I can’t believe it, Bruce.
I slowly stop at the red light, brushing the sweat that is still dripping from my brow from the longest friggin’ golf outing slash day I have ever had. I look over to Bruce with a pissed off look on my face and just take a deep, deep sigh.
I mean, I can’t believe I lost that. I...I had that thing in my hands and I thought that I was going to walk away with that title. What happened? I mean, I thought I hit that sucker good, I thought that I was the only one who could smack that bitch up that far, with that much power. How the hell did I lose that longest drive contest?
The light turns green and I begin to drive. Guy cuts me off as soon as the light turns green…I flash my lights on and off, the guy waves his hands as to say “What did I do?” I give him a little “You’re number one” gesture….but I use the wrong finger. Road rage kicks in, as Bruce can tell.
Rizz, you ran into a group of young kids…called the Yezies…those group of kids are, probably, three….four……..five of the strongest sons of bitches you may ever see. It’s not likely that anyone would go out there and compete against those kids, and if you do…they have, like, fifty different variations waiting in the back for their shot at the title. You, for sure, was not going to win the longest drive contest. Now, on the other hand….there was a travesty afoot that night too….I thought buying forty bucks worth of tickets for that silent auction was going to get that Jason Taylor jersey that was there…but I looked to the left of me and that one guy had, what, one hundred fucking tickets?!
I know, that was a crock of horse shit. Hell, he won…what? Three prizes?
Heh, I am surprised it wasn’t more. There were, what? 10? 20 prizes?
Yeah, I know what you’re talking about but, come on Rizz, you wouldn’t want that craptastic cheap rip off of those pro jerseys right?
Bruce, you were angry…just trying to agree….don’t get snippy with me. I’ll put you back at that bar where they have your picture hanging on their wall with the damn bounty on your damn head like in Red Dead Redemption.
Don’t make fun of that shit, man. That shit almost got me fucking killed…it’s nothing to laugh at, at all.
Yeah, whatever happened to that? I mean, have you got any word about if they caught EVERYBODY or kill everyone or whatever? You never really told me what happened. So…what happened?
Eh, they were pretty hush hush towards me. I mean, yeah they told me that, in general, all the big guns that they want to get WILL get caught in due time and this “bust” would help in capturing those guys…so, I am just taking things slow.
Speaking of taking it slow, this asshole grey hair in front of me is going at the speed of dirt on a snail’s ass crack. I honk my horn…of course the damn asshole isn’t hearing a damn thing. I sigh as my head goes back and my eyes close a little bit…not so much that it causes a huge massive wreck.
Bruce, you just need to get focused on the life that is ahead of you, right now. You are going to be somebody one day and if you have this shit holding you down you will get hurt in the long run…just go out there and get a life, you know what I mean?
I hear ya, man. I hear ya.
Driving down the road, I notice my phone ringing. On the road, I don’t answer my phone…all that often. Hell, that’s probably Mia wanting me to pick up some milk or something like that…I’ll see what she wants when I get back to the house.
I have a confession to make.
My religion is something that I tend to think of fairly highly, if you ask me. If you ask me, my religion is something that I love and believe is something that is fairly high on the things that I want to work on. My religion is something that I focus on daily, that I go out every day with that in my mind knowing that when I get done…my religion will be right there with me. That my religion will be right there, win or lose, rich or poor, curtain jerking or main eventing a big event in my life. My religion is a religion that, I believe, EVERYONE possesses. My religion is a religion that I believe to be the be all end all routine in my life, as well as the lives of many other people in the world. My religion is something that molded me into the man that I am today.
There are no second comings in my religion. There are no worship days. There are no days where you can go out there and praise his name, like most religions do. In my religion, there are no followers, no extremists, no martyrs, nothing to hinder the name that my religion made. There is no “book” to read or scripture to explain. There is no higher being. There is no heaven, no hell, no purgatory, no paradise under the sun…unless you count a vacation in Hawaii. No churches, no priests, no nuns, no specialty schools to go to.
There are no rules in my religion. There is no punishment if you break a rule in my religion, if it ever had rules. My religion, there are no sayings on gay marriage, women’s rights, or slavery. In my religion there are no rules that say that you can’t do one thing and go do another.
My religion is something that, like I said, everyone celebrates…no bloodshed…no praising Allah…no 9/11…no Jihad. Nothing.
My religion, you ask? It’s ME! That’s right. I don’t need followers to follow me to make me feel important. I don’t need a cult, a way of life, a way to change…to mold…to shape the minds of unexpecting individuals that just don’t want to be all alone anymore. I don’t need to find a way to brainwash people to believe the facts that I believe. I don’t need to have a church named after me.
Why? Because I have seen numerous occasions when crazy people wanted to make the people believe that they are safe…before taking their own lives, and the lives of many people. Need an example? Remember a guy named “Jim Jones”? Most of you are probably too young to remember this, but Jim Jones was a reverend back in the day…a crazy mother fucking random assed reverend who took a group of villagers in Georgetown, South America and make them think that they, in fact, were in the presence of a second coming of God and, to Jim Jones’ congregation…it was Jim mother fucking Jones. In this time, Jim made them believe sooo much that when people from the Red Cross…unarmed people from the Red Cross…came to visit the people of Georgetown they were gunned down, in the name of Jim Jones. How did Jim Jones celebrate this vast “victory” for his victory over America? He made his followers drink spiked punch.
Now, when I say “spiked punch” I don’t mean the “spiked punch” fourteen or fifteen year olds drink during their prom or homecoming dance. Oh no, when I say “spiked” I mean POISON! A total of nine hundred and nine people DIED because they thought that this man, this lunatic of a man, was the Lord and Savior of Jonestown.
“But Zach, that would never happen here…so why would you say this?”
Actually, Waco mother fucking Texas happened. Again, there was one guy…ONE FUCKING GUY…who made women and some men believe that he was a paradox of God. Why? Because he fucked a sixty five year old lady and got her impregnated. That, my friends, worked in him getting “followers” and “believers”? Damn. And how did this end? Was it a shot to the head? Was it an uprising from his “followers” after he knew what a crock of shit that he truly was? NO! He gathered all of the people in HIS congregation and when the cops came to raid the place…damn bastard set the place on FI-YA! Mother fucking fire! All because he impregnated a GILF and didn’t want his mommy or daddy to find out, and got a few stranglers to follow him to the depths of hell.
Why am I telling you this story, X-Treme Wrestling Federation? Why am I telling you about two crazy men who have a cult following who, then, took their own lives…as well as the lives of hundreds of their own, quote, followers, unquote, when they were pushed on the subject? Because, XWF, we have something like that in our midst. Malcomism. No one truly knows the reason Malcolm is doing this, but…he has brainwashed not ONE but TWOOOO people, already, in the way that he believes to be right. Daniel Malcolm has these two men twirling on his little pinky finger and, to be quite honest…if nothing is done to stop this massive brainwashing…it gets to the point where Daniel Malcolm is going to send those two Malcolmists to Jonestown and drink the ever lovely punch that Jim Jones had left for occasions that some douche bag with a cult following if they want to get those assholes off their asses.
In the wrestling world, a swig of Jonestown whisky usually doesn’t mean you die, per say. It just means that your career just did. That meant your career is just about ready to be off into obscurity and ignominy, that’s right…I did use a big word…I know you Malcolmists don’t like big words…and you know that I don’t give a fuck about what any group of people thinks.
By the way, Extremer. For the love of God…you are better than this. You don’t need Daniel Malcolm’s brainwash. You don’t need Daniel Malcolm to tell you what to do. You are your own religion. You are the master of your own domain. You are Michael FUCKING Extremer. He’s just Daniel Malcolm. He’s a human. He’s a mortal. He’s nothing. He has no special powers. He can’t turn water into wine. Hell, he can’t turn shit into brown water without using his hands. He’s…human! There’s no need to follow someone who is…human. I can see if he was able to fly. I can see if he had a halo around his head and angels were singing in the background where ever he walks. But, by GOD ALMIGHTY, HE’S A HUMAN FUCKING BEING!
There’s nothing special about Daniel Malcolm. There’s nothing special about Malcomism. There’s just…nothing…special…about anything Daniel Malcolm has done.
However, I will say this…your list of accomplishments have surpassed many legends in the Hall of Legends, including your liege Daniel. Your accomplishments have made you one of those “Legends Who Aren’t in the Hall Yet.” However, I’m in the same category Mikey. I am another one on that list and, you know something? That list of “not yet legends” is more like a line…a line that I am front and center on. The line that many people want me to see in and winning this Sunday will, only, mark another notch in my belt to FINALLY say that I am a legend in the X-Treme Wrestling Federation.
I don’t need someone to tell me what to do, Extremer, and that…I believe…makes me even a more dangerous person seeing that the man in front of me is getting his information from a little crazy birdy that is sitting on his shoulder. That means you have someone there holding you back, and that is something I don’t want to happen…because I want the MICHAEL MOTHER FUCKING EXTREMER!
Seeing that won’t happen, I guess I will have to give you your very own “Welcome to the ‘Big Tyme’ Moment!”