This no selling game is boring as fuck.
I’m exhausted, Dan. Oh, you’re so dark and broody and nothing matters. Oh, I’m too cool for fucking school and nothing phases me. This is so dogshit boring for everyone else, because it’s nothing but manufactured passion and fake aggression. Because we’re both good at this, and we’re both friends. We aren’t writing for each other, we’re writing for the boss man— pointing out each other’s mistakes and bad habits and cheat codes. This whole tournament was douchebags playing checkers, and now me and Bobby Fisher are playing a real boring game of chess.
It’s time we got that in check.
Oh and the Disney lines were good. Shut the fuck up. Don’t throw shade just because you went full Zion and started telling my metaphorical shoot name like it was an ace in the hole. I don’t care that you broke the fourth wall, dummy, I was clowning on you for doing a bad job at it. None of that shit was clever. None of it was creative. None of it was even all that funny, to be honest. If you’re gonna go hard with the fourth wall, you don’t make fun of me for an affair my wife had that no one in fucking HOW knows about, dickhead.
Maybe you thought that one up on the couch.
The truth is, Dan, that you’re right. I ain’t got shit for you. Old tired cliches and the same old blah bullshit “I’m gonna win cause LOL I ALWAYS WIN”. We’re gonna have a match, we’re gonna beat the fuck out of each other, and then I’m going to win. Because that’s what was always going to happen. It’s what happened before. It’s what’s going to happen this time. I don’t have A+ game for a B+ player, and my dick just isn’t that hard for a third match against a guy who keeps getting close enough to a big win to smell it, but never enough to taste it. I’ve beaten you twice, and I have nothing to yell but “LOL I WIN” because you have offered me nothing else to yell about. I have nothing to use but cheat codes, because it’s not that appealing to play through the whole game for a third time without a New Game Plus. You went all out, you did your best, and now all that is left to do is fight it out and see what happens.
I mean I could make fun of your head again?
You have a big head and Ray Charles sunglasses, because you’re blind to the truth. You don’t wear a diaper to the ring anymore because you stopped giving a shit. Color you fucking green and you become The Incredible Sulk– that gamma radiation has a half-life, apparently, because the older you get, the less fucking intimidating you become. You’re six foot seven with sagging granny tits, your nipples look like sad pepperonis trying to escape the center of your chest, and you have the haircut of a twelve year old bully who lashes out because he’s a military brat who doesn’t know how to make friends.
You’re a forty two year old man with a thigh gap.
I could make fun of your career?
The legendary Dan Ryan has amounted to a fucking blip in HOW history. Couple ICON Title reigns, both of them ended because I decided that I wanted it. Couple of pay-per-view main events that didn’t amount to shit. A mediocre feud with Andy Murray. A lackluster rivalry with Lindsay Troy. So many L’s taken from Farthington and I that our names may as well be Michae and Ceciworth now. I wanted this to be the rivalry of a lifetime, but it has been a complete and utter letdown. I’m going to get into the ring, knee you in the face, and become the next HOFC Champion. I’m going to win the DeNucci Cup. I’m going to continue on the reign of “LOL I WIN”, and someday someone will beat me. You said it yourself. You’ll be the Gatekeeper, and I’ll be the fucking Keymaster. See you at War Games, so you can try again.
You’re my friend, Dan. You’re my mentor. You are my childhood hero, and I look at you like a brother. But there’s one thing you’re not, and it’s the one thing you so desperately want to be.
You’re not my equal.
And you never will be.