I don’t deserve the hype?
Fuck man, that’s a good laugh. I needed that.
I’m not sure what it is I need to do to impress all 5’11” of Generic Spooky Religious Gimmick #7, but your promo came up shorter than the stats on your driver’s license, bud. You’ve been noticing some patterns, huh? People talking shit in their promos, week after week?
IT’S A FUCKING TRASH TALK TOURNAMENT, DILDO.
I guess it’s hard for a guy who was breastfed until he was twelve to follow the formula, so let me break it down for you– three trash talk promos, and then a cage match. Rinse and repeat, until Michael Lee Best is the (STILL) undefeated HOW HOFC Champion. It doesn’t take a genius to know that I’m probably gonna talk shit three times, and then knee you to death in a cage. That is LITERALLY WHAT THIS IS. Fuck, I hope your ring work is better than you detective work, because I texted Angela Lansbury about how I was gonna do against the Spooky Voodoo Pervert this week, and “Murder”, she wrote.
Fucking Xanadu Zoolander, simping to the gods.
Just hanging a lampshade on all the obvious ways to make fun of you doesn’t make them less valid, PlaySkool Cthulu. You wasted 750 words of my life telling me I’m a lame hypocrite, because it was easier than coming up with a single fucking reason you think you can beat me. You can’t, and you won’t, so I’m not wasting a serious face promo on you when I could just dunk on what a stupid fucking goofball you are. Sorry you’re feeling salty, but I’ll put that sweet taste back in your mouth, sweetheart.
The Son of God eats a lot of pineapple.
“I’m not gonna repeat your history to you”, he condescends, before literally repeating my fucking history to me because 750 words against the champ is fucking difficult. Maybe you should stop living in the past and pay attention to the present, because I am God’s gift and this match is a fucking wrap. Put a fucking bow on your career, because you have lost the plot, my dude.
JOKES ABOUT GIFT GIVING.
Just admit that it’s hard to do, Xander. Admit that it’s grasping at straws to find a SINGLE THING to talk shit about, to a man who literally just can’t be beaten. At least I can respect that. At least I can WORK with that. But no, you gotta sit in your little pentagram and cut the same fucking promo anbody else cuts, while talking about how you’re not just “anybody”. You’re right, Xander.
You’re not just anybody.
You’re another fucking nobody.
That’s why you had nothing to say about you, Xander. No hype for yourself. No insight as to why, or how, or if you’re going to beat me. You talked about everyone else in the world, Spooky Spice. You talked about Kostoff, and Conor, and Clay, and Jiles, but I’m not fighting Jiles in a cage this week.
I’m fighting the final outsider.
The guy who spent three rounds talking about how he was gonna be the last outsider standing, but now says I shouldn’t talk about that because it’s hokey. The guy who said it would be hokey to use “the playbook” on him, and then cut the same generic promo that everybody has cut since Scott Stevens first did it a year ago. You aren’t walking off the beaten path, you’re taking the road most travelled, and it’s gonna be a cold fucking winter for you, Robert Frost.
Just admit it, dude. You’re lost.
You fell apart under pressure, and that’s okay. You talked decent shit and smashed decent faces on your way to the altar of the Son of God, homie, but now that it’s time for the blood sacrifice, you’re proving that you might be a little agnostic. Maybe you don’t believe your own bullshit. Maybe you know there’s no goddess in that cage to save you, because you might be a faithbreaker but I am a fucking career killer. I don’t have a play book this week, Xander, I have a PHONEBOOK– I’ve got your number, and I’m gonna tear you in half like it’s a parlor trick.
You’ve been bragging on repeat about going 3-0– call it a broken record.
I’m about to make it 3-1.
Call me a record breaker.