Post by Deleted on Mar 15, 2007 1:37:36 GMT -5
(Being a World Champion requires a combination of many things. At its very basest it requires intelligence, courage, dedication and talent. The Mind's Eye cannot be led astray. A distant, distinct glow might cause an average man to wander about aimlessly, hopes of the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow filling his mind, but not a World Champion. Being a World Champion also requires one to dissect and analyze one's flaws and weaknesses. Any bad habits and unproductive tendencies must be eliminated. Those who worship belligerence will find themselves out on their asses. The sounding board of today's youth has no interest in illiterate and nonsensical distractions. They crave rules and discipline the way that a fish craves water or Oprah craves pizza.)
BOBBY CAIRO: Let's crank up the publicity machine, gentlemen! Chaos, carnage, Armageddon and apocalypse are upon us! We gotta talk that talk if we're gonna walk that walk! I want everybody to take a long look in the mirror and examine their motivations going into War. What are your intentions? Do you intend to simply win the match by any means necessary? Or do you intend to go into that ring and put on the most impactful and memorable display in the history of professional wrestling? Because that's exactly what I'm thinking about! Bob Backlund would never settle for simply winning a match. Bob Backlund isn't a punk bitch like Lennox Lewis. Bob Backlund has always conducted himself with class and style. Cheap wins don't put the asses in the seats! Cheap wins don't make legends! Cheap wins don't make the money that puts the food on the table and the roof over the head! We need something dynamic! We need a deviant smile that lights up a room! We need an utter abandon for convention and the norm! We need panache! That's why I ask you to open your mind, close your mouth, and behold devastation!
(Peacocks are pretty, but your mother is not. Think about that, young man. Spaghetti is only spaghetti when prepared by an Italian. Mexicans cannot make it spaghetti. Chinese cannot make it spaghetti. God himself cannot make it spaghetti. Only the Italians can make it spaghetti. Cairo's motivations are interesting to me. It's almost like a serial killer who kills just to become famous. Their ambitions are so near and dear to them that it blinds them to the consequences of their actions. When a dog goes after a pork chop, he doesn't stop to question whether the pork chop is poisoned. He just eats the pork chop and doesn't think twice about the possible consequences of his actions. Cairo's blind ambition will be his undoing and his downfall. Cairo will meet with an excruciating and almost surreal...end.)
BOBBY CAIRO: Hip-hop music never meant shit to me. I wipe my ass with hip-hop music. I spit on hip-hop the same way that the Iron Sheik spits upon an American flag...or Brian Blair! Brian Blair, Tony Blair, Armando Alejandro Estrada...who the hell are all of these people anyway? Why doesn't somebody stand up to me and provide a real challenge? Get in my face, you cowards! You don't like me? Step up and do something about it! Beat my fucking face into the ground with a frying pan! I don't like you and you don't like me, it's really that simple. Lawnmower Jones is a worthless piece of shit. JJ Biggs is a worthless piece of shit. Seth Lerch is a rat and a worthless piece of shit. I don't know Skyler Striker. I've never met the young man, never wrestled him. But if I ever saw Skyler Striker I would stab him with a rusty screwdriver and laugh my ass off as he bled to death on the cold, cold ground. They're worthless trash, every last one of them. I hate them.
(British comedy? PBS is trying to sell me British comedy? If you want my money, here's an idea: Go get some sexy, sexy girls and put them on the TV. Have them take their tops off and gyrate around while generic 80s arena rock plays in the background. That's how you get my money, you fucking poofter. British comedy? What the hell is this world coming to? Lyndon Johnson might as well kick back and drink an ice cold Fresca or Fanta or whatever the freak. The last Slayer CD was another mediocre affair. It's like I gotta keep going to the underground bands to get some decent tunes these days. Sandwiches don't do anything for me anymore. They've lost all of their charm.)
BOBBY CAIRO: There's some delusional motherfuckers out there. JJ Biggs is a cocksucking, goatfucking piece of shit. You want to get in my face, Biggs? You want to get in my head, you motherfucker? I will make you weep like Jesus Christ after they nailed his ass to the cross. How about you, Lawnmower Jones? You can't seem to get enough of Bobby Cairo. Why don't I shake my dick in your face while I'm dragging your body behind a pick-up truck down in Texas? Would you like that, LJ? Would that be "cool" or "dope" or whatever the hell the kids are saying these days? I'd tell you to blow me, but you might think it was foreplay. Dan Marino never won a Super Bowl, but these clowns think they're World Championship material. Only the depraved, failed leadership of Seth Lerch would allow this to happen.
(Feast or famine or feasting on famine? The coincidences of burning crosses and burning bridges will not stand in the way of a faithless man. A faithless man has no limitations. A faithless man can reach for the stars and grasp the heavens above. It is only in the dearly departing whispers of a former lover that one can truly find terror. A horrible guilt trip on the road to recovery serves as a spiritual enema. Only those who reside furthest from reality will bat an eye. Despite these circumstances, the strong have a responsibility to foster and nurture the week. Romance is not for the faint of heart and neither is calamity. Enter these city limits at your own discretion, young man.)
BOBBY CAIRO: I have had occasions where I have been overwhelmed by light. I have also had occasions where I have been overwhelmed by sadness. I do not recall ever being overwhelmed by joy. Winning the World Championship was nice, but it did not bring me joy. Making love to Maggie Gyllenhaal did overwhelm me, but it overwhelmed me with passion not joy. What would I say about some of these guys in the War match? I know that JJ Biggs is in there. I have battled Biggs many times before. Admittedly, I have generally come out on the short end of those battles. However, I would remind the peanut gallery of the story between Ric Flair and Ricky Steamboat. Ricky Steamboat beat Ric Flair in 1,753 consecutive matches. But nobody remembered any of those matches. They only remembered the final, penultimate showdown between Flair and Steamboat. Guess who won that match? It was Ric Flair, of course. Flair won the match and the title. Of course, he was immediately piledriven through a table by Terry Funk following his great victory. But the last time I checked, Terry Funk is not making an appearance at War, so I think I will be okay! Lawnmower Jones is also a scheduled participant in the War match. Jones and I have been doing some great things lately. I cannot speak for Jones, but I am very pleased that I have hurt Jones very deeply. I believe that I have wounded Jones inside of his soul. Jones has also claimed victories in our battles. Jones has dragged me down to a level whereupon I never wanted to reside. I know that I cannot murder Jones. It would be an easy escape, but it would not solve my problems. I am already in Hell and I realize that I can never claw my way out of here. I am stuck like a milk dud between Oprah's ass cheeks. What a terrible thought.
(Every man, woman, and child must pay to play the game. There is no free ride in life. The welfare addicts and soup Nazis will ultimately reap the weary road that their actions have sown. When burning instead of earning, I hope those lazy slobs remember that it could have been different. You could have put in the work and reaped the rewards and the fruits of your labor. Instead the toil of an aborted existence will serve as a lesson to our misguided youths and recovering addicts.)
BOBBY CAIRO: Many people have requested my thoughts on Logan and Jack of Blades. They want to know what I think about the two men that have been occupying the main event scene for some time now. I do not have any interpersonal thoughts about either man. I have never stepped into a wrestling ring with either of those men. I have never met, bumped into or chatted with either of those men in any capacity. I would have to say that I regard Logan and Jack of Blades as ghosts. I say that because I see both of them on the TV, battling it out as hard as they can, but I am not convinced that they truly exist. Regardless, I would like to be in the position that they are in. I want to be in the main event. I want to wrestle with that WCF World Championship on the line. John McCain admits that he has an obsession with being President of the United States. I admit that I have an obsession with being the WCF World Champion. I want the title and I will work as hard as I have to and make every sacrifice that I have to in order to be the champion one more time. Those are my thoughts on Logan and Jack of Blades.
(How can you grind out another winner when you've lost your smile? Even the great HBK couldn't get it done. If you want a fight, go outside and confront the first ragged degenerate that you can find. If you want intellectualism, then turn off your TV, slowpoke, and gain the vision of a refined mercenary. One shot, two shots, three shots, it doesn't matter. Achieve the kill and the remains will fall into place like so many acorns dropping down on a breezy, autumn afternoon.)
BOBBY CAIRO: I've never been a paint by numbers kind of guy. I don't care for popular trends or mass-produced hysteria. I've never been enchanted or even haunted. I've heard others speak of such euphoria, but to me it all seems like some bullshit Hallmark card. I wrestle. I'm a wrestler. It's what I do. It's how I pay my bills. It's how I advance myself within our society. I'm not a politician, I'm not a musician, and I’m not a magician. I don't "love to fight". I'm not Dave Finlay. I do this shit because I get paid for it. I get paid very well for it. If I had to choose between wrestling and suicide, I would choose wrestling. If I had to choose between suicide and losing, I would choose suicide. The truth is that I do enjoy the competition. I somewhat enjoy the camaraderie, but I absolutely love the competition. I love winning. I love outwitting my opponents. I love disproving my critics. That's what makes me happy.
(If you weren't happy as a broken man, you won't be happy as a World Champion. Every nerve that we strike brings us that much closer to eternity. The tears of a bellowing giant and a decapitated Klansman are glorious apparitions, but they alone do not constitute peace. Every chaotic chapter closes with a declaration of bravery, courage and honor. This will be different, because this time I will express only uncertainty for the future. If I can survive this moment, I can achieve anything. But if my next breath is my last, what a shallow and meaningless voyage this will unveil.)
BOBBY CAIRO: Let's crank up the publicity machine, gentlemen! Chaos, carnage, Armageddon and apocalypse are upon us! We gotta talk that talk if we're gonna walk that walk! I want everybody to take a long look in the mirror and examine their motivations going into War. What are your intentions? Do you intend to simply win the match by any means necessary? Or do you intend to go into that ring and put on the most impactful and memorable display in the history of professional wrestling? Because that's exactly what I'm thinking about! Bob Backlund would never settle for simply winning a match. Bob Backlund isn't a punk bitch like Lennox Lewis. Bob Backlund has always conducted himself with class and style. Cheap wins don't put the asses in the seats! Cheap wins don't make legends! Cheap wins don't make the money that puts the food on the table and the roof over the head! We need something dynamic! We need a deviant smile that lights up a room! We need an utter abandon for convention and the norm! We need panache! That's why I ask you to open your mind, close your mouth, and behold devastation!
(Peacocks are pretty, but your mother is not. Think about that, young man. Spaghetti is only spaghetti when prepared by an Italian. Mexicans cannot make it spaghetti. Chinese cannot make it spaghetti. God himself cannot make it spaghetti. Only the Italians can make it spaghetti. Cairo's motivations are interesting to me. It's almost like a serial killer who kills just to become famous. Their ambitions are so near and dear to them that it blinds them to the consequences of their actions. When a dog goes after a pork chop, he doesn't stop to question whether the pork chop is poisoned. He just eats the pork chop and doesn't think twice about the possible consequences of his actions. Cairo's blind ambition will be his undoing and his downfall. Cairo will meet with an excruciating and almost surreal...end.)
BOBBY CAIRO: Hip-hop music never meant shit to me. I wipe my ass with hip-hop music. I spit on hip-hop the same way that the Iron Sheik spits upon an American flag...or Brian Blair! Brian Blair, Tony Blair, Armando Alejandro Estrada...who the hell are all of these people anyway? Why doesn't somebody stand up to me and provide a real challenge? Get in my face, you cowards! You don't like me? Step up and do something about it! Beat my fucking face into the ground with a frying pan! I don't like you and you don't like me, it's really that simple. Lawnmower Jones is a worthless piece of shit. JJ Biggs is a worthless piece of shit. Seth Lerch is a rat and a worthless piece of shit. I don't know Skyler Striker. I've never met the young man, never wrestled him. But if I ever saw Skyler Striker I would stab him with a rusty screwdriver and laugh my ass off as he bled to death on the cold, cold ground. They're worthless trash, every last one of them. I hate them.
(British comedy? PBS is trying to sell me British comedy? If you want my money, here's an idea: Go get some sexy, sexy girls and put them on the TV. Have them take their tops off and gyrate around while generic 80s arena rock plays in the background. That's how you get my money, you fucking poofter. British comedy? What the hell is this world coming to? Lyndon Johnson might as well kick back and drink an ice cold Fresca or Fanta or whatever the freak. The last Slayer CD was another mediocre affair. It's like I gotta keep going to the underground bands to get some decent tunes these days. Sandwiches don't do anything for me anymore. They've lost all of their charm.)
BOBBY CAIRO: There's some delusional motherfuckers out there. JJ Biggs is a cocksucking, goatfucking piece of shit. You want to get in my face, Biggs? You want to get in my head, you motherfucker? I will make you weep like Jesus Christ after they nailed his ass to the cross. How about you, Lawnmower Jones? You can't seem to get enough of Bobby Cairo. Why don't I shake my dick in your face while I'm dragging your body behind a pick-up truck down in Texas? Would you like that, LJ? Would that be "cool" or "dope" or whatever the hell the kids are saying these days? I'd tell you to blow me, but you might think it was foreplay. Dan Marino never won a Super Bowl, but these clowns think they're World Championship material. Only the depraved, failed leadership of Seth Lerch would allow this to happen.
(Feast or famine or feasting on famine? The coincidences of burning crosses and burning bridges will not stand in the way of a faithless man. A faithless man has no limitations. A faithless man can reach for the stars and grasp the heavens above. It is only in the dearly departing whispers of a former lover that one can truly find terror. A horrible guilt trip on the road to recovery serves as a spiritual enema. Only those who reside furthest from reality will bat an eye. Despite these circumstances, the strong have a responsibility to foster and nurture the week. Romance is not for the faint of heart and neither is calamity. Enter these city limits at your own discretion, young man.)
BOBBY CAIRO: I have had occasions where I have been overwhelmed by light. I have also had occasions where I have been overwhelmed by sadness. I do not recall ever being overwhelmed by joy. Winning the World Championship was nice, but it did not bring me joy. Making love to Maggie Gyllenhaal did overwhelm me, but it overwhelmed me with passion not joy. What would I say about some of these guys in the War match? I know that JJ Biggs is in there. I have battled Biggs many times before. Admittedly, I have generally come out on the short end of those battles. However, I would remind the peanut gallery of the story between Ric Flair and Ricky Steamboat. Ricky Steamboat beat Ric Flair in 1,753 consecutive matches. But nobody remembered any of those matches. They only remembered the final, penultimate showdown between Flair and Steamboat. Guess who won that match? It was Ric Flair, of course. Flair won the match and the title. Of course, he was immediately piledriven through a table by Terry Funk following his great victory. But the last time I checked, Terry Funk is not making an appearance at War, so I think I will be okay! Lawnmower Jones is also a scheduled participant in the War match. Jones and I have been doing some great things lately. I cannot speak for Jones, but I am very pleased that I have hurt Jones very deeply. I believe that I have wounded Jones inside of his soul. Jones has also claimed victories in our battles. Jones has dragged me down to a level whereupon I never wanted to reside. I know that I cannot murder Jones. It would be an easy escape, but it would not solve my problems. I am already in Hell and I realize that I can never claw my way out of here. I am stuck like a milk dud between Oprah's ass cheeks. What a terrible thought.
(Every man, woman, and child must pay to play the game. There is no free ride in life. The welfare addicts and soup Nazis will ultimately reap the weary road that their actions have sown. When burning instead of earning, I hope those lazy slobs remember that it could have been different. You could have put in the work and reaped the rewards and the fruits of your labor. Instead the toil of an aborted existence will serve as a lesson to our misguided youths and recovering addicts.)
BOBBY CAIRO: Many people have requested my thoughts on Logan and Jack of Blades. They want to know what I think about the two men that have been occupying the main event scene for some time now. I do not have any interpersonal thoughts about either man. I have never stepped into a wrestling ring with either of those men. I have never met, bumped into or chatted with either of those men in any capacity. I would have to say that I regard Logan and Jack of Blades as ghosts. I say that because I see both of them on the TV, battling it out as hard as they can, but I am not convinced that they truly exist. Regardless, I would like to be in the position that they are in. I want to be in the main event. I want to wrestle with that WCF World Championship on the line. John McCain admits that he has an obsession with being President of the United States. I admit that I have an obsession with being the WCF World Champion. I want the title and I will work as hard as I have to and make every sacrifice that I have to in order to be the champion one more time. Those are my thoughts on Logan and Jack of Blades.
(How can you grind out another winner when you've lost your smile? Even the great HBK couldn't get it done. If you want a fight, go outside and confront the first ragged degenerate that you can find. If you want intellectualism, then turn off your TV, slowpoke, and gain the vision of a refined mercenary. One shot, two shots, three shots, it doesn't matter. Achieve the kill and the remains will fall into place like so many acorns dropping down on a breezy, autumn afternoon.)
BOBBY CAIRO: I've never been a paint by numbers kind of guy. I don't care for popular trends or mass-produced hysteria. I've never been enchanted or even haunted. I've heard others speak of such euphoria, but to me it all seems like some bullshit Hallmark card. I wrestle. I'm a wrestler. It's what I do. It's how I pay my bills. It's how I advance myself within our society. I'm not a politician, I'm not a musician, and I’m not a magician. I don't "love to fight". I'm not Dave Finlay. I do this shit because I get paid for it. I get paid very well for it. If I had to choose between wrestling and suicide, I would choose wrestling. If I had to choose between suicide and losing, I would choose suicide. The truth is that I do enjoy the competition. I somewhat enjoy the camaraderie, but I absolutely love the competition. I love winning. I love outwitting my opponents. I love disproving my critics. That's what makes me happy.
(If you weren't happy as a broken man, you won't be happy as a World Champion. Every nerve that we strike brings us that much closer to eternity. The tears of a bellowing giant and a decapitated Klansman are glorious apparitions, but they alone do not constitute peace. Every chaotic chapter closes with a declaration of bravery, courage and honor. This will be different, because this time I will express only uncertainty for the future. If I can survive this moment, I can achieve anything. But if my next breath is my last, what a shallow and meaningless voyage this will unveil.)
