Yes, no, yes?
I really don’t know what you expected out of this Michael. Maybe you thought everything was going to be all hunky fucking dory….but then again you were always quite the perfectionist, right? It’s the same old classic Mike Best tale and quite frankly it’s getting really fucking sick and tiring! Always the perfectionist like some guy stuck in the 80’s who had to get the fucking gel in his god damn mullet right! You want to know the problem with perfectionists Mike?
They try TOO hard! But they ALWAYS fuck up. Eventually, they ALL do! I can’t even fucking count the number of times you’ve even fucked up. But ever since you won that god damn HOW World Championship, your “Murder, She Wrote” super saiyan keyboard smash mouth comes out like a wolf’s full moon monthly period spectacle. In this case, Mike, once again….you’re the wolf in this scenario and it shows. All the other days of the week? Well, you’re just Mike. But lets call this wolf Mike Polowy. The man who has to hide behind the words because he can no longer think of an original thought. Oh wait, that’s me.
Maybe I should be the one to make the excuse this time. Everyone seems to have forgotten about my severe head injury I took in the latter part of 2015. Funny…after that I ended up going on one of my most dominant runs in my entire fucking career! Apparently head injuries CHANGE people for the better and Mikey boy, you’ve clearly advertised that ten fucking fold you attention craved piece of human shit!
I used to be intimidated by the mere mention of Michael Lee Best. Here lately though? It just makes me think of if boss baby had cast Shia Labeouf sniffing out ever ounce of bad cocaine from an every STD gas station toilet seat lid! The size of your fucking ego can’t cash that check anymore because your ego had to be stroked by daddy Best every time you threw a fucking temper tantrum. I mean, Jesus Fucking H tap Dancing motherfucking Christ man, you’re temper tantrums make Professor Keller and Brad Jackson look like fucking saints! Are you trying to revive project ego here, or what?!
Michael, if its pain you want to give me, then I fucking welcome it. I fucking crave it like a god damn shovel to the fucking head. Injure me. Break me. I want you to dish out the worst kind of pain that you can…because it will only fuel me. It will prove to me just how fucking angry inside you are. You’re lonely…and I can fucking smell it a mile fucking away as if Steve Harrison’s miracle water had a fucking scent! There’s blood in this water and that’s all that you’re going to get from me!
No more gay jokes…because you can’t take those very well, it seems. No…I only anger you with my unique intellect because you can’t handle a Brian Hollywood who has literally nothing to lose here. I’ve been injured to the brink before, yet it’s only made me stronger. I didn’t used to be able to take that kind of punishment before. But the punishment that is looming inside you is the result of a god complex that you can’t amount to the level that your fucking one eyed fuck of a father has. The man MADE you…but deep down…you will ALWAYS be Mike Polowy.
You consistently mentioned that like a bad fucking hooker who can’t even give a fucking blowjob for a good price. Mike Polowy the man who just changed his name to Best for a pity check. Break down all the gimmicks and the money and all that’s left is Polowy. A man who is clearly scared he’s going to fucking die at the hands of the unkillable Minister. You know you’re going to fucking die so you want some solace. I’m supposed to be that solace but the problem is I will be a fucking solace from a Steven King horror story gone fucking Tarentino.
You want a pissed off, focused Brian Hollywood? You’ve got it. But I fucking swear to you, Mike, I won’t be a fucking warm up. I’m just going to be the swan song before the curtain finally wraps on your career…for good…and that fucking terrifies you.
So swing at me, Polowy, cause I’m going to use that fear against you!
Here’s five words, you fuck!