The Deconstruction of Joseph Mason
What a fucking disaster Joseph Mason is.
We’re supposed to believe that Joseph Mason is some sort of superman action hero who plays Metal Gear Solid on a random military base in the middle of the desert, dodges around security, murders a general, gets away with it, and spares a random chick because he says she’s hot. And we’re supposed to believe he does it oh… about three days after he got tortured for two months straight.
Sure, that’s plausible!
There’s a pattern here, and I’m not sure what it is, but Joseph Mason is that dumbfuck in every tournament that goes off on a far-fetched enough tangent to get a few followers and beat everyone by attrition.
Hey everybody! Did you read Joseph Mason’s last roleplay? ME NEITHER BECAUSE HE WROTE FUCKING 5000 WORDS.
Keep being a self-important prick, fagmotron; forget the fact that you’ve faced precisely nobody throughout this disaster of a tournament. Forget the fact that last time, your stiffest competition was Dude Job. Forget the fact that you’ve basically skated by because you chat on AIM with all of the judges and they think you’re slightly less annoying that Sully Sphinx and the Prince of Punk (great job recruiting that fed, by the way; shhhhhocker that none of them made the finals!); the real reason everyone thinks you’re the shit is because you’ve mastered the art of going off on a completely unrelated rant in order to add sharpness to your roleplays.
Edgy! It’s like your own version of "stab your taint", just add synonyms! But hey, at least everyone’s laughing, right? It’s a proven formula; I’ve won best trash talk at least two rounds by basically calling someone a twat, then blabbering on for about four hundred words about stabbing myself in the duodenum with a spork from taco bell and pouring dry ice on my junk.
Now, you know what the REALLY fucking sad part is?
I’m an utter joke, my life reminds everyone of their favorite action flick, and I’m still going to fucking murder all of you faggots in this tournament.
I’m officially punting this tournament - I haven’t really even put my full effort into it since round three of the last When Worlds Collide - and none of even stand a chance to me.
Let’s start with the chic pick to win it all, since hey, that’s basically how I’ve got to do this if I want to win it, right? Hey, Chris Champion! It’s only taken three rounds of you mutilating your junk on camera to get my attention, but at least you’ve got it! You’ve spent your entire career trying to be this dominant superhero who’s had the greatest battles of all time with FRIENDS, FOES, AND ENEMIES OF THE GREAT COUNTRY OF BRITAIN and felled all comers! You’re a legend in your own mind, and in the minds of every halfwit in HWF, NLCW, GAY, XWFPA, and every other fed frequented by the Prince of Punk and Sean _____!
And yet, you wanted more.
You came out of retirement for one reason: to beat me.
It’s going to make you really fucking sad when I empty the contents of my fucking colon on your forehead, isn’t it?
Ignoring the fact that you’re a professional wrestler who is being considered the most dangerous man on the planet by some shady, trench-coat wearing dudes whose mission isn’t quite clear yet and may never be (but they DO make pretty secretive fucking phone calls, at least. No self-respecting action writer would EVER ignore the power of an intriguing, not-enough-details-to-decipher secret phone call!), you’ve gone from being a washed up couch potato whose wife wants him to shut the fuck up and change his ten year old daughter’s diaper to being sought out by a psychic hottie’s father (who was later shot) and kidnapped by evil Injuns.
At least you appear to have gone to the Joseph Mason School of Literary Plausibility! Too bad you went to the Awkward Nerdy White Kid School of Talking Shit.
Ride my dick a little more for not putting my full effort into this tournament, why don’t you? Do you think in the end it really matters whether I have to break a sweat to make you look like the fucking halfwit you are? Does it really make a difference if I don’t tape nine promos about how I’m GIVING MY ALL FOR ONE LAST CHANCE AT THE GLORYnohomo? Because really, in the end, the result’s the same: you’re left here picking up the pieces, wondering why your fifteen years of nearly-undefeated shootfighting wasn’t quite enough to prepare you for the concentrated hurricane of awesomeness that is Joseph Mason.
I’ll buy the tissues. You decide what to do with them.