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Mike Best

League Member
Feb 21, 2015
Chicago, IL
My name is Michael Lee Best, and I’m going to win Battlemania.

You see that? That’s called a “thesis statement”. In the modern English language, it’s how we convey the subject of a discussion. It presents an argument, and lets the reader know that all the words that follow it will be used in some way to help validate that argument. You might read it in an essay, hear it in a conversation, or have it patronizingly explained to you in a blog. And if right now you’re wondering why I have to explain a basic rule of human communication to you in a condescending, passive aggressive way, then you’re not alone.

Because I don’t fucking get it either.

Maybe if I was walking down a dark alley in the rain, talking to myself like literally no one in the universe ever would, I would understand how a person can be so terrible at basic human communication. Maybe if this blog faded in, or spent four fucking paragraphs describing a drop of water on a stupid fucking leaf, the logic would burn a little brighter in my mind’s eye. Maybe, just maybe, if I was writing this in my full wrestling attire, literally ONE ENTIRE MONTH BEFORE THE EVENT IS SET TO BEGIN, the understanding would strike my on the skull like Newton’s fucking apple, and all of it would be clear.

Boy, wouldn’t that be great?

Wouldn’t it be wonderful, if I could just be one of you? I wouldn’t have to patronizingly explain the basic rules of human interaction to twenty nine other grown ups. I wouldn’t have to stand toe to toe with Mary Sue Pipebomb and explain to her that adults send text messages to their boyfriends, they don’t have entire public conversations with them on Twitter. I wouldn’t have to shake the goth jewelry off of a billionaire model rockstar actress artist WHO IS LYK OMG ALSO TOTALLY A MOM AND A WRESTLER AND IN NINETEEN HALL OF FAMES until she stopped trying to invent a new, even darker way to describe the darkness.


But shucks, silly old Mike Best just can’t get with the times. I’m still stuck on antiquated, out of style fads like “logic” and “believability”. I just can’t stop trying to find the cure for Superhero Syndrome. My High Octane biography doesn’t list every single minor title I’ve ever won since the day I became a professional wrestler. I don’t randomly talk to every stranger I meet at a McDonalds or a supermarket about the business of professional wrestling and why I really think I’ve got a shot at beating The Incredible Sulk in our Tormented Artist On A Pole Match.

Well geez, look at Smarky Smark and the Funky Bunch criticizing me for being so desperate for depth as a human being that I come off looking plastic and ridiculous. Who does he think he is? Well that’s a fair question, Mary Sue-- so far, I’ve spent five hundred words explaining who I am not, and virtually no time at all explaining who I AM.

I am Michael Lee Best, and I’m going to win Battlemania.

WHOA, IT’S HIS THESIS STATEMENT AGAIN! That’s right, Mary Sue, and in the basics of human communication, we call that a “callback”. Think of it like those annoying flashbacks that you take us on each and every week, where we relive your angsty childhood full of abuse and diggity darky dark feels. Don’t worry, though-- here, I won’t be your drunk daddy beating you into becoming a future world champion, or the meanie-head headmaster of the orphanage where you grew up because *GASP* both of your parents were murdered when you were just a fetus! I’ll just be the single greatest wrestler in the history of both wrestling and scales of measuring greatness, teaching you a thing or two about why it was stupid for you to enter Battlemania.

1. Because I am a Hall of Famer.

Now, I know what you’re thinking. Who cares? I’m in ten Hall of Fames-- I wear a ring on each finger so that I can use magic against my nemesis Iron Man. First off, props to you for making such a clever reference to the Mandarin. I now feel .000017% guiltier about heaving you over the top rope like a prom mom ditching eighteen years of future responsibility. But I was a big fan of the first season of Pawn Stars, so if you don’t mind, I had an expert prepare a few questions before I decide if I want to buy this load of bullshit you’re talking. I want you to mull these questions over in your head before you confidently call yourself a real Hall of Famer:

Did you own any of these companies? Were any of these companies open for longer than a year? If so, were YOU there for longer than a year? Do it’s initials contain the letter “X”? If I were to visit the website of this wrestling company, would I have to type “GEOCITIES” first? If you answered yes to any of these questions, you need to take that ring off your finger, put it back into the plastic bubble, and return it for the twenty five cents that it’s fucking worth from your local grocery store.

But enough about you, let’s get back to me. I’m a LEGITIMATE Hall of Famer, in a wrestling company that is universally regarded to be one of the best in history, which I do NOT own. A wrestling company that has been around for over a decade, and has produced and hosted some of the greatest wrestling talent of all time. The worst wrestler on our roster (which is fellow Battlemania entrant Scott Stevens, by the way) wouldn’t take a desperate poop in the nicest bathroom of your company’s corporate headquarters, and I AM THIS COMPANY’S GREATEST WRESTLER OF ALL TIME.

I am Babe Ruth invading your Amputee Little League tournament, hitting home runs with your own tiny little prosthetic legs. I’m a coked out cybernetic super-soldier Tupac Shakur (2.0 Pac?) crashing a rap battle on the playground at recess with a loaded nine millimeter, AND I FUCKING PRE-WROTE LIKE AN OG, BITCH. I’m a pre-adulterous Tiger Woods after a horrific radioactive accident, stomping around a mini-golf course during Special Olympics weekend, and you bet your sweet ass and half a titty that I’m going to get my free game on the eighteenth fucking hole.

2. Because I am an eight time HOW World Champion.

But hey, let’s say that you don’t believe that my Hall of Fame induction means more than yours. Maybe you’re unfamiliar with the Green Lantern Corps, and you don’t understand that putting on the ring doesn’t give you powers unless you’ve earned them. We can just make like every single person who has ever pretended to love you, and move on to something bigger and better.

I am the greatest HOW World champion of all time.

Since we have already established as fact that High Octane Wrestling is the single greatest wrestling company since man figured out how to run the ropes, this also makes me the single greatest world champion in the history of professional wrestling… period. Our world championship makes your world championship appear to be made of thin, damp cardboard. Our world championship could totally beat up your world championship. Our world championship is the engagement ring of your richer, more successful cunt of a best friend, and the size of her diamond makes you uncomfortable and self conscious in front of your entire social circle.

I have won this title eight times.

But Mike, that means you’ve also LOST it eight times. Shut the fuck up Donny, you’re out of your element. You think you’re the first clever dick to throw that one at me? I can hardly get the phrase “eight time world champion” out of my mouth before some mealy mouthed wang wrangler ejaculates all over himself and screams it at the top of his lungs. I’m very aware of the fact that I’ve lost the GREATEST CHAMPIONSHIP IN PROFESSIONAL WRESTLING eight times. I’d rather lose it four more times than use your disposable sanitary napkin of a championship as a fucking placemat, so close off the entrance to that fountain of stupid underneath your nose before it leaks all over my brand new fucking floor. It’s always some dipshit who has never won the HOW World Championship that brings it up, too, like somehow my failure to defend the title is their fucking success. I’ve WON IT EIGHT TIMES, DICKHEAD. What did you do this morning? Finish a whole bowl of cereal without spilling any all over your school clothes? I should find someone who loved you as a child, have sex with them, and then never call again.

Everyone hates me, I’m a dirty fucking cheater, and yet the numbers are undeniable. I’m the fucking best, hands down, and I will mindfuck you on the one yard line because you’re so afraid of my sack that you throw it away. I’m the New England Patriots of pro wrestling, and you’d better Beli-check yourself before you wreck yourself.






Alright, so where was I? Oh yeah, number three.

3. Because this is pretty much my favorite thing to do.

I have an ego the size of a small country, and that country’s highest valued export is rape. Not that pseudo-romantic, fan-fiction, 50 Shades of Whatever kind of rape, either. I’m talking two drunken Texans using a sad, scared Mexican woman like she’s a human game of genital ping pong. The kind of rape that causes pre-traumatic stress disorder just thinking about how it MIGHT happen to you someday. The kind of rape that can’t even be made funny by the addition of Benny Hill music and clown makeup.

Battlemania is a dark, dirty alleyway at the end of a road called “Rape Boulevard”, and twenty nine of you stupid motherfuckers are walking toward the end of it wondering where it leads. I have spent the last twelve years of my career planting my flag in every single opponent that has come my way, claiming them in the name of Bestopia, and yet the same twenty nine of you about to open a big box of rape marked “for your orifices only” are proudly proclaiming that *I* don’t know what I’m getting myself into you.

Are you fucking mental?

This is my favorite thing to do in the world. Not “network between wrestling companies”. Not “get a collective started, so like, we can totally cross-promote”. Not “run a really great feud based on mutual respect and gender equality”. My favorite thing to do is to go nose to nose with a big fish in a small pond, hit him with my tackle box, and then gut him in dirty wooden boat. When I joined the LPW Reign Supreme tournament, every tough guy in the world from every company that mattered put their name on an open contract, and then I sent every single one of them home with a big fat dick in the butt and a scrapbook full of repressed memories. When DREAM Wrestling, the predecessor to WRESTLEUTA, opened up to talent from around the world, I invaded it’s special place like a sexually confused camp counselor and became it’s longest reigning world champion of all fucking time.


And don’t think for a second that I discriminate, either. Ask the “Extreme Pizza Delivery Girl” Tessa Martin and her big butch bitch Dawn McGill about my reign as DREAM Women’s Champion. Ask every worth a fuck female wrestler from the year 2009 what it was like to come ring my doorbell, ask me for a shot at my title, and then get kicked in the box so hard that UPS issued a refund and marked it “return to sender”. And yeah, Chris Hopper, I was a FUCKING WOMEN’S CHAMPION, you unrelenting pussy-- this entire paragraph didn’t even need to be here, and I only included it because I know that you’ll be attending Battlemania. Is your vagina truly so small and insecure that it’s afraid to be seen in the shower by other vaginas? IT’S 2015, YOU FUCKING DICKHEAD. WRESTLE WOMEN OR RETIRE.

I’m fucking glad that the Midget Mike Best at your stupid UTA show made you butthurt.

4. You haven’t even earned a number four.

5. Because I know what the fuck I’m doing.

Power up your promo mode, drink your little Red Bulls, and go over the checklist, kids. Did you remember to tell me about the twenty thousand different companies that you dominated for three weeks before they closed? Did you give me a bunch of complex details about your personal life that have absolutely fucking nothing to do with professional wrestling? Did the camera focus on a FUCKING LEAF WITH WATER ON IT FOR NO FUCKING REASON BECAUSE LOL ABSTRACT ART? If you’ve filled in all the checkboxes so far, good job. But don’t forget about the most important check box of all:

Don’t forget to mention like, four people in the match.

Or hey, better yet, maybe a sentence or two about all of them. Go ahead and study your little clipboard, memorize a bunch of names without doing any fucking research on any of them, and then rattle them off once the camera is rolling. Better yet? I’m sure some random fucking cab driver will just HAPPEN to ask you about Battlemania, since that seems to happen… oh… every fucking day, right?

I haven’t even bothered to learn your names.

For two weeks, I’ve been lifting dumbbells over my head and throwing them out of a wrestling ring in preparation for this match. It served literally no training benefit whatsoever-- I just did it so that I could tell you that I’m getting used to throwing dead weight over the ropes. None of you have names. None of you are special little snowflakes with intricate life stories. You’re professional wrestlers, and I would be pretty shitty at my fucking job if I didn’t know how to throw twenty nine professional wrestlers over the top rope. It’s literally the easiest fucking way to win a match that there is. What’s my strategy? Throw them over the ropes. What am I thinking, ahead of this match? Throw them over the ropes. How can I possibly hope to win? I’m going to throw them over the fucking ropes. It’s not rocket science, and no amount of monologuing about fairies is going to make that any easier or more difficult for me.

I’m not going to dedicate two little sentences to Joe Schmoe from Xtreme HardKore Wrestling X Super Squad Federation, in the hopes that I’ll get into his head. I’m not going to focus on the guys I think will make it to the final four. I’m just going to slap bitches till they need stitches, throw them over the ropes, and win the fucking match. It’s not that fucking hard.

Well, for me anyway.

I was like, what, the second person to sign up for this thing? What in the bloody hell is wrong with the twenty eight of you who signed up after me? What did you expect to accomplish? I have never entered an interpromotional match and lost. Literally not once in twelve years. If this match was a chili cook-off and my entry was an apple pie, I would fucking win. If this match was a karaoke contest and I colored a picture of a dinosaur, OUTSIDE OF THE FUCKING LINES, it would win first prize. For God’s sake, on my own radio show, I VOLUNTEERED TO ENTER THE MATCH FIRST, JUST BECAUSE I KNOW IT WILL BORE THE PISS OUT OF ME OTHERWISE.

They agreed to let me enter second, which let’s be honest, is the same as fucking entering first anyway. Literally the best that any of you can hope for is to garner more eliminations than me, and I should warn you in advance that I’m pretty fucking competitive. I might eliminate all twenty nine of you myself, and then spend the remainder of the show reading a children’s book to a captive fucking audience.

But seriously, keep cutting your cookie cutter promos.

I’m sure they will help you win. I'm sure seeing your name in four distinct shades of green will turn the tides of war. I’m sure they’ll give you the mental edge, you special little flower, you. I’m sure the owners of your domain-less little cardboard companies will tell you that it was all rigged, and that I only won because… reasons. And when it’s all over, you can go back to being a world champion fish in a pond that dried up sometimes around the Yahoo-Geocities merger.

My name is Michael Lee Best, and I’m going to win Battlemania.

You see that? That's called a fucking conclusion.

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