Nah, I’m not done yet.
We haven’t even talked about why you always pose for photos like you’re Buffalo Bill asking us all if we’d fuck you. “Is that the best you can do?” “Is that the best you can do?”
It puts the lotion on its skin or else it gets old lines again.
It puts the lotion on its skin or else it gets the knees again.
Would you fuck me? I’d fuck me.
Are you in a loveless marriage with two kids and starved for attention, so you prowl the internet looking for it? Yeah, you’d definitely fuck me.
Trolling the Reddit subforums for chicks with loosely similar interests and then falling in love within two weeks is what all the cool kids are doing, so I’m sure that’s coming soon.
Cool. Cool. Cool.
You’ve got the world but who do you have it for, really? An empty going-nowhere relationship, a daddy who still isn’t proud of you, a mother who never was. And here you’re threatening to burn bridges with one of your only friends, for kicks, for ego, again. I guess I shouldn’t worry about that too much. I could probably just gift you a hockey jersey, and you’d forget about any verbal and physical abuse I dished out.
So sorry about your shitty, dead childhood.
And tell your stepfather to stop calling me and telling me to respect your mother. I don’t have any time for that nord…. I mean, nerd.
Why don’t you give me a preview of the next story after Katy fucks her next-door neighbor? I assume you’ll hit me up on discord and vent about it before going off and masturbating out a blog post to make yourself feel better.
Or maybe you can introduce a little sidekick to run around with you. Once we get back to Chicago, find yourself a little stooge. Everyone loves that mischievous toady with a beanie on his head and a cigar in his mouth. “He’s nuttin’ boss. You’ll murderize ‘im. Kill ‘im even!”
There’s no atomic bomb to drop on me, really. Anything you could say I’ve already heard a million times before from a million different voices. You might as well just keep taking potshots at the size of my head or my sunglasses or the trunks I used to wear. Keep taking aim at the low-hanging fruit and I’ll be happy to reach up and pull from the same tree. And I hate your fucking hair, by the way. You aren’t in college. You’re not the lost member of 98 Degrees. Get a fucking grown-up hairstyle, Nick Lachey.
It’s okay. You can do it. You’re not the greasy-haired kid in sweatpants and a wrestling t-shirt anymore, who no one ever bothered to impart the importance of hygiene and dental health to, or dressing appropriately or anything else that would have required real interaction. It’s okay to let it go. Build a bonfire, and toss all that shit in there. It’s time to stop forcing us to live through your therapeutic personality arcs.
But no matter what you do, here is the cold, hard truth. There is currently no one else in this company who can beat me. I have essentially become the gatekeeper to anyone who wants a shot at a belt you have. They have to go through me to get to you, and they fucking can’t. So we’re gonna do this, and we’re probably gonna do this again because your dad just can’t fucking help himself but pit friends against friends, to try and break up friendships, to try and get cute with his management of this roster, and where there’s a chance to win another shot at the gold, I’ll be there to win it.
So I’m sorry to bother you, sorry to interrupt your self-stroking soliloquy, but I guess I’ll just ignore all your bullshit and get back to figuring out how to knock you the fuck out. And maybe I’ll do that fucking anyway, win or lose, just because. I haven’t decided yet.
Get your “OH MY GOD I TOTALLY BAITED YOU INTO SHIT TALKING ME, TIGER BLOOD, WINNERRRR!” chunk together and get it over with since we all know it’s coming. It’s right there on page four of the manual. And hit me with some of the good shit. I’m really looking forward to it.
I’ve been dying to ask if that’s all you’ve got.