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Porter MaCleod
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Number of posts : 121
Registration date : 2006-11-30

PostSubject: Back to the drawing board   June 17th 2008, 8:29 pm

The camera cues in on
Porter MacLeod standing inside of an empty JWF arena. He looks around at the empty seats and
imagines them to be filled with screaming fans.
He hears their droning chants “Pooooorrrrterr…Poooorrrrterrr” Bill Goldberg only wishes his name was
chanted at this proficiency. He sees the
signs that say “Real Deal” and “Mr. Prime Time”. He shakes his head as he leans on the top
rope, the camera zooms in on his face.

Porter: You know, the JWF is just like Mae Young…It’s
never going to die. And it’s a lot like
The Lad, or as you know him, The Man…or Robert Reeves. It just keeps coming back and coming
back.
But that’s a good
thing in some cases. Look at me, I’m
back…And that’s a good thing for everybody.
Because, you see…Porter MacLeod is THE most controversial man alive
today. And it’s going to be that way for a long, long time. I’ve changed since my first days here in the JWF. Porter MacLeod’s no longer just an pencil pushing office lad, oh no. You see lads, since I’ve departed from the JWF. I’ve became a top contender for various other titles. But that doesn’t
matter in this fed, what matters is these titles. And you might as well go ahead and put my name on that little gold plate, boyos.
‘Cause that JWF title is coming home with Porter MacLeod very, very
soon.
I’ve got me head on straighter now and I know how to actually be serious about a match…well, I’ll change my words on that one. I’m never serious, but anyhow.
While I was taking a break from wrestling, Joe Santiago called me and left a voice mail with my assistant/manager Percy Diamond. When I got it, it said “I’m getting the band back together….boy-yo.”
The main reason I called him back, is because
you fucking Yanks and the rest of you non-Scots don’t know that it’s just one word, boyo, not boy yo. Sound like some
fucking white guy making a pathetic attempt at being black. The other reason is because I can’t stand Joe Santifaggo.
So, I thought, why not. Go back, give him hell again, make him

miserable and have fun while doing it.
I’m just kind of sad that The Lad isn’t here to be my verbal punching
bag anymore. Anyways, enough about my
comeback, I’ll save that for another time.
What matters now is this tournament and my opponent Captain Originality.





Porter goes from the
rope and jumps on the turnbuckle, except he lies across it.


Porter: Now, I’ve faced some original people in my
day boyo. But you of all people are the
simple greatest of all time. And if you
haven’t noticed, that last comment was soaked with sarcasm. I’d at least find a new nickname…or two…or
three, seeing as they are all copyrighted, lad.
But do you care? Nooooo. You’re probably too dumb to care, lad. All you care about is fucking ya lass, who
vaguely sounds like a lad. Judging by
your sample promo, I can see that this is going to be an easy walk in the park
for me. It will be like pushing a
paraplegic kid down a flight of stairs, only less hilarious.
When I saw that
promo, I thought to myself…”That lad is just a Johnny Stylez wannabe.” The only difference between you and Johnny
Stylez…make that two differences. Johnny
Stylez has talent, and Johnny Stylez can actually get the nookie he says he
does.
Now, apart from being
unoriginal, lad. I’m going to just look
at your name and ask you what the hell you were thinking. Probably the same thing you were thinking when
you fell for the mutt you call a ladyfriend.
And if you need me to explain it lad, what I mean is, she’s ugly as a
dog. It’s pissing me off that I have
explain every little thing to you. What
would make it better would be for you to off yourself with a noose, or to just magically disappear.
You walk into a room
and the IQ of everyone there drops. It’s
ridiculous, lad. Out of all the million
sperm, you’re the one that made it? For
the love of St. Pete’s ghost, were your parents brother and sister? Because that’s probably the only explanation as
to how you could turn out the way you did…either that or somebody took a big
shit in your gene pool. I’m tired of
explaining things to you so I’m just going to let you take that as you will.





Porter places his
hands behind his head while he stretches across the top rope.

Porter: I’ll warn ya though, lad. If the ref turns his back, expect something
nasty from me. Don’t expect to even come
within a hair of winning, lad. It’s not
written in your future, or your stars, or whatever the hell you go off of. This time, it’s Porter MacLeod’s time. I’ve been screwed out of title shot after
title shot, and believe me. That belt
will go home with me, by any means necessary.
I’m one of if not the only original in this match, and it’s only fitting
that the belt comes home with me. There’s
nothing that you, that piece of lawn ornament you call a girlfriend, or anyone
else can do about it.
I am somewhere
between fantastic and amazing, lad. And
you’re going to find that out the hard way.
When you’re face down drowning from your own blood. I’m going to try and pop that enormous chin
of yours back in to where it at least looks half-normal. Jay Leno’s got nothing on you lad.
Now, as for Cyber
Punk’s proposition. I’ll just leave it
at this, you’re all going to be in for a big surprise with what Porter Fucking
MacLeod has in store for ya. I’m the
Real Deal, Mr. Prime Time. And if ya try
me, I’ll make ya famous….boyo.



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