Scott Weiland, a true poet. R.I.P. brother.
Get in the ring. Go to the gym, motherfucker, or if you prefer, get a new wig, motherfucker. I think I'll resist the urge to 'stoop' to your level. Oh shit, here it comes, you fat, botox-faced, wig-wearin' fuck! O.K., I feel better now.
"Don’t think for a second we don't know where those words came from. Your unoriginal, uncreative little mind — the same mind that had to rely on its bandmates to write melodies and lyrics. Who's the fraud now, bitch?
"Damn, I couldn't imagine people writing for me. How many albums have you put out, man, and how long did it take the current configuration of this so-called 'band' to make this album? How long? And without the only guys that validated the name.
"How dare you! Shame on you! How dare you call our bass player 'spineless?' We toured our album over a year and a half. How many shows have you played over the last ten years? Oh, that's right — you bailed out on your long-awaited comeback tour, leaving your remaining fans feeling, shall we say, a trifle miffed?! I won't even list what I've accomplished because I don't need to. What we're talking about here is a frightened little man who once thought he was king, but unfortunately this king without his court is nothing but a memory of the asshole he once was.