Battlechoads

Cool button mashing, Bore-a Croft. 

First off, stop telling on yourself. I never said you didn’t know where the clitoris was. Sorry taking those Ls have you triggered left and right, but if you’re gonna impersonate me, do it better than literally just describing what trash talk is–yes, I DO rip and shred my opponents. Yes, I DO make them contemplate their lives. Yes, I DO got a dumb friend named Cheddar Bob who shoots himself in the leg with his own gun.  It’s funny though, because I’ll throw out a thousand F Bombs a promo, but still couldn’t give one solitary single fuck about you. 

That Fuse must be getting short, because you’re blowing it, bud. 

I assume you picked up the nickname “Vintage” because you live in a damp cellar, you’re wine-y as fuck, and 2021 is gonna be a really bad year for you. Sniff my fucking cork, mouth-breather– I know you want to flex that little set of grapes that dropped two weeks ago, but you’d better bottle that mouth up before I leave you in the gutter to ferment. I can literally just pick a topic and talk shit about it, Conor. Because I’m really, really good at this.

And you’re goddamned right I’m EA Sports, too. 

I am the powerhouse giant of the industry, and you hungrily gobble down everything I release like it’s coming out of the gloryhole behind a Gamestop. You can complain that every title plays the same, but they’re gonna keep shelling out the cash because my bare minimum effort beats the best shit you’ve ever done in your life. How embarrassing. How humiliating for you. Buy a fucking loot box, sign up for my battle pass, suck my dick and shut the fuck up. 

I am Fortune 500, and you are an Unfortunate Zero. 

You keep trying to cast straight fire, but you don’t have enough PP to take down the champ. Fucking manchild. I bet you get carded when you try to buy Hungry Man dinners. And at least those frozen Salisbury steaks manage to get re-covered after you stop stirring, though— you’re just plain fucking cooked. Micro-wave goodbye to your HOW career, Conor, because while you’re eating your basement cookies, I’ll be eating your fucking lunch and throwing you away like the crusts your mother cuts off your sandwiches. 

You are just legit bad at trash talk, dude. 

Little left handed ass bitch. You’re left hand dominant because you already know that you’re not gonna be all-right after Refueled. Little Sonic the Wretchhog ass bitch. The “Flying Battery Zone” isn’t your theme music, it’s the description of the cage I’m gonna throw you around while I beat the fuck out of you on Saturday. Is this repetitive enough for you, Conor? Enough rule of three? Does it matter how many times I say the word “fuck”, when I DualShock your puckered shitpipe with my Hall of Fame fingers and work your mouth like a distended meat puppet? 

Man, I really don’t fucking like you. 

I don’t like the smug way you throw out weak ass trash talk, like it’s a fucking goof. I don’t like the way you’re shitting on the memory of my friend Mike DeNucci, by treating his tournament like it’s a joke. I don’t like that you can’t get it through your head that I don’t give a single fuck what you think about me, the way I live, or the way I wrestle. I don’t like your face, your voice, or that you’re worse at video game jokes than I am and that’s YOUR ENTIRE FUCKING GIMMICK. I don’t like that you think this is gonna be a real fight. 

I am going to knee you in the face and knock you unconscious. Can’t say it any more plainly than that, chief. You are going to hold on desperately for a round or two, barely making it by while I size you up, and then I’m going to bounce the most devastating patella in pro wrestling off of your big ass head and turn the lights out. That’s it, Conor. No cute Donkey Kong puns are gonna save you. No references to the time I cried watching “Up”. No half self-deprecating jokes that completely miss the point of talking trash. 

You’re a one playthrough game, Conor. 

I am going to beat you, and then I’m going to forget about you forever.