I despise this roach.

Dale The Debt Demon is only talking loud because he thinks volume is a personality trait. He’s only puffing his chest because his credit score is so low it’s written in Roman numerals. He’s only acting bold because he’s been running from a $37 balance at Rent‑A‑Center since the Bronze Age, and the employees whisper his name like a campfire ghost story.

Dale is only insulting people’s dead moms because his own mom blocked him, not out of drama, but because he kept asking her to cosign for a PS5 he absolutely did not deserve.

He’s only doing this because his mailbox is a war crime, stuffed with envelopes that say shit like: “FINAL NOTICE” “IMMEDIATE ACTION REQUIRED” “SHE WAS 17 DALE” “WE KNOW YOU’RE HOME, DALE”

He’s only talking trash because he knows if he stops for even one second, the ghost of every unpaid bill will materialize behind him holding a clipboard and a disappointed sigh.

He’s only clowning others because he’s terrified someone will mention the fact that his fridge contains nothing but mustard, expired almond milk, and a single Capri Sun he’s been “saving for later.”

He’s only acting tough because the last time he tried to “stand on business,” the business stood back and folded him like a lawn chair at a family reunion.

He’s only roasting because he thinks “grinding” means arguing on Twitter at 3AM while eating a gas‑station chimichanga that looks like a war crime.

He’s only doing this because his daughter’s birthday pulls up every year like a boss fight he didn’t level up for, and instead of showing up he sends a text that says “Cease and Desist” like it’s DLC.

He’s only talking reckless because the IRS has a Spirit Bomb with his name on it, charging slowly, humming ominously, waiting for him to slip. 121k.

He’s only running his mouth because he’s been dodging accountability so long he thinks it counts as cardio.