Post by Jason Mudd on May 22, 2011 22:01:18 GMT -5
(This is simply just for fun. I had so much trash talk flowing through my mind, I had to put it somewhere... and figured, might as well throw it here where everyone can see!)
Jason Mudd: “Jesus Christ... I couldn't help myself. After listening to Palmer and Dante, I had to find my webcam, load up the needed software, and speak a minute or three to the public.”
Jason Mudd is sitting at a computer desk, dressed casual, hair a mess. Grinning, he runs a hand through his hair before reaching down to grab a tall, frosty mug filled with a dark ale. Killian's for the win. He takes a long drink, satisfied with the dark beer sliding down his throat. Setting the mug down, he sighs in relief.
Jason Mudd: “I'm not Irish...but god damn this is the best beer I've ever had. But enough about Killian's Irish Red. Let's talk about Palmer and Dante.”
Jason Mudd can't help but laugh at the mention of their name.
Jason Mudd: (whispering) “Bitches say what...?”
Jason Mudd grins.
Jason Mudd: “I know you both replied. Because that's what the both of you are. Little bitches. We'll start with you, Dante. Just because the fans cheer for me... I'm not an asshole? Just because they enjoy me, but find you to be rather boring... I'm not an asshole. Nothing but a fucking tool. That's what you are, Dante. Seriously? You don't like me. Who gives a fuck if you don't like me? James Raven doesn't. I bet RJ Palmer doesn't. The people that watch this shit doesn't. Hell, I don't even think you care that you don't like me, Dante. Running your mouth to fill up air time? Don't have anything clever enough to say? That doesn't make you an asshole by threatening to kick my teeth in, boy. It makes you a fucking joke. Do it. I BEG you to try. See, you can hide behind that World Championship reign you had in the XWF, because honestly... no one remembers it. It sure as hell escaped my mind. You do ONE decent thing in this business. It doesn't balance out the multitude of failures that you've based your career around. At Hardcore Hell, you're going to add one more thing to the list when you step in the ring with James Raven and I. You're going to be picking splinters out of your face for a month after I make you kiss the single biggest piece of wood you've ever had your mouth around. Want to know why I'm an ASSHOLE that the fans cheer for? I'm real. I'm legit. I'm not a fucking gimmick, Dante. Shove your thumbs up your ass and waddle like a duck you pathetic twat. You don't like me now? You're going to hate me when I retain the tag team championship. And you say I need to earn shit before I talk shit? How about you quit polishing my ego and being jealous of the fact I thought of something before you did. You're slow in the brains, son. Go play with the retards in their dark matches.”
Jason Mudd takes another swig of the Killian's.
Jason Mudd: “Speaking of retards, You're next RJ. You stand there, saying I stole your gimmick? Who gives a fuck. This is the wrestling business, RJ. If you had such a great idea to begin with, why the FUCK didn't you get it going first? Or did you not have the tools or capability of pulling off what needed to be done? You came up short, just like that TINY run as Television Champion you had, buddy.
But of course, here comes another man that hides behind a World Championship won in the X-Treme Wrestling Federation. I don't know if you've been tripping the last several months, or what, RJ... but this isn't the X-Treme Wrestling Federation. Much like Dante, no one gives a FUCK about what you did over there. I didn't win the World championship. So fucking what? We're not 'X-Treme' anymore.
Maybe you should stop focusing on what the fuck you have DONE in this business and take a few notes from yours truly. Aim for the HERE and NOW. Maybe then you'd have a few more credentials in the WGWF that people actually give two shits about.
But if you're so determined to live in the past, RJ... I'm not going to stop you. In fact, at Hardcore Hell, I'll be more than happy to help. I'll drop you so fucking hard through a table, any short term memory you have left in that little brain of yours will be as amazing as Peter Gilmour's achievements list.
And we know where we are going from there, don't we, RJ?”
Jason Mudd finishes off the Killian's and sighs.
Jason Mudd: “You know another name they have for the 'cockmeat sandwhich' at Subway? It's called the Palmer. Named after you, guy. It's your favorite, they say. Hear you order yours with extra mayo.”
Jason Mudd gets ready to turn the webcam off and stop the recording, looking straight into the camera with a grin on his face.
Jason Mudd: “Fire back, boys. Hit me with all you have. This isn't the XWF anymore. This isn't child's play. You're messing with the big leagues now. Step up or you're going to get messed up.”
Jason Mudd: “Jesus Christ... I couldn't help myself. After listening to Palmer and Dante, I had to find my webcam, load up the needed software, and speak a minute or three to the public.”
Jason Mudd is sitting at a computer desk, dressed casual, hair a mess. Grinning, he runs a hand through his hair before reaching down to grab a tall, frosty mug filled with a dark ale. Killian's for the win. He takes a long drink, satisfied with the dark beer sliding down his throat. Setting the mug down, he sighs in relief.
Jason Mudd: “I'm not Irish...but god damn this is the best beer I've ever had. But enough about Killian's Irish Red. Let's talk about Palmer and Dante.”
Jason Mudd can't help but laugh at the mention of their name.
Jason Mudd: (whispering) “Bitches say what...?”
Jason Mudd grins.
Jason Mudd: “I know you both replied. Because that's what the both of you are. Little bitches. We'll start with you, Dante. Just because the fans cheer for me... I'm not an asshole? Just because they enjoy me, but find you to be rather boring... I'm not an asshole. Nothing but a fucking tool. That's what you are, Dante. Seriously? You don't like me. Who gives a fuck if you don't like me? James Raven doesn't. I bet RJ Palmer doesn't. The people that watch this shit doesn't. Hell, I don't even think you care that you don't like me, Dante. Running your mouth to fill up air time? Don't have anything clever enough to say? That doesn't make you an asshole by threatening to kick my teeth in, boy. It makes you a fucking joke. Do it. I BEG you to try. See, you can hide behind that World Championship reign you had in the XWF, because honestly... no one remembers it. It sure as hell escaped my mind. You do ONE decent thing in this business. It doesn't balance out the multitude of failures that you've based your career around. At Hardcore Hell, you're going to add one more thing to the list when you step in the ring with James Raven and I. You're going to be picking splinters out of your face for a month after I make you kiss the single biggest piece of wood you've ever had your mouth around. Want to know why I'm an ASSHOLE that the fans cheer for? I'm real. I'm legit. I'm not a fucking gimmick, Dante. Shove your thumbs up your ass and waddle like a duck you pathetic twat. You don't like me now? You're going to hate me when I retain the tag team championship. And you say I need to earn shit before I talk shit? How about you quit polishing my ego and being jealous of the fact I thought of something before you did. You're slow in the brains, son. Go play with the retards in their dark matches.”
Jason Mudd takes another swig of the Killian's.
Jason Mudd: “Speaking of retards, You're next RJ. You stand there, saying I stole your gimmick? Who gives a fuck. This is the wrestling business, RJ. If you had such a great idea to begin with, why the FUCK didn't you get it going first? Or did you not have the tools or capability of pulling off what needed to be done? You came up short, just like that TINY run as Television Champion you had, buddy.
But of course, here comes another man that hides behind a World Championship won in the X-Treme Wrestling Federation. I don't know if you've been tripping the last several months, or what, RJ... but this isn't the X-Treme Wrestling Federation. Much like Dante, no one gives a FUCK about what you did over there. I didn't win the World championship. So fucking what? We're not 'X-Treme' anymore.
Maybe you should stop focusing on what the fuck you have DONE in this business and take a few notes from yours truly. Aim for the HERE and NOW. Maybe then you'd have a few more credentials in the WGWF that people actually give two shits about.
But if you're so determined to live in the past, RJ... I'm not going to stop you. In fact, at Hardcore Hell, I'll be more than happy to help. I'll drop you so fucking hard through a table, any short term memory you have left in that little brain of yours will be as amazing as Peter Gilmour's achievements list.
And we know where we are going from there, don't we, RJ?”
Jason Mudd finishes off the Killian's and sighs.
Jason Mudd: “You know another name they have for the 'cockmeat sandwhich' at Subway? It's called the Palmer. Named after you, guy. It's your favorite, they say. Hear you order yours with extra mayo.”
Jason Mudd gets ready to turn the webcam off and stop the recording, looking straight into the camera with a grin on his face.
Jason Mudd: “Fire back, boys. Hit me with all you have. This isn't the XWF anymore. This isn't child's play. You're messing with the big leagues now. Step up or you're going to get messed up.”