You will never be a real scout. You have no bat, you have no scattergun, you have no speed. You are a fat fat fat man twisted by his minigun and mindly into fat man who yells ra-ta-ta-ta-ta-ta-yet-tu-ra-bo-da when firing his minigun.
All the “medics” you get is two-faced and second-opinion. Behind your back spy stabbing you. Your sandwich is disgusting and ashamed of you, your “bullets” laugh at your ghoulish language behind dead body of enemy soldier.
Sniper mains are utterly repulsed by you. Thousands of years of evolution have allowed snipers to headshot out heavies with incredible efficiency. Even spies who “stabs and die” are killing you and not die uncanny. Your bone structure is a dead fat giveaway. And even if you manage to get a drunk demoman home with you, he’ll throw pipebomb and dynamite at you the second he gets a whiff of you, infected by sandwich fat fuck.
You will never get PHD at literature. You wrench out a fake PHD every single morning and tell everyone that you not stupid, but actually smart, but deep inside you feel very stupiud, creeping up like a dead pyro, ready to crush you under the unbearable weight.
Eventually it’ll be too much to bear - you’ll buy a fists of steel, but a new cosmetic, put it on your head, and plunge into the cold abyss of stupid heavvy loadouts. Your medic will find you, not surprised but relieved that he no longer have to heal you with the unbearable shame and disappointment. He’ll bury you with a headstone marked with your fake PHD, and every passerby for the rest of eternity will know a heavy is buried there. Your body will decay and go back to the dust, and all that will remain of your legacy is a skeleton that is unmistakably fat fuck.
This is your fate. This is what you chose. There is no turning back, heavy main.
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will the real scout shady please stand up?
You will never be a real scout. You have no bat, you have no scattergun, you have no speed. You are a fat fat fat man twisted by his minigun and mindly into fat man who yells ra-ta-ta-ta-ta-ta-yet-tu-ra-bo-da when firing his minigun. All the “medics” you get is two-faced and second-opinion. Behind your back spy stabbing you. Your sandwich is disgusting and ashamed of you, your “bullets” laugh at your ghoulish language behind dead body of enemy soldier. Sniper mains are utterly repulsed by you. Thousands of years of evolution have allowed snipers to headshot out heavies with incredible efficiency. Even spies who “stabs and die” are killing you and not die uncanny. Your bone structure is a dead fat giveaway. And even if you manage to get a drunk demoman home with you, he’ll throw pipebomb and dynamite at you the second he gets a whiff of you, infected by sandwich fat fuck. You will never get PHD at literature. You wrench out a fake PHD every single morning and tell everyone that you not stupid, but actually smart, but deep inside you feel very stupiud, creeping up like a dead pyro, ready to crush you under the unbearable weight. Eventually it’ll be too much to bear - you’ll buy a fists of steel, but a new cosmetic, put it on your head, and plunge into the cold abyss of stupid heavvy loadouts. Your medic will find you, not surprised but relieved that he no longer have to heal you with the unbearable shame and disappointment. He’ll bury you with a headstone marked with your fake PHD, and every passerby for the rest of eternity will know a heavy is buried there. Your body will decay and go back to the dust, and all that will remain of your legacy is a skeleton that is unmistakably fat fuck. This is your fate. This is what you chose. There is no turning back, heavy main.