(FADE-into nothin' `cause Jared Wells ain't worth it.)
JTP: "So I verbally rape you... and all you've got to say is that Ol' Joe's a wannabee rapper? C'mon, ya stupid fuck, make some fuckin' sense! Say somethin' that'll piss me off and get my riled! I've been toilin' in the shit for ten odd years, unclogging toilets, fuckin' housewives in the ass... and you're gonna try and hurt my feelings by sayin' that I don't know whether I'm holdin' a plunger or a microphone?
"Well, Ol' Joe knows what you're holdin' - in one hand’s your own cock, and in the other is Daddy's Daddy’s… Talkin' `bout Ol' Mister Wells with his skidmarked skivvies and the ED affected cawk... drippin' like a facet... You two fuckin' incestual queers stand there in the dank basement of your childhood home, and "dock."
"You fuckin' disgust me. But I guess your fag excursions afford Ol' Joe the time and privacy needed to fuck Momma Wells haaard and looong. And looong. Y'know what long is, Wells? It ain't the three-incher contained in your Patrick Swayze-in-Roadhouse jeans. Nor is it the duration of your first-timer spastic convulsion atop two sandwiched pillows.
"You fuckin' goof. You wouldn't last two minutes in my world. I'm a real man. I go to work each and every day, return home smellin' of upper-middle class excrement, grab any one of the countless title belts I presently hold, head to the arena, and whoop someone's ass! You, on the other hand, sit around fantasizing that anyone, anywhere, gives a damn about Jared Wells facing the Greasy Goblin.
"Frig, do you really think anyone knows who you are? Heh. Ol' Joe asked around - the answer's a self-esteem-crushing NO. And Ol' Joe should have an account at the sperm bank - diseased bitches can stroll in off the street, bowlegged as fuck, straddle a beaker, and drip some'a that Filth Fiend seed in d'ere! That rancid fluid of fertilization would sell like crack - and you'd have no choice but to peel that ridiculous, skin-tight, black tee off'a your back, let all that leftover steroidal flab hang loose like a past-`er-prime Vegas hooker releasing her gunt from her girdle, and hand it over to the Gristly fuckin' Beast! The TRUE Daddy!
"But don't worry, I wouldn’t dare bite your trite, cliched, borrowed-from-90s-mid-card-heels shtick. You and Cameron Cruise - who is my lapdog bitch in NFW, by the way (seriously, every single time we meet he offers to tongue my cornhole; I guess he feels he owes me for appearing in a fuckin' two-minute promo with him to big-brother defend him from the likes of Brock fuckin' Alyas) - you two dumb fucks... heh... can spout your corny catchphrases, while mutually masturbating in the candle lit ambiance of your broom closet AKA "dressing room", all stankin' of enhancement talent jiz and "hers and mine" lube.
"Your 'Anthology' is nothin' more than a bunch of rejects whose CVs Eddie Mayfield wouldn't so much as glance at. Look at the aforementioned Cruise, for fuck's sake - he can't win a title in NFW. He's a joke. And he's your leader, as far as I can tell. Atleast, he thinks he is! He tried to tell Ol' Joe he was the "bouse" of the ringcrew in some shitty fed that used to have a six-foot-three amazon-lookin' fishwife with a pussy stinkin' of expired goat cheese and AIDS as its champion! Now it has a slightly smaller amazon-lookin' fishwife with a pussy stinkin' of expired goat cheese and AIDS as its champion! Sean Stevens is your champion - that ought'a tell you somethin'! And the sad part is: He's a thousand times better than your pathetic cock cartel! I'd actually go to EPW - yes, wrastle amongst mediocrity - if Sean were to grow a set of balls and challenge me…
"But you, Jared? I wouldn't push the mountain of beer cans from my lap to get outta my lounge chair to fight you! I'd just sit there, let you come to me (from obscurity), and promptly smack your rosy, schoolboy cheeks with the back of my calloused man-hand!
"Y'see... it could be "Joe the Rapper" `cause I consistently rap motherfuckers upside the head with my athritic knuckles and put 'em to sleep. They wake up with a headache care of the knockout punch I give ‘em, and not a chafing cock care of the nocturnal fire-starting handjob YOU give 'em, and they know - fuckin' know - that JTP is the best in the world.
"So I'll beat you in the ring or on the mic, Wells. That's a *fact.* Now, Ol' Joe doesn't know too many *facts* on account of the *fact* that he dropped outta school in grade... well, it's higher than I can fuckin' count! So excuuuse me if I grunt like your "Master" or whatever his fuckin' name is. Ol' Joe doesn't wanna hear about your sex slave activities. "Master" ought'a fist that football-sized asshole of yours, grab a hold of your innards, and start you like a fuckin' lawnmower. Just be done with ya `cause you're used up like the trife-spewin' dick-pleaser smack dab in the middle of your face. Get the fuck outta here - you're career's over.
"Again - that's nice that you remember your first beer. Again - I don't. Quit try'na "young man" the grownup in this confrontation. I'll hold you at arm's length and chuckle as you take futile swings at my granite chin! So yeah, send a contract to the NFW office - that's the big building next to the carboard box, excuse me... next to EPW headquarters. I'll stop the secretary before she can run it through the shredder to make the gruel to feed Legion and Varga, and I'll point out that you can "wave your dick in the air."
"…A triple A battery is awfully hard to spot when you're at the TOP competing against the best, though, so I might have to pick up a magnifying glass. Or a NASA telescope. …I'd pat you on the head and tell you "good job," but that'd most likely put you in a fuckin' coma. So, instead, Ol' Joe will just say... better luck next time. Of course, we only get one dick, and you unfortunately got the "short" end of the stick... half a dick... or an enlarged clit, maybe? Is all this fussin' and bitchin' a cry for Ol' Joe's attention? Do you want your cunny rubbed? Does Miss Daisy wanna partake in some Taxi Cab Confessions with Ol' Joe as the driver? Does the slut ridin' shotgun with her head down and her legs crossed wanna be tossed in the back and fucked by a gargoyle?
"Too. Fuckin'. Bad. Faggot. Just when you think shit's cool, the audible sound of locks doin' their fuckin' job will snap your neck in such a way that the man behind the wheel will know that the time's right, that his prey's realized the reality of the situation... and shortly there after a poisonous gas will fill the compartment, and you'll choke and gag, and gag and choke… smack your hand up against the glass, beg with your dying breath for mercy... but you won't get it.
"Wrastlin' me is like suffocating beneath a shit-smellin' blanket of greatness soaked with the frightened piss of past victims. You can't explode outta that, you just can't. You just have to lay there and take it like a bitch. You're a bitch, Wells. And your church-group gang'a fuckin' knob-shimmers are bitches, too. Gossip all you want about what the wrastlin' world is sayin' `bout you versus me - it ain't the truth. It’s a figment of your imagination. Like the Sears Tower-sized cock your ass longs for. I humiliated Alyas just last week, and then gave him a shot at the title just to be nice. He smacked his head on the glass ceiling and fell to depths even he'd never before imagined. That's just what I do: I end careers, I crush dreams, I keep motherfuckers' egos in check.
"You will be no different. But again, Ol' Joe ain't gettin' out his fuckin' chair for your worthless ass. Beating you doesn't cement my legacy as the best ever. It doesn't even count as an actual win because you're a perpetual loser - secondrate like the rest of your fed. So come over sometime between 5:55 and 6 PM, so I can beat ya down with my free hand while I eat a fuckin' chicken dinner in one fuckin' bite! UGHNNNNNNNNNNNN!
"Die, faggot.
"Oh, and tell Cameron his idol wants to know somethin'...
"When's my shoe-shinin' bitch gonna be here?"
JTP: "So I verbally rape you... and all you've got to say is that Ol' Joe's a wannabee rapper? C'mon, ya stupid fuck, make some fuckin' sense! Say somethin' that'll piss me off and get my riled! I've been toilin' in the shit for ten odd years, unclogging toilets, fuckin' housewives in the ass... and you're gonna try and hurt my feelings by sayin' that I don't know whether I'm holdin' a plunger or a microphone?
"Well, Ol' Joe knows what you're holdin' - in one hand’s your own cock, and in the other is Daddy's Daddy’s… Talkin' `bout Ol' Mister Wells with his skidmarked skivvies and the ED affected cawk... drippin' like a facet... You two fuckin' incestual queers stand there in the dank basement of your childhood home, and "dock."
"You fuckin' disgust me. But I guess your fag excursions afford Ol' Joe the time and privacy needed to fuck Momma Wells haaard and looong. And looong. Y'know what long is, Wells? It ain't the three-incher contained in your Patrick Swayze-in-Roadhouse jeans. Nor is it the duration of your first-timer spastic convulsion atop two sandwiched pillows.
"You fuckin' goof. You wouldn't last two minutes in my world. I'm a real man. I go to work each and every day, return home smellin' of upper-middle class excrement, grab any one of the countless title belts I presently hold, head to the arena, and whoop someone's ass! You, on the other hand, sit around fantasizing that anyone, anywhere, gives a damn about Jared Wells facing the Greasy Goblin.
"Frig, do you really think anyone knows who you are? Heh. Ol' Joe asked around - the answer's a self-esteem-crushing NO. And Ol' Joe should have an account at the sperm bank - diseased bitches can stroll in off the street, bowlegged as fuck, straddle a beaker, and drip some'a that Filth Fiend seed in d'ere! That rancid fluid of fertilization would sell like crack - and you'd have no choice but to peel that ridiculous, skin-tight, black tee off'a your back, let all that leftover steroidal flab hang loose like a past-`er-prime Vegas hooker releasing her gunt from her girdle, and hand it over to the Gristly fuckin' Beast! The TRUE Daddy!
"But don't worry, I wouldn’t dare bite your trite, cliched, borrowed-from-90s-mid-card-heels shtick. You and Cameron Cruise - who is my lapdog bitch in NFW, by the way (seriously, every single time we meet he offers to tongue my cornhole; I guess he feels he owes me for appearing in a fuckin' two-minute promo with him to big-brother defend him from the likes of Brock fuckin' Alyas) - you two dumb fucks... heh... can spout your corny catchphrases, while mutually masturbating in the candle lit ambiance of your broom closet AKA "dressing room", all stankin' of enhancement talent jiz and "hers and mine" lube.
"Your 'Anthology' is nothin' more than a bunch of rejects whose CVs Eddie Mayfield wouldn't so much as glance at. Look at the aforementioned Cruise, for fuck's sake - he can't win a title in NFW. He's a joke. And he's your leader, as far as I can tell. Atleast, he thinks he is! He tried to tell Ol' Joe he was the "bouse" of the ringcrew in some shitty fed that used to have a six-foot-three amazon-lookin' fishwife with a pussy stinkin' of expired goat cheese and AIDS as its champion! Now it has a slightly smaller amazon-lookin' fishwife with a pussy stinkin' of expired goat cheese and AIDS as its champion! Sean Stevens is your champion - that ought'a tell you somethin'! And the sad part is: He's a thousand times better than your pathetic cock cartel! I'd actually go to EPW - yes, wrastle amongst mediocrity - if Sean were to grow a set of balls and challenge me…
"But you, Jared? I wouldn't push the mountain of beer cans from my lap to get outta my lounge chair to fight you! I'd just sit there, let you come to me (from obscurity), and promptly smack your rosy, schoolboy cheeks with the back of my calloused man-hand!
"Y'see... it could be "Joe the Rapper" `cause I consistently rap motherfuckers upside the head with my athritic knuckles and put 'em to sleep. They wake up with a headache care of the knockout punch I give ‘em, and not a chafing cock care of the nocturnal fire-starting handjob YOU give 'em, and they know - fuckin' know - that JTP is the best in the world.
"So I'll beat you in the ring or on the mic, Wells. That's a *fact.* Now, Ol' Joe doesn't know too many *facts* on account of the *fact* that he dropped outta school in grade... well, it's higher than I can fuckin' count! So excuuuse me if I grunt like your "Master" or whatever his fuckin' name is. Ol' Joe doesn't wanna hear about your sex slave activities. "Master" ought'a fist that football-sized asshole of yours, grab a hold of your innards, and start you like a fuckin' lawnmower. Just be done with ya `cause you're used up like the trife-spewin' dick-pleaser smack dab in the middle of your face. Get the fuck outta here - you're career's over.
"Again - that's nice that you remember your first beer. Again - I don't. Quit try'na "young man" the grownup in this confrontation. I'll hold you at arm's length and chuckle as you take futile swings at my granite chin! So yeah, send a contract to the NFW office - that's the big building next to the carboard box, excuse me... next to EPW headquarters. I'll stop the secretary before she can run it through the shredder to make the gruel to feed Legion and Varga, and I'll point out that you can "wave your dick in the air."
"…A triple A battery is awfully hard to spot when you're at the TOP competing against the best, though, so I might have to pick up a magnifying glass. Or a NASA telescope. …I'd pat you on the head and tell you "good job," but that'd most likely put you in a fuckin' coma. So, instead, Ol' Joe will just say... better luck next time. Of course, we only get one dick, and you unfortunately got the "short" end of the stick... half a dick... or an enlarged clit, maybe? Is all this fussin' and bitchin' a cry for Ol' Joe's attention? Do you want your cunny rubbed? Does Miss Daisy wanna partake in some Taxi Cab Confessions with Ol' Joe as the driver? Does the slut ridin' shotgun with her head down and her legs crossed wanna be tossed in the back and fucked by a gargoyle?
"Too. Fuckin'. Bad. Faggot. Just when you think shit's cool, the audible sound of locks doin' their fuckin' job will snap your neck in such a way that the man behind the wheel will know that the time's right, that his prey's realized the reality of the situation... and shortly there after a poisonous gas will fill the compartment, and you'll choke and gag, and gag and choke… smack your hand up against the glass, beg with your dying breath for mercy... but you won't get it.
"Wrastlin' me is like suffocating beneath a shit-smellin' blanket of greatness soaked with the frightened piss of past victims. You can't explode outta that, you just can't. You just have to lay there and take it like a bitch. You're a bitch, Wells. And your church-group gang'a fuckin' knob-shimmers are bitches, too. Gossip all you want about what the wrastlin' world is sayin' `bout you versus me - it ain't the truth. It’s a figment of your imagination. Like the Sears Tower-sized cock your ass longs for. I humiliated Alyas just last week, and then gave him a shot at the title just to be nice. He smacked his head on the glass ceiling and fell to depths even he'd never before imagined. That's just what I do: I end careers, I crush dreams, I keep motherfuckers' egos in check.
"You will be no different. But again, Ol' Joe ain't gettin' out his fuckin' chair for your worthless ass. Beating you doesn't cement my legacy as the best ever. It doesn't even count as an actual win because you're a perpetual loser - secondrate like the rest of your fed. So come over sometime between 5:55 and 6 PM, so I can beat ya down with my free hand while I eat a fuckin' chicken dinner in one fuckin' bite! UGHNNNNNNNNNNNN!
"Die, faggot.
"Oh, and tell Cameron his idol wants to know somethin'...
"When's my shoe-shinin' bitch gonna be here?"