Honestly, I don’t give a fuck about giving you the last word.
I’m gonna wrap this up tonight, because I have shit to do on Thursdays– I know you’ve been rubbing your thunder thighs together, praying for a spark, but even my uninspired, bullshit, coasting promos are smacking you around like you burned the roast, so I’m just gonna make like the creepy uncle who told you not to tell your Mom when you were twelve and finish you off right here and now.
C’mon, Clay, you never had a secret before?
I will stuff your fucking head in a mailbox and smash it with a baseball bat if I want to. You think this is anything but a game to me? I could walk away from HOW right now with the greatest record of all time, as the most decorated wrestler of all time, and forget your fucking name by Friday. You don’t matter.
None of you matter.
This is my division, you don’t get to tell me what makes it successful. This is Lee Best’s company, you whiny cunts don’t get to tell him how to do business. You think either of us gives a single squirt of piss about you, Clay? About any of you? Do you think you’ve made an impact? HOW was the top of the heap back when your shitty dead big Hoss dad was still making you bench press hay bales, you walking cliche— it’ll be here long after you’ve fucked off to some shitty Indy where they’ll make you the World Champion in two weeks and put you in the Hall of Fame for a half a meatball sub.
Ninety seven red or die.
This “kindler, gentler” HOW is fucking soft, and it’s time someone brought us back to the glory days. Wellness checks and handjobs all around cause someone said mean words. Every single one of you can fuck back off to your bingo halls and take your fragile egos with you. Especially you, Clay. Boy you turned out to be the most sensitive little snowflake in the whole storm, didn’t you? So fucking sensitive. So defensive. So angry. I was gonna book you against Dan Ryan on July 10th, I’m so glad we found out what a soft piece of shit you were before then. You know what Lee said when I gave him the booking?
“Let’s see if he’s still here after this week.”
Because you’re fragile. Like a carton of eggs in a break room at the fucking World Trade Center. Like a newborn in a mosh pit. Like Lindsay Troy facing a second loss to JPD. FRAGILE. I’ll stuff you back into your return envelope and mail you back to the indies in a thousand pieces, you makeshift idea of what a New Englander thinks a cowboy is.
Fucking ten ply toilet paper, too soft to handle a little bit of shit. Little punch fuck one trick pony whose claim to fame is ALMOST surviving me. Little thin skinned man bitch crying on Discord because Johnson and Johnson dropped his sponsorship. You human yeast infection, shut the fuck up and bake me a loaf of bread before I punt that cunt all the way back to the Zeb Martin School For Being An Unintelligible Fucking Marble Mouth. I’m so sick of you trying to dictate what I’m supposed to say or do to impress you– literally who the fuck are you, even? I asked that question in the DeNucci Cup and I still haven’t gotten a real answer. You are Texas fucking Toast, Clay– you’re burned out, your schtick is overdone, and I”m gonna use you to carb load for the next soft dicked challenger who asks me if we’re playing with Butthurt rules and then starts crying about how my best friend tells me when people talk shit behind my back.
I’m done with this one, bring me another.
Bring me the next guy who’s gonna cut the same five promos and swear they’re the guy I should be afraid of. We know all the words to that song, Clay, sing us another. Here’s a little ditty I just made up: I’ll dent in the side of your fucking skull and eat Fruit Loops out of your cranium while the EMTs are checking for a pulse. Now go ahead and smash together literally any ten words that you haven’t already said before and post them, Clay.
We’re done here.