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Oh look, another big dumb Texan.
I know that everything is bigger in Texas, but I didn’t realize that applied to the bulk discounts– I swear to God, Lee Best keeps a stockpile of you generic farmboy motherfuckers in the woodshed just to replace the ones that I break. Cool fucking accent, you dumb fuck– SURE AS A WORD IS SOUTHERN IF’N YA ADD A BUNCHA APOSTROPHES, I’M GON’ CAVE IN YER FUCKIN’ SKULL. Okay, Larry the Cable Access Guy. Okay, George W. Busch-League. Okay, Dorks Bentley. I guess send me another BIG HOSS to send up to that big Dude Ranch in the sky– this ain’t my first rodeo, and I’ll make sure you don’t stay in HOW for the full nine seconds, pardner.
You fucking Mad Lib cowboy.
Seriously, let’s play guess the wrestler: This big dumb redneck played college football, but didn’t make it to the NFL because of an injury. His father, an OLD SCHOOL SHOOTER HOSS, trained him in a barn. Did you guess literally any wrestler from Texas but Dan Ryan? Great, you fucking win. You are twelve gallons of generic in a ten gallon hat, Clay Byrd, and I’ve got a knee that strikes big and bright– CLAP CLAP CLAP CLAP, deep in the heart of Texans.
What a stupid fucking name.
Your Mama yelled “PULL” and your dumbfuck BIG SHOOTER HOSS DADDY didn’t hear her say “OUT”, so they gave you a name that means I get to shoot some BIG TEXAS SKEET on a big dumb Clay pigeon come Saturday night. When you see my knee cumming like a facial at a San Antonio day spa, call me Lil’ Jon, cause you’re gonna Get Low when I stick it to you one more time.
OH SKEET SKEET, MOTHERFUCKER.
OH SKEET SKEET, GOD DAMN, GOD DAMN.
Seriously, Clay– you might be kiln it out there the last two rounds, but those eyes are gonna glaze right over when I mold your skull into a fucking ashtray and watch you Ghost like Patrick Swayze on a Potter’s wheel. Stupid motherfucker can’t even spell “Bird” right– maybe there’s a “WHY” in there because even your family tree is in a constant state of existential crisis. The early Byrd might get the worm where you come from, Clay, but you try to rise before the Son in HOW, and you’re gonna end up with your fucking wings clipped.
POTTERY JOKES.
BIRD JOKES.
Everything you’re about to say about me, DITTO.
LITERALLY JOKES ABOUT THE MOVIE GHOST.
Go ahead and say some country ass shit about punching me in the face. Tell me I don’t know what it’s like to get into an octagon with you, since that’s the only shit you seem to know how to say to anybody.
Explain to me how to ride a horse or something.
Fucking Yee Haw, Clay Byrd.
Fucking knockoff Mark O’Neal. Fucking K-Mart Zeb Martin. Fucking discount Scott Stevens, if you use the code “UNORIGINAL” at checkout. Instead of dropping a “G” off the end of every fucking word you say, how about you drop a cool thousand on a backstory that isn’t the intellectual property of Garth Brooks? Do you chew Skoal, too, you unoriginal fuck? I check out your promos the same way I check out all the white hoodies in the closet of your trailer– I’m just looking for the point.
That’s three K’s, bud. You’re striking out.
And you got a real curveball coming this week.
You’ve had an impressive run so far, but it’s about to become a hobble for you REAL quick. This isn’t your victory lap, Clay, it’s my fucking coronation. The crown of my knee lies heavy on the head, and it’s the jewel of HOW. You aren’t knocking me off the throne. You aren’t overthrowing the king. The Son of God is your fucking Lord, and fighting back is Feudal– declare your fealty and bend your knee, before I lose patience and decide to bend mine. I have performed three fucking offensive manuevers in this tournament. Three. Spoiler alert, since you’ve probably been too busy SHOPPIN’ FER TRUCK NUTZ to watch my matches– I HAVE KNEEDED THREE HEROES.
Knee, knee, KO. Knee, KO.
It’s like morse code for concussion protocol, so unless you want to get knocked the fuck out, I suggest that you learn how to tap out “SEND HELP”.
Or maybe just how to tap out.