Biopsy

Know this go’n come as a dis-uh-pointment, but it me.  

Wudn’t able tuh get my sister fer this lil’ HOFC interview.

Been ‘bout a hot month since y’all seen me tusslin’, I reckon.  Ain’t even had much a chance tuh stretch in the new spandex getup with them Two-Fo’teen colors, and lemme tell ya: been itchin’ tuh fight ever since that bell done rang tuh close thangs out in Glendale.  Bossman sees it fit now throwin’ me’n Lindsay’n Conor in that dog pen, try’na wear us out befo’ we all get tuh Wawh Games.

S’pose I ain’t too surprised tuh see CJ an’ Jace there with us.  Figg’r now Lee’s just pullin’ names outta that lil’ doughboy helmet he’s usin’ tuh play Army Men with fer another promo.  ‘Cause lemme tell ya, seein’ the same fuckin’ stills uh the Best Alliance boys after e’bry goddamn match shore ain’t enough.  One way tuh stimulate yerself while yer waitin’ on the batteries tuh get delivered, I guess.  But I do gotta admit some shock tuh see he’s dropped ol’ Mike in there too.

Reckon ya call in the best possible insurance ya kin git when yer other two been known tuh curl up’n die without much warnin’.  Facts bein’ what they is, ain’t much tuh throw at Mike Best in words that he cain’t shut ya up with by way uh a knee.  I shore as shit don’t thank much of him ‘er the comp’ny he keeps, but one thang we all know is that he ain’t got a tail tuh tuck under his ass.  And we all purty keen on the fact one of us gotta be dang near perfect whoever ends up in that cage with ‘em.  I got good news fer y’all cheerin fer the two-one-fo…

We plan on bein’ perfect.

Another downside fer ya, Mike, is ya ain’t exactly goin’ in with fellers you know you kin count on — and that there’s somethin’ yew prolly won’t admit but know deep down’s the truth.  Luck uh the draw may sho’nuff not even git yew in that cage ‘fore JPD’s kissin’ canvas with his eyes lookin’ at his brain.  Or better yet, you don’t get a turn ‘cause a good friend uh mine’s screamin’ fer the only family member that ever done showed him any affection.

Here tuh tell ya Uncle Jiles ain’t gonna be no help if I’m tuggin’ yer top teef further apart from yer bottom ones, CJ, but I reckon I will be doin’ him a favor in the process.

I ain’t so much as won a free ticket off a scratch-off, but I’m rubbin’ rabbits feet an’ pickin’ clovers that it’s me’n you in thar tuh-gether, bo.  Only disappointin’ thang is I won’t git but five minutes in thar with ya.  That ain’t near enough time tuh help the crew find out if there’s any bumps ‘er nicks in the chain link by rubbin’ yer face ‘cross every inch uh that cage.  Leavin’ lil’ bits uh spray tanned skin tuh mark ‘em.  But naw.  Damn HOFC rules go’n be fun’s buzzkill, I reckon.

Five fuckin’ minutes.

Selfish part uh me don’t want tuh give ya the easy way out of drivin’ that skull in with the Sinker a few times tuh put yo ass tuh bed.  I’d get a helluva lot mo’ pleasure from diggin’ my thumbs in yer sockets an’ standin’ on yer fingers, ‘cause last I check there ain’t no tappin’ out usin’ yer toes.  But this match ain’t fer me.  It’s fer the Local.  Ever’ last bit uh momentum we kin get befo’ the Tokyo Dome we go’n take.  Sadly fer you and the rest uh the Best Alliance, ain’t gonna be no time limit there.

‘Cept the one on yo reign as World Champion, that is.  Juh-pan sho’nuff the Land uh the Risin’ Sun, but that bad boy gonna be settin’ on ya at Wawh Games.  It’s a dang shame them new tights uh yours ain’t exactly go’n be relevant after that. 

‘Course, you prolly ain’t gonna wanna keep ‘em anyway.  The stains’ll be too hard tuh bleach out the back once every ounce uh shit gets kicked outta ya.

Hopefully that’ll make ya less…corny.

Peench.

Dip.

See y’all later.