Well, I guess it’s time for you and me to get acquainted, John.
And hey, I know you’re from the Northside, but this is where things start to go South.
See I’m a man who likes the simple things in life. I like competition. I like violence. So if I don’t fuck around on the outskirts of the point too much today, you’ll have to forgive me. I’m not in the fuckin’ mood to be charitable.
Why are you what you are?
Every time I run into another of you newbie fucks it’s the same old shit. One boring-ass note that you hammer into the ground like you’re laying tracks for the Continental Railroad. You are so one-dimensional and generic that you make Pauly Shore movies look deep.
Heaven forbid you don’t consult your handy dandy big list of Chicago places, things, and people so you can fit at least one or two in every other sentence. Don’t forget to mention your favorite bar, or you might get your tab called the next time you walk in. Make sure you mention at least five or six street names and four or five local sports figures. If you don’t, I might accidentally forget that you’re from Northside Chicago, and start to think you’re from who gives a fuck, Iowa or somethin’.
Fuckin’ Northside Chicago.
You know who gives a fuck about you being from Northside Chicago? Exactly fuckin’ no one worth talking about, ever. You think I give a damn? You think it matters to me where in the world you’re from, BRO? I’ll cave your fuckin’ skull in no matter where you’re from. Take it easy on that fuckin’ Chicago bullshit, you fuckin’ walking billboard of a Northside whore. You’re not dealing with one of these outsider fucks who don’t know their ass from a hot dog stand anymore. This isn’t that ‘maybe I’ll see how I can do in HOW’ bullshit that your first two opponents were full of.
I’m a goddamn killer.
I’m not here to entertain your nonsense, and I have no interest whatsoever in putting up with your stupid little phrases and references this week. The truth is, you aren’t that much different than those weak ass fucks. They didn’t think this shit through and it’s clear to me that you haven’t given this much thought either.
You waltz in here from Cheap Pops like I’m supposed to know what the fuck that is. What’s that, the brand of home popped popcorn you endorse? You got a commercial deal out of that shit or somethin’?
Cheap fuckin’ Pops. Hey, maybe that place is perfect for a guy like you. Maybe you do well over there, I don’t know. But over here, I hurt people, so get your poker face on fast, you illiterate, pompous scumbag dickhead fuck. I wouldn’t piss on your gums if your teeth were one fire, but I’ll knock those bitches back down your throat with glee, and dance on your fuckin’ corpse. Maybe I don’t remember what you did to Warstein and Desean, you’ll say. Maybe I don’t give a fuck. Maybe I don’t remember the last time I blew my nose, either.
You’re so full of shit, you might as well be a toilet. And that’d be perfect, wouldn’t it? Because I’ve taken wet greasy shits that were more creative than you. A more vain and absurd animal than you was obviously never allowed to travel the Earth. You had no right to be here, no right to be born because you make no use of life. You caricature driven imbecile. You slovenly Axe body spray wearing affront to good taste and dignity. You slap-headed dimwitted cumrag. Your inability to be nothing more than a common Chicago chamber of commerce pamphlet is offensive. Your wit never ceases to underwhelm me, and your face is just fucking screaming for me to stomp it into a reddish mush on the floor of the octagon. You’re not man enough to do what it takes to beat me, so I’m gonna kick your fucking uterus out, you fucking cunt.
Do me a favor and dig deep to say something I’ll actually fucking care about, Dorn. Try not to fumble over your own ass when you guzzle the handful of valium you need to calm down after hearing this. But no matter what you do, know this. I’m ending the Johnny Dorn experiment this week. Your happy go fun time moment is over.