Post by Odin Balfore on Feb 18, 2022 17:49:23 GMT -5
Odin Balfore
Vs.
Tatianna Jolee ( C )
Trout
_____________________________
Jolee,
It's curious and fucking sad how you can't get a “pop” unless you’re wrestling topless at a Tim Hortons on an ice flow for three Walrus and an emaciated polar bear. It’s not a tragedy that no one likes you outside of fucking Medicine Hat and Red Deer. Nor is it some trade fucking secret. You’re just fuckin trash. Canada is just Alabama with a literacy rate and public healthcare and can't be that fucking good if you’re still stumped on your tits wondering why when you go to Carolina, DC, and Boston that you can't get a fucking “Road Warrior pop”
Whatever the fuck that is. Must be a truck stop in New Brunswick. It must be because if in twenty god damned years you cant walk into Billings Montana and have three sweaty marks fight over which one of your lazy eyes looked at them first, you should just give it up.
Go home, bake a cake, blow out the candles and throw a toaster in the fucking bathtub. Because it’s curtains for you. It has been since the day you walked through that door and picked up my Cursed fucking Idol. There are no more apologies. There are no more “don’t come to work.” It’s just WAR BALFORE and that's what your Poutine Pussy ain't quite grasping.
I’m the guy that's been a star all over the world for twenty-five years. They don’t even know your name in Nome. So what you’ve been telling us is that you’re only a big deal in towns that have one red light. That's a big stretch to say that you’re a worldwide star *
** world wide star on the ice flows endor, or some shit, probably. Fuck Star Wars, you salty Nerds. Fuckin die mad about it.
You survived at Revolution because of those Canadian Hillbillies. However, there is one major difference. I can stomp all of you out all over Canada and get that “Road Warrior” pop that you crave so bad while I’m doing it. I’m not the hometown hero. I’ve never been. I’m the Villain of the story with my massive handprints all over this company and no matter what you do, no matter how many little victories you think you have over me, you’ll forever be trapped in my shadow.
You and Claire Hawkins can write a book: The Sisterhood of the Traveling Marks. You’ll score a shit ton of Twitter points but Twitter Points don’t cash checks. Twitter doesn’t move the needle. You’re going to have to dig deep at Clash. Deeper than you’ve ever dug before. And it’ll never be enough because YOU will NEVER be enough. No matter how many years you got, how many miles you travel, or titles you hold. None of them have carried over. None of that has gotten you over, You said it yourself.
You want applause. I don’t.
You want accolades. I don’t.
You wanted to be lauded and showered. Welcomed and loved. You want everyone to know your name. You just aint ever found it.
I don’t.
All I want is what's around your neck, weighing you down, drowning you in your own self anguish. That right there tells me all I need to know between our careers. You’ve been repeating year one twenty-five times. You have been running so long you think you’re an omniscient God, whereas I know that I am. You would have flamed out years ago but Canada is a small market share. Big fish in a small pond and baby girl, the trout is starting to get sour.
People flickin’ the channels and The Tatiana Jolee show is in a tailspin. You’re only a few weeks in and already you’re on season seven, bringing in the comic relief. How many more weeks till I shelf The Heritage. Start stamping their name on milk cartons. I’m not in a series slump, I just start slumping. Like I told Claire, I’m getting the mop cuz this shit gets bloody and you ain't got the stomach for it.
You wish I was the guy that you’ve been dealing with. I expect this to be the episode where you find the genie lamp in the sand.
“Please, anyone but Odin,” you whisper and rub as a cackle echo’s from within. Then you spent the rest of the season realizing that you had done fucked up. It's easier to deal with the man who apologizes for the harm he causes rather than the one that breaks jobber necks with the history that he blazes.
You wanted that belt so bad, to be relevant outside of a seal's wet fart that you had no idea what you were getting yourself into. Now you know. But you knew when the Heritage came out to make a save. But it’s like I said, I kill jobbers, I destroy tag teams and I obliterate stables.
Singular. Just me. Go ask David Sanchez and the -
Oh.. wait.
Now go look at the Heritage and watch them vanish like this was the enchantment under the sea. However, TJ, I ain't going back to Atlantis to smash that mermaid puss. That's another episode from another season altogether. I got that sour trout in the ring with me on Monday.
But bring your friends because misery loves company and that “Road Warrior pop” you want so back will just be broken dreams and splattered patellas.
One of us has been a TV megastar for 25 years. And the other has been TJ Greymore for the entirely of her sad, miserable existence.
I’ll see you and dem Canadian boys on Monday. Your fifteen minutes in my spotlight is up. Your time with my cursed idol is over. The auditions over, trout, and you ain't got what it takes but then again, no one ever has.
Because WAR... WAR... Never changes.
~ 990
