I didn’t lose to MJ Flair, dipshit.
You’re a man on a mission, and that mission should have been to learn to fucking read. Cool CTRL+F to go with your CTRL+V carbon copy bullshit, but maybe do more than skim— I fucking won War Games. It made me the single longest reigning World Champion of all time, while your entire list of HOW achievements is a roster of guys not close enough to me on the card to have a record against me. You aren’t even clown shoes, dummy— you’re fucking bowling shoes, and you can spare me with the tough talk because you’re striking out. You picked the wrong lane and now I’m gonna split you up the fucking middle and pin you.
There’s some bowling culture jokes for you.
The one loss I took in 2020 was an intentional DQ to Lindsay Troy, so now that the entire premise of your dumbfuck manifesto has fallen flatter than afternoon value of your HOW stock, what do you want to talk about next? I have a lot of words to go, since you wasted a whole promo accidentally proving my point.
Fashion, maybe? The weather?
I don’t know man, I’m bored of you.
This is the problem with you megalomaniac rookies. You think I’m just another shit talker drunk off his own hype, because you don’t respect history, you just want to use it as a weapon. Search for a loss and rub it in my face. Talk shit about stuff other people did to me. Well guess what? I have taken TWO DQ LOSSES in FIVE FUCKING YEARS— the past isn’t gonna be your friend here, Xander, no matter how many times you wanna flip flop about whether or not we should focus on it. I earned my ego. What’s your excuse?
What a disjointed mess that promo was, holy shit.
I didn’t know you could read panic in text. I didn’t know you could physically watch a man realize he’s fucked in paragraph format. Shut the fuck up about Solex and Loveless, dude— that’s some old shit, and you are about to fight the single winningest wrestler in the entire history of HOW. No fake hype. No bravado. No blinding arrogance. This is a statistical fact, Xander. You are not an outlier. You are not an anomaly. You are not the one in a million who is going to make a difference, so all that shit about grinding my bones into bread is already out the window.
What an actually boring wrestling promo.
“Logic and reasoning” say that me and my pop culture references have been a tank rolling down Tiananmen Square for over five years, but by all means keep standing in the middle of the road talking about critical errors. The only critical error I’ve made against you was telling Lee Best on a phone call that you might actually bring it against me, dipshit— they may as well put “Mike Best is double booked” on the poster on Friday night. Xanax Argula, the boring lettuce warrior who I’m gonna send to live on Clay Byrd’s hidden valley ranch after I toss him out of the tournament like a fucking chicken seizure salad— it’s like a Caesar, but I’ve got you shook. And I’ll sprinkle on the pepper, Jack, cause I already shredded that cheese ass promo, too.
JOKES ABOUT SALAD.
LETTUCE FORGET YOUR FUCKING NAME.
You got so scared you Googled me, and you fucked that up too. I had an Appreciation Month because I’ve done something worth appreciating, you fucking dork. You’re still jerking off about three wins, so don’t be a hater just because they don’t make t-shirts for beating Simon Loveless. The only thing I haven’t been able to beat in a half decade is the sheer cringe of basing an entire promo on not knowing to keep watching after a false finish.
Bro, I am fucking ROLLING.
“Saying something over and over again doesn’t make it true…”
SAY SOMETHING THAT NO ONE HAS SAID TO ME IN THE LAST THREE WEEKS, STUPID. I’m gonna beat the actual fuck out of you. I’m gonna punch you in the face until I’m bored of it, and then I’m going to do the same thing I’ve done to EVERY SINGLE GUY WHO SAID MY KNEES WERE OVERRATED– I’m gonna knee you in the fucking face.
Goodnight, sweet prince.
Maybe you’ll beat me in your fucking dreams.