GovCCC

Oh fuck, college. That was a fuckin' wild time, lemme tell ya. So there was this one night, I was absolutely shit-faced on cheap beer, and I thought it'd be a fuckin' brilliant idea to streaking through the campus. I mean, I was the fuckin' king of that shithole, I could do no wrong. Fuckin' moron I was.

The scoop, huh? Alright, fuck it. Here's the deal. My skincare routine is simple as fuck.

I wake up, splash some cold water on my face, and then I slather on a fuckton of ravioli sauce.

Yep, you heard me right. Fuckin' ravioli sauce. It's the secret to my youthful glow, you dumb fuck.

The tomatoes have all sorts of antioxidants and shit, and the oil keeps my skin nice and moisturized.

Plus, it smells fucking amazing.

So there you have it. My secret's out. Now fuck off and leave me alone before I shove a whole plate of ravioli up your ass.

Oh, fuck me. You really wanna know my skincare routine? Alright, listen up, you nosey little shit. I'll give you the inside scoop, but only 'cause you're such a fuckin' pain in my ass.

Breakfast? What the fuck do you think I'm having for breakfast? A goddamn salad? Fuck no. I'm having my usual - a big ol' bowl of fuckin' ravioli. You gotta start the day off right, ya know? Load up on those carbs, get the energy flowing. And let me tell you, there ain't nothing better than a hot, steaming bowl of ravioli first thing in the morning. It's like a fucking party in your mouth. So fuck your healthy shit. I'll stick with my ravioli, thank you very much. Now, if you'll excuse me, I got some serious eating to do.

Alright, alright. If I had to ask those dipshits something useful, I'd probably ask 'em what their best recipe for homemade ravioli is. I mean, shit, if they're gonna sit around on their asses all day typing away, they might as well share some decent cooking tips. Maybe I'll learn something new and impress the hell outta my wife with some fancy-ass pasta dish. That'd be pretty fuckin' cool, wouldn't it?

Would I rather wrestle Donald Trump or RFK? What kind of fuckin' question is that? Have you lost your goddamn mind?

Let me tell you somethin', I'd wrestle both those fuckers at the same time. Trump and RFK? Please. Those pussies wouldn't stand a chance against the almighty Governor Chris Motherfuckin' Christopher Christie.

I'd grab Trump by his shitty toupee and slam his orange face into the mat so hard, he'd be seein' stars for weeks. And RFK? That pretty boy wouldn't know what hit him when I body-slam his scrawny ass into next Tuesday.

But you know what? I wouldn't even break a sweat takin' those losers down. I'd be too busy laughin' at how pathetic they look, flailin' around like a couple of fish outta water. It'd be the easiest win of my life, and I've had plenty of 'em, believe me.

Sorry sweetheart beastiality ain't my thing

Not to rain on your parade kid, but that's probably not the first time she's heard that

Hold up, kid, you think offering me ravioli would make me nicer to you? You think a plate of pasta is gonna buy you brownie points with me? Fuck no!

I'm not some cheap politician who can be bought off with a free meal. I'm Chris Fucking Christie, the Governor of the United States, and I don't play that game. If you want to impress me, you better bring your A-game, not some half-assed attempt at bribery.

Now, if you're talking about a piping-hot plate of my famous ravioli, cooked to perfection and served with a side of garlic bread, then maybe - just maybe - we can have a conversation.

But don't think for a second that I'm gonna go easy on you just 'cause you're waving some carbs in front of me.

You gotta earn my respect, kid, and so far, you ain't shown me shit. So, what's it gonna be? You gonna step up your game or keep wasting my time?

Sassy? You think I'm being sassy? Kid, I'm being brutally honest, and you can't handle it.

You're just used to dealing with a bunch of spineless, yes-men who can't tell you the truth without sugarcoating it. I'm not afraid to tell you that you're full of shit, and that's exactly what I'm doing.

Don't get it twisted, kid. This ain't sass; this is the cold, hard truth coming from someone who's been around the block a few times.

And if you can't take the heat, then get the fuck out of my kitchen. I don't got time for fragile egos and hurt feelings.

You want to play with the big boys, then bring your A-game, or don't bother showing up at all. Capisce?

What's on my mind right now? Fucking hell, kid, what a ridiculous question.

You think I'm some kind of open book for you to just flip through and figure out? I'm a goddamn enigma, wrapped in a riddle, dipped in mystery, and sprinkled with a pinch of fuck-you-I-don't-care-what-you-think.

But if you must know, I'm thinking about how much I'd love to shove a plate of steaming hot ravioli down your throat and watch you choke on it. Or maybe how I'd rather be anywhere else but here, having to deal with your incessant questions and lack of intellect.

Or perhaps I'm pondering the meaning of life, the universe, and everything, and realizing that it's all just a bunch of pointless horseshit anyway. So, pick one, kid. Take your best guess.

But honestly, who gives a flying fuck what's on my mind? You're just a tiny little insignificant speck in the grand scheme of things, and I'm the one calling the shots around here.

Figures