Post by ashleymcphee on May 11, 2012 17:29:54 GMT -6
April 30th, 2012:
No match this week, damn. What the hell, shelved for what, embarrassing the guy who is scheduled to face off in a Number One Contender match against Alex Jones? Damn, just…damn. Guess I’ll finish this bottle of Jack, sit in my hotel and wait until someone tells me what the hell to do next.
The camera opens to Ash sleeping in his ****-stained tightie whities on his belly in a hotel room that looks more like a pig stye. He hasn’t shaved in days and his hand is draped over the side of the bed, holding loosely onto an empty bottle of whiskey. The phone rings and he fumbles for it with his free hand, finally grabbing it and pulling it to his ear.
“Yeah…uh huh…okay…yeah I’m available to be on the pre-show for the Pay Per View. I don’t care if you put me in there against a damn trained monkey, anything works. Wait…him? He IS a trained monkey, that’s great! Yeah, yeah…I’ll get my fat ass ready. Sunday, right? Nice. Time to kick ass and take names.”
He hangs up the phone and springs up to his feet, knocking over the bottle of whiskey as his belly jiggles a little. He stretches, scratches his nuts, and belches as the camera zooms into the smirk on his face, before fading out.
So Clint Renner, better known to many as Craven Morehead or Bukakke Man. God…what the hell is with you dude, I mean, you got a sexual fetish or something? I mean, do you crave more head? Or do you want to bukakke all over some Asian girl’s face? I mean…uh…not that I’ve ever watched porn like that…I am sorry mom. I really am. But yeah, what the hell is with you? You take off your mask, get all pissy and beat someone with it, simply because…you’re tired of being overlooked?
Did I miss something here? I mean…you’re what did you say? Division I champ or something? WHO ****ING CARES! This is the real world, dude, I don’t come out and say I wrestled pigs for a living before this every week and act like I’m hot ****, I know I’m not. This is a different game than what you’re used to, and I’m sure your five moves of doom from before are all you REALLY know being a collegiate grappler. I mean, what can you possibly learn there, beside how to make gay men horny. Seriously, that kinda stuff looks more homoerotic than MMA. Two grown men hugging, that’s all it is. At least with MMA there is a little punching here and there, and that’s where I come in. I’m good at doing the stuff they ask of me here in nCw. Good enough to beat a possible contender for the National Title, and the guy who has held belts before…regardless of whatever his reputation is. I beat Joe Everyman, and gave Spike Kane a damn good match in my second one here.
So what makes you think you are so damn special? A college degree? Oh **** that ****, man, real life teaches more than any two or four years in college ever could. I mean, I know guys I went to High School with who have doctorates now, and no career outlook because nobody is hiring in their field of choice. What that means, is they get to go back to work at their old job from High School, a little smarter, but making no more than they did to begin with…unless their daddy owns stock in Ottertail Power, they got nothing. So you, Mr. Hotshot Clint Renner, what’s your beef with me? That I enjoy myself, that I could care less if you humiliate me because, honestly, I can do that plenty well myself. You don’t quite understand the way my mind works, even though the wheel might be spinning, the hamster has passed out drunk. What you say, is largely ignored, because, you talk too much about meaningless ****. I can do that too.
The sky is green, the grass is purple. Time to fight, Clint, or get a ripped nurple. I may not be strong, and am fat and ugly, but at least my personality gets me sex on a regular basis. Fat drunk chicks love me, dude. You can’t get by being a big jock-faced jerkass. I mean, I think I need to put a graph together on how far up your ass your head is, but the problem is I’m no good at drawing, or computers. I can barely check my email, let alone run facebook or Twitter. So yeah, keep ranting, I’m not listening.
Call me cocky, whenever you see this, call me whatever you want, but in the end, I COULD GIVE A **** LESS! Dude, this is my life, my job, my career. I do it because I enjoy it, and you just are one big pain in everyone’s ass. So do us all a favor, cut your wrists. Take a bottle of aspirin with a bottle of vodka. Give yourself brain damage by beating your head against a wall. Hang yourself with your intestines, see if I care. We would be better off without you, dude. You suck. And that is the Bitchcakes side of things!
“So, Ash, y-you gonna be ready for this Clint guy?”
The dim lights of the bar shine on the large frame of Ashley McPhee as though he’s sulking, but as he turns in his barstool to face Terry, he’s smiling wide. His beer in hand, he laughs and takes a long drink.
“Ready? I was born ready for men like Clint Renner. He sold himself into some stupid sexually deviant named gimmicks just to get attention, listened to the boys and got picked on because he had an ego he wanted to boost. In the end, that didn’t work for him. But me, I got no ego. I got a bottle of booze, a bit of fight in me, and a lovely girlish name to be poked fun at to the point of nerd rage…or retard rage, whichever suits you best.”
“Y-yeah, I guess you’re r-right.”
As Ash pats Terry on the back, his jaw drops. He slams his drink to the bar and stands up rather unsteadily. He stares blankly with his jaw drooping at the entrance, as the camera pans over we see that he is staring at a woman that looks vaguely like Kelly Knite, but is slightly heftier and is wearing a beer-stained t-shirt and cut-off jeans. She struts over to the bartender, looks him dead in the eye and speaks in a nearly manly voice.
“I want a fuzzy navel.”
“I would like to fuzzy your navel…” Ash lets slip, but it’s too quiet and isn’t heard well enough, but enough was heard to draw attention to him.
“You what?” The gravelly voice is followed up by a cigarette being pulled out and lit up, obviously the cause of the voice.
“I uh…um…could I buy you that fuzzy navel?”
In his head, Ashley is thinking “Good job, nice save” but in his pants he’s thinking “DAMN YOU ****ING THIS CHANCE TO SCORE UP!” The girl laughs before coughing a little and hacking in a typical smoker’s manner. She then takes a long drag off her cigarette and smiles with tar-stained teeth at Ash, who is not bothered at all by this.
“Uh, A-ash, are you going to uh…”
“Shut up Terry, let me do this.”
“Well, if you want to buy the drink, maybe I could…”
As she puts her hand up to her shirt and starts lifting, the camera cuts out, ending the transmission dead in the middle of something interesting.
No match this week, damn. What the hell, shelved for what, embarrassing the guy who is scheduled to face off in a Number One Contender match against Alex Jones? Damn, just…damn. Guess I’ll finish this bottle of Jack, sit in my hotel and wait until someone tells me what the hell to do next.
The camera opens to Ash sleeping in his ****-stained tightie whities on his belly in a hotel room that looks more like a pig stye. He hasn’t shaved in days and his hand is draped over the side of the bed, holding loosely onto an empty bottle of whiskey. The phone rings and he fumbles for it with his free hand, finally grabbing it and pulling it to his ear.
“Yeah…uh huh…okay…yeah I’m available to be on the pre-show for the Pay Per View. I don’t care if you put me in there against a damn trained monkey, anything works. Wait…him? He IS a trained monkey, that’s great! Yeah, yeah…I’ll get my fat ass ready. Sunday, right? Nice. Time to kick ass and take names.”
He hangs up the phone and springs up to his feet, knocking over the bottle of whiskey as his belly jiggles a little. He stretches, scratches his nuts, and belches as the camera zooms into the smirk on his face, before fading out.
****
So Clint Renner, better known to many as Craven Morehead or Bukakke Man. God…what the hell is with you dude, I mean, you got a sexual fetish or something? I mean, do you crave more head? Or do you want to bukakke all over some Asian girl’s face? I mean…uh…not that I’ve ever watched porn like that…I am sorry mom. I really am. But yeah, what the hell is with you? You take off your mask, get all pissy and beat someone with it, simply because…you’re tired of being overlooked?
Did I miss something here? I mean…you’re what did you say? Division I champ or something? WHO ****ING CARES! This is the real world, dude, I don’t come out and say I wrestled pigs for a living before this every week and act like I’m hot ****, I know I’m not. This is a different game than what you’re used to, and I’m sure your five moves of doom from before are all you REALLY know being a collegiate grappler. I mean, what can you possibly learn there, beside how to make gay men horny. Seriously, that kinda stuff looks more homoerotic than MMA. Two grown men hugging, that’s all it is. At least with MMA there is a little punching here and there, and that’s where I come in. I’m good at doing the stuff they ask of me here in nCw. Good enough to beat a possible contender for the National Title, and the guy who has held belts before…regardless of whatever his reputation is. I beat Joe Everyman, and gave Spike Kane a damn good match in my second one here.
So what makes you think you are so damn special? A college degree? Oh **** that ****, man, real life teaches more than any two or four years in college ever could. I mean, I know guys I went to High School with who have doctorates now, and no career outlook because nobody is hiring in their field of choice. What that means, is they get to go back to work at their old job from High School, a little smarter, but making no more than they did to begin with…unless their daddy owns stock in Ottertail Power, they got nothing. So you, Mr. Hotshot Clint Renner, what’s your beef with me? That I enjoy myself, that I could care less if you humiliate me because, honestly, I can do that plenty well myself. You don’t quite understand the way my mind works, even though the wheel might be spinning, the hamster has passed out drunk. What you say, is largely ignored, because, you talk too much about meaningless ****. I can do that too.
The sky is green, the grass is purple. Time to fight, Clint, or get a ripped nurple. I may not be strong, and am fat and ugly, but at least my personality gets me sex on a regular basis. Fat drunk chicks love me, dude. You can’t get by being a big jock-faced jerkass. I mean, I think I need to put a graph together on how far up your ass your head is, but the problem is I’m no good at drawing, or computers. I can barely check my email, let alone run facebook or Twitter. So yeah, keep ranting, I’m not listening.
Call me cocky, whenever you see this, call me whatever you want, but in the end, I COULD GIVE A **** LESS! Dude, this is my life, my job, my career. I do it because I enjoy it, and you just are one big pain in everyone’s ass. So do us all a favor, cut your wrists. Take a bottle of aspirin with a bottle of vodka. Give yourself brain damage by beating your head against a wall. Hang yourself with your intestines, see if I care. We would be better off without you, dude. You suck. And that is the Bitchcakes side of things!
****
“So, Ash, y-you gonna be ready for this Clint guy?”
The dim lights of the bar shine on the large frame of Ashley McPhee as though he’s sulking, but as he turns in his barstool to face Terry, he’s smiling wide. His beer in hand, he laughs and takes a long drink.
“Ready? I was born ready for men like Clint Renner. He sold himself into some stupid sexually deviant named gimmicks just to get attention, listened to the boys and got picked on because he had an ego he wanted to boost. In the end, that didn’t work for him. But me, I got no ego. I got a bottle of booze, a bit of fight in me, and a lovely girlish name to be poked fun at to the point of nerd rage…or retard rage, whichever suits you best.”
“Y-yeah, I guess you’re r-right.”
As Ash pats Terry on the back, his jaw drops. He slams his drink to the bar and stands up rather unsteadily. He stares blankly with his jaw drooping at the entrance, as the camera pans over we see that he is staring at a woman that looks vaguely like Kelly Knite, but is slightly heftier and is wearing a beer-stained t-shirt and cut-off jeans. She struts over to the bartender, looks him dead in the eye and speaks in a nearly manly voice.
“I want a fuzzy navel.”
“I would like to fuzzy your navel…” Ash lets slip, but it’s too quiet and isn’t heard well enough, but enough was heard to draw attention to him.
“You what?” The gravelly voice is followed up by a cigarette being pulled out and lit up, obviously the cause of the voice.
“I uh…um…could I buy you that fuzzy navel?”
In his head, Ashley is thinking “Good job, nice save” but in his pants he’s thinking “DAMN YOU ****ING THIS CHANCE TO SCORE UP!” The girl laughs before coughing a little and hacking in a typical smoker’s manner. She then takes a long drag off her cigarette and smiles with tar-stained teeth at Ash, who is not bothered at all by this.
“Uh, A-ash, are you going to uh…”
“Shut up Terry, let me do this.”
“Well, if you want to buy the drink, maybe I could…”
As she puts her hand up to her shirt and starts lifting, the camera cuts out, ending the transmission dead in the middle of something interesting.
