Post by reaper on Jun 1, 2019 18:38:35 GMT -5
Okay Jack here goes...
I know week after week, match after match I make it well known I will not preach long winded sermons with no relevance or substance. I have said it once too many times that I wouldn't bow or give in to the accepted norm. That I wouldn't change my style of directness and "to the point" promos. My style...my way...my stubborn presentation of being me. Doing it "My Way!"
Well Jack, here's your chance to call me a hypocrite. Your chance to chide me on falling in line with the rest of the blind sheep.
BAAH!BAAH!BAAH!
No Slayer...No Metallica...
Motley Crue "Shout at the Devil" is where my story begins.
11 years old, scrawny little kid not old enough to know what a pimple is yet, but old enough to know I was smaller than those around me. A late bloomer if you will. When classmates were having growth spurts and experiencing the unforgettable cracking, squeeking voice changes of puberty. I was being left behind. Suddenly those with pimples and peach fuzz on their upper lips were reluctantly bonding together in their newly found "manhood."
Body hair here...there...under there...everywhere. Seemed like actual proof of sasquatch. And me...not a squeek, not a hair, not a chance. Left behind to question my biology and wait day after day for my transformation to begin...and wait...and wait...and wait I did.
As you can imagine being different is always hard no matter what or where it is. And difficult for me it was to say the least. Until that day I found myself in a long forgotten store transfixed on a cassette cover. 4 long haired guys looking scary, mean and cool. With the words scrawled on the cover "SHOUT AT THE DEVIL" Well that did it. I decided I had to have it. But times were poor. I saved and saved, week after week, every allowance I got went into my piggy bank.
Hoping to accumulate enough to buy it. And so the time finally came...and I bought it...took it home...popped it in the cassette player and pressed down the PLAY button.
I listened to every last chord, double bass, scream and guitar riff like it was gospel. I finally felt like I found my place to fit in. Where I was understood. Like those shouting at the devil knew me.
And I survived my awkwardness through the years with the Crue until my body caught up to those around me. Still skinny and small. But with hair on my upper lip and a squeek in my voice...and a damn zit on my nose.
Well Jack, now that I think about it...you remind me of that unwanted zit. So prepare to be popped and forgotten. Just like that zit.
REAPER OUT!
I know week after week, match after match I make it well known I will not preach long winded sermons with no relevance or substance. I have said it once too many times that I wouldn't bow or give in to the accepted norm. That I wouldn't change my style of directness and "to the point" promos. My style...my way...my stubborn presentation of being me. Doing it "My Way!"
Well Jack, here's your chance to call me a hypocrite. Your chance to chide me on falling in line with the rest of the blind sheep.
BAAH!BAAH!BAAH!
No Slayer...No Metallica...
Motley Crue "Shout at the Devil" is where my story begins.
11 years old, scrawny little kid not old enough to know what a pimple is yet, but old enough to know I was smaller than those around me. A late bloomer if you will. When classmates were having growth spurts and experiencing the unforgettable cracking, squeeking voice changes of puberty. I was being left behind. Suddenly those with pimples and peach fuzz on their upper lips were reluctantly bonding together in their newly found "manhood."
Body hair here...there...under there...everywhere. Seemed like actual proof of sasquatch. And me...not a squeek, not a hair, not a chance. Left behind to question my biology and wait day after day for my transformation to begin...and wait...and wait...and wait I did.
As you can imagine being different is always hard no matter what or where it is. And difficult for me it was to say the least. Until that day I found myself in a long forgotten store transfixed on a cassette cover. 4 long haired guys looking scary, mean and cool. With the words scrawled on the cover "SHOUT AT THE DEVIL" Well that did it. I decided I had to have it. But times were poor. I saved and saved, week after week, every allowance I got went into my piggy bank.
Hoping to accumulate enough to buy it. And so the time finally came...and I bought it...took it home...popped it in the cassette player and pressed down the PLAY button.
I listened to every last chord, double bass, scream and guitar riff like it was gospel. I finally felt like I found my place to fit in. Where I was understood. Like those shouting at the devil knew me.
And I survived my awkwardness through the years with the Crue until my body caught up to those around me. Still skinny and small. But with hair on my upper lip and a squeek in my voice...and a damn zit on my nose.
Well Jack, now that I think about it...you remind me of that unwanted zit. So prepare to be popped and forgotten. Just like that zit.
REAPER OUT!
