No. Just… no.
To all of it, Brian. To the sad gay jokes. To the weird attempts to flip all my slam dunks into airball granny shots. To the idea that you’re better than me at literally anything but enjoying the smell of your own farts. I knew that whatever weird, verbal bukkake you were going to throw at me was going to be a dehydrated mess, but I didn’t expect your balls to produce so much dust and so little substance.
Drink some water, you thirsty little homophobe.
Fuck man, maybe the Z stands for Zzzzzzz cause I’m fuckin’ ASLEEP, bud. All you’ve established is that apparently you’re going to get murdered by a guy who sucks big British cock. How embarrassing for you. HASHBROWN EMBARRASSING, AMIRITE? Holy shit, bud, how many final lines can you have in a promo? You know that punchlines aren’t cumulative, right? That you can’t just take seven lukewarm jokes and combine them together? They say that good comedy comes in threes, but if you ask Brian Hollywood, IT CUMS IN MY MOUTH LOL THE GAYS. Maybe you should go back to 2006 for more material, and find your last decent title run while you’re back there.
TELL US ABOUT THE PENISES, LENNY.
Nowhere in that center aligned, italic for no reason puddle of actual garbage did I see anything resembling a coherent thought. It’s like you just took my promo, added the word “cum” and screamed NO YOU until someone brought you more sugar cereal. This isn’t “champion versus champion”, Brian— it’s THE champion versus “a” champion, and I use that word as lightly as my fingertips delicately caress Cecilworth’s penis. BECAUSE I AM A GAY, GET IT?
THE COLOR OF MY COMEDY IS GOLD, GERALD.
I hoped we were gonna go tit for tat here, but then I remembered that you’ve never touched a real human boob, so I shouldn’t have set my hopes so high. That promo was a wet dream, bud— you think you were fucking me hard, but when you wake up, you’ll realize you were just cumming in your pants. You aren’t going to beat me… at this point, you should be setting a goal to SURVIVE me, because I’m fucking inevitable. I’m the final boss of a game you’re never gonna beat, because your mom doesn’t let you play Nintendo on school nights and your spot in the main event is only a three day rental.
A little Blockbuster joke, since all your material aged out with VHS tapes, dickhead.
You’d drag your dick through broken glass during a sandstorm for the chance to be me for a day, so let’s cut the grandstanding. You’re a shit covered goat farmer living in a mud hut, shaking your fist at a God and pretending like we’re equals— we’re not equals, Brian. I fuck better than you fuck, I talk shit better than you talk shit, and I wrestle better than you wrestle. Your mother dresses you funny and your girlfriend’s boyfriend is better than you at Madden. The best fucking point you made in your entire promo was that I’m facing you, not Zion.
And fuck, buddy, don’t remind me.
Zion had a few decent lines. Zion seemed to know what he was doing. I wasn’t physically cringing and embarrassed for Zion when he cut promos. You’re the least interesting thing about a tag team featuring a guy who calls himself Big Money because— wait for it— he has some money. You’re no Darin Zion, bud, trust me. I’d never mix the two of you up.
Zion had an actual shot.
You should just start over. Think about it, Brian. Line up your shot and take it, because if you try to flip this fucking promo on me a second time, you’re gonna be lynched in the street long before you ever make it to Refueled. They’re going to riot, bro— they like trash talkers, not guys who say actual garbage. If you drop another cringe inducing mess, you’re fucking sunk. You lost the first round. It’s over. Relax and start again. You’re bumming me out, so lemme give you some help.
Here, I’ll spot you fifty words.