I am no showing!
Jan 5, 2020 23:59:39 GMT -5
Quixote Della Torre, Crow McMorris, and 1 more like this
Post by Geoffrey Fuckin' Torrance on Jan 5, 2020 23:59:39 GMT -5
This is horseshit.
You know that right Quinton?
You know this is horseshit and I'm not going to show up.
You know that I, the one and only Souperman, am the actual Action Wrestling Cruiserweight Champion.
Check the tape! Go ahead! Roll it, Rockapella!
***INDISPUTABLE, IRREFUTABLE, IMMUTABLE PROOF FROM THE HAVOC RUMBLE THAT GEOFFREY F'N TORRANCE'S FEET NEVER IN FACT TOUCHED THE GROUND AIRS AND YOU ARE ALL VERY, VERY CONVINCED THAT THIS IS, IN FACT, HORSESHIT.****
I landed in that little retard's wheelchair and my feet never touched the ground. My feet touched the ground in the same way that the touching story of a face who beat the shit out of his parents touches the hearts of fans all over: it didn't. They didn't. I didn't.
Lose, that is.
What I did do, was prove that I am the most cunning, conniving, calculating cunt on Cruiserweight Clash.
And even though my belts are all still Gucci everything is not, in fact, gucci. Everything is very NON-GUCCI.
It is as non-gucci as Quinton's wardrobe.
And let's be clear here: I know your name's not Quinton. Quinton is a stupid fucking name. Only an inbred, halfwit, aunt-fucking mongoloid would be named Quinton.
I'm just calling you that because it's still somehow better than Quixote.
Man of the Fuckin' Mancha, you're named after the greatest failure in the history of literature! You're just a wee spritely fellow who went chasing MONSTERS (that's Leviathon and the other Heavygays you jobbed out to) because you thought it was your purpose, some higher calling, only to get slapped the fuck around by your own false expectations.
Or maybe you're Sancho Panza, briefly made governor of a fictitious isle! Just like you're a fictitious fuckin' champion because that BELT BELONGS TO ME! MY FEET NEVER TOUCHED!
That's alright, I'll have it back after I pick up the victory this week...
Wait..What's that? This isn't even a fucking title match?
I'm not going.
You're not seeing a beautiful hair on this beautiful head at Clash, Tory.
To be clear again I'm calling you Tory instead of Torre because I think you're an ignorant cuck hell bent and ruining the lives of as many people as possible just be virtue of you know, your own pathetic existence.
Anyways, do you know your namesake's story even ends? You basically cuck yourself to death. Some fuckin' babe throws herself at you--again, are you really just fucking plagiarizing the whole thing here?--but you reject her because your heart belongs some bus station skank name Dulcinea, who DEFINITELY has HPV.
Then you get a fever and die.
That's it! The great Quixote gets taken down by a fever!
You know what's great for a fever though?
Soup.
I'd offer to bring you some canned heat but as I've said...I'm not fucking going.
I've been too disrespected by the powers that aren't to possibly show up.
But if I did, I mean...a table match? That's perfect for a fourth generation soup man! You know how many tables I've set! I even know where all the cutlery goes! Salad fork farthest outside, entree fork in your eye, soup spoon in your ass.
Perfect! That table would be all set!
If I were going to show up. Which I am fucking not.
You know that right Quinton?
You know this is horseshit and I'm not going to show up.
You know that I, the one and only Souperman, am the actual Action Wrestling Cruiserweight Champion.
Check the tape! Go ahead! Roll it, Rockapella!
***INDISPUTABLE, IRREFUTABLE, IMMUTABLE PROOF FROM THE HAVOC RUMBLE THAT GEOFFREY F'N TORRANCE'S FEET NEVER IN FACT TOUCHED THE GROUND AIRS AND YOU ARE ALL VERY, VERY CONVINCED THAT THIS IS, IN FACT, HORSESHIT.****
I landed in that little retard's wheelchair and my feet never touched the ground. My feet touched the ground in the same way that the touching story of a face who beat the shit out of his parents touches the hearts of fans all over: it didn't. They didn't. I didn't.
Lose, that is.
What I did do, was prove that I am the most cunning, conniving, calculating cunt on Cruiserweight Clash.
And even though my belts are all still Gucci everything is not, in fact, gucci. Everything is very NON-GUCCI.
It is as non-gucci as Quinton's wardrobe.
And let's be clear here: I know your name's not Quinton. Quinton is a stupid fucking name. Only an inbred, halfwit, aunt-fucking mongoloid would be named Quinton.
I'm just calling you that because it's still somehow better than Quixote.
Man of the Fuckin' Mancha, you're named after the greatest failure in the history of literature! You're just a wee spritely fellow who went chasing MONSTERS (that's Leviathon and the other Heavygays you jobbed out to) because you thought it was your purpose, some higher calling, only to get slapped the fuck around by your own false expectations.
Or maybe you're Sancho Panza, briefly made governor of a fictitious isle! Just like you're a fictitious fuckin' champion because that BELT BELONGS TO ME! MY FEET NEVER TOUCHED!
That's alright, I'll have it back after I pick up the victory this week...
Wait..What's that? This isn't even a fucking title match?
I'm not going.
You're not seeing a beautiful hair on this beautiful head at Clash, Tory.
To be clear again I'm calling you Tory instead of Torre because I think you're an ignorant cuck hell bent and ruining the lives of as many people as possible just be virtue of you know, your own pathetic existence.
Anyways, do you know your namesake's story even ends? You basically cuck yourself to death. Some fuckin' babe throws herself at you--again, are you really just fucking plagiarizing the whole thing here?--but you reject her because your heart belongs some bus station skank name Dulcinea, who DEFINITELY has HPV.
Then you get a fever and die.
That's it! The great Quixote gets taken down by a fever!
You know what's great for a fever though?
Soup.
I'd offer to bring you some canned heat but as I've said...I'm not fucking going.
I've been too disrespected by the powers that aren't to possibly show up.
But if I did, I mean...a table match? That's perfect for a fourth generation soup man! You know how many tables I've set! I even know where all the cutlery goes! Salad fork farthest outside, entree fork in your eye, soup spoon in your ass.
Perfect! That table would be all set!
If I were going to show up. Which I am fucking not.