Brian Hollywood Is A Soft Headed Tit

Brian Hollywood Is A Soft Headed Tit

Posted on September 12, 2020 at 11:42 pm by Mike Best

Boy, you’re a real batteries not included sort of dumb fuck, aren’t ya?

Brand new tag team champion catches a whiff of his own nutsack in the breeze and confuses it for the smell of fuckin’ success, so now he’s stepping up to the King of HOFC on some kind of Kamikaze Vision Quest? I don’t know what kind of drugs you’re on, but don’t bother learning how to land that plane, good buddy– you’re gonna crash and burn.

Like, this is literally what I do best.

I talk shit and throw knees. It’s like, 95% of what I do around here. If you made up a Venn diagram of “throwing knees” and “crippling specials”, you’d see me right in the dead fuckin’ center of two circles, blinking my eyes real slow at you because I can’t believe that you’d even agree to this match in the first place.

Let me explain to you how this is gonna go.

I’m gonna drop this little nugget onto AITCH OH WRASSLIN DOT COM faster than Darin’s first time with a girl, you’re gonna shit your pants and realize what kind of a mess you Duke boys got yourselves into this time, and then at Refueled I’m gonna knee you so hard in the soft spot on your big dumb head that you soil yourself on live television. Like, you’ll be conscious JUST long enough to think “Oh fuck, did I just actually shit my pants?”, and then it’s lights out for you and a long night for janitorial. You couldn’t even hack it at Five Time Academy long enough to learn that it wasn’t called that anymore— how long you think you’re gonna last in the ring with the motherfucker who invented it?

You really think you got a shot, Hollywood?

Short answer is “no”. Long answer is “nooooooooo”. The HOFC Championship is buried in my backyard right now because I’m HOW’s pitbull and I don’t like it when yip dogs try to steal my bones. I’m gonna straighten out that “Z” at the end of your twelfth incarnation of the same goddamned tag team and beat you about the head and neck with it, because by the time I’m finished with you, there’s gonna be no need for a plural. That “Z” stands for the zero chance you have of beating me in an HOFC rules match. You’re gonna leave poor Darin to defend both of those belts as the Hollywood Boy, which is STILL a less confusing tag team name than Sex and Money.

Little penguin ass bitch.

Little “I was the World Champion when HOW closed but didn’t even get the number one seed when we came back” ass bitch. Little “Zion didn’t talk for six months and still had better trash talk than you” ass bitch. Little “Olive Garden, pass the breadsticks, domestic altercation over some tomatoes in a salad” ass bitch. I bet you took your fuckin’ cousin to prom and then dumped her because she only let you get to second base. I bet you order Happy Meals at McDonald’s because you like the little apple slices. You seem like the kind of motherfucker who smells your fingers after you scratch your own asshole and then google what it means if it smells like barbecue.

You’re not a winner, is what I’m saying.

You’re gonna wanna get your affairs in order, bro. Hug a child who might miss you when you’re gone. Dig through the attic and give Zion all those mixtapes you made for him when he was in Missouri Valley. Sort yourself out, bud, because I’m warming up for a deathmatch and if I don’t crack a skull like a big dumb piñata soon, I’m afraid that this erection is never going to go down.

It’s been a lot more than four hours, BryBry.

So you two little goofballs go ahead and put your thick ass skulls together. See if you can rub those lukewarm IQs together fast enough to generate a spark, because every fucking sentence that lives your stupid face this week is gonna be recorded as “last words”. Make them count, homie. Think about them really hard, because they’re going to have to be memorable enough to erase that final image of you dropping a coiled brown cobra in your Batman Underoos at the end of Refueled.

You’re going to shit yourself, Brian.

And then you’re going to die.

Happy Sunday, my dude.