Dear Tommy Dreamer,

In life there are winners and losers;  but in your case I should revise that to say fat cry baby losers.

I can just picture you crying tears of gravy, nuzzling a deep dish pizza, and searching for solace in oily pepperonis after you were humiliated by John Morrison and the Miz last week.  Then, you got beat by the Miz this week… sucks to be you Tommy-

You and Jessica Simpson both had your day, but now you two fat has beens are past your prime.  Call it the curse of Daisy Duke, or call it eating too much cheesecake.  However you add it up, you get a fat pig of a man who never earned anything aside from layers upon layers of cellulite; and a bloated blonde who just found out what happens when her metabolism slows down.  Tommy call your fat friend Jessica and tell her if I wanted cottage cheese I would go to the supermarket, not watch ECW, or pick up a tabloid magazine with her picture in it. 

Dreamer, the two of us have both been to the top of the ECW mountain.  The difference between you and I is that while you were up there you tried to fill the huge hole in your ego with deep fried pancakes (pancake puppies).

News flash old man, I know that the deep fryer you have in your kitchen claims to lock in the “nutritional goodness” of the food you fry in it.  Yet, the truth is you’re really cooking your food in the same half congealed saturated animal fats that you have been for the last 20 years. 

Ha! What a great metaphor for your career!  Cooking the same old story of passion, and heartbreak around your fat fans for 20 years.  Guess what Tommy-  Nothing has changed; your fat fans are the equivalent of the congealed lard in your deep fryer.  And you are the same old hush puppy that you have always been.  You’ve never deserved anything; you’ve never earned anything; you don’t have what it takes to ever be ECW champion again-  It’s time you got rid of your deep fryer, just like it’s time ECW got rid of you.

When we talk about upgrading WWE by appealing to a new demographic.  Fans of John Morrison and the Miz are exactly who we are talking about.  Educated professional people; future Nobel Prize winners; scientists; K-Fed; ie… people with money.  Anyone with an intelligence of 100 or higher gets my sophisticated humor.  Tommy; your fat simple-minded fans are who we (WWE) don’t care about.  Your typical fan is some reject that spends his life trying to fix up the 1980 Pontiac on wood blocks in the garage; sitting around his trailer park lighting farts with his dad; cheering for Tommy Dreamer while he stuffs his face with Cheetos.  I don’t care about your “hardcore” fans… This is the dawning of the age of Morrisonious (me)!

Soon my intelligent fans will call their intelligent and sexy friends; and a whole new demographic will be tuning into see John Morrison; this new demographic… My demographic… my fans… will rectify the catastrophic ratings anomaly that you refer to in your nerdy blog.

You are nothing more than a footnote in my rise to the top of the wrestling world. 

Your legacy Fatty Dreamer is to be forgotten-

-The Shaman of Sexy
John Morrison

Ps… you’re fat!

Editor's Note: This is a film created by WWE Superstar John Morrison, with music and sound editing by Russell Greenberg.

I'll pilot this circus for the time being

if you promise to break my fall.

The passengers,

they don't see the dents in the hull,

they don't know the cumulative effects

ten-thousand days of collision yield.

Impervious as I am,

it still weighs on me.

I see how broken the others are,

and know they're not up to the task,

that they break so easily,

and are too preoccupied with the painto pilot us anywhere but to the ground.

So I step in, and do the killing for a while,

I am your reluctant king,

a lion among serpent dogs

who howl-hiss their boasts

to a confused assemblage

and believe the flea collars about their necks

are pilot wings or something more.

Just break my fall,

It's all I ask.

I don't need you too; it won't effect me

either way, it's just

a token of your gratitude.

It's just

a way of saying "thank you

for being our king."

Get to know the Shaman of Sexy on a personal level by checking out WWE.com as the "Dirt Sheet" star continues to share pages from his notebook of poetry with WWE Universe. See Morrison's first two poems in his poetry archive page on WWE.com

I am master of a nothing place,and need the bland indulgence

of an empty smile

to set me right on the killing floor.

I see these horrors,

hear these cries

from and in

a world spiraling out

of its self,

and think of the things I might do.

of the things

I might do.

I will look down

and whisper.

"no."

Get to know the Shaman of Sexy on a personal level by checking out WWE.com as the "Dirt Sheet" star continues to share pages from his notebook of poetry with WWE Fan Nation. See Morrison's first two poems in his poetry archive page on WWE.com

The roar of the spectators and the spectacle sound, A thousand tiny suns anchored to steel beat down, And I, high above the champion of the disaster, captain of the impending descent, orchestrator of their frenzy.
Some roar to rouse him,
most roar for his blood. 
He lies, like one sleeping
unsuspecting,
unforgiven.
Nothing to break the fall but the body;
nothing to break the body but the fall.
And I am destruction airborne.
Flashes burst, shutters close,
and the caption beneath the photo reads:
Crash landing; no survivors,
save Starship Pain.

Get to know the Shaman of Sexy on a personal level by checking out WWE.com as the "Dirt Sheet" star continues to share pages from his notebook of poetry with WWE Fan Nation. See Morrison's first two poems in his poetry archive page on WWE.com