“Listen up, five, because a fuckin’ 10 is talkin’.”
Some time after Refueled 50 has gone off the air, and Johnny Dorn’s been treated for his maladies, “Wrigleyville’s Finest” sits in a chair in his apartment. There’s no shitty douchesmirk on his face, no cocky posture. Just a man, a camera, and one bad mood.
DORN: And no, that’s not some cutsey-poo reference to my blood alcohol content; there’s no decimal to be found, no Tito’s and BANG in hand, no sweet #97red Solo cup sponsor plug this week. Your boy Johnny Dorn hasn’t has a drop to drink since Saturday night, partly because the ringing in my ears and that sucker-punch were so bad that I didn’t feel like drinking (THANKS SOLEX, YOU FUCK), but MAINLY because I’m so fuckin’ sick of seeing this dishwater dull, bland-ass TRASH from Pretty Boy Swag that I wish Gomer Pyle’s claymore mine had found its way into my piehole and blew my fuckin’ brains out.
Anything…anything would’ve been better than this.
Johnny shakes his head, disgusted, then continues.
DORN: What is it like to be you, Devin Desean? What is it like to come from a world where you need three other jobs to pad your resume just to be able to say OH YES, and I am ALSO a WRESTLER? Because where I come from, all that is inconsequential bullshit that doesn’t actually mean anything.
Johnny starts counting ’em off on his fingers.
DORN: Devin Desean is a MODEL. And an AC-TÓR. And a BAKER, because his extended metaphors around fruit cake and cookie cutters are so shitty they crumble like they’re made by one of those schlubs on Worst Cooks in America.
Are you also a butcher and a candlestick maker?
Are you friends with CELEBRITIES? Will there be a cameo in your next hype spot for our DeNucci Cup match? What other wish-fulfillment fantasies will you summon for us, you magician, you? Maybe you’ll drop an album or an instant New York Times #1 Bestseller.
Or maybe you’ll eat a piece of that flappy stomach lining you NOO YAWKERZ call “pizza” just to prove how “superior” that festering shithole of a city is compared to Chicago.
Hint: It isn’t.
I even wrote a little ditty just to prove it to you:
Concrete Jungle, they throw their trash on the sidewalk
It stinks to high heaven
Never heard of a dumpster
Let’s hear it for NEW YORK!
It’s really got me in an Empire State of Mind, baybeeee!
But oh wait…you’re from Toronto now, too, so maybe you’ll have poutine instead.
DORN: Teach me your ways, Devin. I’m so INTRIGUED~! I want to know how you show up to a tournament and not know the first thing about it. Are you too busy walking Mugatu’s Derelicte campaign to do a little research? I’m a cocky sonofabitch, bro, and I’m just as new here as you, but I’m not that fuckin’ stupid.
I want to know why you think records and titles in other places matter. Did you think that by comparing the two, it was gonna give you any clout? You said you won a match in the Hinterlands while competing here, but “that doesn’t matter.” But hey dudes, here are some statistics for your ass.
You’re the low-rent Scott Stevens play-acting like you’re David Cox.
I’m ridin’ high off tappin’ Warstein out, but I knew he was all hype and no substance comin’ into this. You – of no hype and no substance – should be ridin’ high off that win over Sean Stevens, yet all you’re doin’ is consistently showin’ everyone that you’re the dumbest motherfucker in the room. Is this another one of your talents? What else do you have in your bag of tricks, Barry Floppins?
Tell me: how graphic are the pictures you have on Norman Barrett that he let you freely leave the circus to go play wrestler?
Because I hate to break it to you, “Pretty Boy,” but you’re not a wrestler. You’re a fuckin’ clown modeling wrestling boots and a chef’s hat. You’re Bozo the Runway Chef from the Great White North, New York.
Now go jump out of a cake while tryin’ not to get your boots dirty, Buddy Valastro, and leave the Denucci Cup to me.
Leave me your address on your way out the door on Saturday, though. I’ll make sure to send you a postcard from the next round.