OH MY GOD HE CUT HIS HAIR!
Makes sense for HOW’s cringiest samurai to finally slice off his top-knot. You know that’s what they do as a symbol that their time is over, right? I got you to CUT OFF YOUR DREADLOCKS OUT OF SPITE. This is… this is just the best day. I need a second to just take a deep breath and enjoy this. Gonna do a little front flip with your hair now? Maybe some orange frosted tips? I assumed you’ll finally be barreling your fashion sense into the Y2K crisis any day now. Didn’t realize the streets you were from were the Backstreets.
Quit playing games with my heart, cupcake.
You think this battle is step for step N’Sync, but even at 98 Degrees you can’t seem to get any heat. I know you spanked your little Monkee to that whiny little promo until you reached O-Town, but HOFC is where we turn Boyz II Men and the One Direction you’re headed toward is failure, Scotty. You can barely beat any of these New Kids on the Block, much less the man setting the gold records.
COULDN’T GET THE JONAS BROTHERS IN THERE.
BYE BYE BYE, SCOTTY. IN AN MMBOP YOU’RE GONE.
Seriously? That’s your big move? Spend your whole career looking like white, silly Bob Marley, but still can’t comprehend the idea of “No Woman, No Cry”. Usually the Dothraki wait until they’re wallowing in the shame of defeat to cut off their war braids, but I gotta at least give you credit for efficiency. Now you have more time to go edit my fucking shoot name out of the results– how much does it hurt your feelings every time you Find and Replace my name next to the words “AND NEW”? Pat yourself on the back more for doing intern work, bitch– I’ll give you a rimjob when you do your ACTUAL job.
STILL NOT ON THOSE TITLE HISTORIES, SCOOTER.
Do you realize how absolutely fucked you are, Scott? I let Gino celebrity shot on you, just as a fucking goof, and you didn’t even have the balls to acknowledge it. Maybe you’ve got a thick skull to go with that thick skin– do you even know what HOFC is anymore? Pretty sure it isn’t “AIRING OF GRIEVANCES + CREATIVITY”, but you’re up in here talking about your feelings like you forgot a space and thought I was THERAPIST. I will break your face like a smashed clock, motherfucker– at least then you’ll be right twice a day.
TICK TOCK, BITCH.
STILL WAITING FOR THE TRASH TALK.
The Artist Formerly Known as Hardcore, dropping emo bars like you’re reciting poetry in a goth gym: YOU SHAN’T CUT ME DEEPER, SON OF GOD. YOU WILL NOT CUT THE PERSON WHAT IS ME. THE PRESENT FUCKING SUCKS AND HARDCORE ARTISTRY IS MINE ONLY ESCAPE. What in the name of a Dashboard Confessional are you talking about? You’re gonna Fall Out, Boy– you’re worried about Taking Back Sunday, but Saturday is the night you need to Panic! At The Disco. You’ve got three more chances for a Brand New approach, because the level of edgelord cringe in these first two promos are reaching new Hawthorne Heights.
MAKING THE CUT IS THE TITLE OF YOUR SADBOY ALBUM.
CUT THAT HAIR TILL IT HANGS OVER ONE EYE, SHAME REYNOLDS.
What’s next? Gonna show me that you mean business by switching to cargo shorts? You’re gonna need a lot more than a trip to Super Cuts to take the HOFC Championship off of a man who hasn’t taken an L in that cage since Bottomline fucking 2010, dummy. I am the holder of the DeNucci Cup. I am the undisputed HOFC Champion, an honor I have held since 2016– I was defending this fucking belt UNSANCTIONED AND FOR FUN when HOW came back, just because I fucking could. I wrestled twice in a night at March to Glory and still beat the single toughest HOFC opponent I’ve ever had in my life, and you’re talking about meltdowns on the HOR? Puns about Eric Dane, like I give a fuck? I don’t need your help pointing out your utter ridiculousness as a human being, motherfucker– I can handle your shortcomings all on my own. Maybe I’ll hit up your ex and let her write my last one, so we can cover your fast-comings, too.
I guess old habits do die hard, Scotty.
Your celebration is premature.