Aw, pumpkin... I don't know what sort of piss-soaked cheerios Michael Graves filled your snatch with while he had you as a house guest, but kindly take them and your sour disposition elsewhere. You're going to need a lot more than that to waltz your ass back from whichever Mickey Mouse club you've been hanging out in the past month and take this title off of me.

I make it a general policy to never hit a woman, so it's a good thing you've got a few more months before puberty kicks in and my window closes. Come back and see me when your chest growth catches up to your mouth, and there's some grass on the field. I'll pitch. You catch.

Kick out, you teeny tiny teenaged twat.