Bro, only handicap I’mma give you at Refueled is a limp, and that’s for real. If you think it’s a fuckin’ handicap to walk into the cage without a lead pipe in your hands, that don’t make you “one a the toughest dudes in HOW”, that makes you a punk ass bitch who can’t win a fight with his own two hands. Imagine thinking it’s not soft as fuck to bring a knife to a fistfight, you little ass manbaby.
You’re fuckin’ angel soft, my dude. Ain’t gonna be an ounce of butthurt on me after I wipe my whole ass with you on Saturday night, fuckin’ Scott Tissue. Fuckin’ nine-ply little Hardcore Charmin. No wonder you been taking nothing but shit for a decade, bro, it’s what you’re fuckin’ made for. Talking about murdering me in a cage but call me PETA, cause I will straight up euthanize a pussy and call it an act of kindness.
You made me, bro? You made me? Call you an identity thief, cause you taking a lot of credit that sure as fuck don’t belong to you. You didn’t make me, my dude– you tried to break me and you fuckin’ failed. I didn’t stay down. I had a legit ass tag run with Danooch (RIP bro). I spent ten years getting better, I stepped up to this plate to fight you, and what happens? The G-Train is still a big fuckin’ joke to you. The monster you “created” and all you can think about is hair gel and cum jokes, till you start to smell trouble, and now you’re gonna pretend like you take me serious. How fuckin’ dare you, bro. How dare you cry about how ain’t nobody respect you, and then lay that disrespect on me like I won’t knock your fuckin’ teeth out when it’s time to back that shit up.
And I ain’t joking about that DUI either, SON.
I was calling you a BITCH. A soft little first world problem having piss ant who ain’t never had to struggle a day in his life, playing dress up like he’s a real ass G. Talkin’ about how you had a hard life cause people make fun of you? Bitch, you got problems like a thirteen year old girl on Instagram. But keep telling me you’re tough like I ain’t been doing my homework for ten years, and then come clean my erasers after class, you fuckin’ punk.
I know what the fuck you did in HOW, my dude.
I just don’t care.
Yous a fuckin’ bully crying about bullying, and all your weak ass trash talk sounds like you’re complaining to HR, bro. Go talk to Sutler if you got a grievance, cause the G-Train ain’t here to pat you on the head and tell you everything’s gonna be okay. You called me a fuckin’ cum dumpster, but now you wanna grab the tissues and talk about how hard you had it because you had to take a big L to Gino Giordano in fuckin’ 2012. I must be sexy and I know it, cause right now you got me LMFAO.
Go fuck yourself, bro.
Just cause you ain’t never had a real friend don’t mean I’m just a puppet for my bro when I call you a punk ass bitch. Just cause I keep my tan on point don’t mean I can’t end a man’s career on Saturday night. Just cause I used to hold a mic for dude’s like Shocker and Static don’t mean that’s who I am today– I’m a hard hitting motherfucker who STILL has the sweetest abs in the biz, but now I got a hell of a fuckin’ right hook, too. You been so busy worrying about the past that you ain’t been living in the present, Scottywood, and I am your clear and present danger. You keep chasin’ ghosts, but I’m the monster under your fuckin’ bed right NOW. You ain’t fighting no interviewer, my dude, and you ain’t fighting no embarrassment neither.
Go jerk off about the Rangers on a depression fueled bender, you bland as fuck store brand macaroni and cheese eating homophobe. You whack ass albino Megamind looking dickhead. You piece of shit alcoholic part-timer thinkin’ I’m about to help you “save HOW”. Ain’t no Jesus here, only Gino, and I ain’t your savior, bro. You need a save, go play some fuckin’ hockey.
Ain’t no redemption in that cage.
And that shit’s for REAL.