Alright, I’m ready for the swerve.
I don’t think you’re simple or stupid, Dan. I don’t think you’re Kostoff. I don’t think you’re a mindless brute, so don’t put words in my mouth to set up your premise. You’re fucking smart. You MUST be. Otherwise, it would be suicide to write me an entire love letter, devoid of any trash talk but “you’re gonna lose someday”, if you didn’t have one in the chamber ready to use it to destroy me. It would be outright unintelligent to essentially waste an entire promo just agreeing with me and telling me you’re proud of me, if you didn’t have an angle. And we’ve established that you’re not stupid, right Dan?
Nah, you must have a solid plan.
Maybe you’re gonna hit me with that energy you did against Farthington at Alcatraz, where you wasted invaluable, finite promo time trying to set up a “meh” punchline. Usually I do rule of three for comedy, but since every example of you pulling this soft-headed, overthinking bullshit was against Cecilworth, I think one will do it this time. Bet you wish you could hop into a DeLorean and redo that fucking mess of a promo, huh?
JOKES ABOUT TIME TRA–
Nah, you know, my heart just isn’t in it.
I’m fucking disappointed, Dan. I was promised a trash talking legend. This right here, HOFC rules, Dan Ryan vs. Mike Best? Everyone is waiting with bated breath for the roar of thunder, and you give them a wet fart. Fuckin’ chin up, Charlie, you’ve got a Golden Ticket! Miss me with this Grandpa Joe routine and take my Everlasting Gobstopper out of your mouth, because if you waste another fucking promo tasting my Snozzberries, you will LOSE SIR.
You get NOTHING.
You’re proud of me. Jesus Christ, Dan.
What, Texas gets a half inch of snow, so you’re still powerless to stop me? Make fun of my divorce or something. At least school shooters have the courage to achieve their dreams– you have all this ammo stockpiled, but you aren’t pulling the trigger when it counts most. Nah, instead you’re gonna tell everyone that I’m the best, and that I’m bored, and that I’m getting ready to retire. How are you reading my mind like that? How are you reaching into my psyche and pulling these deep, secret thoughts out of me? All I can imagine is that you… that you…
LITERALLY JUST LISTENED TO THE PODCAST.
You fucking reverse ventriloquist, stop putting my words into your mouth like they’re insightful. I’ve been cutting that promo on the HOR for months, begging someone to beat me and end this. Fuck yeah I’m bored. Fuck yeah I’m ready to retire. Fuck yeah I have nothing left to do. I’m glad you’re still fighting after 25 years Dan, because you know I love you. Because you know I’m a fan. But honestly? If I still had goals I hadn’t achieved after being in this business for 25 years, I wouldn’t be bragging about it to the guy ready for early retirement.
I’d be fucking embarrassed.
I’ve done it all, and you’ve done everything I wasn’t already busy doing. But yeah, Dan, you just keep on fighting. You keep on coming up with new ways to describe the DARK, BROODING MONSTER that Dan Ryan is becoming. Maybe you have a distant Aunt who can also have an appetite for THE MURDERZ, and we can watch you scowl in front of leather bound books for another couple of months contemplating what it means to be evil.
Me? I’m just about to punch that clock.
Son’s getting real low there, big guy.
The DeNucci Cup is the last item on my bucket list. The Dead Buddy Cup, in honor of a man who would have laughed at that joke and then DMed me on Twitter to ask me what the fuck a Dan Ryan was and why it didn’t know how to trash talk. Then I’d have to explain to him that you’re usually really good, but that you were overthinking it because you’re so thirsty to finally get a win over Farthington or I that you’d drink our piss for the electrolytes. I’ve never been so grateful that DeNucci was dead as I am right now, because watching the second best trash talker in wrestling produce the most flaccid response of all time is making me want to join him.
Fucking Rest in Peace to you both.