Couple weeks ago, I’m at a sports bar, cocksucka. Big screen, wings, cold beer, we’re watchin’ SummerSlam. Place smells like buffalo sauce and bad decisions — perfect night. And then… here comes fuckin’ J-Tard.

He rolls in — literally rolls in — on that haunted Herman Miller chair. And lemme tell you somethin’, I’ve seen sick people before, I’ve been around dying guys, junkies, you name it. But THIS… this was the most unhealthy, contaminated, diseased-lookin’ thing I’ve ever seen. This guy looked like if tetanus had a baby with a dumpster fire.

He’s got sores, ooze, the works. Smells like a wet ferret that’s been sittin’ in a laundry hamper for a month. His wig’s half on, there’s a rash on top of another rash, and I’m tryin’ to eat mozzarella sticks here.

He goes, ‘Y’know… alcohol is very unhealthy. Drinking isn't BASED. Little baby boy twinks are BASED.’ Bro… BRO… you’re sittin’ in a chair that’s turnin’ colors. You’re breathin’ in spores every time you open your mouth. Don’t fuckin’ lecture me about beer when your bloodstream is basically soup.

The guy’s got more infections than channels on the TV. His dick is green. And he’s pointin’ at my beer like I’m the problem? Listen to me — the only thing less healthy than that drink is YOU, cocksucka.

He lasted ten minutes before security escorted him out with gloves on. We all went back to watchin’ SummerSlam. Moral of the story: never let a mutant tell you about wellness while they’re leakin’ on your floor.