NOTE: I am not really Dana White, nor do I know him. You are crazy if you think any of those things. Seriously if you think that I am any of those things, you should probably see some kind of psychiatrist. Or don't. Whatever, I don't care.
"I've been hearing a lot of you fucking keyboard warriors bitch about me making the fucking decision to put Jon Jones up against Chael Sonnen as coaches in The Ultimate Fucking Fighter. I will address those fucking concerns in a fucking moment. But first let me set the fucking mood with some fucking music. Now, as for all you fucking morons who don't know what the fuck you're talking about, I got one thing to say to fuckers; Fuck you. It's fucking easy for you fuckers to try and tell me how to do my fucking job from your mom's basements. Try fucking doing the shit I do, while putting up with the fucking morons like you all, who know fuck-all about business."
"This fucker right here thinks he knows fucking shit about TV. The problem is he fucking doesn't. But Josh Hall's incompetence is fucking irrelevant, no matter how much I fucking love pointing that shit out. Fuck, Josh, I don't know what kind of fucking hallucinogen you're on, but sign me the fuck up. I've told you fuckers countless times, ratings don't fucking matter. 600,000? You're just being a fucking butthurt hater if you think that fucking matters. Everyone knows we fucking deliver, and if you don't want to fucking watch, then don't fucking watch. But don't fucking watch Bellator, because Bjorn once fucking beat me in a fucking game of shuffleboard, and I am fucking undefeated, therefore he fucking cheated, which means he's a fucking Bob Reilly supporter. You know that fucking Culinary Union fucked the Fertitas, right? Who the fuck do they think they fucking are? Unions, who the fuck needs 'em, right?"
"As for the fucking bitching about "talent level," you're a fucking moron if you believe that. Cristiano Marcello could totally kick Cub Swanson's ass. But talent doesn't fucking matter. People don't tune in for fucking talent. They tune in for those fucking hilarious pranks. Letting a guy eat sushi marinated in your fucking potential little fuckers? That shit is fucking gold right there. All you fuckers out there saying this isn't fucking funny, guess what? Grow the fuck up you fucking pansies. You internet fucks don't know what the fuck you're all talking about. I have all the fucking answers and the internet can fuck themselves, because they're not in the fucking mix, you know. Fuck, let me tell you how fucking hard it was to make this fucking fight. So I went over to Jon's house the other day to talk to him about this fucking fight. He was sitting naked, cross legged style, covered in fucking chocolate syrup, wearing nothing but his fucking belt. I had asked him why he was fucking covered in chocolate sauce, and he started fucking rambling about blessing me and about how he knows and how he touches his belt like a fucking woman, or some fucking shit. Whatever, that was fucking weird, but he signed the fucking contract and I could not get out of there fast enough. But then, I remembered I let him borrow my fucking car, so I had to fucking ask him about it. He told me to follow him to his fucking garage, because that's where people put their fucking cars, you fucking dummy. So I was following my fucking butt-naked Light-Heavyweight champion, who was dripping in Nesquik."
"When we fucking got there, I saw that this fucker has fucking totaled my fucking car. I asked him, 'What the fuck did you fucking do, you fucking fucker!?' And he fucking looks at me and says, 'Oh yeah, I came back from blessing Roxy and the bartenders at the strip club, when I thought of blessing your car with a telephone pole. There's some blessings on the bumper, right here. A bless or two in your headlights. Oh yeah, and your wind shield, I blessed the hell out of that.' 'What the fuck is that in the back seat!?' 'Oh, those are some just some bless stains, from when Roxy and I blessed each other in the parking lot.' 'Why the fuck would you fucking do that in my fucking car.' 'Well you know how I am Dana, I like to share the blessings, even with you. Just don't tell my wife, she doesn't want me to bless anyone but her.' 'Fuck, whatever man. I'm just gonna call a fucking towing company to take the fucking car to a fucking mechanic.' 'I'm afraid I cannot let you do that, Dana.' 'What the fuck are you talking about? I fucking called you yesterday to fucking tell you that I'm picking up my fucking car today.' 'Yes, you did. But I need about eight-days to bless you with the return of your car.' Now I have to fucking call Chuck Liddell for a fucking ride all the fucking time, because I'm so fucking busy, something you fucking basement dwellers wouldn't know about. Alright Chuck, time to go. We got to go to Smurfville to finish ironing out the contract with Joe Silva."