Impractical Jokes

Impractical Jokes

Posted on September 15, 2020 at 12:34 am by Mike Best

Alright Brian, hard truth time. 

No jokes. No puns. No wordplay. You wanna know the God’s honest? You wanna know why I’m treating you like you’re a goober? It’s because you’re a FUCKING GOOBER, BRIAN. I GAVE you serious face Mike Best already. I GAVE you the big “you can do it, Hollywood!” pep talk already. We did this all nine fucking months ago, Brian— nine months ago, you said “I’ve been waiting literally years for a serious fight against you”, just like you’re saying now. Nine months ago, I BEGGED you to show me some fire in the ring, and get back where you belong. Nine months ago, Brian. January 3, 2020. And you showed me that fire. 

And then I kneed you in the fucking skull and beat you. 

The fuck have you done in nine months to make things different, Brian? You were friends with Zion, then you feuded with Zion, now you’re friends with Zion again, and pretty soon one of you will disappoint the other and the vicious cycle will restart. How in the fuck are you gonna whine about how I’m not taking you seriously, when YOU aren’t even taking yourself seriously?

What do you think HOFC is?

We talk shit and then we get hit. That’s literally all of it. I took this division from a rinks dink cage fighting novelty, all the way to the main event of March 2 Glory. No dick slinging there, Hollywood. Just facts. Just numbers on fucking paper. I earned number one in the rankings, and I’m so far ahead of everyone else that it’s staggering. I won the most stacked War Games of all time. I’ve taken two fucking losses this era, and they were both intentional fucking disqualifications. Why is it all a big laugh to me, you ask? Why’s it all gotta be fucking one liners?


Everyone else does. They’re laughing at you, Brian. Because you’re too busy criticizing the appetizers to realize that you’re what’s for fucking dinner. I’m gonna fucking EAT YOU ALIVE. I might be wrapping it up in punchlines, but that’s not for you— that’s for THEM. Because if I just sat and dropped promo after promo about what a bad fucking time you’re gonna have on Saturday night, it would get depressing. It’s my FUCKING JOB to make people wanna see you kick my teeth in at Refueled. It’s my FUCKING JOB to be as entertaining outside of the ring as I am lethal inside of it. But in the immortal words of Marky Marky, I’m the guy who does his job…

…you must be the other guy. 

Sort yourself out, Brian. We’ve been back for almost two years and you’re still trusting through the gutter trying to come up with new tag team names for the same tired pair. Not a single fucking thing has changed about you since 2016– you’re a fuckin’ pop song, bud. The same four chords, over and over, with slightly different words. On Saturday night, the music stops, and you’re gonna find yourself in a familiar position— in the same fucking place you were nine months ago. The same place you were nine YEARS ago. 

Beneath me. 

This one isn’t fun. This one isn’t a blasty blast for me to write, but you finally get your wish. You have cried and pissed and moaned and annoyed me enough to stop being entertaining for a minute and start giving you some hard truths. I am going to beat the living shit out of you on an aircraft carrier in five days. This isn’t a maybe. This isn’t a Vegas odds situation. This isn’t something that MIGHT happen. We are not in the same league— we are barely playing the same fucking sport, and you are facing me in the match that I made famous. At the thing I do BEST. I am the next evolution of man, and you are a fucking single celled organism feeding at the bottom of my fucking pond. 

I am big, and you are small. 

I am mighty, and you are weak.

I am the comedian, and you are the punchline. 

Don’t mistake my jokes for weakness, Brian. Don’t think that just because I’m smiling, that I’m not going to bring down the entire wrath of the God King of Wrestling upon you at Refueled, Brian Hollywood. Because I’m going to fucking kill you. 

And that’s no joke.