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Billy B. Blankenship · **04-01-2025, 08:35 PM**

Hello XWF Universe!

In case you needed reminding I'm obliged to tell you that my name is William William Blankenship... and I fucking hate your guts!

You lousy fucks!

Look at what you've done to this great sport!

I fucking hate turning on my television and looking at this puckered anal-gland of a "product" that is the XWF.

And it's every goddamn day.

And despite having the XWF's bowel movements processed into manure and spread all over the world on a daily basis, wouldn't you know that I had no earthly inclination who their Universal Champion is?

WHO THE FUCK WOULD???

Instead of seeing the big gold belt main-eventing Warfare, I'm watching some goddamn soft-core leftist love affair between a 120 pound blond drug addict and a 110 pound brunette drug addict.

We might as well be broadcasting wrestling matches from the future concentration camps that this orange-skinned dipshit of a president is gonna' lock your groveling asses up in soon. Surely we can make that happen? How many time-travelers, or magicians, or spooky-alien bullshit wrestlers are on the roster these days any how? How many of them are deeply affected by melodramatic childhood trauma so they ,keep killing their spouses and best-friends?

SURELY! One of these sad, jock-sniffing, rot-mouthed, THIRSTY pieces of crap on the roster could whisk us away using their magic, or time machines, and into a future where we actually know who the Universal Champion is and actually give a damn! A future where the Universal Champion has actually read a book, and doesn't look and sound like Mike Tyson's gimpy little brother.

I mean where in the fuck did management, in those tiny dehydrated dingleberries they call their brains, think that booking an underwear model and a side-character from Bum Fights for the biggest prize in our industry was a good idea?

I've never heard of either of the sons-a-bitches, ...and it's a good goddamn thing, because if I could care enough to remember their names, I'd have a 290,000 in 580,000 chance of signing their bastard children up for a paternity test in Brooklyn and ruining their lives.

Not that their lives aren't ruined already. They've reached the top of the mountain in this below-sea-level wrestling business known as the XWF... a company so mismanaged, so rotten from the root to the rectum, that the owner’s own mother slapped the stork that delivered him just for bringing that sorry bitch into the world.

And that’s what this is, folks.

This isn’t a sport anymore. This ain’t a business. This is a burlesque gangbang at a methadone clinic, featuring warlocks, reality TV runners-up, and enough emotional trauma to keep ten therapists in business for life.

You don’t have champions anymore.

You have main characters.

And they don’t fight for glory. They fight for Twitter likes, trauma porn, and backstage handjobs from fans who paid for the meet-and-greet in Dogecoin. FEEDBACK ME BABY

So here’s your warning, you frothy-lipped fucks:

I’ve had enough.

Of the cosplay.

Of the vampire-fucking.

Of the gas station-bought title belts, and gas station meth-addicts carrying them.

Of the Universal Championship being treated like an NFT with a steroid addiction.

Billy B. Blankenship is back, baby. And I’m not here to restore order.

I’m here to make you ashamed to be part of this business again.

So lace up your boots and pull your heads out of your asses, you sad, talentless dung buckets…

Because Daddy’s home.

And Daddy buying him a shiny new belt with my gift card dollars.

And I’m lookin’ for an ass to tan.

So thank you.

Fuck you.

And good goddamn bye you cunt!

Threaded Mode \| Linear Mode FUCK YOU BITCH. THE GIFT CARD IS MINE
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