Of course you’re out of breath, Conor.
The air is real thin here at the top.
Thinner than my LOL 34 YEAR OLD HAIRLINE– your fucking trash talk was mass produced by Tiger Electronics, and you clearly need your fucking hand-held here. You little fucking Commodork 64. You Super Nintendolt. You Sega Genesissy. If you have any Final Fantasies about beating the actual Final Boss of HOW, then your princess is in another castle, motherfucker. You’ve just stepped into world 8-fucking-4 without a safety net, and you’re one Punch Out away from your Doom. This tournament might be Free to Play, but it’s fucking Pay to Win and the currency is DEEZ FUCKIN’ KNEEZ.
Yeah, I’m better at your own schtick than you, dickhead.
As much as I’d love to unload Nintendo puns across the back of your Hideo Kojima tramp stamp like you were begging me not to pull out on a pull-out couch, this isn’t a fucking game and I’m not here for any of your shitty, forced references. I think you’re Con-Fused— the only game I’m playing is a little couch co-op with your Ex-Box, and she told me she left you because she caught you playing single-player to the first LonelyFans model who was willing to dress up as Princess Zelda for $10 worth of your arcade quarters.
Fucking “Virgin” Conor Fuse.
How many times you jerk off today, bud? Not counting the 750 words of “boy I’m clever” masturbation you spewed out of your stupid mouth with that “I’m a sentient fedora” smirk on your face, either. I bet you’re every girl’s “best friend”. I bet you called your mother a slut because she wouldn’t send you a picture of her tits on Facebook Messenger, then posted about it on Reddit. Call my knee the Golden Gun, you stupid ratfuck, because I’m not even gonna need to double tap at Refueled when I add Incel to injury.
FUCKING 1 V 1 ME, BRO.
I am Bowser, you are “bow down.” I am M. Bison, and you are “Mmmm, bye, son”. I am Mike Tyson with no continues.I am “Through The Fire & The Flames” on Expert. I’m Mario, and Luigi doesn’t get to play until I lose a fucking life– which I haven’t done in a calendar fucking year. What’s it like to sit on the couch and watch me play, Conor? What’s it like to be relegated to little brother status because the King eats first? You understand that this tournament is just fun for me? That it’s over when I say it’s over, and everything in between is just me playing with my food? This tournament ends with Mike Best versus Dan Ryan for the DeNucci Cup— the rest of you are here filling out brackets so that there’s false hope that the former Group Death won’t literally steal a year’s worth of pay-per-view main events. I am a FUCKING GOD. An actual unstoppable behemoth of pro wrestling, and you don’t have enough extra lives to beat me on your fucking Twitch stream, dork.
I KILLED A DUDE.
LIKE SEVERAL DUDES ACTUALLY.
Why do I have to keep reminding people of this? You made a JOKE ABOUT IT on your stupid fucking list. Like it’s trivia. Like it’s a fucking punchline. It would be without the rules for me to break your neck like a ragequit WiiMote on Saturday, and you’re laughing about it? Real life murder, dickhead. No continues. No load last save. No shut off the system and reset. I can fucking red ring you until you’re bricked, and they’ll just call it a victory by knockout. And you’re laughing. You’re chuckling. It’s all a big fucking joke.
Well I’m not smiling, Conor.
I’m not laughing. I got the jokes out of the way, and I got no more punchlines for you outside of the creases my knuckles leave across that smooth, smug forehead of yours. I’m gonna fucking cripple you, Conor. They’re gonna drag you out of that cage on a stretcher. You want a rude awakening? That’s what you’ll get, when you sleep on the fucking champ. You want a nuclear family? Catch your parents having an actual meltdown when I send you back to your basement apartment demanding pizza rolls while you’re waiting for your unemployment check.
You want to tell everyone you’re bringing the heat?
You try to walk on the Son, you’re gonna fucking melt.