”My friend, I find thy face apelike and thy form misshapen. Thy beard, moreover, is an offense against decency, resembling more closely the scabrous fir which doth decorate the hinder portion of a mongrel dog than a proper adornment for a human face. Is it possible that thy mother, seized by some wild lechery, did dally at some time past with a randy goat?” – David Eddings, author and man who saw a Darin Matthews match promo once
I’ve been working out how I feel about all of this, how I feel about coming so close to winning the World Championship…. again — how I feel about Lee Best pulling his bullshit…. again.
Mike said in the lead up to ICONIC that no matter what happened, I’d get up the next morning and be fine.
And now, here we are, the HOFC Championship is resurrected, another championship with so much history, the world flocks to get a piece of it. It’s the exact sort of thing to make me feel better, and here I am, facing you, Matthews, a matchup made as a joke because someone thought it would be funny for me to kill you.
And how does that make you feel, Matthews? — you mush-brained illiterate example of what comes out when a character from Hey Arnold fucks a cantaloupe.
How does it make you feel to continually be treated like the scum on the bottom of the tub where your mom attempted her failed abortion? It’s no wonder you’re so good at ducking and dodging. You spent nine months in the womb sidestepping coat hangers.
Does it hurt? Or are you so numb to the abuse that continually comes your way that you willingly step out, chin forward, and just take that cumshot like a champ? Just don’t blink while it’s happening, buddy. That’s how you get an eye infection.
I for one do not take losing well. In fact, I take it very very poorly. I’m very upset, and you’re too dumb to realize how scared that should make you, so I won’t even try. You don’t challenge a toddler to a game of one on one and then get mad when they can’t score a point, and you don’t try to talk sense into Zion and get mad when his eyes glaze over like a case of Krispy Kreme.
I know you changed your name from Zion to Matthews, presumably because Israel was upset that someone might think they were associated with you, but absolutely nothing else about you has changed at all. You’re still the same dullard you always were. The trouble with you, really, is that you lack the power of conversation but not the power of speech. If only you didn’t talk so much, and you know, exist. I’ve seen more brains in the pubic lice of brothel whores, and you smell considerably worse than they do.
You are like a bad case of herpes. You’re inconvenient, embarrassing, no real threat, and you simply will not go away.
So here’s what’s gonna happen this week at Refueled, Dar. I’m going to pay Mr. Lee Best a nice, calm visit and speak to him about what happened at ICONIC, we’ll have a nice friendly chat about recent events, and then I’m going to go to the ring and tear your face from your skull-bones and use the cankerous flesh as a skin-frisbee, and I will punch what’s left of your face-meat until you fall unconscious from the pain.
I’m going to pin you, and then someone will come out and scrape you off of the mat, before wheeling you out of the building and back to the hedge-born shack you came from, whimpering and weeping, but secure in knowing that Lee will always be happy to toss scraps out about the arena for you to return to and pick up, and you’ll be back, albeit faceless, and assaulting everyone’s ears again with your hideous, grotesque mangling of the English language, and our eyes with your big dumb skinless vacantly staring face. You’ll annoy everyone again.
Because you’re fucking annoying.
So go ahead, say something dumb, as if anything else could possibly happen — Tell me what you plan to do with your last four days as anything other than a misshapen meatball. I can’t wait to hear what brilliant insight you’ve come-up-with-slash-gotten-help-with-from-your-friends.
Let’s hear it. I’m riveted.
God, I hate you. Fuck your mom.