It’s garbage time, boys.
I’m talking about when a team gets so far ahead that none of the points they’re scoring matter anymore, not “every time Brian Hollywood cuts a promo”. That’s a different kind of garbage time, and you’ve been in it your whole life, bud– you’re working hard and it’s hardly working. Your promos are so corny and hard to digest that after you get starched at Refueled, I’m gonna see pieces of them in my stools for a week.
Whoops, that was fuckin’ awkward.
The last time it took twenty four hours to produce something this disappointing, its mother named it Brian. Don’t be petty and drop my shoot name just cause you’re jealous I’ve had two father figures in my life, and you’ve had to settle for being raised by sitcom TV dads because whatever transient drifter M-PLOWED your mom didn’t stick around to see if the seed took, you lonely little sad-boy.
I chose to call myself Best because I come from a strong lineage of success. You call yourself Hollywood because you’re struggling to act like you belong here. Bring me a coffee, you Amish-haired monument to the fucking opener. This is why the producers don’t give you speaking roles. A note from the casting department— “Brian isn’t really believable as a human being.”
“I anger you with my unique intellect.”
Fuck me, I knew I smelled toast– I thought those lazy gay jokes were low hanging fruit, but now I realize that burning scent in the air was you firing on all cylinders trying to come up with the phrase “guzzling cum”. I bet you worked fuckin’ overtime on that, bud. I bet you came from from your vague job at Hollywood Industries after marinating in your work boots all day, kicked them off on the living room floor and said “AAAAAAAH, HARD DAY’S WORK COMING UP WITH A GOOD JOKE ABOUT SUCKIN’ DICK, BOYS”. Then I bet you farted into a plastic bag, huffed it like the non-toxic Elmer’s glue you swear gets you fucked up, and spent a half hour disectting the distinct notes of it’s fuckin’ flavor profile, you unironic zero wearing a belt as tightly as you can in the hopes that it makes you look like an eight.
FUCKIN’ WORDPLAY, BOYS.
When you have to borrow warehouse keys from Indiana Jones to find footage of the last time you beat me, it’s advisable to watch your fuckin’ mouth and mind your fuckin’ tone– call me Polowy, call me Best, or call me Jordan, because I’m gonna spend the rest of this week dunking on you. Call me Michael Myers, because even though I murdered you the first time, you think you’ve got a real shot at me in the sequel. Call me Michael Vick, because when I drag you into the cage on Saturday night, I’m gonna beat you like a fucking dog and I won’t stop until they force me to publicly apologize.
I’m gonna seriously hurt you, champ.
This confidence you have is dangerous. I know they say “fake it till you make it”, but eventually you’re supposed to fucking MAKE IT. I offered you a shot at the World Title and Lee Best said no— he didn’t even want your name attached to a title defense, because he doesn’t like a mockery being made of the belts. And yet somehow, you’re still out here telling the world that I’m afraid of you? You couldn’t beat me at Street Fighter with cheat codes if I unplugged my controller, much less beat me in a fight in the streets.
Make no mistake, Brian, I’ve made a career out of seeming just beatable enough to sell tickets, but don’t buy the propaganda. Don’t be fooled by the machine. Don’t drink the Kool-Aid, because I will burst through the wall of that cage screaming OHHHH YEAHHHH with a Fruit Punch and a Strawberry Kiwi motherfucking uppercut. I’m gonna leave you so black and blue that Lindsay Troy is gonna protest you on Facebook. If you think there’s any other outcome to this match, you’re fuckin’ dyslexic bud, cause you think you’re gonna do OK but you’re gonna get KO’ed.
You’re a fucking rodent, and I’m gonna treat you like one. On Saturday night I’m gonna trap you in a cage, and on Sunday I’m gonna put you in the fucking ground.
Time of death? 11:59:59.
Less than a second before it’s time for the mourning to begin.