Post by Swarm on Jan 22, 2009 0:13:34 GMT -5
Mediocrity. The mere whisper of this word often is met with bitter response. Most of the time, in fact, by those who embody all that is mediocre. You see, my fine, reading friend, to call one mediocre is to call someone truly irrelevant. And irrelevance in the big picture is ultimately the worst fear in all of humankind. Throughout all of time man has struggled to find purpose, be it as a part of a larger, ecological circle or blessed with a destiny by an all-seeing god above. People create these gods because irrelevance is, for those with abstract thought, a hard pill to swallow. So, to be mediocre, implies no reaction or response. Mediocrity elicits no sadness or joy, anger or elation, fear or love. Mediocrity is to live in a state that is inconsequential to the world around you, to have no true impact whatsoever. This all however presents a problem to me, your glorious writer; How does one write about something they feel not the least bit compelled to explore? And perhaps more importantly, if every action generally has an equal reaction, has my hand been forced to match a pointless diatribe by a thoughtless wordsmith with more of the same? On top of that, what am I to make of someone who clearly has no understanding of how to write even the simplest of stories? He has provided no setting, conflict, point of view, plot, character, or theme. Instead, I was only offered a cliché narrative with the tiniest of morsels of a setting or point of view. But as those who have witnessed my great works in the past, I have generally managed to overcome the obstacles that have been laid before me and rise above those who rest below me to offer the reader something that is actually, in fact, worth their time. So sit back and enjoy as I divulge passages of the life of a character who is actually interesting and offers true complexity and maybe, just maybe, my uninspiring opposition could perhaps learn a thing or two.
Where are we?
We find ourselves surrounded by photographs of dead and suffering Jews. The walls are consumed of atrocities, the floors dark under the somewhat off-putting mood-lights hanging above us. We look around with cautious stares as tourists shuffle along the collages of distaste. Their eyes sometimes transfixed at the evidence of genocide, sometimes glistening with the smallest of tears. We travel alongside these likely germ-infected fellow human beings and for a brief, selfish moment hope only not to catch some sort of contagious flu virus or somehow AIDS. Still, standing amongst his brethren of this intrepid species, stands the great legend of professional wrestling Alex Sean. Unlike these exploitive tourists masking their disturbing curiosities with faces of sympathy, Alex Sean is dressed to kill. Not Jews or anything of the sort, it’s just a phrase to say he’s dressed very nicely. And yet, as he stands amongst the lowest common denominator knowing how easily enticed to feign offense these people are, Alex Sean speaks out in a voice echoing loudly amongst the walls littered with horrifying photographs.
Alex Sean: Aaron Ashton… What a troubled young man he is. He’s so conflicted between his past and his future. He just seems so tormented by what horrible transgressions have been committed against him in his short and unsatisfying life so far. Now isn’t that just sad? I’m sorry, I don’t mean to mock. Besides, I suppose you could argue, in a way, this young man is conflicted. He symbolically tears down walls while blocking off his past. I guess it’s too much to ask anyone to understand the meaning of certain symbolical gestures these days. But he’s ambitious, isn’t he? He speaks of my colleagues and I as if we are dead and buried. He calls us…
Alex Sean pointedly raises air quotes beside his head as we take the time to notice the uncomfortable tourists easing their way out of the room Alex Sean’s voice so completely occupies.
Alex Sean: … “Legends”. He’s said that his achievements in the future, the one EBR, DGX, nor I will be a part of, will eclipse all of ours combined. It’s amazing how in all of this time, a little over seven years now since I first joined the WFWF, nobody seems to learn a thing. See, while our friend Aaron Ashton was spending his time nursing Miller Lites at graduation keggers, Total Apocalypse told me that I would be the past and he was the future. While Aaron Ashton was spending his college years wondering just how many times daddy didn’t hug him, HellRaizer told be that I was the past and he was the future. And while Aaron Ashton was graduating from college and thought, hey, I should become a wrassler, Reverend Shadow told me that I was the past and he was the future. Now they are gone and I am still here, still standing, still the greatest. And really, those are only three examples of dozens, maybe even over a hundred of guys who have come along in this business and made that very same claim. I think the saddest thing about it is that most of the ones I can recall were a lot better at this than Aaron Ashton. Aaron Ashton is nothing more than a middle class yuppie who’s suffered so little in his life, who’s experienced so little true, searing pain, that he has to reach deep down inside and conjure up internal turmoil to make himself just a little more interesting in his own mind’s eye. It must hurt so bad to walk through life knowing that nothing significant has, or will ever happen in all of the years that you will ever exist. So he acts out in frustration, destroying perfectly good walls and wasting space on his T-Mobile Sidekick’s voicemail inbox because to acknowledge his past is to acknowledge his complete and utter worthlessness. So now, in this somber place of regret, I ask you all to bow your heads and say a prayer. But do not pray to God, Jehovah, or Allah. Pray to Alex Sean. Pray that I will show mercy for this young man’s lack of wisdom and understanding. Pray that his fabricated woes in the face of this place of true suffering will not force my hand in hurting this poor boy beyond what is necessary. Pray to me. Pray to the constant, the archetype, the greatest of all time. But more importantly, pray for Aaron Ashton, for in the valley of darkness he is the weak and in my hands lies the choice between the shepherd and the tyranny of evil men. Thanks Sam Jackson.
And so we leave Alex Sean again, now standing alone amongst these walls of distaste. We leave him likely to be politely escorted out by security and probably go to Chik Fil A to enjoy the number four chicken tender combo meal with a Dr. Pepper, his favorite order of fast food.
Where are we?
We find ourselves surrounded by photographs of dead and suffering Jews. The walls are consumed of atrocities, the floors dark under the somewhat off-putting mood-lights hanging above us. We look around with cautious stares as tourists shuffle along the collages of distaste. Their eyes sometimes transfixed at the evidence of genocide, sometimes glistening with the smallest of tears. We travel alongside these likely germ-infected fellow human beings and for a brief, selfish moment hope only not to catch some sort of contagious flu virus or somehow AIDS. Still, standing amongst his brethren of this intrepid species, stands the great legend of professional wrestling Alex Sean. Unlike these exploitive tourists masking their disturbing curiosities with faces of sympathy, Alex Sean is dressed to kill. Not Jews or anything of the sort, it’s just a phrase to say he’s dressed very nicely. And yet, as he stands amongst the lowest common denominator knowing how easily enticed to feign offense these people are, Alex Sean speaks out in a voice echoing loudly amongst the walls littered with horrifying photographs.
Alex Sean: Aaron Ashton… What a troubled young man he is. He’s so conflicted between his past and his future. He just seems so tormented by what horrible transgressions have been committed against him in his short and unsatisfying life so far. Now isn’t that just sad? I’m sorry, I don’t mean to mock. Besides, I suppose you could argue, in a way, this young man is conflicted. He symbolically tears down walls while blocking off his past. I guess it’s too much to ask anyone to understand the meaning of certain symbolical gestures these days. But he’s ambitious, isn’t he? He speaks of my colleagues and I as if we are dead and buried. He calls us…
Alex Sean pointedly raises air quotes beside his head as we take the time to notice the uncomfortable tourists easing their way out of the room Alex Sean’s voice so completely occupies.
Alex Sean: … “Legends”. He’s said that his achievements in the future, the one EBR, DGX, nor I will be a part of, will eclipse all of ours combined. It’s amazing how in all of this time, a little over seven years now since I first joined the WFWF, nobody seems to learn a thing. See, while our friend Aaron Ashton was spending his time nursing Miller Lites at graduation keggers, Total Apocalypse told me that I would be the past and he was the future. While Aaron Ashton was spending his college years wondering just how many times daddy didn’t hug him, HellRaizer told be that I was the past and he was the future. And while Aaron Ashton was graduating from college and thought, hey, I should become a wrassler, Reverend Shadow told me that I was the past and he was the future. Now they are gone and I am still here, still standing, still the greatest. And really, those are only three examples of dozens, maybe even over a hundred of guys who have come along in this business and made that very same claim. I think the saddest thing about it is that most of the ones I can recall were a lot better at this than Aaron Ashton. Aaron Ashton is nothing more than a middle class yuppie who’s suffered so little in his life, who’s experienced so little true, searing pain, that he has to reach deep down inside and conjure up internal turmoil to make himself just a little more interesting in his own mind’s eye. It must hurt so bad to walk through life knowing that nothing significant has, or will ever happen in all of the years that you will ever exist. So he acts out in frustration, destroying perfectly good walls and wasting space on his T-Mobile Sidekick’s voicemail inbox because to acknowledge his past is to acknowledge his complete and utter worthlessness. So now, in this somber place of regret, I ask you all to bow your heads and say a prayer. But do not pray to God, Jehovah, or Allah. Pray to Alex Sean. Pray that I will show mercy for this young man’s lack of wisdom and understanding. Pray that his fabricated woes in the face of this place of true suffering will not force my hand in hurting this poor boy beyond what is necessary. Pray to me. Pray to the constant, the archetype, the greatest of all time. But more importantly, pray for Aaron Ashton, for in the valley of darkness he is the weak and in my hands lies the choice between the shepherd and the tyranny of evil men. Thanks Sam Jackson.
And so we leave Alex Sean again, now standing alone amongst these walls of distaste. We leave him likely to be politely escorted out by security and probably go to Chik Fil A to enjoy the number four chicken tender combo meal with a Dr. Pepper, his favorite order of fast food.
