Where you at, Warstein?
Where’s that big dick swingin’ motherfucker who lives for runnin’ his mouth and stirs more pots than a sous chef on Iron Chef America? Because whoever was sittin’ on that couch the other day, spewin’ some tired ass tripe about my name while gettin’ cute with bubbles like a toddler at daycare sure ain’t the Shawn Warstein I’ve heard about.
”Oh…but you *have* heard of me…” you’ll say, like a dickhead, while thinkin’ HAAAAA….GOT ‘EM! But you’re too stupid to realize that Johnny Dorn doesn’t need to big time you, because I *am* the big time.
I’m the Crown Jewel of Clark Street, bro. The city’s best kept secret. No, it’s not Acadia or The Hyde; it’s ya boy JD. They couldn’t put me in TimeOut Mag because I’m the one that sends motherfuckers there, and my name’s about to be up in lights so bright that you’re gonna see ‘em from space.
You shoulda heard Lee Best on the phone after he read over my resume – I had it done up in Braille so he could read it, y’know, because Johnny Dorn’s not a fuckin’ dummy. Old man was giddy. Another Northsider? Couldn’t sign me fast enough. And he coulda fuckin’ adopted me right then and there and made me his new son. RIP to a real one, Max Kael, though. But Warstein, you think he gives two shits about YOU? Mister Southsider? NAH BRO, HE DOES NOT.
There’s money in a Chicago Boys fight, and Lee Best knows it. It’s just not the Chicago Boys fight you were hopin’ for. I know that makes you a real pouty boy, but Lee’s doin’ you a favor, pittin’ you against me on Refueled 48, so you should count your blessings. You’ll get to bounce out in the first round, a little ashamed, your ego bruised, but without a tag on your toe. You’ll still get to hit up Smart Bar or the Green Mill after the show to drown your sorrows. And sure, Warstein versus Mike Best could have been a marquee match, but after that clownery you rolled up into the DeNucci Cup with, it’s better you’re put out of your misery now before we’re subjected to any more of it comin’ out of your mouth.
How embarrassing for you. You’re about to get dickstomped by a rookie.
This rookie doesn’t care where you’re from, Shawn. Southside, Westside, Wisconsin, Canada, Florida, Texas, anywhere and everywhere inbetween; it doesn’t change my gameplan any. And this rookie ain’t gonna accept any bullshit that you might spin to your bros after you head back to your big time companies with your big time contracts and your big time titles. There ain’t gonna be any, ”This was a fun time but I got more important things to worry about” or ”I needed to give the rook a rub, I did my civic duty.” Nah, bro, the whole world’s gonna know that Shawn Warstein may have showed UP to the DeNucci Cup but he didn’t show OUT. Mister Big Man puttin’ in a half-ass effort…fuck outta here with that bullshit.
My people … my bretheren … are gonna be gathered in living rooms and on the rooftops along Sheffield and Waveland in two days’ time – the freezing ass cold don’t bother Chicagoans…we grill in subzero weather, we don’t give a shit – and they’re gonna be shoutin’ MY name and singin’ MY praises.
So come Saturday Night, you’d better fuckin’ bring it. I’d better not walk into the Best Arena with my boys and a cooler full of Bangs and Vodka in tow, and find some sad sack motherfucker standin’ across the ring from me. I didn’t bleed half to death in a deathmatch battle royal in Bumblefuck Canada and survive an encounter on Black Friday with a man who may be a literal bridge troll to not get a fuckin’ fight out of you.
Those assholes made me bleed my own blood and I gave all of ‘em the fights of their life.
You popped some bubbles on HOTv, you pussyass cunt rag.
But y’know what? On second thought? Maybe I will send you back to the Hinterlands in a fuckin’ body bag on my way to the second round.
I’ll even get my cousin Greg at the Trib to write your obituary.