“You know what really ticks me off?”
Scott Hunter is standing in front of a blue Classic Wrestling backdrop with a large “CW” in the upper right-hand corner of the screen.
“You. You Rush Starling. You incoherent pile of sadness and pathetic attempts to make sense. Do you know how much sense you make, Rush Starling?? None! You make no sense. You stand there looking like a cross between Owen Wilson and a homeless man’s bung-hole. You’ve got Power Ranger elbow pads on. You’re wearing Roy Roger’s frilly boots. You obviously shopped at the Dollar Store at some point and got lost in the rubber ink stamps for kids in the shapes of zoo animals, settled on a lion, and then stamped it right on your chest. And I hate lions. I HATE LIONS. They always look like they’re about to say something, but they never do.”
Scott makes what he thinks a lion’s face looks like.
“You wanna talk to me about being a sore loser? No one has lost more than me around here, buddy, and sore doesn’t even begin to describe what I am right now. You have everything sitting on a plate, but because you lose a little match to Alex Bruder, all of a sudden you’re Bruce Wayne whimpering as he falls down a well into a cave full of bats, and you’re coming out talking about wanting to be a symbol. I saw Batman Begins too, but pal, you’re no Christian Bale.”
“I’ll tell you right where you can shove your good heart and your kind soul, you overblown bag of monkey excrement. Yeah, I know what excrement means. I passed almost the entire eleventh grade, so trust me, I’m no idiot. People like you make me sick. Do you know why? No, not because you smell like a horse’s vagina, even though you do. It’s because you are a whiny, self-involved tool who thinks he’s a lot more than he really is. Go and tell your problems to someone who cares. Who are you? Scott Baio? This isn’t Charles in Charge and no one around here likes you enough to lovingly wrap up your emotional problems within the cozy time frame of a thirty-minute sitcom episode. I thought I was a lot more than I really am, apparently, but you don’t see me playing sad piano while I muse on my lot in life, you walking Simon and Garfunkel song. Here’s to you, Mr. Starling. Jesus hates you more than you could know. Whoa whoa whoa. You should go play in traffic. Ask them what they think of your self-reflection because I think it sucks.”
Scott jabs a finger in the camera’s direction.
“I think it sucks, and I think you suck.”
“You wanna be a symbol? Maybe the problem is, you don’t even believe in yourself, but you want the rest of us to believe in you. Maybe your entire life is one big act. Like you’re trying to be a man when you’re just a scared kid, trying to keep under control when you really want to scream, cry, maybe hit someone. Ever feel like you’re breathing underwater, and you have to stop because you’re gulping in too much fluid?”
“I think you desperately want something you don’t even understand. One of the greatest tragedies in life is to lose your own sense of self and accept the version of yourself that is expected by everyone else. Confusion is a luxury which only the very, very young can possibly afford and you are not that young anymore.”
“That’s right. I read. I’m not just a brainless sack of meat over here, no matter what people say. Sure, I may have once had a thirty-minute argument with an otter, but I’m no fool, you fool. I know who I am. I know what I must do and how to do it. I’m going into that ring, beating you one, two, three right in the middle of the ring, and shocking the world.”
“This week, prepare your hanky because you’re gonna need something to cry in one more time. I’m here to make an impact, and it starts with you, pal. Now be a good boy and fly away little Starling…”
Scott makes flapping bird wings with his hands as he walks off-screen.
“Fly fly…. Fly fly….”