[Whealdon] I Don't Give A Shit About Wood, I'm Not A Chemist
Feb 18, 2021 20:30:36 GMT -5
Mongo the Destroyer, Justin, and 2 more like this
Post by The Colossus on Feb 18, 2021 20:30:36 GMT -5
Pete Whealdon,
The greatest “what if?” in wrestling history has been enjoying his time as both a sober man and a successful organic smoothie or whatever the fuck they put in those kale shakes that make you fart off weight chain.
But, what hadn’t changed about Whealdon, was the fire. The fire that drives men like him to get out of bed, probably out of bed with your mother or sister, he ain’t choosy. Put on his bespoke shoes, a linen shirt that would be considered criminally under buttoned on anyone else, properly tailored shorts, and aviator sunglasses and head down to “work”.
Work today was giving a press conference at his exclusive smoothie bar just off Montana Avenue. The Wrestling press was gathering, and Whealdon was charging them politician dinner prices for access.
He was late. Not because he hadn’t become punctual in the last five years, and manicured, and tanned in a healthy way.
Might as well bilk these clowns for a few extra dollars, he had an idea about opening one of these shops in San Francisco in the business district, and Money even in Southern California apparently doesn’t grow on trees as the old saw might intone.
Parking behind his shop, an employee, attractive, young, being paid mostly in exposure tried to tell Mister with a capital fucking M Whealdon something, but it was waved away as idle chatter. Cascading through the open Kitchen to the assembled press, he surveyed them. Slobs, the whole lot of them.
“Alright,
Everyone bought something I hope?”
Eyeing one reporter who it should be said was not unattractive herself.
“What about you fatty? We make a killer Kale and other things shake that could really get you into spring bikini fashion.”
In the #metoo era, there are probably enough questions about casual misogyny that could fill an entire book.
“Moving along,
It’s been a long long time since I called together the “esteemed” wrestling press with the kind of urgent details that used to keep so many of you awake at night.
And I wanted to say first off, I am a changed man. I have a beard now, as you can see, and more importantly, I am clean and sober. Going on a half-decade, that means, unfortunately, there won’t be any hot paparazzi shots of me driving with my feet down rodeo drive throwing money at Gucci.
By the looks of the state of wrestling, it looks like I am coming back not a single moment too soon.
Some of you expressed early surprise at why I might choose to chase the XHF Trios Title.
And frankly, your surprise is right on, as usual. But let’s face it, even though Dylan Black, a wrestler who before somehow managing to outfucking Eric Dane, Eric Dane was a complete unknown to me has a belt that you can get shots for offering trinkets and garbage for, he turned down the very real 3-month sobriety chip that I offered. This is too bad because while he may be the least lead-damaged fish in a forgotten drainage pond next to an abandoned steel mill, his lack of understanding of the basic fundamentals of cards made me think I could not only take his belt but completely fuck him at the card table with my advanced knowledge of suits.
So that means We’ve got to build this house from the ground up, brick by brick. Because while these fucking clowns were masturbating to the fish half of the little mermaid while I was facing off against the likes Seymor Almasy and Castor Van Strife high out of mind, they don’t know what that means.”
Whealdon lowers his glasses.
“And as always, I think we can cut to the formalities of announcing my tag team partners for the very real and prestigious championship I had an intern sign us up for.”
Several Employees wheel out two lockers, some might describe them as Adjacent. They have seen many many better days, but many far worse ones ahead. The old NWA logo is barely a visible screen print on them at this point.
Now, I know, everyone in this tournament thinks they are hot shit, from… Well, whatever. The fact is, since everyone in this tournament appears to either be some kind of animitronic dumpster seconds away from being a fire, or a time traveling cannibal whatever. I figured the best way to introduce myself to the XHF, and deliver what I think the lot of you might feel is the appropriate “fuck you” is to bring a couple of cans my self. But the key difference here is boys.. Girls.. “
He looks at one of his employees who shrugs.
“You are supposed to give me these details so I know who the fuck I am talking about. There aren’t pansexual unicorns or some other detritus from the bush leagues I need to be thinking about right?”
The Employee perks up
“Well, Mister…”
Whealdon waves him off.
“Great great.
The difference here is unlike, let’s say the fourth team that signed up, these two have actually lasted long enough to be trustworthy. They have held many prestigious championships that you haven’t heard of. When I say prestigious, you can think of them as being the urinal cake in the urinal as opposed to whatever the fuck you are supposed to be exactly.
Based on my read of the entire network, I’m guessing confused parrots out for revenge from the future on the past.
Who the fuck knows.
Long story short, XHF thrives on garbage, so I got some off the scrap heap to make sure at least two members of my team would be familiar to you. As for the rest of the tournament, consider it officially mine. I know that’s going to engender a lot of responses and butt hurt talk like “Who the fuck do you think you are?” and sentiments akin to this, but don’t worry.
I didn’t care who you were teams not including me before this press conference, and after I march through whatever qualifies as your best shot, I expect you to pay me back child support for spawning the lot of you failures.”
The greatest “what if?” in wrestling history has been enjoying his time as both a sober man and a successful organic smoothie or whatever the fuck they put in those kale shakes that make you fart off weight chain.
But, what hadn’t changed about Whealdon, was the fire. The fire that drives men like him to get out of bed, probably out of bed with your mother or sister, he ain’t choosy. Put on his bespoke shoes, a linen shirt that would be considered criminally under buttoned on anyone else, properly tailored shorts, and aviator sunglasses and head down to “work”.
Work today was giving a press conference at his exclusive smoothie bar just off Montana Avenue. The Wrestling press was gathering, and Whealdon was charging them politician dinner prices for access.
He was late. Not because he hadn’t become punctual in the last five years, and manicured, and tanned in a healthy way.
Might as well bilk these clowns for a few extra dollars, he had an idea about opening one of these shops in San Francisco in the business district, and Money even in Southern California apparently doesn’t grow on trees as the old saw might intone.
Parking behind his shop, an employee, attractive, young, being paid mostly in exposure tried to tell Mister with a capital fucking M Whealdon something, but it was waved away as idle chatter. Cascading through the open Kitchen to the assembled press, he surveyed them. Slobs, the whole lot of them.
“Alright,
Everyone bought something I hope?”
Eyeing one reporter who it should be said was not unattractive herself.
“What about you fatty? We make a killer Kale and other things shake that could really get you into spring bikini fashion.”
In the #metoo era, there are probably enough questions about casual misogyny that could fill an entire book.
“Moving along,
It’s been a long long time since I called together the “esteemed” wrestling press with the kind of urgent details that used to keep so many of you awake at night.
And I wanted to say first off, I am a changed man. I have a beard now, as you can see, and more importantly, I am clean and sober. Going on a half-decade, that means, unfortunately, there won’t be any hot paparazzi shots of me driving with my feet down rodeo drive throwing money at Gucci.
By the looks of the state of wrestling, it looks like I am coming back not a single moment too soon.
Some of you expressed early surprise at why I might choose to chase the XHF Trios Title.
And frankly, your surprise is right on, as usual. But let’s face it, even though Dylan Black, a wrestler who before somehow managing to outfucking Eric Dane, Eric Dane was a complete unknown to me has a belt that you can get shots for offering trinkets and garbage for, he turned down the very real 3-month sobriety chip that I offered. This is too bad because while he may be the least lead-damaged fish in a forgotten drainage pond next to an abandoned steel mill, his lack of understanding of the basic fundamentals of cards made me think I could not only take his belt but completely fuck him at the card table with my advanced knowledge of suits.
So that means We’ve got to build this house from the ground up, brick by brick. Because while these fucking clowns were masturbating to the fish half of the little mermaid while I was facing off against the likes Seymor Almasy and Castor Van Strife high out of mind, they don’t know what that means.”
Whealdon lowers his glasses.
“And as always, I think we can cut to the formalities of announcing my tag team partners for the very real and prestigious championship I had an intern sign us up for.”
Several Employees wheel out two lockers, some might describe them as Adjacent. They have seen many many better days, but many far worse ones ahead. The old NWA logo is barely a visible screen print on them at this point.
Now, I know, everyone in this tournament thinks they are hot shit, from… Well, whatever. The fact is, since everyone in this tournament appears to either be some kind of animitronic dumpster seconds away from being a fire, or a time traveling cannibal whatever. I figured the best way to introduce myself to the XHF, and deliver what I think the lot of you might feel is the appropriate “fuck you” is to bring a couple of cans my self. But the key difference here is boys.. Girls.. “
He looks at one of his employees who shrugs.
“You are supposed to give me these details so I know who the fuck I am talking about. There aren’t pansexual unicorns or some other detritus from the bush leagues I need to be thinking about right?”
The Employee perks up
“Well, Mister…”
Whealdon waves him off.
“Great great.
The difference here is unlike, let’s say the fourth team that signed up, these two have actually lasted long enough to be trustworthy. They have held many prestigious championships that you haven’t heard of. When I say prestigious, you can think of them as being the urinal cake in the urinal as opposed to whatever the fuck you are supposed to be exactly.
Based on my read of the entire network, I’m guessing confused parrots out for revenge from the future on the past.
Who the fuck knows.
Long story short, XHF thrives on garbage, so I got some off the scrap heap to make sure at least two members of my team would be familiar to you. As for the rest of the tournament, consider it officially mine. I know that’s going to engender a lot of responses and butt hurt talk like “Who the fuck do you think you are?” and sentiments akin to this, but don’t worry.
I didn’t care who you were teams not including me before this press conference, and after I march through whatever qualifies as your best shot, I expect you to pay me back child support for spawning the lot of you failures.”