Whoa, Calypso... you're still here? I wasn't sure. I sat up for an hour last night waiting to see if you responded before you apparently thought better of it and went into hiding.

When I woke up this morning, I had to wrestle with the moral dilemma of whether or not to pile another session of verbal violence on when it seemed so clear you had run off, tail between your legs. I thought better of it; I'd let you get by without a second lashing from my razor sharp tongue... and yet here you stand in all your chrome-domed, gap-toothed, pasty-fleshed glory.

Thanks buddy, you've relieved me of the guilt I would have felt for kicking a 'tard while he's down.

You "live, sweat and breathe the XWF" and have for years? You've competed in four matches homeboy, you CAN'T be serious. I just wrestled in three at High Stakes alone, before you stumbled in looking like a Rob Corddry after a 48-hour crack binge. Don't tell me you felt hopeless when I tied up with Dolly, you should have felt hopeless when you sobered up this morning and realized your blind pursuit of this little gold belt signed you up for suicide via Raven.

Take your boat shoes, khaki cut offs, braided belt, Ed Hardy shirt and the fake tooth you use to cover up the cock slot in the middle of your mouth, and keep moving freak. Kick out. #AndStill