Post by Michael Callahan on Jan 5, 2013 2:05:53 GMT -4
AGHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!
Jesus Christ!
What the Hell did I drink?!
Jesus Christ!
What the Hell did I drink?!
As slowly as you like, I open my eyes and turn towards my bedside table in search of an alarm clock only to find that actually there is no alarm clock. Nor is there a bedside table. Nor am I in a bed. My eyes shut instantly as the hot Las Vegas sun pierced my shrivelled white eyes and my dot-sized irises. I rolled over to protect myself but hit something solid with my elbow. Freezing in panic, I dared to open my eyes once more and saw what only could be described as a heap of tangled brunette hair with a topless woman attached. I had to pinch myself, the disbelief unsettling my rationalities. Was this really happening?
Where the Hell was I?
I cautiously prodded the motionless body gently in the rib, hoping for the love of Grace that I wasn't about to be caught up in another scandal involving a dead woman. Mercifully, a low and earthy groan wheezed it's way out of her hoarse mouth. Yet all this did was put me on the edge of my seat. I was fully alerted but not fully awake as I considered the possibility that this girl might be a zombie. I lifted up her hair gingerly to discover a myriad of bite-marks but not deep zombie ones, Callahan ones. Shame filled my body followed by a sense of dread. Who was this woman?
Michael Callahan: Hello? Ma'am?
I poked her in the back again and in an instant, she rolled over and swatted at me with the back of her hand like I was little more than a moth buzzing around her incandescent social light bulb. This might've hurt my feelings, but as she rolled over I immediately recognised her as TV's Olivia Wilde and completely lost my train of thought. A half-naked model right in front of me. I was starting to realise why Democrat politicians were always so happy. Sparing a thought for her decency, I unbuttoned my blood and alcohol soaked shirt and slipped it on her, covering her bodily treasures with a shirt in a state so foul I did not dare question the source of it's desecration. Once I'd finished buttoning up the shirt and making her decent, I gathered my bearings and stood up to take in my surroundings.
To my surprise, not only had I not woken up on a bed, I hadn't even woken up in-doors. White marble statues and water fountains and the green green grass of Terry Marvin's Vegas home mansion home lay before me, taking my breath away with both its' beauty and the fact that I was even here. It was never supposed to be a house party.
That's when I puked.
It was sudden and without gag, wretch or warning. A long, burning torrent of acidic but mostly watery vomit flew forth from my mouth and permanently shattered the serene aesthetic of Terry Marvin's pristine lawn. Luckily I did not get any down myself but the grass was not so fortunate, as the immaculately sheared blades of emerald pasture were coated in a fine spray of pinkish reddish mist-mode stomach contents and chunks of well-digested French Fries.
WHOOOOOOMMFFFF
Last Night. Back of a limo. Michael Callahan, Flava Flav, Olivia Wilde and Don King.
Michael Callahan: Driver?! TAKE US... TO WENDY'S!
Flava Flav: YEAAAAAAAHHHHHHHH BOYEEEEEEEEEEE!
Don King: ONLY IN AMERICA!
Howling laughter all around.
WHOOOOOMMFFFFF
I peered around the garden and saw that it was exclusively me and Olivia in Terry Marvin's palatial backyard.
Michael Callahan: Where the Hell is Flava Flav?
An arm slunk around my neck, accompanied with a mouth on my neck and hot alcohol breath. Olivia had finally decided to wake up.
Olivia Wilde: Heyyy... Where's your shirt?
Michael Callahan: You're wearing it.
I groaned and rolled over deciding that sleeping in the shade was better than the reality of waking up in Terry Marvin's backyard. After a few moments of uncomfortable fumbling with Olivia Wilde, I reached into my phone and tweeted Terry to let me the Hell out of his house so I could go home and prepare for the Awards Show then drifted off to sleep with this real angel gnawing at my shoulder. Some men would call this Heaven, I would call it Hell. My career was never going to survive this...
[cut forward]
Old Trafford, Manchester. To most of you people, American or any other persuasion beyond Europe this might not mean a lot. Yet even if you take only the vaguest of interest in English Premier League football (or pop culture) then the name Old Trafford will be synonymous with the Red Devils and the legendary Manchester United, former homes of legendary football players like David Beckham, Ryan Giggs, Van Nistelrooy and Eric Cantona. Names of instant recognition in the sport both at the English level and internationally. It's a legacy of sporting domination recognised by all those who follow and it's one that'll never be imitated, a true hallmark of achievement within the sport. It is here at the Old Trafford stadium that half of the wonder, half of the majesty of their winning ways occur. It is here where Sir Alex Ferguson's Red Peril call home and it is here amongst myriad of white and red seats where thousands upon thousands of people come to watch the kings of English football play in their league of thrones.
It is here where I stand amongst the pigeons, all the way back in the cheap seats wearing my fine suit entirely befitting of a first rate football club manager. I would not have looked out of place on the touch-lines, roaring advice at some of the best athletes in the world and accusing an innocent UEFA referee of foul-play. Alas though, I was no manager. I was a player on the pitch, ready to battle for possession of a symbolic ball of momentum with Jair Hopkins. It was time to address him once and for all.
Michael Callahan: Hello Mr. J-HOP! Hehe. It's me, Michael Callahan! I'm standing here today in a place of worship for some of the English populace. They call it The Theatre of Dreams. Fair enough. Then I say that the Manchester Arena be proclaimed The Drive-In Cinema of Nightmares, for it is there that you and I will commence battle and it'll truly be your undoing. Some people call this place home, some call it a den of corruption and villainy in football, others call it “that boring place where people play soccer-ball”. Me? I'm a neutral, so I'll stick to Old Trafford. Yet you're probably asking yourself, why am I here? Why am I telling you all this? Why do I care? Well, I was thinking about how I might describe you and things I could say about you to summarise our relationship. Maybe put it into a suitable English relatable metaphor ahead of our big Asylum duke-out in Manchester this week and well but whether you choose to appreciate or disregard my comparison comes down to one key thing...
I held up one solitary finger to illustrate my point.
Michael Callahan: Perspective. Pure and simple.
Then I drew my finger to my eye as calmly as the painter with his brush.
Michael Callahan: Perspective is an important aspect of our every day life Jair. Differences in perspective causes conflict. Debates, arguments, hell, even fist fights and wars all happen because of a contrast in interpretation. There's such a broad scope for thought... even on something as simple as visual perspective. For example, I would say that this camera angle is me giving my audience a visual aid as I addressed them with my voice. You would say it's me trying to look imposing walking down big stairs at a low angle shot. Everything in between these two stances can be taken up by anyone at any time and that's what makes perspective so important, because without it you can't see the danger right in front of you. That is something that you're sorely lacking.
I stop in the break on the steps and gesture the camera out to a wide shot of the stands.
Michael Callahan: Just like in wrestling, the game of football has done a spectacular job of polarising it's captivated audiences and driving them to extreme opposite views on situations. For example, two rival clubs may go head to head and when one team scores what looks like a goal, the referee may disallow it because they believe it did not cross the line. The supporters of the supposedly scoring team will jump to their soap box and scream that the referee got it wrong while the other team will say it was a fair call, regardless of their actual visual judgements. No team in the history of football quite encapsulates that variation of stance quite like the Red Devils. Their supporters say they're the greatest team in the universe with the best players and the best managers, their detractors say they're awful cheats with a crooked manager who suckers up the officials and bribes his way to victory. When it comes to Man U, there's no middle-ground. This of course is the story of my career so far.
I finally reach the bottom of the steps.
Michael Callahan: Because wherever I go Jair, whatever I do, it seems like you and your flag-waving geeks have some sort of statement to make about me. Some way to slander my good name, talk trash my happenings and try to demonise me. In your PERCEPTIONS, and I WILL keep going back to this theme, my acts are wrong and immoral because they offer a conflict of interest and desire and stance on morality. I attack your tag team partner with a baseball bat? In your eyes, that's an unjustified assault that nearly ended a man's career. To me? It's retaliation against a near year of constant verbal abuse and character assassination. I make your partner pass out fair and square in a match at Christmas Chaos? That's not me “scoring the goal”, to refer to my previous example. The referee should've disallowed it because he never tapped. I still achieved my end of stopping Bailey from being able to fight back. The fact he didn't have the sense to just tap before I choked him is like a goal keeper trying to dive for a ball that's already hit the back of the net. He knows it's happening, he just doesn't want to accept it. Ultimately, he did, but yet you still can't.
A pregnant pause.
Michael Callahan: You, like a lot of people in sports will hop on the bandwagon and say that a result you didn't like isn't fair. You'll say that I screwed the rules and that I twisted things to my advantage. If you hadn't noticed, I went out of my way to stop such things happening and almost got cheated by your man Bailey because I tried to uphold fairness. Ultimately it got me what I wanted from Bailey, a bit of peace and quiet and respect for my accomplishments from my biggest tractor. Yet as Lady Thatcher said, sometimes you have to win a battle twice to truly win it and while Bailey maybe silenced, the hydra of the critics splits it's ugly heads. I proved myself to Bailey to be a high calibre champion and worthy of my accolades, I proved myself to BE Manchester United. Yet you can't let it go, you still cry foul play and wish to smear my reputation. Well, it's time to put this to bed now.
A shot of me sitting in the managers shelter, looking out across the empty pitch clutching my head in my hands contemplating my words.
Michael Callahan: Although this isn't well documented in the pop culture eyes of our citizens, Manchester is actually home to TWO major league clubs here in England. They are Manchester United and their fierce and less famous city rivals Manchester City. Two titans who stand tall above the rest in their division yet are constantly embroiled within their own internal quarrels. It's not as obvious as it is in English football, but that sounds an awful lot like you and your friend Anthony, The Dying Breed. Manchester United have won nineteen league titles, have never been relegated from the top flight and have won enough silverware to make your head spin. They've constantly been at the fore-front of the sport, a bit like your man Bailey. Manchester City on the other hand, you, have been all over the place. They've never been consistent and have dropped in and out of leagues like it's nobody's business. It wasn't until recent when someone with more money than sense and a huge amount of influence invested in them and literally bought them the league title. That someone is Anthony Bailey, and you are Manchester City, hanging onto the coattails of someone rocketing you to success.
The camera cuts to me walking across the painted white lines of the penalty box, the finely cut grass glimmering in the rare winter sunlight. Cradled in my arms is a clean as a whistle, brand new 2012-13 Premier League Nike ball which I place precisely on the penalty spot before an open net.
Michael Callahan: And that's why I find your Twitter boasts that you're going to squash me like a bug utterly laughable. See, I'm Chelsea Football Club. I'm wealthy, well-developed, well pushed but not to overkill. I've earned every ounce of what I call mine through consistently beating whatever challenges they throw at me, defeating the key players in our top flight and making a name for myself. Taking on all-comers and MAKING people take notice. I ran the race, you took Anthony Bailey's diamond encrusted helicopter to the finish line and got given a title as your souvenir. Think I'm kidding? Look at what he accomplished this year and what you've done. It's a telling tale, one that if you don't appreciate you soon...
I take a swift run up to the ball and put my laces right through it, ploughing it back into the net with a shot that makes a distant fan in the stands smile.
Michael Callahan: Will lead you to start scoring own goals and overestimating your worth. Your better, more talented friend couldn't beat me. So what makes you think you can? Lord knows I know you can play the game and you can play it well, but I AM the upper echelon here, the established player. I am the rightful champion who by the volition of circumstance has been denied his rightful position. Now it's just you, two shows worth of opponents and Phil Atken standing in my way. If you thought what I did to Anthony at Christmas Chaos was something? You ain't seen nothing yet... and THAT's a promise.
Fade.
