Post by "The Shine" Brent Alpine on Sept 26, 2019 17:39:39 GMT -6
A spindly woman of middle eastern descent, clad in a demure suit (made from ethically sourced fibres, of course) stands on a podium and speaks all too closely into a microphone. We hear globs of saliva swirl in her mouth with every utterance.
Spindly woman: I'm afraid that Greta Thunberg, our keynote speaker for this, the 2019 Global Nature Stewarding Summit, cannot be here this evening...
Boos. Jeers. Hisses. Tomatoes thrown at the host. People are crying and the world is ending.
… as she is currently mediating successful Israel Palestine peace talks while ending world hunger through the invention of eternally replenishing quinoa while brutally executing Kim Kardashian... and all this achieved over a single Skype call!
The delegates lose their collective, ecologically considerate shits with a rousing ovation and "Greta" chants.
In her place, I am delighted to welcome... former WCF TV Champion and last ever United States Champion... and UCI superstar...
She hears something over hear earpiece.
Sorry, correction - he was never in UCI. Anyway, please welcome "The Shine" Brent Alpine!
Silence. If not disdain. The Australian grappler emerges onto the stage in an oversized suit. The electronic tag around his leg draws immediate attention. The spindly woman steps aside as Brent mounts the platform, eye-banging everyone in the audience.
Brent Alpine: G'day environmental drongos! I'm delighted to be here with you this evening and not just because it fulfils several of my probation requirements. As you all know, Greta Thunderbird wasn't go tonight but there's no one more qualified to talk about this planet's conservation than I, "The Shine" Brent Alpine. But first, I must reveal definitively, scientifically, that global warming is all a myth.
"GET OUT OF HERE!" they all cry. "NAZI", "FASCIST" and other such accusations fly Alpine's way.
No, wait. I mean, it is true. The world is heating up. That's undeniable fact. But the fault lies not with irresponsible, capitalist bastard multinational corporations, or suspiciously orange world leaders or even Taylor Swift. The cause of so called global warming is... The Shine! That's right, me.
Huh? The room goes deathly quiet.
I mean, how can my effervescence and salubrious sagacity not have a seismic effect on this planet whose lands I step, seas I swim, air I breathe and presence I grace? I have tried dulling my magnificence to dry the salty tears of 16 year old Swedish sheilas and to cockblock testosterone deficient virgins wanting to score empathy points with the unwashed hippy fembots. But no, the earth continues to leech off my warmth like a great big baby sucking its mummy's tits for every last drop of milk. I just can't restrain my bloody radiance, cobbers. With that being said, though, let me provide practical action points where this phenomena can be at least slightly mitigated.
A couple of geeks with notepads hang off Brent's every word. The rest are chanting and protesting by chaining themselves to radiators, chairs and each other.
One... The Shine needs to be directed, concentrated... focused. That is why I have signed up to the United Championship Infinite: Reunion show on the 28th September. For the two minutes I decide to toy with Bolas de Arana before annihilating him, I vow to channel all of my effulgence into this match. Will this set ablaze the undisclosed warehouse in Chicago where the show is taking place? Almost inevitably but, hey, at least that means the fans won't have to be inflicted with Zombie McMorris. Hey, maybe they'll be scorched to death but that's better than exposing their eyes to ZMAC and his incomparable obfuscousness. Think of it like Superman embracing a comet before it can hit the earth. Bolas de Arana will provide me the opportunity for a controlled explosion with minimal damage.
Two... I have so much excess, pent up resplendency contained in a singular heat source. Look, I believe in sexual communism, to some degree. Your planet needs to send me all of its Perfect 10s in order for me to fairly distribute my Shine on their pretty little faces. This will spread the glory, disperse the vibrancy and could minimise the damage on our cute little polar bears and save the ice cubes or whatever.
Third, and most importantly, we must address this planet's greatest danger today before it's too late... Save the spiders!
The climate in the room changes (how appropriate) and the delegates begin to get on Brent's side with some vigorous nodding of heads and a "save the spiders" chant.
Yes, that's right drongos. Save the spiders! You see, spiders play an irreplaceable role in the eco system and the fundamental food chain of our beautiful world. They face certain extinction thanks to the insidious rise of one Bolas de Arana. Let me explain. Exhibit A please.
Suddenly, a projector flashes an image of spiders having sex behind Alpine, above his head.
Clearly anyone at an environmental conference lacks basic cognitive development so let me educate you - Bolas de Arana means "spider balls", not the fruits of the Osage-Orange tree but a key component to the reproductive system of arachnids. This talent deficient wrestler has stunk out three wrestling federations now. Just as he became number 1 contender to the Legacy World Title, they ceased operations. His woeful spell in UCI prompted its untimely demise while his downright mortifying run in Action Wrestling had everyone clamouring for a UCI Reunion show just to distract themselves from his utter embarrassment of a career.
Unbeknownst to Bolas, his "efforts" have inspired an unprecedented incel movement within the male arachnid community. The association with his inept wrestling persona has caused hoards of spiders to actively resent their testicles and refuse to utilise them in procreation with the female of the species. Even the spider porn industry has plummeted with the rise of No Fap on the world wide spiderweb. It's a tragedy. It really is.
The people sob.
Yes, I hear ya, mongrels. This cannot continue. We need to give the male spiders their testes back! MSBGA - Make Spider Balls Great Again. The only way to do that is to eradicate the threat of Bolas de Arana once and for all, so that our arachnid brothers can reclaim the pride of their cum makers. OK, so I'm well aware that the female spiders will eat the males after intercourse... but, as far as I'm concerned, that's fair dinkum. The blokes at least get a bit of spider booty and ultimately sacrifice themselves for their offspring. Not only that, we can judge all we like but we all know human women also cannibalise their mates after sex... at least financially and emotionally.
The men clap as the women shout in outrage.
But I digress, this isn't the only indiscretion that Bolas has committed against the animal kingdom. He cruelly monetises and takes advantage of a poor creature - a seagull known as Enrique Seagulliglesias. This is appalling. Animals should not be exploited.
Grunts and oinks emanate from Alpine's four sizes too large suit jacket. The miniature pig sticks his head out from inside the jacket to gasps from the audience.
Hey, I see you making an ass out of u and me and giving me the evil eye. This is no poor creature. This is Percy Micro, the most Machiavellian genius in all of professional wrestling. He's so intellectually well endowed that he had me convinced, if just for one second, that my numbskull, foot fetish addicted cousin Dallas Culture was the mastermind behind his hi tech headset. But then I realised that the height of intellect I witnessed from Dallas was him crafting a face out of his own boogers when we were kids. So the identity of my mysterious cohort still remains an enigma to me... but frankly, I don't give a kangaroo's excretion. Despite him reporting me for manslaughter after a little hit and run indiscretion, there's no doubt in my mind that Percy is the compass star that keeps the mesmeric virtuosity of The Shine beaming in the right direction.
A red light on the pig turns on and a deep robotic voice sounds, to disbelief from the crowd.
Percy Micro: Correct, Mr. Alpine. I resent any correlations made with one "Enrique Seagulliglesias". The pea brain of Bolas de Arana might interpret his inane squawking as the wisdom of a master but that is because he is incapable of anything resembling logic; preferring instead to communicate in unamusing jokes and childish vanity. Bolas needs genuine guidance. He needs mental support, not to linger religiously to the beak of a feathered ignoramus like Enrique. That putrid seagull gives a bad name to all animal wrestling managers.
Think of the animals, drongos.
Save the planet, Mr. Alpine. Castrate spider balls. Save the spiders!
"SAVE THE SPIDERS! SAVE THE SPIDERS! SAVE THE SPIDERS!" Everyone is going nuts. Meanwhile, Greta Thunberg has entered the conference room and joins in with the chant, tears streaming down her face like a ravine of compassion. The people ignore her and rub themselves furiously in besotted adulation of their new hero, Brent Alpine, saviour of eight legged gentlemen, redeemer of balls.
UCI: Reunion is more than a stroll down nostalgia lane. It's greater than an Action Wrestling money spinning, straight to DVD knockoff. It's not a memorial. In fact, it's bigger than UCI itself. It's a rebirth... not of UCI but of I, "The Shine" Brent Alpine. Prison cannot contain my light anymore. Unemployment cannot dull my brightness anymore. Spider balls cannot weave me into their web anymore. I AM FREE! THEREFORE THE WORLD IS FREE! HOPE LIVES! EMBRACE GLOBAL WARMING AND SPIDER PROCREATION! THE SHINE WILL NEVER FADE.
This Saturday night, when Bolas de Arana is devoured by the creeping widow, The Shine's hand is raised in yet another victory, AW, Trinity and Alpha Pro contracts are thrust in my flawless face and millions of gorgeous bitches are bending over for me to come and ravage them with my luminosity, there's only one thing left to say...
… Hit the lights... because The Shine's... too... bright!
With that, the conference hall lights spark out... because everyone knows environmentally friendly bulbs are shit.
Spindly woman: I'm afraid that Greta Thunberg, our keynote speaker for this, the 2019 Global Nature Stewarding Summit, cannot be here this evening...
Boos. Jeers. Hisses. Tomatoes thrown at the host. People are crying and the world is ending.
… as she is currently mediating successful Israel Palestine peace talks while ending world hunger through the invention of eternally replenishing quinoa while brutally executing Kim Kardashian... and all this achieved over a single Skype call!
The delegates lose their collective, ecologically considerate shits with a rousing ovation and "Greta" chants.
In her place, I am delighted to welcome... former WCF TV Champion and last ever United States Champion... and UCI superstar...
She hears something over hear earpiece.
Sorry, correction - he was never in UCI. Anyway, please welcome "The Shine" Brent Alpine!
Silence. If not disdain. The Australian grappler emerges onto the stage in an oversized suit. The electronic tag around his leg draws immediate attention. The spindly woman steps aside as Brent mounts the platform, eye-banging everyone in the audience.
Brent Alpine: G'day environmental drongos! I'm delighted to be here with you this evening and not just because it fulfils several of my probation requirements. As you all know, Greta Thunderbird wasn't go tonight but there's no one more qualified to talk about this planet's conservation than I, "The Shine" Brent Alpine. But first, I must reveal definitively, scientifically, that global warming is all a myth.
"GET OUT OF HERE!" they all cry. "NAZI", "FASCIST" and other such accusations fly Alpine's way.
No, wait. I mean, it is true. The world is heating up. That's undeniable fact. But the fault lies not with irresponsible, capitalist bastard multinational corporations, or suspiciously orange world leaders or even Taylor Swift. The cause of so called global warming is... The Shine! That's right, me.
Huh? The room goes deathly quiet.
I mean, how can my effervescence and salubrious sagacity not have a seismic effect on this planet whose lands I step, seas I swim, air I breathe and presence I grace? I have tried dulling my magnificence to dry the salty tears of 16 year old Swedish sheilas and to cockblock testosterone deficient virgins wanting to score empathy points with the unwashed hippy fembots. But no, the earth continues to leech off my warmth like a great big baby sucking its mummy's tits for every last drop of milk. I just can't restrain my bloody radiance, cobbers. With that being said, though, let me provide practical action points where this phenomena can be at least slightly mitigated.
A couple of geeks with notepads hang off Brent's every word. The rest are chanting and protesting by chaining themselves to radiators, chairs and each other.
One... The Shine needs to be directed, concentrated... focused. That is why I have signed up to the United Championship Infinite: Reunion show on the 28th September. For the two minutes I decide to toy with Bolas de Arana before annihilating him, I vow to channel all of my effulgence into this match. Will this set ablaze the undisclosed warehouse in Chicago where the show is taking place? Almost inevitably but, hey, at least that means the fans won't have to be inflicted with Zombie McMorris. Hey, maybe they'll be scorched to death but that's better than exposing their eyes to ZMAC and his incomparable obfuscousness. Think of it like Superman embracing a comet before it can hit the earth. Bolas de Arana will provide me the opportunity for a controlled explosion with minimal damage.
Two... I have so much excess, pent up resplendency contained in a singular heat source. Look, I believe in sexual communism, to some degree. Your planet needs to send me all of its Perfect 10s in order for me to fairly distribute my Shine on their pretty little faces. This will spread the glory, disperse the vibrancy and could minimise the damage on our cute little polar bears and save the ice cubes or whatever.
Third, and most importantly, we must address this planet's greatest danger today before it's too late... Save the spiders!
The climate in the room changes (how appropriate) and the delegates begin to get on Brent's side with some vigorous nodding of heads and a "save the spiders" chant.
Yes, that's right drongos. Save the spiders! You see, spiders play an irreplaceable role in the eco system and the fundamental food chain of our beautiful world. They face certain extinction thanks to the insidious rise of one Bolas de Arana. Let me explain. Exhibit A please.
Suddenly, a projector flashes an image of spiders having sex behind Alpine, above his head.
Clearly anyone at an environmental conference lacks basic cognitive development so let me educate you - Bolas de Arana means "spider balls", not the fruits of the Osage-Orange tree but a key component to the reproductive system of arachnids. This talent deficient wrestler has stunk out three wrestling federations now. Just as he became number 1 contender to the Legacy World Title, they ceased operations. His woeful spell in UCI prompted its untimely demise while his downright mortifying run in Action Wrestling had everyone clamouring for a UCI Reunion show just to distract themselves from his utter embarrassment of a career.
Unbeknownst to Bolas, his "efforts" have inspired an unprecedented incel movement within the male arachnid community. The association with his inept wrestling persona has caused hoards of spiders to actively resent their testicles and refuse to utilise them in procreation with the female of the species. Even the spider porn industry has plummeted with the rise of No Fap on the world wide spiderweb. It's a tragedy. It really is.
The people sob.
Yes, I hear ya, mongrels. This cannot continue. We need to give the male spiders their testes back! MSBGA - Make Spider Balls Great Again. The only way to do that is to eradicate the threat of Bolas de Arana once and for all, so that our arachnid brothers can reclaim the pride of their cum makers. OK, so I'm well aware that the female spiders will eat the males after intercourse... but, as far as I'm concerned, that's fair dinkum. The blokes at least get a bit of spider booty and ultimately sacrifice themselves for their offspring. Not only that, we can judge all we like but we all know human women also cannibalise their mates after sex... at least financially and emotionally.
The men clap as the women shout in outrage.
But I digress, this isn't the only indiscretion that Bolas has committed against the animal kingdom. He cruelly monetises and takes advantage of a poor creature - a seagull known as Enrique Seagulliglesias. This is appalling. Animals should not be exploited.
Grunts and oinks emanate from Alpine's four sizes too large suit jacket. The miniature pig sticks his head out from inside the jacket to gasps from the audience.
Hey, I see you making an ass out of u and me and giving me the evil eye. This is no poor creature. This is Percy Micro, the most Machiavellian genius in all of professional wrestling. He's so intellectually well endowed that he had me convinced, if just for one second, that my numbskull, foot fetish addicted cousin Dallas Culture was the mastermind behind his hi tech headset. But then I realised that the height of intellect I witnessed from Dallas was him crafting a face out of his own boogers when we were kids. So the identity of my mysterious cohort still remains an enigma to me... but frankly, I don't give a kangaroo's excretion. Despite him reporting me for manslaughter after a little hit and run indiscretion, there's no doubt in my mind that Percy is the compass star that keeps the mesmeric virtuosity of The Shine beaming in the right direction.
A red light on the pig turns on and a deep robotic voice sounds, to disbelief from the crowd.
Percy Micro: Correct, Mr. Alpine. I resent any correlations made with one "Enrique Seagulliglesias". The pea brain of Bolas de Arana might interpret his inane squawking as the wisdom of a master but that is because he is incapable of anything resembling logic; preferring instead to communicate in unamusing jokes and childish vanity. Bolas needs genuine guidance. He needs mental support, not to linger religiously to the beak of a feathered ignoramus like Enrique. That putrid seagull gives a bad name to all animal wrestling managers.
Think of the animals, drongos.
Save the planet, Mr. Alpine. Castrate spider balls. Save the spiders!
"SAVE THE SPIDERS! SAVE THE SPIDERS! SAVE THE SPIDERS!" Everyone is going nuts. Meanwhile, Greta Thunberg has entered the conference room and joins in with the chant, tears streaming down her face like a ravine of compassion. The people ignore her and rub themselves furiously in besotted adulation of their new hero, Brent Alpine, saviour of eight legged gentlemen, redeemer of balls.
UCI: Reunion is more than a stroll down nostalgia lane. It's greater than an Action Wrestling money spinning, straight to DVD knockoff. It's not a memorial. In fact, it's bigger than UCI itself. It's a rebirth... not of UCI but of I, "The Shine" Brent Alpine. Prison cannot contain my light anymore. Unemployment cannot dull my brightness anymore. Spider balls cannot weave me into their web anymore. I AM FREE! THEREFORE THE WORLD IS FREE! HOPE LIVES! EMBRACE GLOBAL WARMING AND SPIDER PROCREATION! THE SHINE WILL NEVER FADE.
This Saturday night, when Bolas de Arana is devoured by the creeping widow, The Shine's hand is raised in yet another victory, AW, Trinity and Alpha Pro contracts are thrust in my flawless face and millions of gorgeous bitches are bending over for me to come and ravage them with my luminosity, there's only one thing left to say...
… Hit the lights... because The Shine's... too... bright!
With that, the conference hall lights spark out... because everyone knows environmentally friendly bulbs are shit.
