Dear Bret,
What the fuck man? Why did you blow all your money on cocaine, scotch and hookers? Don't answer that. I know why. The feeling of hollowness gnawing at your insides knowing that you tried to portray the part of a hero, and then that dastardly Vince reminding you that you were not in fact a role model, hero or even a real athlete. You're just a dude pumping some iron, wearing spandex and extensively oiling yourself (or do they have people to oil you up?) up and pretending to fight another man in front of thousands of 40 year old men who think what you're doing is important. But so fucking what. You got paid, you got pussy, you got some good will.
Then you had to go and act like your "championship" meant any-fucking-thing at all, and when it was taken from you, you bawled and spit and flailed your arms about like a spoiled little coked out Italian princess from Jersey. Shoulda pulled a Michaels and made Triple H look cool and wrestle with some midgets and said fuck it, no? Instead you took a stand, for integrity, for truth. I mean, word is bond, right my nigga? Vince McMahon betrayed you, lied to you. Now look at you.
It's like if Kurt Cobain came out at some MTV bullshit 42 years old fat and balding and said "Hi guys, I faked my death because I couldn't deal with all the fame corrupting my artistic integrity but now I'm back 'cause I'm broke! And you know Budweiser ain't free!" while he's wearing a King Of Beers t-shirt eating a McChicken. Bret, you should have stayed dead. Young and beautiful and dead.
Sincerely,
Some Faggot Who Watches Wrestling
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