miniaturized baby seat I’ve had my ass soldered into for the last few hours, I’d take a look out the window and try to get a glimpse of the lights on the strip, but since the last attempt ending in me spilling the ENTIRE contents of my duffel bag down onto my head and dropping a wrestling boot into my crotch, I might pass on this one. Oh, side note? Being hit with an MPlow grade wrestling boot in the gonads is a little obnoxious from the other side.
I need some fucking coffee.
But if I call for idiot stewardess, she’s going to stare at me awkwardly for ten to twenty seconds, and then bring me some Styrofoam cup filled with caffeinated swill that takes like cinnamon… and if that shit has cinnamon in it, someone might die today. I should be thinking about a million things right now. I could be thinking about how Las Vegas will be so appreciative for my visit that they might just give me the key to the goddamned city. I should be thinking about posing for a thousand pictures for adoring fans and scumbag paparazzi. I could even be contemplating whether my pilot is sober enough to land this bitch without destroying most of my belongings. But I can’t think about any of those things. I just can’t. Do you know why? Of course you don’t. Because this would be a first time thought on my part, actually.
Today, I’m feeling guilty.
Guilt. There’s a feeling I didn’t really understand until today. Who’d have ever thought… me, feeling regret or remorse for anything, ever? And yet there is this sinking feeling in the pit of my gut, ripping me apart from the inside. I guess I should start from the beginning.
It all started two weeks ago, as I sat at ringside after my match with Lola KirK. There she was, walking away with my DWF Women’s Championship, a proud little butterball in all her glory. I was flustered… I was confused. But most of all, I was ashamed. Guilt ridden. I wanted to grab the microphone right then and there and get it all off my chest, but I just couldn’t. I couldn’t face myself in the mirror and admit what I had done. But I just can’t wait any longer.
I have to get it out.
Three weeks ago, in accordance with DREAM rules and regulations, I was subjected to a routine drug test on behalf of the company. I might be a bad guy, but I’m not an idiot, and I’ve been drug free since the last time I puffed off a fat joint in the eleventh grade, so obviously I had nothing to fear… or so I thought. They returned to me with the results of the test, just mere moments before stepping into the ring with Lora… and I was shocked. You see, being the pioneer of the DREAM Women’s Division, I am subjected to the same standards and regulations that the rest of its participants are… and it seems I passed the test with flying colors in all categories but one…
Testosterone.
For you and me, members of the dominant species, this seems normal. But for the menstruators of the world? This elusive chemical isn’t nearly as abundant, and since I must be judged by the same standards as the women I wrestle on a daily basis, I am only allowed to maintain their net average in testosterone count. As a result, I was found in violation of the DREAM Wellness Policy after testing positive for performance enhancing drugs. William Peters offered, of course, to make a special exception in my case, due to something he called an extenuating circumstance… but what kind of example would I be setting by accepting such a seedy, backdoor deal? No, not me. I could not in good conscience represent my division without paying the ultimate punishment.
A thirty day suspension from the DREAM Women’s Division.
In all my rush to meet the demands of Insomnia, and my commissioner’s job keeping me busy, I made a very serious error in judgment by wrestling my match against Lora KirK two weeks ago, and after much discussion with William Peters and Mark Zylbert, we have come to a conclusion that is going to hurt. The match at Insomnia two weeks ago is being ruled a no contest, as it should have never taken place. This means that by all rights, I maintain the Women’s Championship and the title change and subsequent ruining of my undefeated record are rendered null and void. I don’t make the rules, kids, I’m just delivering the bad news. And as for William Peters? He has ruled that since I cannot rightly defend my title at the PPV due to my suspension, we is stripping me of the championship and awarding it to Lora KirK, on account of she’s the closest woman to my size in the DWF who doesn’t have a penis, until a time in which I can reclaim my champion. In fact, he made my match with Tessa Martin at Bashed in the USA for one reason and one reason alone… stipulations.
If I defeat Tessa Martin in the ring this Sunday, which I undoubtedly will do with minimal effort, I will reclaim my Women’s Championship after my thirty day suspension has run out and probably kick her multiple times in the vageen. If she… uh… wins, which she will not… then I am permanently banned from the Women’s Division and will be making a public apology to any and all women who have ever been offended by my awesomeness. But I wouldn’t go looking forward to that.
Am I worried about facing two separate sets of opponents this week? No. Am I worried about the possibility of being tossed from the Women’s Division like a used tampon? No. I’m worried about the people. I’m worried about America. I’m worried about justice. And I thank Lola KirK for her co-operation in this matter. It’s not a perfect system… but we’re trying our best.
MPlow Out.
Featuring: Mike Best
Date: September 12th, 2009
Location: MPlowsia.com (Mobile)
It’s early.
It’s not rush hour early. It’s not ‘get your coffee and head off to work’ early. It’s not even ‘hit the snooze alarm because you don’t have to be at work for another hour’ early. No, it’s the time of morning that makes you wonder where the hell the sun is hiding. It’s the time of morning that cheating husbands sneak back into their homes after having a ‘late night at the office’. It’s the time of the morning when the rooster backhands his hen whore and tells her to go the fuck back to SLEEP.
It is the ass… crack… of dawn.
Crickets are chirping their way to sleep right now, anticipating another day of Nevadan dreamland as the sun cascades over the horizon, illuminating the sky in pinks, oranges, and magentas. Really, it’s as serene a day as one could hope for flying into Las Vegas International Airport. At this most obscene of twilight hours, your personal hero is soaring gracefully across a cloudless sky. In a plane, of course. Or a jet, rather. To be most accurate, a private jet. But that really doesn’t need to be clarified, does it? Because let’s be honest here, if you think I’m ACTUALLY flying… you know, like, by flapping the shit out of my arms? Well, then you’re an asshole. People can’t fly, douchebag. It’s a fact of life, and a simple one at that, so close your fucking browser window and go kill yourself with some high caliber.
I’m strapped into a seat right now that might as well have been built for a child. Or Cancer Jiles. This whole cabin seems barely large enough to keep my ten inches of Virgin-Be-Gone in a full upright position, and yet somehow they have managed to cram five full grown adults into this less than infinite space with all the zest and zeal of The Mexican Express and each of their thousand person families shoving into a VW Beattle. Doesn’t sound bad? Now accommodate for an entire crew’s worth of camera equipment, four crew member’s luggage for a week, all my own personal effects and ring gear, and a two sizes too large karaoke machine that I cannot even begin to explain the origins of, and you might be getting a picture. If you can’t? Then picture China. A billion people, no fucking space. Then, levitate China thousand feet off the ground, give it twin engines, and throw in a hot stewardess with a totally out of place but totally fuckable Swedish accent, and you might have some idea what exactly I’m talking about.
For me, this is just another stop on the illustrious Bashed In The USA tour. What a crock of shit. The entire DREAM crew is expanding week after week, crowding us up in tiny arenas in places akin to third world countries, putting on show after show for a bunch of retards who’s average goal for the day is to try not to eat dirt or get Chlamydia. This week, we’re at least headed for greener pastures… Las Vegas, Nevada. If I could squeeze myself out of this miniaturized baby seat I’ve had my ass soldered into for the last few hours, I’d take a look out the window and try to get a glimpse of the lights on the strip, but since the last attempt ending in me spilling the ENTIRE contents of my duffel bag down onto my head and dropping a wrestling boot into my crotch, I might pass on this one. Oh, side note? Being hit with an MPlow grade wrestling boot in the gonads is a little obnoxious from the other side.
I need some fucking coffee.
But if I call for idiot stewardess, she’s going to stare at me awkwardly for ten to twenty seconds, and then bring me some Styrofoam cup filled with caffeinated swill that takes like cinnamon… and if that shit has cinnamon in it, someone might die today. I should be thinking about a million things right now. I could be thinking about how Las Vegas will be so appreciative for my visit that they might just give me the key to the goddamned city. I should be thinking about posing for a thousand pictures for adoring fans and scumbag paparazzi. I could even be contemplating whether my pilot is sober enough to land this bitch without destroying most of my belongings. But I can’t think about any of those things. I just can’t. Do you know why? Of course you don’t. Because this would be a first time thought on my part, actually.
Today, I’m feeling guilty.
Guilt. There’s a feeling I didn’t really understand until today. Who’d have ever thought… me, feeling regret or remorse for anything, ever? And yet there is this sinking feeling in the pit of my gut, ripping me apart from the inside. I guess I should start from the beginning.
It all started two weeks ago, as I sat at ringside after my match with Lola KirK. There she was, walking away with my DWF Women’s Championship, a proud little butterball in all her glory. I was flustered… I was confused. But most of all, I was ashamed. Guilt ridden. I wanted to grab the microphone right then and there and get it all off my chest, but I just couldn’t. I couldn’t face myself in the mirror and admit what I had done. But I just can’t wait any longer.
I have to get it out.
Three weeks ago, in accordance with DREAM rules and regulations, I was subjected to a routine drug test on behalf of the company. I might be a bad guy, but I’m not an idiot, and I’ve been drug free since the last time I puffed off a fat joint in the eleventh grade, so obviously I had nothing to fear… or so I thought. They returned to me with the results of the test, just mere moments before stepping into the ring with Lora… and I was shocked. You see, being the pioneer of the DREAM Women’s Division, I am subjected to the same standards and regulations that the rest of its participants are… and it seems I passed the test with flying colors in all categories but one…
Testosterone.
For you and me, members of the dominant species, this seems normal. But for the menstruators of the world? This elusive chemical isn’t nearly as abundant, and since I must be judged by the same standards as the women I wrestle on a daily basis, I am only allowed to maintain their net average in testosterone count. As a result, I was found in violation of the DREAM Wellness Policy after testing positive for performance enhancing drugs. William Peters offered, of course, to make a special exception in my case, due to something he called an extenuating circumstance… but what kind of example would I be setting by accepting such a seedy, backdoor deal? No, not me. I could not in good conscience represent my division without paying the ultimate punishment.
A thirty day suspension from the DREAM Women’s Division.
In all my rush to meet the demands of Insomnia, and my commissioner’s job keeping me busy, I made a very serious error in judgment by wrestling my match against Lora KirK two weeks ago, and after much discussion with William Peters and Mark Zylbert, we have come to a conclusion that is going to hurt. The match at Insomnia two weeks ago is being ruled a no contest, as it should have never taken place. This means that by all rights, I maintain the Women’s Championship and the title change and subsequent ruining of my undefeated record are rendered null and void. I don’t make the rules, kids, I’m just delivering the bad news. And as for William Peters? He has ruled that since I cannot rightly defend my title at the PPV due to my suspension, we is stripping me of the championship and awarding it to Lora KirK, on account of she’s the closest woman to my size in the DWF who doesn’t have a penis, until a time in which I can reclaim my champion. In fact, he made my match with Tessa Martin at Bashed in the USA for one reason and one reason alone… stipulations.
If I defeat Tessa Martin in the ring this Sunday, which I undoubtedly will do with minimal effort, I will reclaim my Women’s Championship after my thirty day suspension has run out and probably kick her multiple times in the vageen. If she… uh… wins, which she will not… then I am permanently banned from the Women’s Division and will be making a public apology to any and all women who have ever been offended by my awesomeness. But I wouldn’t go looking forward to that.
Am I worried about facing two separate sets of opponents this week? No. Am I worried about the possibility of being tossed from the Women’s Division like a used tampon? No. I’m worried about the people. I’m worried about America. I’m worried about justice. And I thank Lola KirK for her co-operation in this matter. It’s not a perfect system… but we’re trying our best.
MPlow Out.
