So where does that leave us now, Harrison?
You got some scalding hot take to hit me with as we head toward our final hours together? I figured I might as well give you some time to formulate a response, but the more I think about it, I can’t think of anything at all that you could say at this point that would be the slightest bit of interest to me. You’re not suddenly gonna be a better wrestler than me. You’re certainly not gonna suddenly become a better fighter than me. Maybe you’ll sprout wings and develop an air game. That might be fun. Or hey, just jump on the mic when you get to the octagon and challenge me to a dumb-off. I’m certain you could win that. All you’d have to do really is stand there and be you, and I’d tap out of that competition immediately. I assure you, everyone’s middle finger gets a boner every time you show your dim dopey face.
I want to be fair. I know this is hard on you. You came into this full of hope, full of fight and moxy, but now you’re sitting there with your pants down at your ankles, full-on Porky Piggin’ it on your ugly sofa and whacking off to YouTube videos of your ‘famous’ undefeated streak. You know you’re about to die, and yet you can’t let that show in your face, your dumb, bloated, incomprehensibly blank face, because you have to be a man. You gotta be tough. You gotta stand tall. But no one’s buying it. You’re not a badass. Believe me, you better take care of your eyes, because they’re the only balls you have. Here’s to another day of outward smiles and inward screams, eh Harrison?
You need everyone to believe that this time, it’s gonna be different. Oh, who cares that I was knocking people the fuck out and sending them home long before this tournament started. Who cares if everything about me screams in your head that your life is in danger. Yes, who cares about any of that, because you’re Steve Fuckin’ ‘Don’t Bring Up Milk’ Harrison. You’re gonna be the one. You’re gonna be the guy that gets in that octagon and chops the big bad murder daddy down to size. You, Steven Harrison. There’s not a fucking soul who believes that’s gonna happen, not me, not you, not your poor mother, who has to pretend that she loves you, not anyone anywhere.
The volume of the knowledge which you do not possess makes the Atlantic Ocean look like an above-ground kiddie pool. I don’t have the time or the crayons to explain it to you in a way you would understand, so I guess I’ll just have to settle for bitch slapping you over and over, until your face turns to mulch, or you slap those calloused hands on the mat and tap out. I hope you’re not allergic to nuts, ‘cause I’m gonna kick yours up into your throat. And kindly go off and shut the fuck up already. Don’t fuckin’ bark if you can’t fuckin’ bite. You mad? Good. Stay mad, because I don’t give a fuck.
I can’t bear fools. Apparently, your mother could. But I don’t have the patience that it would take to listen every day to the drooling, feeble-minded, thick-skulled mutterings that roll out of your mouth. If only you’d just shut up more, you might almost be tolerable. I hope you die in a fire. Honestly. I truly hope that something happens where you find yourself engulfed by flames, and you actually die in a fire. May your headphones snag on every door handle. May your pinky toe find your coffee table with regularity. May your chair produce a sound similar to a fart, but only once, such that you cannot reproduce it to prove that it was just the chair.
If I ever have the unfortunate ‘honor’ of having to speak to you again, it will be far too soon. Sometimes, Steve, you just meet someone, and you instantly realize you wanna spend your whole life without them. Please, by all means, spare me the pleasure of your company. We’re talking ourselves in circles and it’s clear that someone like me should never be forced to be around someone like you.
And buddy, it’s best you just leave the sarcasm and insults to the pros. You’re gonna hurt yourself. Go play in traffic.