This last post won’t be necessary.
I’m gonna make it anyway, because verbally assaulting you without being cancelled is the closest thing to blowing my load on television that I’m legally allowed to do these days, and it isn’t fair to me that I can so efficiently dismantle your dumb fuck arguments that I only ever need one promo to answer two of yours. Fuck you. I’m entitled to five posts, even if I’m gonna dust you in the third like a Swiffer Sweeper that hates artificial gingers.
So what should we talk about?
I’m not gonna nickel and dime you point by point, because I don’t need to. You said nothing. You accomplished nothing. Anne Frank put up a better fight from a fucking closet. It was like trying to watch Michael J. Fox and Muhammad Ali put together a ten thousand piece jigsaw puzzle. I would rather watch Scott Stevens folk style wrestle his own naked grandmother covered in vegetable oil than re-read a half syllable of anything you’ve said to me thus far, so let’s just go in a different direction.
The direction that you forgot about.
The fucking match, dipshit.
As usual, you’re so in the weeds trying to win an imaginary debate with me that you forgot about the part where we have to get in a cage and fight after this. You can talk about please and thank you and God and the devil and bring my kid and my family into it all you want. You can talk about the past and the present and the future and talk about laziness and talk about boredom and talk about my birth control preferences a weird number of times without ever sticking the punchline. But you know what happens next?
Next, I knee you into another fucking dimension.
They lock the two of us in a cage, and I put a level of violence on you that eclipses the rest of the fucking show. I watch you bleed all over me like Scott Stevens on offense, and roll the dice to see how many rounds I can sneak in before Rick Stevens rings the bell out of mercy or a weak stomach, whichever comes first. I am going to knock you the fuck out, Scotty.
You are going to lose consciousness.
I am going to hit you so hard, probably right up against your dilapidated fucking Frankenskull, that you will be eating applesauce through a straw and pointing at things and grunting to communicate. It’s not an argument. It’s not a debate. It’s not an insult competition. It’s a brutal, disgusting cage match where I get to do whatever the fuck I want to you for up to FIVE ROUNDS.
Maybe you aren’t afraid. I don’t care. Maybe you think you’ve got this in the bag. I don’t care. Maybe you died once and made a deal with the devil or whatever hokey bullshit you said before. I don’t care, Scotty. What I care about is the fact that I get to press the softest part of your face against a steel cage and fuck you with elbows like I’m a quadruple amputee with a girlfriend who’s into double penetration, and I’m not even fussed, Scotty. I’m standing in my kitchen eating Taco Bell and typing this on my phone right now.
I’m not even gonna read it over before I post it.
I never do.
I literally just wiped hot sauce off my iPhone screen so that I could finish this, and meanwhile, there’s a sincere chance that someone will be writing you a eulogy 72 hours from now. You can’t beat me, Scotty. Not “you’re the underdog”… you literally can’t beat me. If you win our match, you can change my theme music to whatever you want. You can make me grow nothing but a mustache. I’ll legally sign over four of my title reigns to you. You can have custody of Tyler and every stock I own in HOW. I will literally.
Suck your dick on an episode of Chaos.
I will get down on my knees, put all five and a half inches of your mediocre, probably erect penis directly into my mouth and suck you off, TO COMPLETION, if you beat me in our match at Chaos. I’ll put it in writing. That’s how confident I am, Scotty. You’re fucking done. I’m going to absolutely obliterate you.
Send the paperwork, dickhead.
I’ll sign it.
Go fuck yourself.