Piddlemaker's Lament

The Widowmaker: a mean cuss and a self -proclaimed son of a bitch. For most of this season of FUCR he's barely popped that groundhog head of his out long enough to say two misspelled words. What the fuck's he doing? The bastard can throw down, no question, but that's exactly why he can kiss my ass. All the fighting and all the guts he should have been bringing to the league and it's just been wasted. Yeah, he's got the wins, but he can't claim he's walked over The Assembly Line to get them. His wrestlers have had their heads caved in against my guys just as much as his stable has given mine some bloody lips. So now he wants to come out on the boards and act like he can call me out?!

Fuck that, Piddlemaker, and fuck you. You shoulda been matching my attitude from the very first match this season! You've had yer moments, almost to the level the league needed you to step up, but you fucking blew it. I guess that's a trait you inherited from yer momma.

Hell, maybe even yer pops.

Yer a hell of a disappointment Piddles, and you ain't fooling Tex Brickley. Play tough all you want, maybe you'll impress Shlotzky. He scares easy, The Assembly Line doesn't.

You definitely bring it when you sing it, but you need to be stepping up and putting people in check a helluva lot more if you want me to be impressed. The Reverend is lucky he's even more worthless, but yer supposed to be an original shit kicker and smack talker. So step up Piddles, step the fuck up!

Hell, he probably won't even read this. He probably thinks the title here is Piddlemaker's Lamont and that it has something to do with Sanford and Son! 

Who do I hate more?

Buttholes and peepshows, that's what FUCR has turned into this season. Luckily for me, people are still getting their heads busted in this business we call fake professional video game wrestling. With all of the changes that the Board Of Directors has happening, I find myself still not giving a shit at all. Dave Ken or Count Dante, fuck both of em' says I. Fuck all of em' with Jenny Glorpp's rotten fist.

As a matter of fact, I don't even know who I wanna take my hatred out on first. Blackjack's a given. He's still the douchebag in faghag clothing that I've always hated, but the choices are just so great this season.

What put a smile on my face today (which is like breaking concrete) was the fact that I realized I haven't even really gotten to mix it up with two of the biggest fuck-wads this sport has ever seen: Reverand Killjoy or The Widowmaker.

These are glorious times, what with so many of these fucks to start shit with.