Post by tonysavage on Jan 27, 2018 11:18:12 GMT -8
Los Angeles, CA.
1/26/2018 9:44 A.M.
The late, great comedian Bill Hicks summed up humanity in a nutshell: we're a goddamn virus with shoes. Especially professional wrestlers.
Jesus, Tony; there's a reason this is called sparring. I'm getting to the point I have to make training partners sign waivers to mess with you guys.
I tend to make a mess out of wrestlers. They're my least favorite wastes of oxygen on Earth. Silly, delusional, barely educated shit-stains who wear Halloween costumes, paint themselves up, and run around bashing the crap out of each other with shit they picked up from Home Depot. They give themselves idiotic monikers, out their banal reality show bullshit on camera, and commit the worst offense...
Boring the FUCK out of us with a constant flow of garbage from their sewer pipe mouths.
That carbon dated cock-gobbler who looks like a fucking broken down biker bar bouncer Tapioca really pissed me off. First, it wasn't bad enough he rambles on with anecdotes because his early onset Alzheimer's kicks in at inopportune times, or he tried spouting some stupid shit about the "honor and glory" of professional wrestling...
Ironic, considering there's NOTHING noble about this sport, or this blood stained group cluster-fuck we're embarking on...
After he swore he wouldn't judge or analyze his opponents; guess what the fuck he did....HE JUDGED AND ANALYZED HIS OPPONENTS!
No wonder Mark tore him and his Quixotic crap a new asshole; there's nothing noble about liars and hypocrites and meandering old farts. There's a special place in Hell for retards like that...
And I'm the devil that's there, punishing that ass for it!
I look around my surroundings. The sweat and blood in the ring is art. Fucking Jackson Pollack on blue canvas. All the stunt dummies Chris sent in; you can see the various states of physical trauma. That dumb fuck in the unitard with skulls painted on them, whimpering and nursing his wounds, he just HAD to try that "you ain't a real wrestler" malarkey I've heard for years...
His argument had no teeth, and if Chris hadn't pulled me off of him...neither would he!
Wrestlers are shit people. They lie to you; try to convince you they're something that they really aren't, when they should be embracing what they really are...
Animals. Fucking predators looking for that next meal, that next piece of ass, that next distraction, because believe me, ladies and germs...
There's nothing noble about living in airports and sweating your ass off in funky gyms or dealing with bottom feeding parasites who go out of their way to inflict as much physical and emotional trauma to you; tell you you ain't shit, you're momma ain't shit, and they're gonna fuck you up...
But they respect you, so that makes it all better.
*finishing off his smoke and climbing out of the ring* We're preparing for a war against those Omega pussies, right? Well...
What war isn't riddled with casualties?
I spy a...nervous as a K.K.K member lost in Compton a GWD cameraman.
You! Get your ass over here and earn that check!
Wouldn't it be a good idea to clean up before...
It'd be a better idea if you shut your dickholster and hit the "ON" button. Does it look like I'm in the mood to accommodate you?
Yeah, I'm not in the mood. Few days ago in N.Y., I lost the International title at Premiere Fighting. I busted my ass to build that belt up, only to let it slip through my fingers. Then, management thought they'd take the sting out by giving me a shot at the Big belt against Teo's sorry ass...
It DIDN'T! I don't like leaving a score unsettled. Again; real bad day coming down the pipe 'cause of that.
Chris hands me a towel, and I wipe off my handiwork and enough pints of the red stuff to make a blood drive's day,
then....
I hate this industry some days, loyal nutt-sacks! I really do. I mean, this Monster Ball shit. We're fighting over a crown, and most of the assholes involved in this shit are god-damn jesters. Parodies. Donkey shit covered peasants.
Might as well go to the drive thru at Burger King and score one of those paper crowns they give my kid when I get him chicken tenders.
A green as grass rook from Delaware, the state that leads the nation in exporting mediocrity, wasting valuable time spewing that 'oh golly gee whiz, I'm just happy to be here" shit...
A drunken frat boy who's in this game either because he blew all of his student loan money on a visit to the emergency room eating Tide Pods on a bet from his frat brothers, or his degree, like his persona and resume, is useless trash...
A spoiled as mayo left out in the sun silver spoon schmuck who thinks a rancid personality and her daddy's fortune selling schlockpatties with curiously high rat shit contents cuts it in this game...
Blonde, overgrown Z-listers who spend more time on their hair than their in ring game, although anybody that can inflict narcolepsy by speaking could be potential hazardous...
Adult diaper wearing limey throwbacks living off their past greatness, who can't call it quits and who don't realize it's kind of hard sneaking brass knucks inside adult diapers...
Drunks who plop their irrelevant asses on barstools and try to psychoanalyze with neck deep in a happy hour bender instead of going out there and doing what you need to do to win a fight...
And Joe...god-damn...just because you were old enough to lend money to Jesus, doesn't mean you deserve to have a Christ complex. Nobody wants your fucking help, nobody asked to have a Ben-Gay smelling self-righteous motherfucker as a father figure, and nobody trusts an asshole who says they're in the biz to help, when in reality, they don't need assistance from a broke down mid-carding hypocrite who forgot what the fuck this game is about...
Taking things from motherfuckers who are in your way!
We're animals, pure and simple. We inflict pain on each other on every level to gain what we want, and what we need. This sport might as well be fucking Shark Week every single fucking day....
And this Great White is looking at you pussies like y'all are baby seals!
Considering I'm dealing with a crowd with an aversion to actually doing research and due diligence (Or talking to Storm when he's not busy lighting shit on fire or trying to get his own religion for tax purposes, because God forbid anybody'd actually talk to a former co-worker of mine to find out the deal)allow me to introduce myself....
Tony Savage. Former Army Ranger. Former World heavyweight champion in 3 different feds, including Boardwalk and EWC, on his way to title number 4 in Kaden Kessler's company. I'm a man who's fought some of the biggest names across the industry. I've helped build up feds, end careers, and basically pissed all over people's conceptions about what it takes to make it, because unlike most spandex wearing monkeys, I realize something more clearly than most...
This game is a jungle, and I am an apex predator.
I don't respect motherfuckers who talk out of the sides of their necks and plot to knock me down a notch. I'm not here to make some rookie or piss break match dweller feel better about themselves. I'm not here for honor or glory;
that shit comes standard when you do your fucking job right week in and week out. I'm here, because it's in my DNA. That's what animals do; what nature intended them to do!
So, g'head. Keep lying to yourselves and to the fans. Keep selling your bullshit personas and by the numbers motivations. Keep trying to lie about and paint a pretty picture about what this game is or could be.
Me *throws his hands up* I'm going to be me. I'm going out there and doing what I do best; devouring motherfuckers trying to eat off my plate.
Welcome to the Animal Kingdom, shit-heads. Considering the weak prey they're feeding me COME FIGHT NIGHT...
I'm finna turn the Monster's Ball int oa fucking buffet line!
1/26/2018 9:44 A.M.
The late, great comedian Bill Hicks summed up humanity in a nutshell: we're a goddamn virus with shoes. Especially professional wrestlers.
Jesus, Tony; there's a reason this is called sparring. I'm getting to the point I have to make training partners sign waivers to mess with you guys.
I tend to make a mess out of wrestlers. They're my least favorite wastes of oxygen on Earth. Silly, delusional, barely educated shit-stains who wear Halloween costumes, paint themselves up, and run around bashing the crap out of each other with shit they picked up from Home Depot. They give themselves idiotic monikers, out their banal reality show bullshit on camera, and commit the worst offense...
Boring the FUCK out of us with a constant flow of garbage from their sewer pipe mouths.
That carbon dated cock-gobbler who looks like a fucking broken down biker bar bouncer Tapioca really pissed me off. First, it wasn't bad enough he rambles on with anecdotes because his early onset Alzheimer's kicks in at inopportune times, or he tried spouting some stupid shit about the "honor and glory" of professional wrestling...
Ironic, considering there's NOTHING noble about this sport, or this blood stained group cluster-fuck we're embarking on...
After he swore he wouldn't judge or analyze his opponents; guess what the fuck he did....HE JUDGED AND ANALYZED HIS OPPONENTS!
No wonder Mark tore him and his Quixotic crap a new asshole; there's nothing noble about liars and hypocrites and meandering old farts. There's a special place in Hell for retards like that...
And I'm the devil that's there, punishing that ass for it!
I look around my surroundings. The sweat and blood in the ring is art. Fucking Jackson Pollack on blue canvas. All the stunt dummies Chris sent in; you can see the various states of physical trauma. That dumb fuck in the unitard with skulls painted on them, whimpering and nursing his wounds, he just HAD to try that "you ain't a real wrestler" malarkey I've heard for years...
His argument had no teeth, and if Chris hadn't pulled me off of him...neither would he!
Wrestlers are shit people. They lie to you; try to convince you they're something that they really aren't, when they should be embracing what they really are...
Animals. Fucking predators looking for that next meal, that next piece of ass, that next distraction, because believe me, ladies and germs...
There's nothing noble about living in airports and sweating your ass off in funky gyms or dealing with bottom feeding parasites who go out of their way to inflict as much physical and emotional trauma to you; tell you you ain't shit, you're momma ain't shit, and they're gonna fuck you up...
But they respect you, so that makes it all better.
*finishing off his smoke and climbing out of the ring* We're preparing for a war against those Omega pussies, right? Well...
What war isn't riddled with casualties?
I spy a...nervous as a K.K.K member lost in Compton a GWD cameraman.
You! Get your ass over here and earn that check!
Wouldn't it be a good idea to clean up before...
It'd be a better idea if you shut your dickholster and hit the "ON" button. Does it look like I'm in the mood to accommodate you?
Yeah, I'm not in the mood. Few days ago in N.Y., I lost the International title at Premiere Fighting. I busted my ass to build that belt up, only to let it slip through my fingers. Then, management thought they'd take the sting out by giving me a shot at the Big belt against Teo's sorry ass...
It DIDN'T! I don't like leaving a score unsettled. Again; real bad day coming down the pipe 'cause of that.
Chris hands me a towel, and I wipe off my handiwork and enough pints of the red stuff to make a blood drive's day,
then....
I hate this industry some days, loyal nutt-sacks! I really do. I mean, this Monster Ball shit. We're fighting over a crown, and most of the assholes involved in this shit are god-damn jesters. Parodies. Donkey shit covered peasants.
Might as well go to the drive thru at Burger King and score one of those paper crowns they give my kid when I get him chicken tenders.
A green as grass rook from Delaware, the state that leads the nation in exporting mediocrity, wasting valuable time spewing that 'oh golly gee whiz, I'm just happy to be here" shit...
A drunken frat boy who's in this game either because he blew all of his student loan money on a visit to the emergency room eating Tide Pods on a bet from his frat brothers, or his degree, like his persona and resume, is useless trash...
A spoiled as mayo left out in the sun silver spoon schmuck who thinks a rancid personality and her daddy's fortune selling schlockpatties with curiously high rat shit contents cuts it in this game...
Blonde, overgrown Z-listers who spend more time on their hair than their in ring game, although anybody that can inflict narcolepsy by speaking could be potential hazardous...
Adult diaper wearing limey throwbacks living off their past greatness, who can't call it quits and who don't realize it's kind of hard sneaking brass knucks inside adult diapers...
Drunks who plop their irrelevant asses on barstools and try to psychoanalyze with neck deep in a happy hour bender instead of going out there and doing what you need to do to win a fight...
And Joe...god-damn...just because you were old enough to lend money to Jesus, doesn't mean you deserve to have a Christ complex. Nobody wants your fucking help, nobody asked to have a Ben-Gay smelling self-righteous motherfucker as a father figure, and nobody trusts an asshole who says they're in the biz to help, when in reality, they don't need assistance from a broke down mid-carding hypocrite who forgot what the fuck this game is about...
Taking things from motherfuckers who are in your way!
We're animals, pure and simple. We inflict pain on each other on every level to gain what we want, and what we need. This sport might as well be fucking Shark Week every single fucking day....
And this Great White is looking at you pussies like y'all are baby seals!
Considering I'm dealing with a crowd with an aversion to actually doing research and due diligence (Or talking to Storm when he's not busy lighting shit on fire or trying to get his own religion for tax purposes, because God forbid anybody'd actually talk to a former co-worker of mine to find out the deal)allow me to introduce myself....
Tony Savage. Former Army Ranger. Former World heavyweight champion in 3 different feds, including Boardwalk and EWC, on his way to title number 4 in Kaden Kessler's company. I'm a man who's fought some of the biggest names across the industry. I've helped build up feds, end careers, and basically pissed all over people's conceptions about what it takes to make it, because unlike most spandex wearing monkeys, I realize something more clearly than most...
This game is a jungle, and I am an apex predator.
I don't respect motherfuckers who talk out of the sides of their necks and plot to knock me down a notch. I'm not here to make some rookie or piss break match dweller feel better about themselves. I'm not here for honor or glory;
that shit comes standard when you do your fucking job right week in and week out. I'm here, because it's in my DNA. That's what animals do; what nature intended them to do!
So, g'head. Keep lying to yourselves and to the fans. Keep selling your bullshit personas and by the numbers motivations. Keep trying to lie about and paint a pretty picture about what this game is or could be.
Me *throws his hands up* I'm going to be me. I'm going out there and doing what I do best; devouring motherfuckers trying to eat off my plate.
Welcome to the Animal Kingdom, shit-heads. Considering the weak prey they're feeding me COME FIGHT NIGHT...
I'm finna turn the Monster's Ball int oa fucking buffet line!
