Oh, so you’re gonna be that basic bitch that can’t do shit but get his ass handed to him 99% of the time, but throws shade at the dude in the main event who just lost. Exactly one dude has the bragging rights over me in this entire fucking company right now, and that dude is not you, chucklefuck.
You think everyone thinking you’re a shithead loser means the opposite somehow? That if you speak it to life, you won’t be the same uneducated turnip that regularly finds himself counting lights and figuring out what he’s gonna have at Sizzler before he even gets fully wheeled out of the arena?
And do please use that LT Wentworth joke again if you don’t mind. You’ve only used it twice so far, and I know how much you and your knights of the short bus popped each other then you brainstormed it today. So go ahead. Get four or five more times in with that one so you can run it into the ground like the unimaginative verbal slap-fighter you are.
I can’t handle the pressure of being a top guy in HOW? You couldn’t be more bottom if you were a Sir Ian McKellen cosplayer in a dirty send up of some Lord of the Rings fan-fic.
I’ll look at your resume, hoss, but your resume ain’t a footnote compared to mine, so let’s just put resumes aside and just talk about recent events. Why don’t you ask Andy Murray if I choke? Ask his brother Cayle. Ask Scott Stevens. Ask Doozer. Four people might be dead because of me. We don’t know for sure, because every one of them was eviscerated and in a coma the last time I saw them and we haven’t seen them since.
So yes, I’m very very upset at how you have used someone else beating me recently to argue a case for why I will choke against you after. You once did something very cool and very impressive a thousand years ago. You can’t do anything of importance right now, but long ago you were a real treat. Believe me, I know. All I have to do is look at HOTV to go back in time and take a trip down who gives a fuck lane. Somehow, I’ve been consistently in the main event picture, on two War Games teams, while you aren’t anywhere near a candidate, main eventing the biggest show in HOW two years in a row. Were you just biding your time flailing around on the undercard waiting for your chance to strike? Nah, you weren’t, because you have the planning capabilities of half-cooked asparagus.
I’m not afraid of losing. I don’t like it, but I’m not afraid of it. I’ve lost before and I’ll lose again. But I will not, you insolent brazen bitch, lose to you.
So here’s the deal, you should be scared, but it isn’t a requirement. It’s okay if you say you’re not. It won’t actually change anything if you’re scared, brave, or somewhere in between. It makes it no less likely that you die. And truly, I do feel kinda warm inside knowing that you’ve found a way to pep talk your way into not browning up your shorts where you stand. It’s admirable, and a real man stands up and fights, no matter the odds. Never let it be said that Darin Matthews doesn’t rise to the occasion and put his best foot forward. You will still get destroyed, but I prefer it this way. The same man who not so long ago channeled all of the angst and rage of being overlooked into a gutsy performance against Mike Best for the World Championship, that’s the guy I wanna see. That’s what I want this weekend. That guy. I want the guy who fired up and marched into battle at Refueled XXXVI, to march into battle at Refueled XLVIII. But while you’re sitting there trying to decipher those Roman numerals, I want to say this.
A better showing than expected doesn’t mean you win, buddy. You’ve been disappointing for so long that even if you were to wrestle this match and not DIE it will be considered a rousing success for you. So believe. Go forth and truly believe, Darin. The more you believe, the more you’ll be leaving you, when what you believed turns out to be just lies.
Fuck your dog, also.