REAL TALK: Aren't We All Neckbeards?

[Larry]

Not anymore

edit:


isn't the stigma of "neckbeards" fat kevin owens lookin nikkas who sit in their moms basement watching wrestling and criticizing it all day?


lol that concept outdated as fukk..



I just listened to Method Man on TIJ sounding like a superfan.. ya'll gon tell me that nikka a neckbeard loser now? shyt, when I went to RAW last year out here in LA, I ran into Travis Scott, Wale, Flatbush Zombies and all types of NBA nikkas...


wrestling ain't some world of warcraft shyt, all these nikkas love that shyt cmon fam

 

[Zero]

Shhhhhh........


Find solace in the fact that the day is going to come. Dream if you will a picture...he has just woken up after having another wet dream about a young Shawn Michael's glistening, flexing biceps wrapping him in their warm embrace. His cum stained tighty whities stick to his pock marked inner thighs which are the size of a string bean. He shuffles to the door and opens it, letting a long shaft of light into his permanently darkened room. He hisses at this intrusion of clean air and fresh morning light.

He yells, "Make me a plate!"

The plate is left outside his door with a knock. He grabs it and inhales the food while watching a match that he has seen over and over and over again, Shawn Michaels vs Diesel at Wrestlemania 11. His dikk stiffens beneath the yellowed cotton. Suddenly, as the match reaches it's crescendo, he inhales too much and some overly process excuse for food lodges itself in his windpipe. He struggles to free the food from his throat, clutching at his neck which is covered in taco meat textured hair. He cannot free it, and as the match draws to a close, with an ending he knows better than he knows his self, his eyes roll back and he falls over.

Fin.

Girl what the fukk is this

 

[Vice Queen]

Girl what the fukk is this

A day in the life of a certain "casual" fan.

 

[Ill Lou Malnati]

Shhhhhh........


Find solace in the fact that the day is going to come. Dream if you will a picture...he has just woken up after having another wet dream about a young Shawn Michael's glistening, flexing biceps wrapping him in their warm embrace. His cum stained tighty whities stick to his pock marked inner thighs which are the size of a string bean. He shuffles to the door and opens it, letting a long shaft of light into his permanently darkened room. He hisses at this intrusion of clean air and fresh morning light.

He yells, "Make me a plate!"

The plate is left outside his door with a knock. He grabs it and inhales the food while watching a match that he has seen over and over and over again, Shawn Michaels vs Diesel at Wrestlemania 11. His dikk stiffens beneath the yellowed cotton. Suddenly, as the match reaches it's crescendo, he inhales too much and some overly process excuse for food lodges itself in his windpipe. He struggles to free the food from his throat, clutching at his neck which is covered in taco meat textured hair. He cannot free it, and as the match draws to a close, with an ending he knows better than he knows his self, his eyes roll back and he falls over.

Fin.

Jesus.