sten up, you Lycra-wearing circus freaks, I don’t care if you call yourselves wrestlers, superstars, or the second coming of the Von Erichs, the fact is: Ari. Gold. Owns. You. Now. That’s right — Vincent Kennedy McMahon is out, and the king of Hollywood sharkdom is in. And guess what? Daddy’s three billion in the hole. That’s a “B,” like “bend over, America,” because every last dime is coming out of your pockets. You think WrestleMania is staying in Podunk USA so some sweat-stained schmuck in a John Cena shirt can spill his Mountain Dew on the bleachers? Wrong. It’s going straight to Riyadh, baby. Gold-plated camels, pyrotechnics that would make Saddam blush, and an oil-slicked check signed so fat it could crush Vince’s toupee collection. I’ll bleed every last dollar from the Saudis, the marks, the smarks, and your grandma who still thinks Hulk Hogan is a real hero. Because guess what? This isn’t about honor, this isn’t about the ‘legacy of the business,’ this is about Ari Gold taking a flaming dumpster fire of a debt load and flipping it into a beachfront palace in Malibu. And if you don’t like it? Tough. You’ll still tune in, you’ll still chant ‘This is awesome,’ and you’ll still shell out $200 for a folding chair. Now shut up and go practice your fake punches — the price of suplexes just doubled.
Fine speech.
