Post by paulmontuori on Feb 11, 2023 18:18:45 GMT -5
Dear Diary..
I told y’all..
Told all of you hating ass mofuckas..
P Mont ain’t nothing to fuck with..
Look who’s just mediocre now..
Dick.
I came, I saw, I conquered..
Then I came again inside Michelle.
It’s honestly thee best part of her being pregnant..
Duh..
So here I stand, having advanced past the first round and continue to be the odds on favorite to win the Tournament to crown WGWF’s Mid-Card Champion..
Why the fuck is it always me being the Bridesmaid and never the Bride?!
The hate is real.
But alas, it was the cards your hero was dealt. What am I to do? Cry and white like I’m like ugly fuck John Cable?
Don’t worry, I’ll handle your bitch ass in PHW..
Nah..
The days of P Mont being a crying, whiney ass bitch is over with.
New Year, New Me.
Great me for.
Terrible for the rest of you lot.
Including Finn Fuck.
Told ya you had no chance at stopping the P Mont Express.
That was a train pun.
I think..
Now we can’t forget to include that overrated, washed up hack Joe who’s tonsils must be oh so sore from deep throating Page every night.
Aye Joe, remember when you were a name?
Seems so long ago.
No one cares about you Joe.
No one cares about you Finn Fuck.
And no one cares about some lame ass fucking Janitor who’s on the biggest, luckiest streak the world has ever seen.
Eventually people will see you for what you are Vaughn..
Overrated and overhyped..
Until then, I’ll continue to entertain the masses.
Continue stealing the fucking show.
Main eventing against Finn Fuck.
Or jerking curtains against a walking stereotype..
It don’t matter!
The people pay to see Paul mofuckin’ Montuori!
I’m the draw!
I’m the needle mover!
Bottom, middle or top of the card..
It don’t matter!
Haven’t you been paying attention?!
I am pro wrestling!
I am this fucking business!
You’re all just extras in the glorious tale of Paul Montuori!
The moment you all realize that, the better you’re all going to be.
As your KING..
As your fucking SAVIOR..
I accept the responsibility and the burden of being the MAIN ATTRACTION!
So have no fear my peons!
Paul Montuori is here!
Captain Save-A-Heaux coming to save..
Well..
All you Heauxs..
You’re fucking welcome.
I think you are all finally starting to realize a grand truth you’ve all been trying to deny for quite some time now. I am all that matters in this business.
Honestly, who matters more?
Joe Montuori doesn’t matter..
Jack Vaughn doesn’t matter..
Page fuck boy certainly doesn’t matter..
Let’s not even bring up Finn Fuck, he’s old news. Flash in a pan. Hyped up by the WGWF marketing team as a ploy to sell more tickets and get more ratings. Pft, like that’s necessary when Paul Montuori is involved. I’m enough. I’m always enough. You never need seconds after me.
But let’s forget about Finn Fuck and Joe Montuori and Chris Page. They’re old news. And I’ma man that looks towards the future. No time to dwell on the past..
The motto of this promo..
New Year, New Me.
So let’s look to the future.
Let’s look towards P Mont’s next vict.. I mean opponent.
In the next round of the WGWF Mid-Card Championship..
Everyone’s favorite loser Gino Cholito.. Uh.. Santana?
He’s not worth the effort to pull up the actual card and triple check his name.
He’s nothing.
Inconsequential.
A footnote on the epic story of Paul Montuori’s rise to greatness.
Back where I fucking belong.
But I gotta be honest with all of you, my adoring fans..
This Gino Cholito guy..
I don’t get you at all bruh.
This is where I talk directly to you, ya lame fuck..
I’ve been racking my brain trying to understand who you are, what your gimmick is.
And I’m a bright guy.
Like I gotta PHD, just ask Vhodka.
I can solve Sudoku’s.
Like five star puzzles.
I’m no slouch.
So you can understand my confusion, which I’m sure everyone who’s ever seen you on their TV, laptop, social media can attest to..
Like.. You don’t look like your gangster. I wouldn’t think to cast you in Training Day. You’re from fucking El Paso. Not from California. Not from the West Coast. Definitely wouldn’t have survived in Blood In Blood Out. Don’t even look like a poser either. Not like you have some bogus teardrop tattoo. Honestly, you look soft as fuck. No Cholo I know wears coochie cutters to wrestle in.
So why the fuck are you using that as a nickname?
Cholo.
You’re not even Mexican.
You’re El Salvadorian dood.
Are you fucking confused? Bit of an identity crisis? Like, I’m no almanac but there’s for sure a difference between Mexicans and El Salvadorians. Has living in Tejas warped your self-identity that bad? Might be time ya headed back across the border and go back to your homeland. Go reconnect with your roots. Pay your little Abuelita a visit. Maybe she can talk some fucking sense into you.
Fucking Cholo?
Do you even know what it really means?
Like, not the gangster in baggy clothes and tattoos, which isn’t even your look at all, but the real meaning?
Or maybe you know and you don’t give a fuck. Think it’ll tickle the fans to hear your silly sounding name. Sell a couple t-shirts with your name on it. Branding and all. I don’t know who your target audience is. I for sure wouldn’t wear anything with lame ass Cholo plastered on it. But then again, I wouldn’t give myself such an embarrassing nickname.
Doesn’t it bother you that you’re feeding right into the bullshit stereotype. I’m shre your parents wouldn’t be too happy, looking down at their little Gino, embarrassing the family fucking name. Walking around, selling yourself and your culture out all for a pop from a crowd that could give two fucks about you.
Like two real fucks.
Think about it, is it worth it?
Is it worth their fake cheers?
Worth the few bucks you make hawking your merch?
You should be ashamed of yourself, Cholo. Making us Hispanics look bad with your fucking racist bullshit nonsense. You should know better than to be blatantly buying into the fucking stereotype. I get it, you’re trying to be the good guy but there’s gotta be better ways to get people to cheer for you other than selling out your fucking people.
Your heritage.
Your entire presentation is a complete slap in the face of everyone who’s ever tried to overcome a stereotype. I mean, your fucking manager is Paco “The Drinking Time Bomb” Perez. Like what the fuck? Please don’t tell me his fucking drink of choice is tequila. And let me guess, he likes to take fucking naps under a tree with a fucking sombrero over his head.
Where’s our version of Jesse Jackson when ya need him?
And it’s not like you’re that good, Gino. From what I hear you’ve lost every major match you’ve ever been in, choked worse than me. But at least I’m dope as fuck. With a dope ass family. Banging ass fiance. And people genuinely wish they were me. They cosplay as themselves cosplaying as me. I know, it’s confusing just trust me kid. I’m dope as fuck, people love me and I don’t gotta rub my browness in their face to get cheap pops.
Not like you kid.
Andale andale arriba!
The fucking Speedy Gonzalez of pro wrestling.
Shame!
Shame on you for setting us back a hundred years with your fucking nonsense.
And before the fucking PC Twitter Police of losers and never-weres come at me, I just found out I’m half Puerto Rican. Pretty sure Bad Bunny is my cousin. If you don’t believe me, go check for yourself, somewhere in the Level Up archives. Or maybe it was in the PWE archives.. So my newfound ancestry makes it so I can call out any and all fucking nonsense I see fit, including that disgrace Cholo. Its fucking allowed. Unwritten rules of this world. And even if I wasn’t, think I give a fuck what some nerds say about ol’ P Mont on the Twitter Machine?
Newsflash, I’m doper than each and every single one of you.
Especially some confused El Salvadorian who thinks he has to be overly Hispanic to be a draw.
You know, maybe I’m wrong and you’re right Cholo. I don’t know you. Don’t know how long you’ve been doing this. How long you’ve been scratching and clawing to get to the level of mediocrity which is your career. This whole Cholo business could’ve came to be due to years of failing at being yourself. Maybe this caricature of yourself really is the only way you’re able to have a career. You and your overly racist manager.
Damn, maybe I’m wrong..
Nah, fuck that.
Paul Montuori is never wrong.
Cholo, I’d rather go back to fucking on film under the lucha mask then be a racist caricature of an El Salvadorian. Like I rather go back to doing shows in Tijuana and being paid in pesos than sell out my heritage for a few bucks. It’s so fucking pathetic the lengths you’re going. You really should stop. Go back to the drawing board. Figure out a new angle.
And for sure cut that fucking hair.
Or at least pass a brush through it once in a while. Use some fucking product. I know what I’m talking about, you can ask Raven yourself. He knows about how beautiful my hair is.
And the world is going to see this beautiful head of hair at Brawl.
In the opening fucking match, the jerking of curtains will commense with another round of the Mid-Card Championship.
Sure you have high hopes Cholo for this match. Think this is your moment to prove you’re not all hype, that you can beat someone worth a damn in a match of some importance. Your time to shine. Your time to grab that proverbial brass ring. Prove you’re worthy.
But you’re not.
We all know it.
We all know this won’t be your moment.
Cause unfortunately for you, there shall be only one victor at Brawl.
Only one person gets to go on in the Tournament.
And lucky for the world, that person is going to be..
Come on, like I really even have to say it.
Cholo, at Brawl..
Te voy dar un cocotaso bein da que te va a despertarte y dejar con la mierda..
See you fucks at Brawl..
☠️ ☠️ ☠️ ☠️ ☠️ ☠️ ☠️ ☠️ ☠️
“Mr. Montuori, we’re here,” I hear the driver say, snapping me back to reality. Fuck, was I cutting a promo in my head again? I look outside the window at the red carpet, full of photographers and reporters. Oh right, the fucking Grammy’s.
“Is that Harry Styles?” Madison says as I turn to see her nervously looking out the window.
“Yeah, looks like him. Ya ready?”
“I uh..”
“Aye, it’s OK. Just stick close to me and everything’s gonna be alright,” I say to her reassuringly. She takes a deep breath and looks to shake off some of the nerves.
“Alright, let’s do this,” she says.
“That’s my girl,” I reply as the door opens. I step out amidst an avalanche of flashing lights. I straighten out my suit and turn to help Madison out. “Let’s have some fun.”
“Paul over here!”
“Hey P Mont over here!” The photographers go crazy, screaming out for me. All wanting to get that magical picture of thee dopest dood walking the red carpet. Madison and I kill it with our poses, putting everyone else to shame. During one of my more sexier poses, I catch Lizzo staring at me like I’ma Whopper. Can’t hate on her for having good taste.
“Paulie, over here,” I hear my publicist Shauna say. I lead Madison towards her, finding her standing with someone from E! who shoves a microphone in my face.
‘Mr. Montuori, how does it feel to be here tonight at the Grammys?”
“I’ve been a few times, it feels like eons ago. A lot of new faces, even new faces on old faces. Crazy. But it’s dope. To be able to bring my daughter is even doper. Just to be able to expose her to this other side of my career. It seems like it's always all about dropkicks and curb stomps. But there’s more to Paul Montuori, which the rest of the world is now starting to see.”
“We all have with your performance in Cop-In-Law, which was amazing by the way. Do you think an Oscar might be in your future?”
“First, thanks. And I don’t know, another Oscar? It’d be dope, but at the same time, I’m just happy to be welcomed back. It’s been amazing how people have been welcoming me with open arms again. The amount of love from the fans have been amazing. I really am their hero.”
“You really are.”
“Paulie?! Is that you?!” I hear a familiar face. I turn around to see an old fling of mine walk towards me.
“Excuse me,” I say to the reporter and I walk towards my old fling. She pulls me in for a hug, her hands roaming freely around my body.
“Jenny, what’s up girl? Been a long time,” I say as I try to pull away. She lets her hands roam for a few more moments before releasing her grip.
“It has. Too long. What are you doing here at the Grammys? I thought you were banned.”
“That’s the Oscars, at least I was. I think I’m back in their good graces. A little charitable donation can do wonders sometimes. But I uh.. I’m here doing press for this movie I’m in that just came out.”
“Oh right, Cops-In-Law. I saw it, oh my god you looked so amazing in it. I wish you had more screen time.”
“You and I both. Producers thought if I was on screen too long, I’d overshadow the main character. They wanted her to be the most beautiful person in the movie. Pft, good luck,” I go on. And I’d continue to go on, talking about how amazing and beautiful I am but I’m suddenly being groped by Jenny again.
“Remember that night in Miami,” she starts to ask as I see that oh too familiar look in her eyes again.
“Hey now, Jenny this is my daughter,” I interject as I pull away, hoping Madison didn’t hear or see. The disgusted look on her tells me she saw everything.
“Madison, right?” She asks, holding out her hand as Madison shakes it.
“Yeah how’d you know?”
“Oh uh..”
“Jenny?!” Some dood says as he appears behind her. “What’s going on? Who’s this?”
“Oh this is Paul, the old friend I was telling you about. Paul, this is my husband Ben,” she says as I hold out my hand. Ben looks down at it the same way all women look at John Cable, in disgust. I pull my hand back, all awkward and shit. “Don’t mind him, he didn’t want to come.”
“Ready to go inside?” Ben asks her annoyed as fuck as he eyeballs me. I wonder what she told him about our friendship. By the look on his face, everyyyything..
“Yeah, sure,” she replies. “Paul, it was so great to see you again. We should catch up. What’s your num..”
“Jenny, now!” Ben says as he grabs her hand.
“I’ll DM you,” she mouths as she’s dragged away by Ben. I turn to Madison who looks at me half confused-half in awe.
“What?” I ask.
“That was Ben Affleck.”
“Oh yeah, is he famous? Jenny always dated famous doods.”
“Is he famous?” She asks, scoffing. “ And Jenny? You call her Jenny.”
“Yeah, Jenny from the Block,” I reply as she rolls her eyes. “So uh.. How about we don’t tell Michelle.”
“Tell her what? How Jennifer Lopez couldn’t keep her hands off you?”
“Noticed that too? Your Pops is kind’ve a stud, huh?”
“Gross..”