Post by La Cucaracha on Mar 24, 2016 7:23:57 GMT
A YouTube video begins with a shot of asphalt, before the camera adjusts through a dizzying array of street, sky, the side of a van, and the face of La Cucaracha, hidden behind a purple domino mask the doesn't serve to hide her identity at all. She frowns at the camera.
La Cucaracha: Just because I'm the queen of social media doesn't mean I deserve to be exploded in a steel cage because of a Twitter poll. I'll show up to GoL Chapter Uno: Rise of the Luchas, because I'm a professional and because I gotta move these t-shirt and foam hissing cockroach combos for the low, low price of $49.99, but I do so under protest. How am I supposed to be the top draw in this promotion if I get blown up on the first show? This is no way to build a wrestling company. And then there's my first opponent, D.C. Wiland, who says he's wrestled like everywhere. I believe him, but because we're fighting, I also think he sucks. Hey, do you think D.C. Wiland sucks?
The camera shakily positions upon a nervous man in a suit trying to ignore the cell phone promo happening several feet from him.
Man: I don't actually know who that is.
But you agree that he sucks, right?
The man sprints away, before the camera returns to the Canadian luchadora.
I'll cut you a deal, Deec. Can I call you Deec? You lead with a clothesline, I'll duck and hit you with a backslide. One, two, three, I win, then we can both get the hell out of the ring before anyone explodes. It's win-win.
Racha nods in agreement with her own suggestion.
Let's face it. You've had a distinguished career, but you're on the way out. Obviously, I'm more than willing to beat you the old-fashioned way and then use you as a human shield to protect me from any earth-shattering kabooms. I'm willing to do that, D.C. And when all that's left of you is a scrap of knee skin, I'm also willing to uphold your final wishes and give that skin a Satanic funeral, because I'm a nice person. But don't push me, jerk. I might sleep in a van and eat rotisserie chickens stuffed full of Hershey's kisses, but I know a thing or two about a thing or two. And those two things I know are marketing and wrestling. You winning is bad for both.
La Cucharacha exhales sharply, squinting at the camera.
Look, I'll give you fifty shares of La Cucaracha Inc. That's an investment guaranteed to payoff tenfold by 2017. Remember how I was saying you should retire? This is step one. There's a rocking chair and a big can of Metamucil with your name on it. I might not actually know how old you are, but I do know you love to scream at children to stay away from your house. Every neighborhood needs a creepy old dude. If you take my advice, you can be the Old Man Wiland menacing any block in the free world. Turn your porch light off on Halloween, set a few traps for local pets, and rant to anyone who'll listen about how don't nobody respect nothin' no more. What's the deal with network TV? I'll even come by and setup your Netflix and you can sniff all my wrestling championships. No touching, though. I don't want you getting old man stink on 'em. The only stink going on those belts is gonna be mine.
Taking a moment to make the universal symbol for gold around her waist, La Cucaracha almost drops her phone.
I know you're a former hardcore champion, so I googled "hardcore videos" and researched what you had to go through to win that title. I'm definitely impressed and it really made me think about how far I'm willing to go to be a champion. The whole time I'm like, "There's no way that thing will fit in there," and then sure enough, it does. If you're competing against those people, you're definitely the real deal, Wiland. The things your body can do are both impressive and horrifying. You're the real deal.
Pausing, La Cucaracha shakes her head in hopes of removing an image that will haunt her to the grave.
I really want us to work this out through diplomacy, but you can't just say you're untrustworthy and then expect me to ever trust you. I mean, maybe if you admit you've changed and you'll never do anything treacherous again. Your story checks out. You seem like an okay guy. But I'm still gonna win our match. I mean, I might let you win. That's literally the only way I could see myself losing, is if it was all part of my master plan. Which it could be.
Another pause, before La Cucaracha adapts a more somber tone.
Seriously, though, I don't want to die. Especially in my first match for GoL. It's different if you die. Everyone will be really happy about that, but I'm a Canadian national treasure. We can't let this happen, D.C. Wrestlers have to speak up against promotions booking them in insane gimmick matches via Twitter. If we don't stop this now, when will it end? You could be the Jesus of wrestlers. All you have to do is take a stand and let GoL management know that you forgive them because they know not what they do or however that goes. Let yourself be blown up, D.C. Wiland. For me, and for all the rest of the world that you loved so dear. Or don't, if you're going to be a fucking asshole about it. You're the worst and I'm going to stuff you full of dynamite. And if those videos were any indication, there's plenty of room to stuff you. And in case you were wondering, that's how you cut a promo and---
The phone slips from La Cucaracha's hand, smacking upon the asphalt and immediately cutting off.
La Cucaracha: Just because I'm the queen of social media doesn't mean I deserve to be exploded in a steel cage because of a Twitter poll. I'll show up to GoL Chapter Uno: Rise of the Luchas, because I'm a professional and because I gotta move these t-shirt and foam hissing cockroach combos for the low, low price of $49.99, but I do so under protest. How am I supposed to be the top draw in this promotion if I get blown up on the first show? This is no way to build a wrestling company. And then there's my first opponent, D.C. Wiland, who says he's wrestled like everywhere. I believe him, but because we're fighting, I also think he sucks. Hey, do you think D.C. Wiland sucks?
The camera shakily positions upon a nervous man in a suit trying to ignore the cell phone promo happening several feet from him.
Man: I don't actually know who that is.
But you agree that he sucks, right?
The man sprints away, before the camera returns to the Canadian luchadora.
I'll cut you a deal, Deec. Can I call you Deec? You lead with a clothesline, I'll duck and hit you with a backslide. One, two, three, I win, then we can both get the hell out of the ring before anyone explodes. It's win-win.
Racha nods in agreement with her own suggestion.
Let's face it. You've had a distinguished career, but you're on the way out. Obviously, I'm more than willing to beat you the old-fashioned way and then use you as a human shield to protect me from any earth-shattering kabooms. I'm willing to do that, D.C. And when all that's left of you is a scrap of knee skin, I'm also willing to uphold your final wishes and give that skin a Satanic funeral, because I'm a nice person. But don't push me, jerk. I might sleep in a van and eat rotisserie chickens stuffed full of Hershey's kisses, but I know a thing or two about a thing or two. And those two things I know are marketing and wrestling. You winning is bad for both.
La Cucharacha exhales sharply, squinting at the camera.
Look, I'll give you fifty shares of La Cucaracha Inc. That's an investment guaranteed to payoff tenfold by 2017. Remember how I was saying you should retire? This is step one. There's a rocking chair and a big can of Metamucil with your name on it. I might not actually know how old you are, but I do know you love to scream at children to stay away from your house. Every neighborhood needs a creepy old dude. If you take my advice, you can be the Old Man Wiland menacing any block in the free world. Turn your porch light off on Halloween, set a few traps for local pets, and rant to anyone who'll listen about how don't nobody respect nothin' no more. What's the deal with network TV? I'll even come by and setup your Netflix and you can sniff all my wrestling championships. No touching, though. I don't want you getting old man stink on 'em. The only stink going on those belts is gonna be mine.
Taking a moment to make the universal symbol for gold around her waist, La Cucaracha almost drops her phone.
I know you're a former hardcore champion, so I googled "hardcore videos" and researched what you had to go through to win that title. I'm definitely impressed and it really made me think about how far I'm willing to go to be a champion. The whole time I'm like, "There's no way that thing will fit in there," and then sure enough, it does. If you're competing against those people, you're definitely the real deal, Wiland. The things your body can do are both impressive and horrifying. You're the real deal.
Pausing, La Cucaracha shakes her head in hopes of removing an image that will haunt her to the grave.
I really want us to work this out through diplomacy, but you can't just say you're untrustworthy and then expect me to ever trust you. I mean, maybe if you admit you've changed and you'll never do anything treacherous again. Your story checks out. You seem like an okay guy. But I'm still gonna win our match. I mean, I might let you win. That's literally the only way I could see myself losing, is if it was all part of my master plan. Which it could be.
Another pause, before La Cucaracha adapts a more somber tone.
Seriously, though, I don't want to die. Especially in my first match for GoL. It's different if you die. Everyone will be really happy about that, but I'm a Canadian national treasure. We can't let this happen, D.C. Wrestlers have to speak up against promotions booking them in insane gimmick matches via Twitter. If we don't stop this now, when will it end? You could be the Jesus of wrestlers. All you have to do is take a stand and let GoL management know that you forgive them because they know not what they do or however that goes. Let yourself be blown up, D.C. Wiland. For me, and for all the rest of the world that you loved so dear. Or don't, if you're going to be a fucking asshole about it. You're the worst and I'm going to stuff you full of dynamite. And if those videos were any indication, there's plenty of room to stuff you. And in case you were wondering, that's how you cut a promo and---
The phone slips from La Cucaracha's hand, smacking upon the asphalt and immediately cutting off.