I’m sorry, Mike. Thank you so much for 747 words of, basically, “Is that the best you can do?” Well, I’m not so certain that it landed as well as you think it did.
Am I on some sort of hallucinogen or did I miss the hardcore trash talk wizardry in your first piece? All I saw was playful jabs and the verbal equivalent of patty cake to start things off. So I give you some jabs back and I get “is that the best you can do?”
But why do you ask questions you already know the answer to?
Someone once told me, “I like to randomly make up the rules as I go and accuse you of breaking them. You can make people defensive as fuck, and it’s wonderful.”
I’m sure you recognize that, right? One of our many little talks. And that’s what you’re doing right now. You follow your template, wait for a reaction, then fire back with “OMG YOU TOTALLY REACTED TO WHAT I DID, YOU SIMP,” and everyone fawns over it like you just invented the written word.
Yup. Never beat you. Yup. Well, no one has ever beaten anyone until they do.
And yes, I did say I’m proud of you, and since you’ve been waiting for the other shoe to drop, let me drop a pile of loafers at your feet.
I’m proud of you for what you’ve become.
No one acts the way you have, makes the choices you have, treats people the way you have, and then just slips into happy kumbayah family time.
It’s another chapter in a long, sad story. Always seeking validation through the approval of others, going to great lengths to get laid because it’s where you imported your self-esteem from. Years in your youth going from bar to club, and you came home either completely deflated or feeling like a million bucks, with nothing in between. Afraid of dying alone. Ego and control issues.
You’ve left a long trail of broken hearts and potential illegitimate children all over the country…. Maine, Texas, Carolina. How long since Carolina’s been on your mind? I know you’re not above going down there and getting yourself a little Hilton Head.
Some things change, sure. Not all, but some. Eric Dane’s still having his nightly perfectly adequate meals at Applebees, and you’re still afraid of dying alone.
But now, you meet Katy, and what, you’re doing your semi-redemption arc now finally? You have this new girl but SPOILER ALERT, what happens when she winds up being an even shittier person than you are and you can’t deal with it? What happens when she leaves you for her jujitsu instructor like Priscilla left Elvis for her karate instructor? Will that leave you all shook up?
I know it’s coming, you know it’s coming, so why this charade? Why this whimpering “I’m in love!” nonsense that makes you want to be a better man? Fucking vomit. That’s what I want to do. Fucking vomit all over my bed like a drunk on a cruise ship.
But I guess this sham relationship story could be worse. You could spend all your money on Letterkenny cameos for your emotionally available side piece instead of counseling. That scenario is just as pathetic but much more believable. Right now you’re acting out a rejected Notebook script and asking everyone to give a fuck.
And tell me about B-Rabbit one more fucking time, Mike. You’ve only used it thirty times over the last year and I guess you still need to get it out of your system, like all the cum you sprayed on that Christina Ricci-looking reject’s gigantic forehead, because you just fucking used it again. You know, in that SCATHING opening promo you cut. Why don’t you go lose yourself in a different movie for a little while, so you can run that shit into the ground, too? What an inspiring fucking relationship this is gonna be. And eventually, you’ll be like Forrest Gump when he asked Jenny “why don’t you love me, Jenn-ay?” I’m not a smart man, but I know what bullshit is.
So let’s hear the shit you’ve been saving up for me for the last year and change, PAL. Good friend. BROTHER. Hit me with it. Or don’t. I actually don’t give a fuck, because I’m not playing your games. You like to gamble, so roll the dice, trash talk titan. Let’s play.