I don't believe the pussified gush coming out of your respective pieholes. You people run smack worse than Patty in Modesto.

Cowering in one corner is a douchebag who demands respect because he comes from the 212 area code. The same place that gave us their former Tammany Hall mayor who went on to a highly respectable career as a stand-in when Judge Wapner had a cold. The place that gave us the original Tuna aka the U.S.S. Parcells. Don't forget that the "big" New Yorkers and all their fake thug talk only technically have two football teams, since they both suck Brandon Irons' herpes-infested dick, and both play in the same stadium, which is on Jimmy Hoffa's cement grave in New Fucking Jersey. The city where it's ok to urinate on the sidewalk in broad daylight, not to mention the city that gave us Henry Blodgett and Jack Grubman (and to show you that you're my bitch, you're gonna have to look up those last 2). The city that gave us that dirtbag Martha Stwart and her crook lover Sammy Wacks-all. And a city so disgustingly dirty they had to name one of the neighborhoods "Hell's Kitchen."

In another corner is Chico Travesty-o. Chico already knows I own his sorry pocho ass, since his pimp hand reach evidently only reaches to the Redlands off-ramp, and had to enlist my help to straighten out two of his whores.

In the other corner is Cleetus. He ain't gonna run any smak past his chiclets yet, and I respect that, even if his enjoyment of midgety does frighten me a litte.