Post by themeccaofmanhood on Feb 24, 2023 16:19:09 GMT -5
*The shot opens to a cloud of white steam. No, it isn’t smoke. The Bod God would never taint his temple of a body with smoke. White steam covers the entire view, making it impossible to see anything, but a voice so smooth, seductive, and masculine that Barry White plays it to get women in the mood cuts through the steam. The voice of the Mecca of Manhood. *
What do you call someone so pathetic, mediocre, cowardly, and weak that they hide their true feelings and emotions and apologize to their rivals when they are questioned? You call them a sniveling little b*tch, but Buster Glove would also be an acceptable answer.
*Through the steam steps the Abdominal Adonis, his body glistening through the steam. The Mecca of Manhood looks to be sculptured by Michaelangelo, like the statue of David, only more jacked, ripped, and with a much bigger package. No skimping on the marble for that marvelous member. *
Buster, I could clown on that name for hours. I could talk about how you are a sorry ass, Busta. I could reference the terrible Buster Cherry names I’ve seen online. I could even go as basic as to talk about how a “Buster” represents someone who is unpopular and weak. BUT…
That is low-hanging fruit. Those are insults better left for mediocre scrubs who can’t put together a coherent sentence because they are too busy pulling their foot out of their mouth, or as it has become known around the professional wrestling world, “pulling a Buster Gloves”. See Buster, you are quick to talk, and even quicker to apologize, but very slow to think.
*The Pinnacle of Perfection rubs his hand down his torso, careful not to nick himself on his ripped abs that you could grate cheese on. He flicks his hand, sending the combination of water and sweat flying to the tiled ground. The moisture in the room is higher than that of the Velvet Rabbit when all the world sees The Mecca of Manhood in his tights. *
Clearly, Buster, your only shortcoming isn’t in your pants, as it appears both your heads are tiny. Well, your brain is tiny anyway. I’m not quite sure how your pencil neck holds up that jug head of yours. I say jug head because it is a two-fold insult for you, one being that your head is the size of a mop bucket, and two. After all, you are a Waterhead. I’m sure you’ll have to have someone explain to you what a Waterhead is since as a Waterhead you won’t understand the insult.
*The Vascular Viper’s veneers shine through the steam as he gives an arrogant smirk. He slowly shakes his head, his sharp jawline cutting through the mist of the room. *
Oh, I know. You are going to have one of your emotional outbursts and kick my ass, aren’t you, Buster? Please, you can’t even spell M-M-A. Out there suffering from CTE, bound to get early on-set Parkinsons, and you think you’re the baddest man on the planet. You’re the only person who has taken more blows to the head than Emily Simms has given blows to heads. You’re Brazilian Wax Jews Getten Sued, isn’t going to work on my marvelously massive limbs, and the only thing you’re choking on is your opportunity to make it to the finals of the Intercontinental championship.
Actually, you wouldn’t actually be choking, because to choke you would have had to stand a chance at getting there. Once your name was put in the same bracket as mine, your fate of losing in the semi-finals was sealed. Of course, from the rumors Emily has spread, you’re used to just working with a semi. Guess when you get your age, and your simpen for your second b*tch things just don’t get as hard as they used to. But you’ll find out what hard is when you step into the ring with the Mecca of Manhood at Brawl. You got hard luck; I got the hard body, and beating me is even harder than beating off with your semi.
Am I triggering you Buster? Don’t expect me to apologize for it, partly because I’m not a pansy like you, but mostly because I’m not sorry about anything I say. I know insulting a veteran may hurt my poll numbers, but when I expose you as stealing valor, not only will people not be upset with me, they will join me in mocking you.
PTSD, yeah that is easy to get as a recruiter, cause that is the only job someone can have in the military while still being allowed to fight professionally. I’d have PTSD too if I knew I was lying to young men and women so I could get a bonus, while they get shipped off to be slayed in a meaningless war.
The only PTSD you got is Post Tweeting Sex Disorder. How many iPhones have you gone through due to some Twitter THOTs thirst trap post? You wouldn’t catch the Marvelous One sliding in those DMs, cause your girl is sliding in my DMs. Emily Simms asking me about my PTSD, pretty thick strong dick. Guess in your alls couple, you aren’t the only one who knows about choking.
Let’s face it, Buster, you’re a loser. You couldn’t make it as a military man. You couldn’t win the big one as an MMA fighter. Your MMA gym went bankrupt because you have the business acumen of a kid with a lemonade stand. And, you aren’t going to make it as a professional wrestler, because no matter how hard you train, I’m training harder. No matter how strong you think you are, I’m stronger. Whatever you do, Buster, I am better than you. You are nothing more than a broken simp, living in the basement of a skanky strip club, and fighting for your next dollar. Me… well, I am the future Intercontinental champion, the NEXT President of the United States, and quite frankly, I am… SIMPLY MARVELOUS!
*The Sultan of Swole stepped back into the steam and it engulfed him, covering the scene in the fog. The fog slowly dissipates, and when it does, reveals a new shot and location. When the steam clears, to show a stage set up in the middle of the football field for North Dakota State in Fargo, ND. From Fargo to Las Vegas is a very long drive, but The CEO of Cardio flies private and chartered, so just like his road to the Intercontinental title, this will be a quick and direct trip. Besides, The Marvelous One refuses to spend any more time in that skank-infested den of sin called “The Velvet Rabbit ‘’ than he must. North Dakota may be a bit out of the way, but the state and this stadium are a magnificent spot for a campaign stop.
Every seat in the Fargodome has a butt in it, and the crowd is waiting with bated breath to hear the speech of the man who will be the next President of the United States. The crowd loudly chants with anticipation. *
MAM!
MAM!
MAM!
*The shot pans around the sold-out stadium and then transitions into a locker room where The Big Natty Daddy stands looking in a full-length mirror, fixing his luscious hair. Behind him on the leather couch sits his assistant, Amanda. Some may call Amanda a “healthy” woman, and some may call her a BBW.
She is wearing a pants suit, and she is stretching the fabric so tightly it screams for its life. She sits staring at The Titan of Tenacity, not with lust in her heart, but admiration in her mascara surrounded eyes. *
Mr. Mason.
Oh, sorry, Mr. Marvelous. I’m just so thankful for this internship opportunity.
*The King of Quads sighs as he adjusts his sharkskin suit jacket. He looks over his shoulder at Amanda through the mirror. *
Well, Amanda, I said THE MARVELOUS ONE, not Mr. Marvelous, so there is strike one. But, your father was a great teammate back in college, that, and his sizeable donation to my campaign was enough to earn you a spot as my unpaid intern.
You impress me? Highly doubtful, but if you work hard, do as I say, and lose a couple of pounds, you might be able to earn a letter of recommendation.
*Amanda seems a bit taken aback by The Mecca of Manhood’s comments, as she gasps and looks down at herself. Amanda quickly realizes that the body positivity movement has no place in Making America Marvelous. She needs to stand up from the couch, so she leans back and throws her torso forward, having to garner momentum to power her larger than average body from the plush couch. As she does she says, “it’s just… I don’t get the whole hate for Canada thing”.
Amanda, do you hear those people out there chanting?
Of course, it echoes through the bowels of the arena like the KFC famous bowl I had for dinner is echoing through my bowels.
Gross, but the point is the people need a rallying cry, and I’m simply playing on people’s need to believe in something or someone, and creating a cult-like following.
People have an overwhelming desire to believe in something, or someone. I am simply becoming the focal point of their desire by offering them a cause and a new faith to follow. In this case, it’s our treacherous neighbors to the north. By keeping my words vague, but full of promise, with an emphasis on enthusiasm over rationality and clear thinking. I’m giving my disciples rituals to perform, asking them to make sacrifices through campaign donations and/or volunteering their time.
Frankly, I couldn’t give two of the big, runny craps you are going to take later, about Canada or Canadians. Yes, they speak French in some parts. Sure, they are nearly full-blown socialists. Sure, their football and bacon are subpar, but they are meek people. They shut up and stay out of America’s way, but now that I have planted the seeds of disillusion in the heads of the American people, contempt is blooming.
You create a problem and position yourself as the only solution. Like a virus, and the vaccine. Like the issuer debt that will hold you back your whole life, and then being the same issuer, saying you’ll forgive that debt, but really just distributing it around. Making an enemy out of a neighbor and then saying you are the only person who can protect us from that enemy. Make a devil for the people and then set yourself up as the savior of those people. I am making Canada the devil, and myself the savior.
*The Messiah of Muscle gives an evil grin as Amanda is shocked and at a loss for words. The Big Natty Daddy snaps his fingers in front of her face, bringing her back to reality. *
*SNAP!*
*SNAP!*
Are you with me? Hello?
*SNAP!*
*SNAP!*
*Amanda’s eyes move up towards The Titan of Tenacities, but she is still speechless. *
Ok, you’re here, thought you went into a diabetic coma there for a minute. Did you get all that? I know you went to a state school, so I just want to make sure you comprehend everything.
*The Sultan of Swole smiles and puts his arm around Amanda. “Let’s start with your diet”, The Bod God says as the two of them exit the dressing room.
The shot transitions to The Deity of Deltoids standing at the end tunnel preparing to head out to the stage. The lights drop in the arena and “Where the stars, and straps, and eagles fly” by Aaron Tippin begins to play on the PA system throughout the arena. Spotlights begin panning around the arena as the crowd comes to their feet and begins chanting. *
MAM!
MAM!
MAM!
*The Bishop of Biceps begins to step out of the tunnel when Amanda comes running to his side. She stops and takes a break to catch her breath. As The Count of Calves buttons his suit jacket, he looks at her. *
*While panting, Amanda responds. *
HUFF! HUFF! Sorry, that famous bowl came out sooner than expected. HUFF!
Disgusting. Come on, I need a commoner by my side when I address the commoners.
ME!?!
Yes, you look exactly like an average Midwesterner. You’re a woman of the people, mildly ugly, overweight, drowning in student loan debt, and not at all as smart as you think you are, just the kind of voter I need.
*The Lat Legend winks at her, turns, and begins walking from the tunnel with Amanda right on his heels. As fireworks explode overhead, the crowd roars with applause. The Mecca of Manhood shakes hands and kisses babies on his way to the stage. As The Bod God begins climbing the stairs to the stage, he stops at the top, and with the spotlight on him, gives a front double bicep pose, cueing the audible ovulation of the women in the crowd.
The Marvelous One begins heading to the podium. Amanda still closes behind him as she heads for her seat on the stage. As the gritty, yet warm voice of Aaron Tippin fades out, the lights begin to come up. As the lights come up, The President of Pump begins to give one last giant wave when suddenly the sound of a gunshot echoes throughout the Fargodome.
Medics rushed to the stage and have begun working on her. As they cut her shirt open, revealing a gushing wound, chest compressions begin. The Bod God cannot take his eyes off of the scene, and all The Mecca of Manhood could think is, “there is no way I lose this election now”.
Climax. *