"Allow me… to enlighten your simple, performative, clout-chasin’ asses… with some cold, hard fuckin’ truth."

"You call yourselves the Newport Run Club."
"But from where I’m standin’… that shit’s false advertising. Ain’t nobody RUNNIN’ in that goddamn cult."

"You motherfuckers take ten baby-ass steps, stop, flip your iPhone to selfie mode, and strike a pose like you just outran a goddamn grizzly bear."
"You ain’t runners. You’re content creators with mild shin splints."
"You burn more energy filterin’ your Instagram post than you do movin’ your sorry-ass legs."

"And THEN — oh, this is my favorite part — y’all high-step your Lululemon-wrapped asses straight into a bar, like you just did somethin’ worth celebratin’."
"You act like you just came back from war… and what do you order?"

"You look the bartender in the eyes… and you say: ‘Water me bro.’"

"Motherfucker… WHAT?!"
"You got the audacity to step into a bar — a holy place of vice, of sorrow, of fuckin’ grown-ass human behavior — and you order a goddamn glass of TAP WATER like that shit is a flex?!"

"‘Water me bro’ sounds like some shit a houseplant would say while dyin’ in a dorm room."

"You insult the bar. You insult the bartender. And worse — you insult the entire concept of effort."

"You call that ‘community?’ No. That’s a fuckin’ cult of clout vampires in matching hats and baby shorts."
"Same poses. Same buzzwords. Same empty-ass dopamine drip y’all confuse for purpose."

"And the RUNNING? Bitch, please. Half y’all couldn’t outrun a drunk raccoon."
"You wouldn’t survive a single block in South Central, let alone a real goddamn race."
"I’ve seen toddlers with better cardio and criminals with more discipline."

"See, I come from a different school. A school of real sweat. Real grit. The kind you EARN with pain, not presets."

"So next time you wanna ‘hydrate’ after your quarter-mile clout parade, don’t come near me. Don’t come near my bar. Don’t even look at my whiskey."

"Because if I hear ‘Water me bro’ again — I swear on everything holy — I will baptize your influencer ass in a barrel of bourbon and send you straight to the Church of Shut the Fuck Up."

"Now go on."
"Take your filtered bullshit and jog your way back to irrelevance."

"And hey… be fuckin’ nice."
"But don’t test me."
"‘Cause if I run into you again, and you ain’t got a drink in your hand or sweat on your face… I will strike down upon thee… with great vengeance and furious goddamn anger.

"Allow me… to enlighten your simple, performative, clout-chasin’ asses… with some cold, hard fuckin’ truth."

"You call yourselves the Newport Run Club."
"But from where I’m standin’… that shit’s false advertising. Ain’t nobody RUNNIN’ in that goddamn cult."

"You motherfuckers take ten baby-ass steps, stop, flip your iPhone to selfie mode, and strike a pose like you just outran a goddamn grizzly bear."
"You ain’t runners. You’re content creators with mild shin splints."
"You burn more energy filterin’ your Instagram post than you do movin’ your sorry-ass legs."

"And THEN — oh, this is my favorite part — y’all high-step your Lululemon-wrapped asses straight into a bar, like you just did somethin’ worth celebratin’."
"You act like you just came back from war… and what do you order?"

"You look the bartender in the eyes… and you say: ‘Water me bro.’"

"Motherfucker… WHAT?!"
"You got the audacity to step into a bar — a holy place of vice, of sorrow, of fuckin’ grown-ass human behavior — and you order a goddamn glass of TAP WATER like that shit is a flex?!"

"‘Water me bro’ sounds like some shit a houseplant would say while dyin’ in a dorm room."

"You insult the bar. You insult the bartender. And worse — you insult the entire concept of effort."

"You call that ‘community?’ No. That’s a fuckin’ cult of clout vampires in matching hats and baby shorts."
"Same poses. Same buzzwords. Same empty-ass dopamine drip y’all confuse for purpose."

"And the RUNNING? Bitch, please. Half y’all couldn’t outrun a drunk raccoon."
"You wouldn’t survive a single block in South Central, let alone a real goddamn race."
"I’ve seen toddlers with better cardio and criminals with more discipline."

"See, I come from a different school. A school of real sweat. Real grit. The kind you EARN with pain, not presets."

"So next time you wanna ‘hydrate’ after your quarter-mile clout parade, don’t come near me. Don’t come near my bar. Don’t even look at my whiskey."

"Because if I hear ‘Water me bro’ again — I swear on everything holy — I will baptize your influencer ass in a barrel of bourbon and send you straight to the Church of Shut the Fuck Up."

"Now go on."
"Take your filtered bullshit and jog your way back to irrelevance."

"And hey… be fuckin’ nice."
"But don’t test me."
"‘Cause if I run into you again, and you ain’t got a drink in your hand or sweat on your face… I will strike down upon thee… with great vengeance and furious goddamn anger."

Alright, lemme tell you somethin’ about this so-called Newport Run Club. A RUN club, right? You’d think these dumb motherfuckers would actually RUN.

NOPE. These clout-chasin’, tight-shirt-wearin’ motherfuckers jog about ten fuckin’ steps, then stop to take selfies. ‘Look at me, I’m so fuckin’ fit!’
Bitch, you just burned five fuckin’ calories standin’ there posin’!

Then these fake-ass athletes waltz their sweaty, poser asses into the nearest bar, actin’ like they just finished a fuckin’ Ironman…
And what do they order?!
‘WATER ME BRO!’
MotherFUCKER, WHAT?! WATER?!
You yell ‘Water me bro’ in a bar — somebody oughta pour that shit right over your dumb fuckin’ head.

And this whole ‘community’ bullshit? It ain’t no community — it’s a goddamn influencer circle jerk.
Same hats, same corny-ass captions, same fake smiles plastered all over Instagram.

And runnin’? Please. These motherfuckers couldn’t outrun a fuckin’ drunk toddler.

So fuck the Newport Run Club. Fuck your $300 shoes. Fuck your Water me bro bullshit.

And most of all — be fuckin’ nice. But if you come in yellin’ ‘Water me, bro!’ — SHUT THE FUCK UP and get the fuck out.

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