Oh, looky, you went for the funeral background for your final edition of ‘say a bunch of words without saying anything at all’. A solid choice, to be sure. Some would choose ‘ranting preacher on the L Train’, or ‘hot dog vendor at Wrigley Field’, or maybe even ‘fire whip performer at the Renaissance Festival. All work just as well. Just drop the backdrop down behind you while you talk gibberish for about five minutes or so, then make the residents of your little set uncomfortable while you make gay jokes and old man references, and voila, you have your standard everyday Sutler Reynolds-Kael promo.
You’re like a living ‘choose your own adventure’ book, aren’t you? Never know quite what you’re gonna get when you speak, but you know it’s gonna be convoluted and poorly developed with the sort of cheap knock-knock jokes and references that would amuse, not people, but perhaps a mute deaf pigeon, or some meandering gnat looking for a tasty pile of shit to land on.
Look I’m sure this constant routine you keep going back to works great when you’re working your other job warming up audiences for sit-com tapings. It hits all the beats, all the little rhythms you wanna get into to get everyone ready for when the real shit comes down. And is Mike Best really the innovator of the “Mike Best Blog Style”? I’m glad you let me know, because when dozens of people were shit-talking each other in the exact same style twenty years ago, nobody told us, or someone would have insisted he get proper credit I’m sure. He may be really fucking good at it, but invent it? Nah.
Talking shit is a dying art, it’s true, and I can see why you’d lash out at me over it given your obvious inability to produce anything more than garden variety pee-pee jokes. It’s okay though. You’re still a kid. There’s plenty of time. If they can make penicillin out of moldy bread, then they can certainly make something out of you. So I won’t argue with you any further on the subject, as you sit there grasping at straws and flinging your shit against the wall hoping something sticks, all the way down to the desperate way you whimper, like a little girl running after her mother, begging to be picked up, and she tugs on her skirts, holding her back as she tries to hurry off — all tears, fawning up at her, until she takes her in her arms. That’s how you look to me Sutler, with your cloying need to be something you aren’t way before your time. Experience isn’t everything, kid, but it certainly is something. You’re out of your depth, and you’ll be learning the first of many lessons to come before you can claim to be one-tenth as successful as I’ve been, your nakedly embarrassing insults to the contrary.
Insult is not facts. You should stop using it to support your argument or statement.
But what is a fact, you moronic lump of blubbering, quaking, pathetic rotten spaghetti squash, and what you cannot change, no matter what stupid shit you say or what stupid place you say it, to whatever motley cast of random stock Hollywood extras you can round up that day, is that everything I’ve done in just a year and change, far exceed everything you’ve done by a gap so big, it would make David Letterman’s front teeth jealous.
The threshold of insult is in direct relation to intelligence and security, so I’m afraid, my poor idiotic, insecure rookie, that while your insults are intended to anger me, I can’t truly be angry at them, because you don’t have the first fucking clue what you’re talking about. But, you already know that don’t you? In order for you to insult me, I would first have to value your opinion. And I’m sorry, but until you have the wherewithal and cachet to match the name you carry, you’ll just have to be the most recent example of shit head boob posing as something more substantial.
So, I’ll leave you with this, Sutler.
If you survive our encounter this weekend, do yourself and whatever your future is a favor and try to be more than this sniveling weaselly Scott Evil amalgamation of Shane Reynolds and Max Kael.
Anyone can do what you’re doing right now. You’re living proof of it.