🤼♥️ John Cena, star de la WWE et acteur, prend un fan dans ses bras pour le réconforter.
L'homme vient d'apprendre qu'il devrait subir plus de chirurgie après plusieurs maladies, dont une tumeur au cerveau.
@BaroudeurVie Remplacement qui rentre, dernier action du match. C’est littéralement le mec qu’il te faut, avec tout les critères c’est lui et personne d’autre
The public reception of Jiri Prochazka is a perfect example of why we don’t deserve, and don’t produce, greatness. Read the comments below and you will see the problem. There is a Czech warrior-mystic madman who believes himself to be a samurai; he fights in the biggest gladiatorial arena in the world. Everything about him is completely genuine — this is legitimately who he is and how he views the world. He trains in the forest by meditating in frozen lakes, striking trees, climbing rocks. He genuinely believes in the power of ritual magic and esoteric tradition. His style of choice is unique and old, nothing like what the rest of the sport pursues. When he fights, it is with reckless abandon — a strategy of “leave it up to the gods,” centered around creating moments of pure 50/50 chaos such that his “spiritual superiority” can shine through in these violent gambles. Despite this insane, “nonsensical” strategy he has only lost to one man in ten years. All others he has knocked out or choked out, including legends of the sport and countless highly-dangerous men. He actually *is* what he presents as — his essence is his face — there is complete honesty with the crowd. Yet how does the public receive him? They infantilize him, speaking of him as autistic or underdeveloped or foolish. “The only reason one might be so eccentric is social malformation, retardation” — this is our belief. Greatness is “auto-nerfed” by this lens; he is treated as a child and a moron by the masses and the media. This is why we do not (and can not) have Alcibiades, or Fawcett, or even Elagabalus. We are structurally incapable of imagining that someone may “unironically” engage with the world, because none of us “unironically” exist. Everything is either a “bit” or a symptom of some disorder. Any small shimmer of genuine expression, even when paired with true prowess and accomplishment, negates one’s “image,” flattening it into a craven trope or insult. Real engagement must be held at arm’s length, nervously laughed at and othered. We prevent greatness by smothering this genuine existence in the cradle — crabs in a bucket tearing down any small example of earnest life to the same level of ironic sludge as the rest. You can be the indisputable second-best LHW fighter in the world with a 10-year finishing streak and people will still treat you like a child autist if you don’t kneel at the altar of ironic autohumiliation. This is our crisis. This is hell, and we are its stewards.