Is...Is this Racist? (AKA The Return of Text Bat)
Apr 10, 2016 15:40:20 GMT -5
Wade Moor and Dustin Beaver like this
Post by Benjamin Atreyu on Apr 10, 2016 15:40:20 GMT -5
Coming back to Minnesota feels like waking up.
...And its fucking awful...
Despite only spending a little over a month out of state, I can tell the Texas weather has spoiled me. The wind here, despite being deep into spring, is still somewhat bitter and I have no interest in being outside. I close the blinds to my bedroom window and rub my forehead in frustration as my brain is enraptured in a bitter lethargic dispute with itself. Like tar filling up my skull...
No more trilogy cup...
No world title shot...
No more escaping...
No more Mad God...
The continuation of my career after the bleak result of my recent efforts will prove to make pressing onward ever more difficult. The treacherous landscape which pushes itself upon me wills a certain fugue state which...
RIIIIING...RIIIING.
I answer the phone.
"Hello?"
"Nigga...where you at?!"
"Um...who is this?"
"This is text-bat, you dumb honky! Get your shit together, muffuck. We goin' into da studio 'n' shit. We gonna bust one out, so you bess get your ass there in a hurry. Ya dig?"
"...What?"
"NIGGA WE GONNA BUST ON THAT DARK ASS PIECE OF SOFTWARE NAMED LUCY! Damn, white boys need me to spell errthing out for them."
"Oh hell ya!"
Click
Shit was getting too depressing anyways.
-MG/TB-
Awwwww shit, nigga! Text bat! DJ BJ, BENJY-SUPREME! Back at it muddafuckas! Twenty sixteen! We about to crush some bitches AND some pussy, so ya'll just betta watch up in here, because its about to get HAWT, boi! You thought that was a one time deal? Hell naw! Text bat 4 lyfe, biotch. You don't even know how to handle yerself right now, the hype is so fukkin' real. Y'all dirty niggas thought you was safe, but my boy is about to go hawd in the paint and pull out some cold ass shit on you bitches!
Dre... DRE. I can't hear the snare in my headphones! Turn up the snare in my headphones...Bitch, I swear to god, if you keep on with this shit, you can go back to producin' for that bitch-ass skinny fuckin' white boy as he does his songs about murderin' his Ex and fuckin' some celeb no one cares about. So for all that is holy, turn up the muffuckin' snare in my muffuckin' headphones! Lets get this shit started!
"How is it that I can partake in THE biggest tournament this year, fight in some of the biggest matches this year, go toe-to-toe with some of the biggest stars in this industry, and still find only one show later to be booked against the likes of...Lucy Starr?! Did I not put on one of the greatest matches in this company's LONG history when I faced Jared Holmes in the second round of the Trilogy Cup? Did that tape magically get lost?! Because I remember it being a fucking hard fought bout. Did Seth see something differently? Did I do something to piss him off? Was it how I acted as Head of Talent Relations? Was it how I handed the title off to KL Henson? What did I do, Seth?! For fuck sake, what could I have done to deserved to be booked against the likes of Lucy 'I like Candles, dark empty hallways n Shit' Starr!?"
Aw shit. Beej Knees is all frustrated with booking, y'all! And he gunna take it out on bitch-boy Patrick Star. Dat Criss Angel lookin' piece of ass-garbage! Take a pitcha of that nigga ri'now cuz he ain't gonna look like that when he walk outta that ring at Slam. Ben-boy gonna KILL his ass. Like straight-up murrrdaaaaa!
"Why do you like trudging me through the shit? Why does it have to be me? Was there no one else you could have put in this spot? Did you need a match that EVERYONE knew the outcome to?
"And before you get all bitchy, Starr-boy, and claim that I'm insulting your ability as a performer...Yes, yes I am. Its not even that I'm THAT GOOD...which I am...its about how you are just fucking awful. Even a retard with half an eye and a pair of keys being jingled in front of him can see that this is not a match. This is a mess. The product of the inconsistent nature of management (with the exception of the consistently insane actions of House of Ophelia's very own KL Henson). Its a goddamn shame is what it is.
"Yeah, sure I've heard you make a lot of noise a while ago about how you're a living legend in this industry, but Legends are just miserable fuckwads screaming for someone to pull the rug out from under them so they can hang themselves on the rope of stories they've weaved about themselves. Trust me, Living Legend Lucy, talk all you want, no one to stop you, but as soon as I decide to put you down, it's basically done."
FUCK WHERE YA FROM! FUCK WHERE YA BEEN! Bee Aye is gonna break that cockstain like Record Sales broke LL Cool J. THATS RIGHT! I'M CALLING OUT COOL J! MUFFUCK THINK HE CAN DO NCIS MIAMI OR SOME SHIT AND NO ONE WOULD SAY ANYTHING?! That straight shit TV, yo. Formulaic story-structure, and weak ass character arc garbage, bruh. Word. But we ain't done yet, we about to turn this shit up and torch some cuckold performers. Anarchists can't riot as hard as we are about to on this pipe-dream-having-shit sneezer.
"Lucille, I'm sure you don't want to be here. I don't mean WCF- well, maybe you've realized your mistake with signing here, but that's neither here nor there- I'm talking about in this position, facing off against 'The Mad God' who is seething after a pretty shitty loss. That's a pretty well known danger spot, kid, ask a number of dip shits who've been shoved headfirst into that game, if half of them still work here. Some dumb bitches have made the mistake of thinking of it as a perfect time to try and knock me on my ass, but anyone worth his weight will know better. This ain't a ring for no-ones, only real bitter fucks with boots of glue have the staying power to stick around when a storm hits. That isn't you, Lucy-loo. This shit is about to sweep you right off your feet and knock into some bum-fucking nowhere state six hundred miles from that ring.
"So, let me make a proposal. Sunday, you're going to be driving down to the arena from your hotel, and for all intent and purposes, you're most likely going to be hyping yourself up to get into the proper headspace for your match against me. Left turn here, right turn there. You're probably listening to some shitty generic band that best echoes your tragically uninspiring personality. Eventually, you'll see the arena's lights off in the distance, and before you know it, there is only one turn left, and its into the parking lot. This is where my proposal comes in...drive right on passed it.
"Don't make that turn. Just keep going, find a nice restaurant, and instead of eating the dirt and tasting defeat, you get to have a pleasant dinner. What more could you ask for? I'm giving you an out. I won't think any less of you as a competitor. In fact, it'll show just how damn smart you really are, because I swear to god, if you decide to show up, there is nothing I can do for you. Its all on you at that point.
"So, the scenario is set up. This crowd will be jumping and yelling, I'll be bearing my teeth, shitbox, you going to be smart? Its your move, Lucky Luce."
Damn nigga, how you gunna turn that shit down? I'd take that chance. I mean, I ain't no bitch nigga, Text Bat is the bossest of all disembodied voices and shit, but if I was you, a real pipe-TAKING nigga, I'd probably take his offer and eat some pasta or soup. Julio...JULIO!...JULIO! Whats that desert shit that them Italians stuff in their faces?...JULIO!!!...Cono-something, right?...Cannoli? Yeah, Lucy, go and eat a cannoli intead of BB-8 AT-AT's big throbbin' dick. Ya dig? We ain't got time for yer dumb fuckin' face.
"Honestly, I'm getting no joy by shit talking you. I'm tired. Every day it seems I'm losing a bit more faith in the company finding the right spot for me, because this low on the card sure as shit isn't it. So, believe when I say that this is merely a formality that I give to the company to fulfill contractual obligations, because you aren't worth me CHOOSING to spend time on you. EVERYONE knows I'm better. EVERYONE knows this match is a big ole' space filler. Every bit of trash talk has been redundant, because there is no point in this ridiculous display of machismo, but since I have to, I will, and I will use every second to place the brutal honesty of the situation upon the your head, Shooting Starr."
B-Boy Yeyo don't even wanna fuck wit you. You see dat? Fuck it. If he don't wanna shoot on yer dyed hair ass of stupid, then let Text bat take it for a bit, yo!
Who da fuck do you think you are? Comin' here and actin' like you know shit. Nah, you don't know shit, nigga. When was the last time you took a test, y'all think you could pass math, muffucka? Nah, text-bat would own your ass in Geometry, Art, History, Science, English (fucka think I don't read Carson McCullers or Faulkner juss cuz I talk like this? Ig'nant fuck!), then I'd fuck your bitch and take her to prom. I'm prom king seven years runnin' niggy-nig!
Man, you wanna come in and act like you some kinna king or sumthin', you gonna hafta learn yer place, boiiii. I'm just a disembodied voice, but I could beat ya silly, whip out my dick, slap you wit it, and people'd call you gay, homie. That's how much cred I have when I walk through the club, get me? I can see it now, my penis on yer face and everyone in the arena chantin' TEXT! BAT! TEXT! BAT! TEXT! BAT! How you gunna explain that story to yer kids, mang? Ain't enough context in the world gonna make shit make sense.
Yo gunna be like "a voice from the sky done came down on me and put his dick in my face, and people were all happy, yo! Like, life is weird, man." Man, why you still talking about my dick, yo? Thats not cool. You gotta move on. we already in the future, bruh! We cashin our checks while you're still doin' the dishes. Where your head at, mang?...Anyone remember that song? Julio, you remember that song? You know the one, where its like WHEEEERE YOURRRR HEAAAD AAAAT-AT-AT-AT WHERE YOUR HEAD AT?! WHERE YOUR HEAD AT?! You remember? Nah? Man, fuck you. Ain't no body ask you. Shut the fuck up.
Back on topic, Lucy. If you show your magician-face-havin' ass at Slam, Benjy fixin' to put a hole through it. And not like half-a-hole like in the Beatle's seminal classic Yellow Submarine, I mean like a WHOLE HOLE!. See what I did there. A whole hole. Its a play on words and shit, cuz they sound a like. Get it? Doesn't matter. First, you gunna taste a fist, then you gonna taste nuttin' but smoothies for the next fitty years, ya hear?
Man, when we done wit you. You gunna look weirder than Yeezus sounds. And know what, fuck haters. Dat album was fuckin' dope. Fuck y'all for hatin on when people try new weird shit. If people didn't try to stick their dicks soundwaves, we'd all be listening to Pat Boone and shit still. You hear his "Tootie Fruity" or whateva it was called? SOULLESS NIGGA! So, yeah, Yeezus sounds weird, but so do yer farts, nigga, but ain't nobody yelling at you for cuttin' one. Unless you in an elevator, but that some shady-nigga shit. You don't cut that shit where a bunch of people have to stand close together.
Ya know, thats kinda what you are, Lucy. An elevator fart, and thats some fucked shit. So stop being a bitch, listen to some Yeezy, and get with the times, boi. Ain't no legend better than Yeethoven, so get with it.
Text-bat, and DJ BJ out. House of Oh-Feel-ya-later, chumps. WCF Records. Peace.
...And its fucking awful...
Despite only spending a little over a month out of state, I can tell the Texas weather has spoiled me. The wind here, despite being deep into spring, is still somewhat bitter and I have no interest in being outside. I close the blinds to my bedroom window and rub my forehead in frustration as my brain is enraptured in a bitter lethargic dispute with itself. Like tar filling up my skull...
No more trilogy cup...
No world title shot...
No more escaping...
No more Mad God...
The continuation of my career after the bleak result of my recent efforts will prove to make pressing onward ever more difficult. The treacherous landscape which pushes itself upon me wills a certain fugue state which...
RIIIIING...RIIIING.
I answer the phone.
"Hello?"
"Nigga...where you at?!"
"Um...who is this?"
"This is text-bat, you dumb honky! Get your shit together, muffuck. We goin' into da studio 'n' shit. We gonna bust one out, so you bess get your ass there in a hurry. Ya dig?"
"...What?"
"NIGGA WE GONNA BUST ON THAT DARK ASS PIECE OF SOFTWARE NAMED LUCY! Damn, white boys need me to spell errthing out for them."
"Oh hell ya!"
Click
Shit was getting too depressing anyways.
-MG/TB-
Awwwww shit, nigga! Text bat! DJ BJ, BENJY-SUPREME! Back at it muddafuckas! Twenty sixteen! We about to crush some bitches AND some pussy, so ya'll just betta watch up in here, because its about to get HAWT, boi! You thought that was a one time deal? Hell naw! Text bat 4 lyfe, biotch. You don't even know how to handle yerself right now, the hype is so fukkin' real. Y'all dirty niggas thought you was safe, but my boy is about to go hawd in the paint and pull out some cold ass shit on you bitches!
Dre... DRE. I can't hear the snare in my headphones! Turn up the snare in my headphones...Bitch, I swear to god, if you keep on with this shit, you can go back to producin' for that bitch-ass skinny fuckin' white boy as he does his songs about murderin' his Ex and fuckin' some celeb no one cares about. So for all that is holy, turn up the muffuckin' snare in my muffuckin' headphones! Lets get this shit started!
"How is it that I can partake in THE biggest tournament this year, fight in some of the biggest matches this year, go toe-to-toe with some of the biggest stars in this industry, and still find only one show later to be booked against the likes of...Lucy Starr?! Did I not put on one of the greatest matches in this company's LONG history when I faced Jared Holmes in the second round of the Trilogy Cup? Did that tape magically get lost?! Because I remember it being a fucking hard fought bout. Did Seth see something differently? Did I do something to piss him off? Was it how I acted as Head of Talent Relations? Was it how I handed the title off to KL Henson? What did I do, Seth?! For fuck sake, what could I have done to deserved to be booked against the likes of Lucy 'I like Candles, dark empty hallways n Shit' Starr!?"
Aw shit. Beej Knees is all frustrated with booking, y'all! And he gunna take it out on bitch-boy Patrick Star. Dat Criss Angel lookin' piece of ass-garbage! Take a pitcha of that nigga ri'now cuz he ain't gonna look like that when he walk outta that ring at Slam. Ben-boy gonna KILL his ass. Like straight-up murrrdaaaaa!
"Why do you like trudging me through the shit? Why does it have to be me? Was there no one else you could have put in this spot? Did you need a match that EVERYONE knew the outcome to?
"And before you get all bitchy, Starr-boy, and claim that I'm insulting your ability as a performer...Yes, yes I am. Its not even that I'm THAT GOOD...which I am...its about how you are just fucking awful. Even a retard with half an eye and a pair of keys being jingled in front of him can see that this is not a match. This is a mess. The product of the inconsistent nature of management (with the exception of the consistently insane actions of House of Ophelia's very own KL Henson). Its a goddamn shame is what it is.
"Yeah, sure I've heard you make a lot of noise a while ago about how you're a living legend in this industry, but Legends are just miserable fuckwads screaming for someone to pull the rug out from under them so they can hang themselves on the rope of stories they've weaved about themselves. Trust me, Living Legend Lucy, talk all you want, no one to stop you, but as soon as I decide to put you down, it's basically done."
FUCK WHERE YA FROM! FUCK WHERE YA BEEN! Bee Aye is gonna break that cockstain like Record Sales broke LL Cool J. THATS RIGHT! I'M CALLING OUT COOL J! MUFFUCK THINK HE CAN DO NCIS MIAMI OR SOME SHIT AND NO ONE WOULD SAY ANYTHING?! That straight shit TV, yo. Formulaic story-structure, and weak ass character arc garbage, bruh. Word. But we ain't done yet, we about to turn this shit up and torch some cuckold performers. Anarchists can't riot as hard as we are about to on this pipe-dream-having-shit sneezer.
"Lucille, I'm sure you don't want to be here. I don't mean WCF- well, maybe you've realized your mistake with signing here, but that's neither here nor there- I'm talking about in this position, facing off against 'The Mad God' who is seething after a pretty shitty loss. That's a pretty well known danger spot, kid, ask a number of dip shits who've been shoved headfirst into that game, if half of them still work here. Some dumb bitches have made the mistake of thinking of it as a perfect time to try and knock me on my ass, but anyone worth his weight will know better. This ain't a ring for no-ones, only real bitter fucks with boots of glue have the staying power to stick around when a storm hits. That isn't you, Lucy-loo. This shit is about to sweep you right off your feet and knock into some bum-fucking nowhere state six hundred miles from that ring.
"So, let me make a proposal. Sunday, you're going to be driving down to the arena from your hotel, and for all intent and purposes, you're most likely going to be hyping yourself up to get into the proper headspace for your match against me. Left turn here, right turn there. You're probably listening to some shitty generic band that best echoes your tragically uninspiring personality. Eventually, you'll see the arena's lights off in the distance, and before you know it, there is only one turn left, and its into the parking lot. This is where my proposal comes in...drive right on passed it.
"Don't make that turn. Just keep going, find a nice restaurant, and instead of eating the dirt and tasting defeat, you get to have a pleasant dinner. What more could you ask for? I'm giving you an out. I won't think any less of you as a competitor. In fact, it'll show just how damn smart you really are, because I swear to god, if you decide to show up, there is nothing I can do for you. Its all on you at that point.
"So, the scenario is set up. This crowd will be jumping and yelling, I'll be bearing my teeth, shitbox, you going to be smart? Its your move, Lucky Luce."
Damn nigga, how you gunna turn that shit down? I'd take that chance. I mean, I ain't no bitch nigga, Text Bat is the bossest of all disembodied voices and shit, but if I was you, a real pipe-TAKING nigga, I'd probably take his offer and eat some pasta or soup. Julio...JULIO!...JULIO! Whats that desert shit that them Italians stuff in their faces?...JULIO!!!...Cono-something, right?...Cannoli? Yeah, Lucy, go and eat a cannoli intead of BB-8 AT-AT's big throbbin' dick. Ya dig? We ain't got time for yer dumb fuckin' face.
"Honestly, I'm getting no joy by shit talking you. I'm tired. Every day it seems I'm losing a bit more faith in the company finding the right spot for me, because this low on the card sure as shit isn't it. So, believe when I say that this is merely a formality that I give to the company to fulfill contractual obligations, because you aren't worth me CHOOSING to spend time on you. EVERYONE knows I'm better. EVERYONE knows this match is a big ole' space filler. Every bit of trash talk has been redundant, because there is no point in this ridiculous display of machismo, but since I have to, I will, and I will use every second to place the brutal honesty of the situation upon the your head, Shooting Starr."
B-Boy Yeyo don't even wanna fuck wit you. You see dat? Fuck it. If he don't wanna shoot on yer dyed hair ass of stupid, then let Text bat take it for a bit, yo!
Who da fuck do you think you are? Comin' here and actin' like you know shit. Nah, you don't know shit, nigga. When was the last time you took a test, y'all think you could pass math, muffucka? Nah, text-bat would own your ass in Geometry, Art, History, Science, English (fucka think I don't read Carson McCullers or Faulkner juss cuz I talk like this? Ig'nant fuck!), then I'd fuck your bitch and take her to prom. I'm prom king seven years runnin' niggy-nig!
Man, you wanna come in and act like you some kinna king or sumthin', you gonna hafta learn yer place, boiiii. I'm just a disembodied voice, but I could beat ya silly, whip out my dick, slap you wit it, and people'd call you gay, homie. That's how much cred I have when I walk through the club, get me? I can see it now, my penis on yer face and everyone in the arena chantin' TEXT! BAT! TEXT! BAT! TEXT! BAT! How you gunna explain that story to yer kids, mang? Ain't enough context in the world gonna make shit make sense.
Yo gunna be like "a voice from the sky done came down on me and put his dick in my face, and people were all happy, yo! Like, life is weird, man." Man, why you still talking about my dick, yo? Thats not cool. You gotta move on. we already in the future, bruh! We cashin our checks while you're still doin' the dishes. Where your head at, mang?...Anyone remember that song? Julio, you remember that song? You know the one, where its like WHEEEERE YOURRRR HEAAAD AAAAT-AT-AT-AT WHERE YOUR HEAD AT?! WHERE YOUR HEAD AT?! You remember? Nah? Man, fuck you. Ain't no body ask you. Shut the fuck up.
Back on topic, Lucy. If you show your magician-face-havin' ass at Slam, Benjy fixin' to put a hole through it. And not like half-a-hole like in the Beatle's seminal classic Yellow Submarine, I mean like a WHOLE HOLE!. See what I did there. A whole hole. Its a play on words and shit, cuz they sound a like. Get it? Doesn't matter. First, you gunna taste a fist, then you gonna taste nuttin' but smoothies for the next fitty years, ya hear?
Man, when we done wit you. You gunna look weirder than Yeezus sounds. And know what, fuck haters. Dat album was fuckin' dope. Fuck y'all for hatin on when people try new weird shit. If people didn't try to stick their dicks soundwaves, we'd all be listening to Pat Boone and shit still. You hear his "Tootie Fruity" or whateva it was called? SOULLESS NIGGA! So, yeah, Yeezus sounds weird, but so do yer farts, nigga, but ain't nobody yelling at you for cuttin' one. Unless you in an elevator, but that some shady-nigga shit. You don't cut that shit where a bunch of people have to stand close together.
Ya know, thats kinda what you are, Lucy. An elevator fart, and thats some fucked shit. So stop being a bitch, listen to some Yeezy, and get with the times, boi. Ain't no legend better than Yeethoven, so get with it.
Text-bat, and DJ BJ out. House of Oh-Feel-ya-later, chumps. WCF Records. Peace.
