Post by Regan Voorhees on Jan 3, 2021 4:03:34 GMT -5
Red camellias part to reveal a black title card, golden calligraphy stitching itself elegantly into the backdrop via an invisible hand.
The title card fades to a reimagining of Botticelli’s The Birth of Venus on canvas. In this version, Regan-Venus rises from the sea on a giant scallop, hands tastefully covering her obscene areas, porcine cherubs flying to attended her. The most prominent pig bows before her on the sand, presenting the newly born goddess-duchess with her red croquet mallet.
The camera pulls back and Regan Voorhees presents the painting, situated on a massive wooden easel. Clad in blue pastels, Regan motions at the work as a fire crackles inside an ornate marble fireplace in the background.
“I present to you The Rebirth of Regan. My actual birth occurred with much less artistic license, as I came screaming into the world on a cold April morning. Mother was out of her mind on only the most expensive of painkillers and Daddy missed the proceedings entirely so he could fire a regional manager in person. Now I stand before you, ever so tritely referencing rebirth as 2021 unfolds before us. But I shall not stare into the abyss of cliche long enough for it to stare back.”
The Duchess of Pork holds her croquet mallet aloft, taking hold of the handle and pulling back. She swings, arcing the hammer into the center of her oil on canvas commission, tearing through the painting and collapsing the easel it sits upon. Following the assault, Regan composes herself, meticulously thumbing a stand of blond hair back behind her ear.
“I like to think I’m above such nonsense as resolutions; along with new-year, new-me pedantry. But… I grow exasperated.”
A hand emerges into the frame to present Regan with a wine tumbler, one-fourth full with thick red wine. Taking a sip, she composes herself.
“Tempting as it may be to think the change of a calendar is enough to make you a different person, such notions are fucking childish. You don’t go from loser to winner because it’s January. If you’re a frog, one kiss won’t make you a prince. You’re not a fairy godmother away from being Cinderella. Those are just fantasies.”
“But now, I the pot and you the kettle, must confess that in my debut at the Cruiser Rumble, I cast aside my more practical sensibilities for the sake of making a grand first impression. Entering at number seventeen, making little effort to conserve my energy, focusing far too much attention on elimination the then-Cruiserweight Champion. A memorable debut, but one that left me notably eliminated outside of the top ten. An oversight, an error in judgment, a failure. But an educational one, that I have no intention of repeating. Shit, I did it. I stared too long into the abyss.”
She casts the tumbler into the fireplace, a dramatic swell of flame firing up the chimney behind her.
“So I will indulge my theatrical side and declare 2021 the Year of Regan Voorhees, in which I lay to waist all who oppose me. Delightful a thought as that is, I must first dispatch Fredrick Whitmer. Mr. Whitmer, we haven’t met, but I do look forward to two of us getting better acquainted. There are few things I loathe more than wrestlers who dance, though the prospect of dropping you on your head with an Abattoir has me salivating. Expect a thank you note when you regain consciousness. My deepest sympathies in regards to the dreadful beginning of your own new year, though this would be an opportune time to put wrestling behind you and find work as a Zumba instructor. Unless of course, you want to get butchered. If that’s the case, then Mr. Whitmer, I will see you at Cruiser Clash. Do try to be on time. Chop-chop.”
Regan offers a final deadeyed stare at the camera, before the scene shifts to another portrait, this one of Regan-Washington crossing the Delaware, her boat manned by porcine American Revolutionary soldiers.
Resolute Regan
(Best paired with Brahms’ ‘Hungarian Dance No. 5’ and a full bodied dolcetto)
The title card fades to a reimagining of Botticelli’s The Birth of Venus on canvas. In this version, Regan-Venus rises from the sea on a giant scallop, hands tastefully covering her obscene areas, porcine cherubs flying to attended her. The most prominent pig bows before her on the sand, presenting the newly born goddess-duchess with her red croquet mallet.
The camera pulls back and Regan Voorhees presents the painting, situated on a massive wooden easel. Clad in blue pastels, Regan motions at the work as a fire crackles inside an ornate marble fireplace in the background.
“I present to you The Rebirth of Regan. My actual birth occurred with much less artistic license, as I came screaming into the world on a cold April morning. Mother was out of her mind on only the most expensive of painkillers and Daddy missed the proceedings entirely so he could fire a regional manager in person. Now I stand before you, ever so tritely referencing rebirth as 2021 unfolds before us. But I shall not stare into the abyss of cliche long enough for it to stare back.”
The Duchess of Pork holds her croquet mallet aloft, taking hold of the handle and pulling back. She swings, arcing the hammer into the center of her oil on canvas commission, tearing through the painting and collapsing the easel it sits upon. Following the assault, Regan composes herself, meticulously thumbing a stand of blond hair back behind her ear.
“I like to think I’m above such nonsense as resolutions; along with new-year, new-me pedantry. But… I grow exasperated.”
A hand emerges into the frame to present Regan with a wine tumbler, one-fourth full with thick red wine. Taking a sip, she composes herself.
“Tempting as it may be to think the change of a calendar is enough to make you a different person, such notions are fucking childish. You don’t go from loser to winner because it’s January. If you’re a frog, one kiss won’t make you a prince. You’re not a fairy godmother away from being Cinderella. Those are just fantasies.”
“But now, I the pot and you the kettle, must confess that in my debut at the Cruiser Rumble, I cast aside my more practical sensibilities for the sake of making a grand first impression. Entering at number seventeen, making little effort to conserve my energy, focusing far too much attention on elimination the then-Cruiserweight Champion. A memorable debut, but one that left me notably eliminated outside of the top ten. An oversight, an error in judgment, a failure. But an educational one, that I have no intention of repeating. Shit, I did it. I stared too long into the abyss.”
She casts the tumbler into the fireplace, a dramatic swell of flame firing up the chimney behind her.
“So I will indulge my theatrical side and declare 2021 the Year of Regan Voorhees, in which I lay to waist all who oppose me. Delightful a thought as that is, I must first dispatch Fredrick Whitmer. Mr. Whitmer, we haven’t met, but I do look forward to two of us getting better acquainted. There are few things I loathe more than wrestlers who dance, though the prospect of dropping you on your head with an Abattoir has me salivating. Expect a thank you note when you regain consciousness. My deepest sympathies in regards to the dreadful beginning of your own new year, though this would be an opportune time to put wrestling behind you and find work as a Zumba instructor. Unless of course, you want to get butchered. If that’s the case, then Mr. Whitmer, I will see you at Cruiser Clash. Do try to be on time. Chop-chop.”
Regan offers a final deadeyed stare at the camera, before the scene shifts to another portrait, this one of Regan-Washington crossing the Delaware, her boat manned by porcine American Revolutionary soldiers.
Brought to you by Voorhees Farms
