“Ridiculous right?” he whispers, a gentle tongue lick against your lobe.
“I mean you were born into the heights of power. Your father proved that your bloodline is beautiful and pure, and worthy of ruling. Surely you are Canadian royalty, why do we have to pretend like the peasants' meager minds are even capable of self-selecting any sort of deterministic future for themselves?” at this point you flip him over into a body slam. Falling prey to your seductive, fascist words, SOACPWHNHTHD leaps into it, and assists in your play. You leap down onto him, with a horizontal head lock. Now your words are directly in his ear, and your full body laid out behind his can lead into some truly intimate dialogue.
“Right! I only want what is best for the miserable ants. They are so pathetic, and I am so glorious. Why can't they all just worship me, and share in my beauty? I give SO MUCH of myself to them! I even shake their disgusting weak hands!” he nestles into your wrestling spoon, melting into your form with a practiced familiarity.
“Agreed. Here it is SOAC, reach into the pouch around my left hip. There I have stashed a satchel of sacred herbs from my homeland which will render me blind and helpless. I am but a filthy, dirty mongrel of no consequence. You sir, are a god upon this Earth. It is time for you to end the match. They will love you for it.”
“Alright, I'll do it. For my sheep. Anything for my precious sheep.” SOACPWHNHTHD performs a powerful pelvic push off from you as he snatches the satchel. Whipping around, he unleashes the bag and blows upon you the contents within. Unbeknownst to him, it contains naught but some shredded documents you found in your mom's room mixed with potpourri. You sell the blow to your eye-holes with desperate abandon, flailing to the floor, screaming and wailing in pain. But will the audience feel sympathy for your minority plight, or take pleasure in this wanton display of white privilege? Somewhere, way back in the crowd, a man in a Science hat shouts, “HATE CRIME!” The collective consciousness of the audience suddenly taps into the infinite well that is their white survivor's guilt, as they all slowly join in with this chant of quasi-legal jargon. “Haaaaaate Crime! Haaaaate Crime!” Soon they are all chanting, SOACPWHNHTHD looks confused. How could this be? How could his precious wasps turn against him?
Through fake tears, you begin to stand up in rhythmic sync with their chanting. Your arms beat the air as you slowly gather together the strength of their combined power. You start pacing the ring back and forth, shaking your head back and forth. Bizarrely knotted pony tail swinging in the air. SOACPWHNHTHD begins to shrink on into himself. He realizes the gravity of the false flag blunder he has engaged in. His hands flop up in a display begging for mercy, you shake your head menacingly towards him. The energy of the match has switched. You have successfully flipped the script. You have made a face turn in front of this riotous audience, and they are loving it. You stomp towards him and perform an incredible standing drop kick knocking him out of the ring and onto the ground below. Out cold. This is it! You popped the crowd proper! Time to perform your finishing move! You climb to the top rope, and with a wail of foreign importance, you scream, “Aaaaaaeeeeeeeaaaaaaaa OOOOOOOOOOOO UMMMMMMMM OOOOOOO!”, a swarm of some unidentified member of the Blattodea family descends upon the ring, carries you up into the air, swirling up into a cyclone of fury, before dropping you in a seventh dimensional splatter which decimates the bureaucratic bullshit of the sixth dimension all over SOACPWNHTHD's hair. Perhaps none of this seems relevant right now, but there are alternate dimensions creaming their pants over this development. Whether they are conscious of the full ramifications of all this or not, the crowd erupts in a joyous explosion unlike anything ever before witnessed in a high school gymnasium housing a semi-professional northern wrestling outfit. You popped 'em man. There is no higher height you could possibly attain from here. You respectfully submit your resignation to Harrold and walk out of the ring a hero. Everyone there that day will remember the illegal move that arrogant bastard performed against you, and will strive in their lives to work towards a greater degree of respect and inclusion for people from everywhere in the world. In your own little way, through the Kayfabe, you have advanced humanity yet another nudge along the path to universal peace and freedom.
Quietly assessing what you've accomplished, and what you hope to yet do in your life, you realize that Philosophical Archaeological Engineering is likely not going to be a profitable career path for a kid living in his mom's Northern Ontario basement. You decide to submit an application to the local pulp and paper mill. The recently illuminated ladies in HR happened to have attended your triumphant match against the head of glorious hair, and declare that the conscientious nature with which you carried yourself in that ring more than makes up for your lack of real world experience. You are sent to the pulp mill, where you perform menial duties sweeping up after everyone else's mistakes until you've mastered your own proclivity to err just enough to be promoted up to operator, where you sit behind a giant array of computers in an air conditioned shack and monitor the flows of the massive plant. Through stress, and logical trouble-shooting, you do the best you can, and make a decent working class wage. There is only one last thing you haven't accomplished. You still haven't passed on a portion of your worthless little genes, hanging your hat on someone else's U. You venture out to the local bar and strike up a conversation with a perfectly boring and bland potential mate who is rapidly approaching the past due date on her eggs. You have now demonstrated enough societal value by purchasing a home, a vehicle, and holding down a job, to be a relevant provider of ejaculate for this genetic receptacle. What should you do?
