Every now and then, on the Lean, I get mean.
I mean, mean. Like I get all sandy, catching feelings, then tearing into them, eating what I find inside, but wasting most of it.
Think I care about starving kids in Africa? Pfft!
Not bloody likely! </Cocky English accent>
Just… sometimes I get mean… on the Lean.
Like, earlier this week, I’m rolling in my Ford Tempo, bumping the dubstep, sipping my medicine out a Dunkin’ Donuts coffee cup, when some D-bag in an SUV cuts me off. Naturally I honk my horn, flip him off. Whatev. I don’t give an F, you know.
So he stops behind me, right, and I’m stuck there on account of the traffic… and he gets out and walks up beside my sick ride, laying hands on it in the process—his first mistake. He intends on sonning me in front of all the street folk. But I’m Lowell, and I wrastle for a living. Plus, I’m Quick Draw McGraw with the cigarette lighter, so when he leans in through the driver’s side window, I jab the burning orange end into his forehead, dead center.
A little something to remember me by.
Sure, I caught a beatdown that day. Turns out he’s impervious to my hammerlocks. A lesson learned.
Another lesson learned: I’ve got to get a grip on my frightening rage. Costly dental work has robbed me of what little Scrilly Nelson I’ve amassed from this wrastling gig and multiple thievings of collection plates and Santa Claus penny jugs. And frig, that tattle tale plans to sue me for that gnarly, oversized, dot-dot Indian dot I gave him. Like, c’mon! Can’t take the heat? Get your head OUT my Tempo, then, *****! I’ll burn you up with worse! MUCH worse!
If I only had a blowtorch…
No use complaining, though. Soon I’ll be the champ and everyone, all those clammy-handed bleacher bumpkins, will send me envelopes stuffed with cash and handwritten letters that read: “Lowell, be my friend! Skype with me!”
I’ll take the money and NOT Skype with you, foolio. I don’t hafta if I don’t wanna!
The champ don’t got to make time for his fans—that’s part of the appeal of being the champ!
Unless they’re 18+ and swagged out in that Dolechay And Cabana and that SHINE, of course.
I’ll take a lady’s jewelry and tell her I’m going to get it encrusted with blood diamonds.
And I will. I don’t lie. I’m not a liar.
…I just won’t give it back.
Then it shall be *I* who is swagged out! Belt, bling, Lean, all the niceties of life!
Like a modern Ric Flair. Heck, I’ll eat a crap-ton of Wendy’s and grow me some ***** tits! Ones that flap in the gale force winds created by the collective shrieking of my name by my legions of manic Lean-Fiends! The breeze’ll be chilling!
High Flyer wants to prevent me from realizing my dream. But I pop Alpha Brain’s on the reg’, and my dreams are LUCID, so step aside!
Watch me CHICKEN STRUT all the way to that championship title!
One thing’s for certain, Flyer: You AREN’T impervious to my hammerlocks, so my hammerlocks you shall receive.
You will learn to fear the awesome power of my collar ‘n elbow tie-up.
This has been a Good Telling by the most technical wrastler in the game.
I mean, mean. Like I get all sandy, catching feelings, then tearing into them, eating what I find inside, but wasting most of it.
Think I care about starving kids in Africa? Pfft!
Not bloody likely! </Cocky English accent>
Just… sometimes I get mean… on the Lean.
Like, earlier this week, I’m rolling in my Ford Tempo, bumping the dubstep, sipping my medicine out a Dunkin’ Donuts coffee cup, when some D-bag in an SUV cuts me off. Naturally I honk my horn, flip him off. Whatev. I don’t give an F, you know.
So he stops behind me, right, and I’m stuck there on account of the traffic… and he gets out and walks up beside my sick ride, laying hands on it in the process—his first mistake. He intends on sonning me in front of all the street folk. But I’m Lowell, and I wrastle for a living. Plus, I’m Quick Draw McGraw with the cigarette lighter, so when he leans in through the driver’s side window, I jab the burning orange end into his forehead, dead center.
A little something to remember me by.
Sure, I caught a beatdown that day. Turns out he’s impervious to my hammerlocks. A lesson learned.
Another lesson learned: I’ve got to get a grip on my frightening rage. Costly dental work has robbed me of what little Scrilly Nelson I’ve amassed from this wrastling gig and multiple thievings of collection plates and Santa Claus penny jugs. And frig, that tattle tale plans to sue me for that gnarly, oversized, dot-dot Indian dot I gave him. Like, c’mon! Can’t take the heat? Get your head OUT my Tempo, then, *****! I’ll burn you up with worse! MUCH worse!
If I only had a blowtorch…
No use complaining, though. Soon I’ll be the champ and everyone, all those clammy-handed bleacher bumpkins, will send me envelopes stuffed with cash and handwritten letters that read: “Lowell, be my friend! Skype with me!”
I’ll take the money and NOT Skype with you, foolio. I don’t hafta if I don’t wanna!
The champ don’t got to make time for his fans—that’s part of the appeal of being the champ!
Unless they’re 18+ and swagged out in that Dolechay And Cabana and that SHINE, of course.
I’ll take a lady’s jewelry and tell her I’m going to get it encrusted with blood diamonds.
And I will. I don’t lie. I’m not a liar.
…I just won’t give it back.
Then it shall be *I* who is swagged out! Belt, bling, Lean, all the niceties of life!
Like a modern Ric Flair. Heck, I’ll eat a crap-ton of Wendy’s and grow me some ***** tits! Ones that flap in the gale force winds created by the collective shrieking of my name by my legions of manic Lean-Fiends! The breeze’ll be chilling!
High Flyer wants to prevent me from realizing my dream. But I pop Alpha Brain’s on the reg’, and my dreams are LUCID, so step aside!
Watch me CHICKEN STRUT all the way to that championship title!
One thing’s for certain, Flyer: You AREN’T impervious to my hammerlocks, so my hammerlocks you shall receive.
You will learn to fear the awesome power of my collar ‘n elbow tie-up.
This has been a Good Telling by the most technical wrastler in the game.