Oh look, everyone! Scott Stevens did an interview! Another fucking interview! Another interview where he postures and preens before people who aren’t in War Games to make himself seem like a legitimate threat.
But you know what I love about this particular interview? I love that the interviewer couldn’t give two shits about Scott Stevens himself and wanted to talk about literally EVERY OTHER FUCKING PERSON in the match.
Think about that, Scott.
The interviewer couldn’t get the big stars of HOW and had to settle for you. And in settling for you, he did everything to avoid talking about you. You’re so fucking low on the totem pole that worms and maggots look down on you.
Also, how desperate do you think he must’ve been for content if he’s asking you of all people for your thoughts on War Games. That’s like asking a single-called organism for their opinion on humans.
It must’ve been a fucking strain on the interviewer to sit there and listen to the drivel flow from your fucking mouth. If your thoughts were ever actually worth anything, you’d actually have a better win-loss percentage. But you don’t, because your analysis of the other competitors is like asking a child to provide a five minute speech on the merits of Whitman over Emerson.
You’re a fucking microbrain attempting to masquerade as a compitent human being. There’s more sparks of life in Jace’s dirty bed sheets than there is between your fucking ears.
But… fuck me?
Fuck you, Scott Stevens. Fuck you for wasting a spot on this roster. Fuck you for wasting Lee Best’s money. Fuck you and your lack of credibility. Fuck you for your ability to waste mounds of potential.
Evan Ward may be a douchebag but I would take a company full of him than a single one of you. Because he wins. He can back up what he says.
You fail upwards, getting opportunities, spots, and championship shots by default.
In a company of 20 pro wrestlers, you’re the 30th most talented person. I’ve met backstage hands that are better at their job than you are. If they had a track record like you do, on a weekly basis our ring would fall apart, our lighting rigs would fall, or our cameras would black out on a weekly basis.
You’re not respected… by anyone.
Oh sure, people may hate me, but they respect what I can do inside War Games.
You don’t have that.
You’ll never that.
Not for War Games.
Not for any other match type.
Not ever in wrestling.
You’re bankrupt of credibility. You’re void of charisma. You are the disappointment of your family. You are their great shame. The only reason your parents stuck together is because neither wanted custody of you. They would rather live out their lives in a loveless marriage than have to put up with you on their own.
Do me a favor and just give up now. Quit your team. Quit War Games. I’d ask you to find a suitable replacement for yourself on your team but your team doesn’t need more dead weight.
Instead, go out.
Find a dog wandering the streets. Find a fucking raccoon inhabiting one of the garbage bins you used to frequent. Hell, you could even pull a random book off a shelf in the nearest library. All have a better chance of winning War Games than you do.
In closing… get fucked.