Ahem.
TTB.
Let me say this slowly and clearly so your mystic ears won’t mistake.
You are so fucked.
Monday, November 10, 2008
Tuesday, May 6, 2008
This Land is My Land
Shotgun was there in the locker room. He saw firsthand the awesome sadness of the Mystic Man. He saw the tears gather, saw them tremble, saw them fall to the ground. Shotgun saw TTB cry many tears, so many they smudged his facepaint and made him look more terrifying than he could ever have hoped for. But Shotgun did not fear TTB's mystic sprinkler. He had business to take care of. He wanted revenge. He wanted TTB underground.
You say you were once earth TTB? Return to it now. You are no mystic man.
There is only one man on this prairie and he does not sit around crying for people and stuff. This man knows when there's work to be done. He carries his shotgun easily. He tills the fields, logs the timber, and fishes the rivers. Because he knows in his heart what his opponent, in all his mysticness, has failed to recognize: the land belongs to those who work it.
This is the fatal error of Two Tears Boye, Native American Superstar.
TTB does not care to create. He picks flowers that wilt in hands. The fruits of TTB's labor are elusive, ephemeral, and more easily lost than a polluted estuary.
TTB's work is pine to The Man's oak, soapstone to The Man's granite.
TTB's work erodes, while The Man's endures.
The Man believes in good honest work, work that lasts.
He believes in blistered hands and early starts to the day.
He believes in the warm ache a shoulder feels from hand splitting
two cords of wood. By lunch. In June.
TTB, you know nothing of these things. You float around on your cloud with your tears and your mouthpiece that says "intensity" when you smile and your shitty wireless connection and you think that you are the mystic shit. You are mistaken. You are a fleeting ghost not long for this America. I will render your teachings obsolete and leave your followers by the roadside.
When the bell sounds in that ring, Sam "The Man" Shotgun will leave quietly. He will not dance because that's not his style. He will leave TTB's prone figure face-down on the mat. The Rock Bottom may be a lame move but it's fucking devastating. Once again there will be no mystic dance of victory.
TTB will not tell Shotgun why his heart burns.
He will not yell "T-T-B, 1-2-3!"
When The Man exits it will be to "Taking Care of Business" because he works overtime. He will mop the floor with TTB and then he will go, shoulders rolled, back to work.
You say you were once earth TTB? Return to it now. You are no mystic man.
There is only one man on this prairie and he does not sit around crying for people and stuff. This man knows when there's work to be done. He carries his shotgun easily. He tills the fields, logs the timber, and fishes the rivers. Because he knows in his heart what his opponent, in all his mysticness, has failed to recognize: the land belongs to those who work it.
This is the fatal error of Two Tears Boye, Native American Superstar.
TTB does not care to create. He picks flowers that wilt in hands. The fruits of TTB's labor are elusive, ephemeral, and more easily lost than a polluted estuary.
TTB's work is pine to The Man's oak, soapstone to The Man's granite.
TTB's work erodes, while The Man's endures.
The Man believes in good honest work, work that lasts.
He believes in blistered hands and early starts to the day.
He believes in the warm ache a shoulder feels from hand splitting
two cords of wood. By lunch. In June.
TTB, you know nothing of these things. You float around on your cloud with your tears and your mouthpiece that says "intensity" when you smile and your shitty wireless connection and you think that you are the mystic shit. You are mistaken. You are a fleeting ghost not long for this America. I will render your teachings obsolete and leave your followers by the roadside.
When the bell sounds in that ring, Sam "The Man" Shotgun will leave quietly. He will not dance because that's not his style. He will leave TTB's prone figure face-down on the mat. The Rock Bottom may be a lame move but it's fucking devastating. Once again there will be no mystic dance of victory.
TTB will not tell Shotgun why his heart burns.
He will not yell "T-T-B, 1-2-3!"
When The Man exits it will be to "Taking Care of Business" because he works overtime. He will mop the floor with TTB and then he will go, shoulders rolled, back to work.
Tuesday, April 22, 2008
Monday, April 14, 2008
God gave me these hands to work. And to kill TTB.
The Man is a peaceful man. Don't mess with him, he don't mess with you.
Two Tears Boye raided The Man's homestead and burned down his house and barn. Animals? Dead. Crops? Gone. The Man and his family lived in a wagon for a year, seven months, three weeks, and four days, eating roots and tree bark while The Man built a new home. Alls The Man knows is, TTB tries ridin through The Man's farm again he best be ridin fast, less The Man's shotgun find the back a that Boye's two teared face.
The Man never did nuthin to no one. All he ever wanted was forty acres, a good wife, and an honest livin workin the land. Well that ain't gonna happen. Not now. Not till that cryin little piece shit meets Shotgun Breslaw in the ring.
The Man's waitin, boy.
Two Tears Boye raided The Man's homestead and burned down his house and barn. Animals? Dead. Crops? Gone. The Man and his family lived in a wagon for a year, seven months, three weeks, and four days, eating roots and tree bark while The Man built a new home. Alls The Man knows is, TTB tries ridin through The Man's farm again he best be ridin fast, less The Man's shotgun find the back a that Boye's two teared face.
The Man never did nuthin to no one. All he ever wanted was forty acres, a good wife, and an honest livin workin the land. Well that ain't gonna happen. Not now. Not till that cryin little piece shit meets Shotgun Breslaw in the ring.
The Man's waitin, boy.
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