Greetings from the Squared Circle!
We hope you and yours are enjoying a healthy and joyful holiday season. I would like to begin this year’s Christmas letter by taking a moment to reflect upon those less fortunate; there are many people who will spend Christmas Day in traction, suffering from broken vertebrae and bruised egos because of me. Yes, this means you Big Stevie Storm; when I have your gutless yellow neck locked in my Michinoku Death Grip, you’ll tap the canvas so hard they’ll feel it in China. Do yourself a favor this Christmas and ask Santa Clause for a catheter and a motorized chair. You’re going to need it, you dickless scum. You call yourself the “Executioner from Cell Block 9”? You’re nothing but a silky candy-bar punk, giving up your ass for sweet prison treats, passed around the locker room like a can of Tinactin.
2009 has been a year of great change for Robin and me. Robin finished her thesis, graduated with honors and received her bachelor’s degree in marketing. Her motivation and passion for what she does was an inspiration to me during the course of this year, and it was in March that I turned a new page in my own life. Following my lifelong dream to become a professional wrestler, I decided to stop procrastinating and start picking my spots. I began wrestling dogs I picked up from the pound, placing them in rudimentary headlocks and practicing aerial moves from our patio cover. I can say that Robin was a little more than irritated to be woken up every morning by the sounds of panting dogs and my ferocious war scream as I took the mangy legs of a pound puppy and sent it spinning into an inverted pump-handle slam. “Are you wrestling dogs again?” She’d ask.
It was in August that Robin and I moved into our new home, a cozy little one bedroom in Orange County that rests underneath the majestic and altogether pleasing shelter of the tall birch trees, whose rustic white bark and crispy yellow tone is spangled throughout our complex. Over the summer I made the difficult transition from dogs to bums. The homeless, although malnourished, show tremendous spirit in their fight and don’t like to be woken early in the morning by a random elbow drop from a complete stranger. However physically unconditioned I was then, I am proud to say that my own personal fortitude against such great adversity did manage to leave a great portion of the proletariat in worse shape than they were already in.
This leads us to December. Robin and I are still planning on children next year, and I can barely contain my emotions when I think about her being a mother. She truly is the apple of my eye. For her I would power-slam every hobo and canine in the world. I suppose a boot licking cock-whisperer like “The Executioner” can’t understand that kind of love because it doesn’t involve cash being exchanged in the shadows of some truck stop where men named “Big Ed” tickle each other’s balls with feather dusters. Regardless, in two weeks I climb into the merciless confines of a 15’ steel cage at Bash-A-Palooza ’09, and wrap my claws around that half-queer retard.
Your doom, you pig-raping tomato can, is as inevitable as the appearance of snowflakes in the cold moist December air, and as inescapable as time itself. A curtain-jerker like you has only days left to call yourself the champion, so enjoy your time while the belt is in your custody… while you still have arms to hold it.