Post by Flop on Feb 14, 2021 15:50:23 GMT -5
The mythical beast known as Flop is sitting on a chair showered in the golden light of a single spotlight. The area surrounding him has been swallowed by the emptiness of its lightless existence.
Flop: If I was to look longingly at your body, chiseled from granite, with your perfectly carved jaw and your washboard abdominals, you, ribbed enough to play in a carnival band. Your hair without a strand out of place, as if it has been shaped by the hands of God herself. Your lightly tanned skin, not too light, not too orange, coloured to perfection by just enough time in the warm Californian sun.
Looking at you, Alex, you are perfection.
It's as if you born into existence to be the prototypical wrestler. The bastion of the masses, for the unwashed, to follow into the glory. God, she created you, to lead wrestling's unwashed into a new glory.
But...
Then...
Something...
Else...
Happens...
You open your mouth, to show the world your perfect pearly white teeth, and you make the awful mistake of allowing your larynx to vibrate and sound echo forth from your open orifice.
And God damn it's awful.
Each week the same cookie-cutter drivel spews forth. I'm great. I'm the future. I want it more than you. Need I go on ad infinitum.
Your words: they make me realise you were carved by the delicate hands of God herself.
OH!
MY!
FUCKING!
GOD!
NO!
You are just another generic mold, falling off the production line of Make-A-Wrestler.Com. Hell, son, I'm not even sure you come from the original factory... you're just a cheap knock-off made from the delicate hands of child labour. You look the part, but after a couple of hours of vigorous play, you find your shoulder joint has come out of the socket and your puppet master is screaming for Mummy!
By the end of the day, you'll be melting in the microwave with another stolen Barbie Doll.
It's true.
Simply, because you've proven time and time again, you can't handle the situation when the heat it applied. And it's not like you've never had opportunities to learn and mature. Corey Black laid it all out on the table for you, every little aspect of your existence you needed to improve on, and you took none of it on board. Dakota tried to make you something more with my Cruiserweight Tag Team Titles, you just vomited on the team and continued looking the part and being nothing more.
Alex, really do you think whatever you put forth against me is going to be enough to put me under the spotlight? Is I don't choose to illuminate myself as I have here today.
NEWSFLASH!
It could be?
If only you could be better?
And that's the question, Mr. Scott. Can you be better?
Can you find the perfection that you so willfully crave to become what you claim you are destined to become?
Even if it's just for three seconds of lightning captured in a bottle...
I hope so.
Contradictory opinion? Probably.
But maybe I want someone to ask me what has been done with CruiserClash's favorite talking mascot, Norb the Wonder Dog. Maybe that is what I want? Or maybe, I was to grab a carving knife from catering and etch my name across that perfect washboard abs you proudly display for the ladies and the fellas.
Maybe...
Just maybe...
Or maybe I want to corner Lissie Hope in the bathroom and telling her how nice her hair is... not like Ben Roethlisberger.
Stop. Hammer Time.
Listen, Alex, I've told you a lot of things in the last few minutes, and each one of them is a preposition to making you a better wrestler... a better human... If you open your eyes and dig the orange goo from your ears you can become what you desire.
You look good. Damn good.
But that's where the positivity stops. Your voice is listless, and your wrestling skill is bordering on mediocre. Your ability to handle the pressure... shit that's worse Derrick Vayden, son.
You can be something, Alex.
But, right now, you are less than fucking nothing.
I am Flop.I'm your TheRapist.
Flop: If I was to look longingly at your body, chiseled from granite, with your perfectly carved jaw and your washboard abdominals, you, ribbed enough to play in a carnival band. Your hair without a strand out of place, as if it has been shaped by the hands of God herself. Your lightly tanned skin, not too light, not too orange, coloured to perfection by just enough time in the warm Californian sun.
Looking at you, Alex, you are perfection.
It's as if you born into existence to be the prototypical wrestler. The bastion of the masses, for the unwashed, to follow into the glory. God, she created you, to lead wrestling's unwashed into a new glory.
But...
Then...
Something...
Else...
Happens...
You open your mouth, to show the world your perfect pearly white teeth, and you make the awful mistake of allowing your larynx to vibrate and sound echo forth from your open orifice.
And God damn it's awful.
Each week the same cookie-cutter drivel spews forth. I'm great. I'm the future. I want it more than you. Need I go on ad infinitum.
Your words: they make me realise you were carved by the delicate hands of God herself.
OH!
MY!
FUCKING!
GOD!
NO!
You are just another generic mold, falling off the production line of Make-A-Wrestler.Com. Hell, son, I'm not even sure you come from the original factory... you're just a cheap knock-off made from the delicate hands of child labour. You look the part, but after a couple of hours of vigorous play, you find your shoulder joint has come out of the socket and your puppet master is screaming for Mummy!
By the end of the day, you'll be melting in the microwave with another stolen Barbie Doll.
It's true.
Simply, because you've proven time and time again, you can't handle the situation when the heat it applied. And it's not like you've never had opportunities to learn and mature. Corey Black laid it all out on the table for you, every little aspect of your existence you needed to improve on, and you took none of it on board. Dakota tried to make you something more with my Cruiserweight Tag Team Titles, you just vomited on the team and continued looking the part and being nothing more.
Alex, really do you think whatever you put forth against me is going to be enough to put me under the spotlight? Is I don't choose to illuminate myself as I have here today.
NEWSFLASH!
It could be?
If only you could be better?
And that's the question, Mr. Scott. Can you be better?
Can you find the perfection that you so willfully crave to become what you claim you are destined to become?
Even if it's just for three seconds of lightning captured in a bottle...
I hope so.
Contradictory opinion? Probably.
But maybe I want someone to ask me what has been done with CruiserClash's favorite talking mascot, Norb the Wonder Dog. Maybe that is what I want? Or maybe, I was to grab a carving knife from catering and etch my name across that perfect washboard abs you proudly display for the ladies and the fellas.
Maybe...
Just maybe...
Or maybe I want to corner Lissie Hope in the bathroom and telling her how nice her hair is... not like Ben Roethlisberger.
Stop. Hammer Time.
Listen, Alex, I've told you a lot of things in the last few minutes, and each one of them is a preposition to making you a better wrestler... a better human... If you open your eyes and dig the orange goo from your ears you can become what you desire.
You look good. Damn good.
But that's where the positivity stops. Your voice is listless, and your wrestling skill is bordering on mediocre. Your ability to handle the pressure... shit that's worse Derrick Vayden, son.
You can be something, Alex.
But, right now, you are less than fucking nothing.
I am Flop.I'm your TheRapist.