Post by D! on Dec 16, 2005 14:26:57 GMT -5
(Lights up. Toque-clad against Thursday night's harsh windchill walks D!, NAPW strap on his shoulder, coming at us down the walkway of the black-girdered High Level Bridge. The camera dollies back at his pace the entire time.)
D!: Jokes, is it? Chris Casino, if you haven't figured out how to deliver a promo yet, you sure as Hell shouldn't do stand-up comedy. In fact, give up on the talking altogether, because you sound like a drugged ferret. Do the Bob Dylan thing and write everything you want to say on large posterboard cards, reveal them one by one, and toss them away. Then light the pile of cards on fire. Then throw yourself on the pile. Anything to save the NAPW from hearing another one of your inane monologues from you and your bathrobe. And in a related subject: more clothes. We would like more clothes from you in the future.
Now, as it stands, I've got some jokes of my own. They're not going to mean anything to you, Chris, because nothing I have to say seems to appeal to your fourth-grade education. So change the channel. Go watch Siegried and Roy. Order a prostitute to tie you up. Seriously, peanut. You'll just be bored.
(Short pause.)
Hey, NAPW, are we alone? Okay. So:
"Why does a Canadian-bashing douche want a Canadian championship?"
"Because he can't get an American one!"
Seriously. How many feds could Casino have gone to? How many American branches of the UWP are there? Gulf South? Full Frontier? RWC? Why wouldn't you go out and pursue a title that means more to you?
(Shrugs.)
Unless you couldn't. Say, because, in your own country your reputation precedes you and bars you from working with established Superstars. I mean, seriously. RWC and Gulf South don't even have champions yet. Wrap your brain around that. Richie Rich would be in on the ground floor in his own country. And he's still being forced to commute here! Now. Does that sound like the reputation of a superstar who's "wrestled all over the world"? Who's "faced legends and icons"? He calls himself "the Future", yet he can't even stop coming to a country he hates.
This is the guy who wants to be NAPW Champion. Ba-dum-ching.
"What's something you can earn easily, but money can never buy?"
"Credibility."
All of us. We always want what we can't have. Maybe if we were richer, we tell ourselves. If only I won the lottery. Because with money, we reason, we can be more complete.
But then Chris Casino comes along. Born rich. Never wanted for nothing . . . well, maybe a Dad. Okay, also a Mom. Actually, probably friends. But the money was there! So Chris grows up buying his grades, gets the best wrestlers to train him and maybe catches onto ten percent of it . . . oh, but he's got the "Cash Out" (does a spooky finger wiggle).
Anyways. "The Future" then buys Terry Brandon's soul, strolls into the NAPW office and announces that he's going to be champion. Winchell says "earn it." Casino's confused, and drops a briefcase of money on the table. Winchell says "Very nice. Now earn it." And Casino's livid, he's ready to blow, Brandon's busy using five words that mean the same thing, but Winchell stands firm and simply repeats "earn it." Casino throws a tantrum.
And we've been watching the same tantrum for the past week-and-a-half. Ba-dum-ching.
Awright. I know you're still watching. The world is not your oyster, Chris, your world is just a shell. All you ever do is take and take, and you never give back. And anything you can't have, be it respect, talent or love--real love, Chris, not the kind that comes in a cab--you try to diminish and destroy. You're angry at me because you signed up thinking this (taps the belt's face) was your title. It's not. You can't have it. How does that make you feel, Chris? How does it make you feel knowing that something you want so desperately you can't have?
You will die hungry, Chris. You will die howling, desperately clutching your stomach because you're surrounded by food and there's nothing you want to eat. You will die alone because there's nobody who wants to be with you, from your damn parents all the way down. And you'll die never having my title or the fans' respect.
But on Monday, you'll only wish you were dead. I'm going to leave your body crumpled on the mat. I'm going to stain the cage with your blood. Because when the fans watch a cage match, they sure as Hell don't want to see a tidy submission. They want to see an opponent get destroyed.
(Pause.)
Incidentally, I don't know what you think the dimensions of a steel cage are, but . . . good luck with the top rope stuff is all. Good luck.
(The camera stops its movement, as we've reached the end of the bridge, and met the incline that leads back up to Old Strathcona. D! stops as well.)
One more joke: "Concierge! Someone broke into my suite and left a dirty mop wrapped in a bath towel!"
"Now hold on, madam. Is the towel monogrammed?"
"Why, yes! Yes, it is!"
"Then you're in Chris Casino's suite. Apologize to the mop and move on." Ba-dum-ching.
(D! flashes the camera the victory sign, then starts the climb. Lights down.)
D!: Jokes, is it? Chris Casino, if you haven't figured out how to deliver a promo yet, you sure as Hell shouldn't do stand-up comedy. In fact, give up on the talking altogether, because you sound like a drugged ferret. Do the Bob Dylan thing and write everything you want to say on large posterboard cards, reveal them one by one, and toss them away. Then light the pile of cards on fire. Then throw yourself on the pile. Anything to save the NAPW from hearing another one of your inane monologues from you and your bathrobe. And in a related subject: more clothes. We would like more clothes from you in the future.
Now, as it stands, I've got some jokes of my own. They're not going to mean anything to you, Chris, because nothing I have to say seems to appeal to your fourth-grade education. So change the channel. Go watch Siegried and Roy. Order a prostitute to tie you up. Seriously, peanut. You'll just be bored.
(Short pause.)
Hey, NAPW, are we alone? Okay. So:
"Why does a Canadian-bashing douche want a Canadian championship?"
"Because he can't get an American one!"
Seriously. How many feds could Casino have gone to? How many American branches of the UWP are there? Gulf South? Full Frontier? RWC? Why wouldn't you go out and pursue a title that means more to you?
(Shrugs.)
Unless you couldn't. Say, because, in your own country your reputation precedes you and bars you from working with established Superstars. I mean, seriously. RWC and Gulf South don't even have champions yet. Wrap your brain around that. Richie Rich would be in on the ground floor in his own country. And he's still being forced to commute here! Now. Does that sound like the reputation of a superstar who's "wrestled all over the world"? Who's "faced legends and icons"? He calls himself "the Future", yet he can't even stop coming to a country he hates.
This is the guy who wants to be NAPW Champion. Ba-dum-ching.
"What's something you can earn easily, but money can never buy?"
"Credibility."
All of us. We always want what we can't have. Maybe if we were richer, we tell ourselves. If only I won the lottery. Because with money, we reason, we can be more complete.
But then Chris Casino comes along. Born rich. Never wanted for nothing . . . well, maybe a Dad. Okay, also a Mom. Actually, probably friends. But the money was there! So Chris grows up buying his grades, gets the best wrestlers to train him and maybe catches onto ten percent of it . . . oh, but he's got the "Cash Out" (does a spooky finger wiggle).
Anyways. "The Future" then buys Terry Brandon's soul, strolls into the NAPW office and announces that he's going to be champion. Winchell says "earn it." Casino's confused, and drops a briefcase of money on the table. Winchell says "Very nice. Now earn it." And Casino's livid, he's ready to blow, Brandon's busy using five words that mean the same thing, but Winchell stands firm and simply repeats "earn it." Casino throws a tantrum.
And we've been watching the same tantrum for the past week-and-a-half. Ba-dum-ching.
Awright. I know you're still watching. The world is not your oyster, Chris, your world is just a shell. All you ever do is take and take, and you never give back. And anything you can't have, be it respect, talent or love--real love, Chris, not the kind that comes in a cab--you try to diminish and destroy. You're angry at me because you signed up thinking this (taps the belt's face) was your title. It's not. You can't have it. How does that make you feel, Chris? How does it make you feel knowing that something you want so desperately you can't have?
You will die hungry, Chris. You will die howling, desperately clutching your stomach because you're surrounded by food and there's nothing you want to eat. You will die alone because there's nobody who wants to be with you, from your damn parents all the way down. And you'll die never having my title or the fans' respect.
But on Monday, you'll only wish you were dead. I'm going to leave your body crumpled on the mat. I'm going to stain the cage with your blood. Because when the fans watch a cage match, they sure as Hell don't want to see a tidy submission. They want to see an opponent get destroyed.
(Pause.)
Incidentally, I don't know what you think the dimensions of a steel cage are, but . . . good luck with the top rope stuff is all. Good luck.
(The camera stops its movement, as we've reached the end of the bridge, and met the incline that leads back up to Old Strathcona. D! stops as well.)
One more joke: "Concierge! Someone broke into my suite and left a dirty mop wrapped in a bath towel!"
"Now hold on, madam. Is the towel monogrammed?"
"Why, yes! Yes, it is!"
"Then you're in Chris Casino's suite. Apologize to the mop and move on." Ba-dum-ching.
(D! flashes the camera the victory sign, then starts the climb. Lights down.)