Still sending off of clouds of llama ball stink every time you queef after a night out “earning the rent?†You know you’ve got the only pussy with a deviated septum in the history of human biology, right? Like, your pussy has sleep apnea and snores.
Whatever. I noticed the constant stream of “worthless shit Ginger Snaps does between failing as a girlfriend in every capacity†seems to have taken a hiatus. What happened, chickadee? Did it finally get through that incomprehensibly thick skull of yours that you have less of a shot at beating me than Peter Gilmour does of getting his own cock back? Did someone finally clue you in to the fact that you’re simply incapable of taking this Universal Championship away from me? ME? The god damn greatest champion this business has ever seen?
What did the trick, Trick? Let me guess… maybe while you were looking around for recipe videos on YouTube or trying to get some likes on your Tumblr, you actually got around to looking at my various accolades? I mean, they’re right fucking there, you quivering vulva. Look on the XWF website. Look at the title histories. Look at the Pay Per View results. Look at the buy rates and the ratings. Look at the Top 50 of ALL TIME list. Are you on it, Ginger? No, no you aren’t, stop refreshing the page and checking again, for fuck’s sake.
Now, you’ll see my name along with 49 others who are lucky to be mentioned in the same breath as me, and you know what else? That fucking list needs to have its numbers re-shuffled. As I sit here going over it again I see at least ten names ranked higher than my own who I’ve taken down. Doc D’Ville? Well, the greatest loss of his career is at the hands of Yours Truly isn’t it? Gator? Same match, along with a couple of others. Justin Sane? Seriously? Frodo? What the fuck? Luca? I’ve beaten him on more than one occasion, man. He was even Mexican for one of them. I beat his ass in two different ethnicities. Morbid Angel? Are you fucking kidding me? I’ve beaten that sad man-titted three times, man. And twice he had help. What else? Enigma-slash-Theo? Been there, done that. Sebastian Duke? I have a ONE HUNDRED PERCENT winning record against that tired old fuck, and yet they keep acting like he’s the top legend in the company. Not. The only Sebastian Duke legend that needs repeating is the legend of when “Loverboy†Vinnie Lane knelt him down and spurted a bukakke monster into his mid-90’s goth goatee.
Oh, what’s that? Mystica’s on the list too? That’s fucking adorable. Did he get there by looking good with his ankles behind his ears when I pinned him? Because that’s the only fucking memory I have of that fucking jackass. LH Harrison? What the fuck? I beat that weak piece of shit every three weeks! That’s the equivalent of rating a gazelle higher than a fucking man eating tiger! Who the fuck published this thing? Next you’ll slap Maverick on there and tell me it’s based on his fecal contributions to the sport. Fuck this shit. I don’t need a TOP 50 or a TOP 10, because I’M NUMERO MOTHERFUCKING UNO, you understand? Besides, any list that has Peter “Dickless†Gilmour anywhere other than dead fucking last is obviously just a fucking typo.
Oh, what’s that Ginger? I had a little birdie tell me you were flapping your Gingervitis gums about how Maverick’s beaten you and I haven’t? Is that true? Are you fucking dumb enough that you’d BRAG about something like that? This is you bringing up wins over fucking losers like Thunderbolt X and Ghost Tank all over again, man. Do you even know HOW to show off, or are you so far away from being anything resembling respected and worthwhile that THAT is the fucking best you can do?
Good for you, you lost to fucking Maverick. I’m glad you mentioned it, actually, if in fact you really did and it wasn’t just another rumor scrawled across the locker room shitter door beneath your fucking phone number. You know what I’VE never done? Lost to motherfucking Maverick. Ask him if he remembers getting his ass beat by me when he decided to stick his nose up Miranda Tigris’ cunt, you know what he’ll say? “No, I don’t remember, I was god damn unconscious. Also, I’m a fucking .†I’m paraphrasing but it’s something along those lines. Seriously, look at the fucking guy you’re so proud to have lost to?
LOOK at that shit! That’s right off of his X-Tron entrance! He can’t even tan right! Look at his pale as shit white face and bright orange gunt! Motherfucker looks like a fat candy corn! What the fuck does he do, apply fake tanner using a water balloon?
Good job losing to that. I guess when you’re Ginger Snaps, losing to a fucktard with a scat fetish is a career highlight.
Ginger, I tried to warn you before this match was booked. You should have taken the fucking BLESSING that I bestowed upon you last time and let it be the one and only time you were unlucky enough to come anywhere near me. You should have quit while you were ahead, baby girl, because you aren’t even close to the biggest dog in the yard, you walking bag of herpes. And you know what happens when the hungry little puppy tries to eat out of the big dog’s dish, right? You’re gonna get your fucking little boy face ripped right off, that’s what.
It’s funny though, all this shit talking I’ve done about Maverick being garbage – and he is – but he’s still been about a hundred times more impressive as a Hart Champion as you were. You didn’t even have that belt long enough to wash my pussy juice fingerprints off of it before losing it to that chump Argyle, or whatever the fuck his name was.
Now you want to try and sound tough and scary like you’re some sort of street hood, like Uncle Tom Trax. Bitch. You’re white. You’re not only whiter than Trax, you’re whiter than Maverick’s Casper head. You’re whiter than that Christian Bale Exodus movie with Sigourney Weaver as the Queen of Egypt. You’re whiter than a Taylor Swift video playing at a private school dance. Stop trying to scare anyone, Little Miss Muffet. Now Trax? Yeah, he’s blacker than his own god damn shadow, he makes little old ladies clutch at their pearls and think back to the good old days when people like him were escorted outside via firehose. But you? Nah. The scariest thing you’ve ever done is leave that EPT piss test lying around long enough for your boyfriend to let the garage fill up with exhaust.
If that motherfucker had half a brain he’d have wrapped his Bangers up before he stuffed them into your Mash. A quarter of a brain would have been enough to think of tossing your balsa wood bones down the steps as soon as he saw the test box. But no, little princess still has her prince, doesn’t she? At least until he finds his way down to Africa and starts making a few more mulatto mouths to feed for just the price of a cup of coffee a day.
Fuck, Ginger, you’re literally the worst thing to come out of Aberdeen since men in skirts, and both of you involve ball sacks swinging in the fresh air. Why couldn’t I be kicking Austin Fernando’s ass again instead? At least then I could talk about wallabies instead of hairy Scottish nut bags.
I mean, here we are, right on the eve of War Games, the first chapter in CCWF dominance over the decrepit corpse of the XWF, and my momentum is getting completely watered down by hitting a speed bump like YOU, Ginger. Man, I can’t fucking wait for War Games. The vindication of “Loverboy†Vinnie Lane takes its next big step forward when I erase last year’s atrocity the same way I erased Doctor D’Ville from competition. The CCWF’s fingers are already deep into every team, and half of them don’t even know it yet. You dumb fucks actually think the Goddess or the Hired Gun are going to lay their hands on their CHAMPION? Please.
No. War Games is step one. Beating you, Ginger? That shit’s just a light warm up. An exhibition to show the world how gifted and talented their new, permanent, FOREVER Universal Champion is. A five minute squash to get the proletariat foaming at the mouth for more and more and MORE. Do you know that feeling, dude? Have you ever once in your disposable lie felt the throbbing pulse of a hungry crowd, thousands of fucking fans chanting your name… even when they HATE you they can’t help but WANT you?
Of course not.
Because you’re way, way, way the fuck down there on the ground floor while I’m riding high in the penthouse suite. I’m in the mile high club while you’re riding the fuckin’ bus. I’m top shelf and you’re ladies’ night well buckets. You want me to go on? I’m a fucking rocket ship, burning through the stratosphere, while you’re a sinking ship. Like I’ve been trying to tell the XWF for over a year now, I am the shooting star. I’m a white hot comet. I’m a heavenly fucking body!
You?
YOU?
Let's take a few seconds to confront the ugly truth about what ginger Snaps means to the world.
You are less than fucking zero. A negative space. A hole with two spindly legs and a noisy mouth that’s about to be slapped shut permanently.
So basically what all of this comes down to, dude, is this – how do you wish to lose?
You want to tap out?
You want to be pinned?
You want me to leave you lying unconscious outside the ring until they count you out?
We should have had a stipulation added to this vanilla fucking match so the marks spending their welfare money on cable TV subscriptions and seventeen dollar stadium beers would have something to remember it by. Imagine how many autographs you’d sign from your wheelchair if we’d have made it a scaffold match? Or how many people would pretend to have other plans during your funeral if it were a death match?
Ah, well. Maybe the next successful defense I have will be against someone with an imagination, or at least an ounce of talent. Or maybe I’ll give that Seth Feder asshole the non-title ass kicking of his life, just like he’s been begging for since the first time he laid eyes on me. Dude’s got him a crush, that’s for fucking sure. Then again, if I were a blatant homosexual like Seth, I’d want to fuck me too.
What I definitely know, Ginger Bitch, is that this is your one and only shot. You’re going to the bottom of the pile faster than you do when you get invited to footballer parties. You made a hell of a splash in your debut, man, thanks to a little generosity on my part, but now you’re just following your last super absorbent tampon – right down the drain. Get used to watching others take your spot while to fuck around on the lower card, dude. Maybe you really will finally end up sucking Gilly’s dick if you can find it under his fupa. It’ll probably be the only way you get to touch a main event talent again.
Anyway, little girl, it’s time to bid you adieu for now, man. I’ve got bigger and better things than you and your lack of a career to take care of before Wednesday, like solidifying the top team for War Games, and shitting out the calzone I just ate. Oh, and YES, you dumb cunt, I can run my mouth about what a horrendous pile of watery shit Peter Gilmour has become and then still have him on my team because for one, as I already stated - hypocrite. And for two? Because even the dried up, predictable, boring, 2015 version of Gilmour is better than anything you could ever hope to become.
Holy fuck, it just occurred to me… ha ha, look at this shit… you’re not even involved in one of the biggest shows of the year. Typical. The sun’s already set on you, Ginger, and it looks like you finally figured it out.
"Loverboy" - Hell Naw -->
three times, man. And twice he had help. What else? Enigma-slash-Theo? Been there, done that. Sebastian Duke? I have a ONE HUNDRED PERCENT winning record against that tired old fuck, and yet they keep acting like he’s the top legend in the company. Not. The only Sebastian Duke legend that needs repeating is the legend of when “Loverboy†Vinnie Lane knelt him down and spurted a bukakke monster into his mid-90’s goth goatee.![[Image: 0O3Atlt.jpg]](http://i.imgur.com/0O3Atlt.jpg)
![[Image: Gz87KnQ.jpg]](http://i.imgur.com/Gz87KnQ.jpg)
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