- Event: Refueled L
Play the fuckin’ fifties television tune in your head bitches, cause this is going to be the hour of Dad. Being the trooper, the soldier, the war hero…that shit’s easy, friends. Being the number-one dad, let me tell you something…well, that shits easy too, cause I’m fuckin’ good at everything. From bowling to motherfuckin’ badminton, there’s nothing I can’t do well. So, sit back and enjoy this one Cashe, cause you’re about to get some legit fatherly advice. The tone will be different, but you’ll get the idea…that is of course, unless your as dense as some people say you are. I don’t have time for nice overtones and symbolism right now, but maybe one day you’ll be privileged enough for that. But for now…this is all you’re worth, so listen the fuck up.
Like a kid who left the front door open in the dead of winter, you let all of the heat out of the room, Cashe. Well, whatever heat you thought you had anyway it blew right out the front door like I’m paying to heat the whole goddamned neighborhood. Like most of the dipshits around here, you’re quick to spew some ignorant crap out of that cock-sucker you have in the middle of your face and within seconds, you instantly regret it. You done fucked up Cashe, and now good ol’ number-one’s got the mic. The good thing about talking fast and first though, is that you’re already done. That’s literally the only good thing about it. You get to take a few days off before you are inevitably pounded straight into the motherfuckin’ ground. But talk is cheap, and we all know that shit. So, while I’m contractually obligated to be here today, I hope that you realize that the real work will be done on Saturday. Like it or not, Cashe…you’ve got a date with the Dad-Soldier, and I don’t play nice…at least not on the first date. Just ask Mamba. What I did to him last week is going to look like a fuckin’ ballet, compared to the massacre that’s coming this Saturday when you and I step into the cage.
This just might be the quickest exit in HOW history, Cashe. The ink on your contract will still be wet by the time you get back to the house and cower under your blankets like the beta-bitch you are. So, comb you’re nasty ass beard, brush your fuckin’ tooth and wash your grimey ass…cause you’re gonna want to go out lookin’ as good as you possibly can, Cashe. I might even flip the bill for your bus ticket home, cause I’m a nice guy like that.
This is classic Dad advice. Don’t be so fuckin’ sensitive about it.
So, when you get home…and you’re covered in blood and bruises from the neck up, remember this advice: rub some fuckin dirt on it, and shut the fuck up you pansy. This is the same advice my Dad gave me after I wrecked my motorcycle and nearly tore my leg off. That ol’ prick wrapped the wound in duct tape and finished his fuckin’ beer before he took me to the hospital. So, a flesh wound to the face shouldn’t be so bad, and to top it off…this is actually pretty sound advice. While the dirt may be riddled with bacteria, at least you won’t bleed out. Plus, I mean…look at you. I’d rather drink a pitcher of Magic Johnson’s blood before getting anywhere near that grill of yours. But there is a bright side here; a couple of scars might be an improvement over the gross disfigurements your dirty ass already has.
And then, when this is all said and done. When you’ve recovered, healed up and you’re ready to catch the flight back home, remember this: always arrive for your flight two-hours early, four-hours early if you’re flying international. Some people will say that it’s unnecessary, but those fuckers don’t know shit. I mean, it’s probably going to be difficult for the TSA agent to recognize you behind all of the swelling anyway, so be prepared for the most invasive of security pat downs on your way through the metal detectors. But don’t let that get you down…that will only be the second most embarrassing thing to happen to you since you’ve arrived in HOW. The first being…well, isn’t it obvious? Getting your sorry ass handed to you in the second round of the DeNucci Cup by the Dad-Soldier, ol’ number-one himself.