Post by cureforthesickness on Nov 9, 2006 22:14:54 GMT -5
November 10th 2006
3:13 AM
I'll bite your mother-f*cking style..
Just to make it fresher.
I can't take the pressure..
I'm sick of bitches!
- Just Don't Give A F*ck, by Eminem
Ironic that I start this entry the same way my previous and first started, but I feel the exact same way for this one as the previous. I’m still new to this whole diary thing. Not sure if I really want to leave myself open for sabotage. I’ve experienced people destroying me from the inside, using what was close to me to destroy me. Maybe I am weak because of this, but really, I don’t think I am. I think this weakness makes me stronger. I think this weakness leaves me slyer. I think this weakness is one of my ultimate strengths.
- F*ck it.
The dead of night. The surroundings look quite happy, but also quite dark. We are in a park. The entire park seems like an average park, but cloaked in darkness. A children’s playground completely blackened by the night sky. Several park benches and trash cans, nearly invisable in the night sky. This looks to be your ordinary, well kept park. There is some trash on the ground that looks light, possibly blowing out of the lidless can. This park looks familiar but we cannot put their finger on it, until we look into the tops of a tree.
Some people say what I do is trash. Some people say it’s plunder wars. Some people say what I do is outright sh*t. I say f*ck you. I say f*ck everything you stand for. I say f*ck your beliefs. I say f*ck everything you stand for. When you insult what I do for a living and how I do it, you downright insult me. I don’t enjoy being insulted. I like to destroy the critics. This is the story of Pohatu.
A slight pause from the Demented Icon and a look of unknown. He looks as if he knows what he’s going to say, but not how to say it. He knows exactly what is going on and doesn’t like it, but there’s no way to stop. The little things have piled up and started spinning. These small spinning things have interlocked themselves into one large thing and it has began a vortex. The spinning has become uncontrollable and at this point, Obo is standing right in the way of the death spin. He looks at it and knows it’s coming, but instead of getting out of the way, he stands and looks at it, almost enjoying the choas that’s coming his direction.
Pohatu thought it would be wise to run his mouth and talk a bunch of sh*t about me. Pohatu thought it would be a brilliant move to take personal shots at me. Pohatu is possibly the dumbest mother f*cker on the planet.
With a slight sigh and a deep breath, Obo continues
Pohatu, you had the nerve to call me a backyard wrestler and a “yardtard”. If you only knew. If you only knew what I went through and how I came to be. What it took for my life to spiral into professional wrestling. How I became the violent, cold hearted bastard you see before you that see before you. I started in one of the sh*ttest places possible, came to an even sh*tter place before I was “rescued” and brought here. I was paired in a pointless comedy team that was going absolutely no where. I stayed though, because I was loyal. I was loyal to what my employer told me to do and I was loyal to my companion. That led to the son of a bitch turning on me and dipping my head into a metal drum of liquid nitrogen. And here’s where the problems started. Because you see, Pohatu, when I had my head in that burning chemical, when it was eating away at my flesh, I realized what I had to do. I had to survive. I had to survive by any means necessary, and those means were wrestling with barbaric weaponry. Florescent light tubes, razor sharp barbed wire, millions of thumbtacks. They were what I needed to survive. I not only survived that war, but I won it, because I knew how to adapt to my scenario. And that’s where lies your problem.
Obo takes another deep breath before continuing.
You cannot adapt. You cannot learn from the examples that have been placed in front of you and change with the times. The future is calling you but you turn it away. You are blind. You are blind to anything changing in front of you that isn’t exactly what you want to see. When you see blood and weapons, you immediately rule it out as garbage and below you and Pohatu, this will be your fatal error. I can do all your flippy sh*t, I can roll around on the mat and do technical wrestling, then I can outmatch you with my style. I can kick your f*cking face off with a Yakuza kick. I can not only beat you, but injure you with one of my suplexes. And then, I can bring out my favorite weapon. I can bring out my bare hands. You claim to be able to do damage with your hands, but I can do worse. I can rip apart flesh with my bare hands and love it. Pohatu, you are dead. Your life is in my hands. You will not survive.
3:13 AM
I'll bite your mother-f*cking style..
Just to make it fresher.
I can't take the pressure..
I'm sick of bitches!
- Just Don't Give A F*ck, by Eminem
Ironic that I start this entry the same way my previous and first started, but I feel the exact same way for this one as the previous. I’m still new to this whole diary thing. Not sure if I really want to leave myself open for sabotage. I’ve experienced people destroying me from the inside, using what was close to me to destroy me. Maybe I am weak because of this, but really, I don’t think I am. I think this weakness makes me stronger. I think this weakness leaves me slyer. I think this weakness is one of my ultimate strengths.
- F*ck it.
The dead of night. The surroundings look quite happy, but also quite dark. We are in a park. The entire park seems like an average park, but cloaked in darkness. A children’s playground completely blackened by the night sky. Several park benches and trash cans, nearly invisable in the night sky. This looks to be your ordinary, well kept park. There is some trash on the ground that looks light, possibly blowing out of the lidless can. This park looks familiar but we cannot put their finger on it, until we look into the tops of a tree.
Some people say what I do is trash. Some people say it’s plunder wars. Some people say what I do is outright sh*t. I say f*ck you. I say f*ck everything you stand for. I say f*ck your beliefs. I say f*ck everything you stand for. When you insult what I do for a living and how I do it, you downright insult me. I don’t enjoy being insulted. I like to destroy the critics. This is the story of Pohatu.
A slight pause from the Demented Icon and a look of unknown. He looks as if he knows what he’s going to say, but not how to say it. He knows exactly what is going on and doesn’t like it, but there’s no way to stop. The little things have piled up and started spinning. These small spinning things have interlocked themselves into one large thing and it has began a vortex. The spinning has become uncontrollable and at this point, Obo is standing right in the way of the death spin. He looks at it and knows it’s coming, but instead of getting out of the way, he stands and looks at it, almost enjoying the choas that’s coming his direction.
Pohatu thought it would be wise to run his mouth and talk a bunch of sh*t about me. Pohatu thought it would be a brilliant move to take personal shots at me. Pohatu is possibly the dumbest mother f*cker on the planet.
With a slight sigh and a deep breath, Obo continues
Pohatu, you had the nerve to call me a backyard wrestler and a “yardtard”. If you only knew. If you only knew what I went through and how I came to be. What it took for my life to spiral into professional wrestling. How I became the violent, cold hearted bastard you see before you that see before you. I started in one of the sh*ttest places possible, came to an even sh*tter place before I was “rescued” and brought here. I was paired in a pointless comedy team that was going absolutely no where. I stayed though, because I was loyal. I was loyal to what my employer told me to do and I was loyal to my companion. That led to the son of a bitch turning on me and dipping my head into a metal drum of liquid nitrogen. And here’s where the problems started. Because you see, Pohatu, when I had my head in that burning chemical, when it was eating away at my flesh, I realized what I had to do. I had to survive. I had to survive by any means necessary, and those means were wrestling with barbaric weaponry. Florescent light tubes, razor sharp barbed wire, millions of thumbtacks. They were what I needed to survive. I not only survived that war, but I won it, because I knew how to adapt to my scenario. And that’s where lies your problem.
Obo takes another deep breath before continuing.
You cannot adapt. You cannot learn from the examples that have been placed in front of you and change with the times. The future is calling you but you turn it away. You are blind. You are blind to anything changing in front of you that isn’t exactly what you want to see. When you see blood and weapons, you immediately rule it out as garbage and below you and Pohatu, this will be your fatal error. I can do all your flippy sh*t, I can roll around on the mat and do technical wrestling, then I can outmatch you with my style. I can kick your f*cking face off with a Yakuza kick. I can not only beat you, but injure you with one of my suplexes. And then, I can bring out my favorite weapon. I can bring out my bare hands. You claim to be able to do damage with your hands, but I can do worse. I can rip apart flesh with my bare hands and love it. Pohatu, you are dead. Your life is in my hands. You will not survive.