Just like anywhere, food standards agencies exist in Arcadia for one sole reason:
To make a motherfucker think twice before sinkin’ their teeth into somethin’ well past its best, ya get me?
Hit up any grocery store and you’ll see it across all kinds of eatables.
Frozen, dried, fresh, canned… Package dat shit up any fuckin’ way you like, food companies are bound by law to slap dates across their lines in order to keep customers safe and out of harms way.
Me? I’m less fuckin’ precious about dat kinda thing.
I choose not to pay much attention to what it says on da tin, ya feel?
See, when it comes to my raidin’ my pantry, every sniff’s a gamble, homie.
Like a box of chocolates, ya never know what yo gonna get; be dat a sweet-ass treat or somethin’ dat smells like a shit house door on a tuna boat.
Old School Wrestlin’ is home to many of these consumable fuckin’ types too, ya get me?
Just like all those edible materials ya find knockin’ around in a mini market or delicatessen, every motherfucker here has a shelf life, innit.
A best-by date date which sooner or later renders their ass spoiled, rotten, or straight-out un-fuckin-palatable.
These motherfuckers don’t know when to turn it in, ya feel? Despite bein’ well past their best, they continue to dine out on the memories of a time gone by in order to prolong their ubiquity on Mount Olympus.
To remain on Zeus’ shelf like a slice of stale bread, holdin’ on to da faint hope they can still appeal to The Baron’s tastes.
There they remain, visibly covered in mould, yet defiantly sat up upon the ledge as ever they were; blissfully unaware of their lowly place in da food chain.
They cannot see the mildew which covers their every skin cell, nor the putrid stench their decayed bodies emit.
These motherfuckers? They fester away on the shelf for so fuckin’ long, their noses fail to detect the scent of their own corrosive disrepair.
Only my nose is well versed when it comes to the bouquet of rotten fare, Blacktooth.
And your crumblin‘ carcass has failed to make it past the first fuckin’ sniff test, white boy.
See somethin’, Blacky, you might think you’re the big, bad food connoisseur around here, homie, but truth is you’re just an old fuckin’ perishable dat needs to be taken down off da shelf.
Like many of the comestibles which pass your lips on a daily basis, your time here in OSW is near at an end, motherfucker.
Your sell-by date has long passed its best, and no matter how you try to dress yourself up, Big Slim’s gonna crank up dat nose of his and snuff you a mile out, boy.
A movable feast you may enjoy, homie, but an immovable object you are not.
At Clash of the Titans, you can consider Drexl F-S-A, motherfucker.
I’ll remove Arcadia of the overcooked, overripe odour you foully secrete upon it.
Neither you, nor your Blood Runnin’ bunch of bitches get to eat on my watch, ya hear?
Fuck dat.
It’s time to take out the trash.