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CM Punk's promo last night on Raw:
"Houston is a wrestling town.
That’s right—there’s a lot of pro wrestling history here. This building in particular… I’ve had some pretty great moments in it. But there are also ghosts in this very building—things that were supposed to happen that haunt me to this day. This is Paul Boesch territory. Houston Wrestling.
And I always love to hear about the old-timers. Never miss a chance to do it. I can’t help but compare myself against them and wonder exactly how they would operate. In times like this, sometimes I dream… what would Harley Race do?
But dreams are just stories we tell ourselves. The important stuff happens when we’re awake.
Houston, I’m awake.
Isn’t it great to be alive on a Monday night in Houston or what?
Roman Reigns is not here tonight.
Two weeks ago—shockingly enough—with help from his cousins, he put me through the ringside announce table with a powerbomb. Then he strutted out very slowly, I might add, like he was the king of the world. And I couldn’t wait—I couldn’t wait to get to Monday Night Raw in Madison Square Garden to get my revenge.
And I showed up, cousin-less, by myself, with the World Heavyweight Title in these two fists—and I got my receipt. I put Roman through the ringside announce table alone.
Roman Reigns says he hates me, and I say good. Because if Roman hates me, that tells me I’m exactly where I need to be—fraud-checking goofs like him who hate me because I won’t trade my authenticity for approval.
Being hated by losers is the price I pay for not being one of them.
Maybe he’ll show up. I doubt it. But maybe. What—are you going to be mad at me because he didn’t show up? Because I damn near crippled him? I showed up—and I’m an old man.
Old, not weak.
Roman Reigns says he hates me, and I understand. I know why he hates me. But now let me take a moment to explain to everybody who bothered to show up in Houston why I hate Roman Reigns.
You see that sign? It says WrestleMania Las Vegas. That is the biggest show of the year—the granddaddy of them all. And Roman—we both have the tools to climb the ladder and make it to the pinnacle of this king’s sport.
The difference is, my tools are self-made—and they’re sharpened into a deadly point through years of self-belief and hard work, and sometimes spite—but always sacrifice.
And your tools? They’re store-bought. Hand-delivered. And like you… they’re plastic.
See, back in the day, I was too young and stupid to really understand. But now I’m too rich and too old to give a damn—and I understand why this company, why TKO, sends you, your belt, and Jimmy Fallon.
It’s because you’re safe. You’re boring. You’re plastic. You’re saccharine. You’re manufactured.
And me? I’m dangerous—because you never know what I’m going to do or what I’m going to say.
Why is it that I can film half a dozen television shows and movies and never miss a day—but you use it as a crutch to not show up? And somehow these people are going to boo me when I give them the news that you’re not here?
You know I’m right.
And when you do bother to show up—you show up late, you leave early, and you puff your chest out in the back like you’re The Rock.
At least The Rock is a Hollywood superstar.
Oh—I’m sorry. Was a Hollywood superstar.
Just like you, Roman… were a champion.
But that fairytale is long over—because this is pro wrestling, not cinema.
See, my bloated cousin isn’t on the board of directors. I don’t surround myself with wise men, advocates, and yes-men who protect me from the truth.
No—my daddy wasn’t a pro wrestler who gave me a favor job because I sucked at football.
I paid my dues.
I have earned—and deserve—everything I’ve busted my ass for.
And you? You’re just a buck-toothed nepo baby who ate dog food for a weird old man.
And that weird old man treated me like a dog for years—and expected me to smile.
But I had “F you” money.
So I took that—and my dignity—and I left.
And that’s why you hate me.
Because you can’t control me.
Like you control your cousins. Your family. Those people.
They can’t control me.
Are we having fun yet?
Yeah.
Be careful what you wish for. When people ask me for a pipe bomb without understanding what it means—this is what you get.
Roman, you can brag about how many times you’ve main-evented WrestleMania. But if me—or anybody else—were afforded as many opportunities as you had and failed the first eight of them so spectacularly…
We’d be fired. Blackballed.
But you can’t blackball me.
They can’t blackball me.
And listen up—I can stand on that bridge and blow it up…
Because I know how to swim.
And you’d think I’m done—but I’m not. Because everybody’s getting it tonight.
Pat Magafee—yeah, you.
You buggy-whip-armed, no-brain hillbilly.
You think you can come into my business—pro wrestling—and run your mouth?
You just wrote a check your narrow ass can’t cash.
You want to talk about ticket sales?
Do me a favor—call up that agent foolish enough to shoehorn you into this business and this show, and tell him to lower the ticket prices.
I’ll be damned if I let somebody who kicked a football for a living come into my business and lecture me about selling tickets and putting asses in seats.
You’ve got a receipt coming.
Houston—lower the ticket prices, because I want all these families to come watch me stand on Roman Reigns’ throat at WrestleMania.
Because my name Is CM Punk and I have approved this message."
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