Calm down Teddy. ‘No Feelings Allowed’. It’s clearly stipulated in the advertisement…
How. Dare. You.
The nerve! The audacity! The…the…I don’t even know!
Listen very closely you little yokel: my ears are perfectly proportioned to my head. They line up evenly, aren’t too high or too low, and most importantly, are the right size. If I’m being honest, I’ve been on the receiving end of many flattering compliments regarding my alluring ears, so the real joke is on you.
But that is neither here nor there.
Haven’t you been taught that our words carry weight? That our words have the ability to cut deep? I’m guessing not, but that doesn’t surprise me. What more should I expect from some fifteen year old halfwit?
I will say this though: The verbal jabs managed to catch me off guard. Well, not the jabs so much as the source.
Why am I being chirped by some teenage mean girl?
Last I checked, I’m supposed to be locked inside that cage with Sling Blade, not his underage sister. A girl, who and I quote, thinks I’m ‘Cute’N All’. Now, I’m well aware things operate quite differently in the south, but I’ll have you know that I’m a man of morals. In the Great White North, we are raised to respect women. I will not let my character be compromised. I refuse to be jailbated by a couple of hicks.
Despicable tactic, Zeb. Not cool. Not cool at all.
But that is the exact thing I’d expect from some redneck who wears Cowboy Cut Wranglers.
Wranglers Zeb? Come on. Real men wear Levi’s. That’s just a fact. Brad Pitt wears Levi’s. It was in a commercial. Look it up on your MacBook.
‘Originals Stand The Test Of Time’
Tell me something, has Brad Pitt stood the test of time? You’re fuckin’ right he has. And Teddy Palmer? You’re fuckin’ right I have. I’m as original as they come, baby. No amount of copycats or cheap imitations can sully the fact there is and only ever will be one Teddy Palmer.
And your precious Wranglers? Who do they have? George Strait. A whiny cowboy. A country singer. A far cry from Brad Pitt, that’s for sure. And what was it that Georgie boy was crooning about in his commercial?
‘Do you love me? Do you want to be my friend?’
I’m dead serious. Look it up.
Now that’s pretty pathetic. Embarrassing, really. It’s almost as if he doesn’t know how to talk to girls…
Ohhhhh. I totally get it now.
Let’s just drop it, okay? I’m actually being unfair with this whole ‘real man’ schtick. You’re literally a boy. Just exited your teen years, mere days ago. Freshly weaned off your mama’s titty milk. Your balls ready to drop, any day now.
You’ll get there buddy, I promise you. It doesn’t happen overnight.
Unfortunately for you though, that just so happens to be your glaring issue. Your dilemma, so to speak. It ain’t gonna happen by Saturday. It’s inevitable. It’ll be you, the boy, stepping into that cage with me, the man. I want to feel bad, I do, but no one forced your hand. You signed up for this.
And I’m left with no choice but to pound your ass.
I mean…yeah, I heard it too. That’s not what I meant.
What I meant to say is I’m going to get you on all fours. I’m going to proceed to mount you. I’m going to twist on YOUR ear, and make you squeal like a little pig.
Fuck. Yeah, no. Heard it there too.
Full disclaimer. I have no intention of, nor will I attempt to butt fuck Zeb Martin. As intimidating as it might be, no. But everything else is on the table.
YOU HEAR ME!
I’m going to absolutely ragdoll you. I’m going to beat you like a red headed step child. I’m going to toss your salad, bro!
*2 Minutes Later*
It’s been brought to my attention that ‘tossing one’s salad’ doesn’t mean what I thought it did. A quick search of Urban Dictionary all but confirms this. I would like to state I will not be tossing anyone’s salad.
And to think I’ve been threatening people with that since Junior Hockey…
Let’s keep it simple.
Our tilly ends one of two ways: knockout or choke out.
Either way, I’m standing tall, moving one step closer towards the DeNucci Cup.