No, no, no
It’s a trash talk contest, dipshit. Clearly you’ve confused “talking trash” with “saying garbage” again, but I am not your therapist. I do not care about your problems. I am not here to help further your ridiculous story with Hollywood. You’ve also used a lot of vaginal words like “gaslighting” and “deceitful”, so let me just set the record straight real quick:
We are destined for nothing.
Don’t try to make me the Joker to your Batman, Inbreddy Palmer. We aren’t rivals. You aren’t my nemesis. I know it feels like it since I’m constantly stepping on your head, but Goombas are not Mario’s nemesis. If you’re the antithesis of my career, it’s only been because mine has been tremendously successful, so don’t try to put some weird narrative in place to suit the eight words of trash talk in that 750 words of diary entry you accidentally hit publish on.
But hey, maybe you’re right.
Maybe I didn’t spend a half hour on live radio with Lee Best gassing you up and calling you the next me. Maybe I should check Stevenspedia, or ask one of the 97 live listeners who were there when it happened. Maybe I didn’t cut an entire promo on that exact subject ten years ago that was so insanely brutal, cruel and over the line that I literally got in trouble with management over it. Maybe you haven’t been desperately seeking my approval with every validation craving breath that has left your thirsty little lungs since I started ignoring your messages like eight fucking years ago. Maybe it’s easier for you to think that this was all inevitable— that there was never any chance that I was going to feel anything but complete disdain for you, but the sad truth is that I propped you up, and then you failed your way downward for a decade. I WANTED to like you. You just made it literally impossible in nearly every single way.
But let me tell you my favorite part.
Of all the desperate drivel you just threw at the wall and felt proud of, my FAVORITE part was you talking about being “tired of waiting to be booked in high profile matches”. This right here, Zion. This is why you are not successful in HOW. It’s not just that you’re a C level goon who doesn’t have the talent to make it out of the midcard. It’s not just that you have no comedic timing, sense of what’s a good line and what sounds like cut content from a Veggie Tales bonus feature. It’s not just that you have a sense of self so overinflated that you should have called Viagra four hours and thirty seconds after you joined HOW.
It’s that entitlement.
The fuck have you done to earn “high profile matches”? You literally used a portion of your promo to try and get heat for your 97th rematch with Brian fucking Hollywood, and it’s STILL not a guarantee for the PPV card. What role exactly do you think that you fill in this company? If you think it’s anything other than “literally a warm body to fill a spot on the card”, the only thing you’re the antithesis of is fucking correct.
The utter audacity.
You’ve earned nothing, Zion. Just being here for a long time as the computer character we beat up on exhibition mode when we’re having a bad day does not earn you “high profile matches”. There are no High Octane Participation Trophies. If you want to be rewarded for mediocrity, go write a couple of Jabbers in PRIME and beg like Keith Sweat for a title shot. They LOVE mediocre midcarders who lack self awareness and stalking everything I write on the internet to see if I mention them. You’d get along great.
TWO MORE TO GO, BOYS.
GO WRITE A “PIECE” ABOUT IT.
I don’t know what to tell you, Zion. I expected very little from your first showing and I am still somehow underwhelmed. You’ve managed to drone on about nothing, talk almost no actual shit, tried to use me to get heat against the only guy on the roster less compelling than you, pretended you don’t have me as the emergency contact in your phone despite me blocking your number, and blow your entire load in one promo. The fuck are you going to say for the next four, idiot?
Seize reality, Zion
Carpe Deez Nuts.