Information on the RapperEdit
Here's an eight-part melody of hate, you cardboard-cutout brat: Abort your efforts like the spawn of your Satanic Rankin/Bass, For I ain't cynical in saying that all I hear from you is crap; If thunder's what you're spitting, you can call these raps my Franklin Badge! A bigger pain inside your ass than a visit from aliens, So shut your mouth before I open it like a Canadian's! Make Minchmeat out of me? You're Andonuts if you think you could manage, So buzz off, lest you be bitch-smacked with a "SMAAAASH!" for mortal damage!
You're full of Poo, and no prince, either; more akin to Mr. Hankey. Wrecking you rivals your mother, it's so easy; spanky-spanky! I've rolled with blue-power groups, but they at least didn't worship Hitler! You resent being labelled "fat", yet truly, your bone couldn't be littler.
Well, let's be honest: we're both corpulent, cruel creeps. Indeed, this match Is like the Special Olympics: in either race, you finish last, And you owe more to status quo than any boy band's debts, you freak; Got the Ass-Burgers beaten out you by a girl, you're so damn weak! Moonside's the only place I'd answer your dictations with a "yes"; I'm flowing with mach-speed delivery: Escargo Express-esque, And that two-hundredth episode got screwed by Islamistic pressure, But your fat face is the blasphemy they really ought to censor!
You put on a less appealing act than Butters' wack tap dancing; Only half-ginger, yet of a soul, you haven't any fraction! That'll make it all the easier to leave naught of you remaining, When I send your mind and body into Mu, and not as training!
You lived through getting thrown beneath the bus, but listen here, M'kay: You'll be gone sooner than a hundred bucks in the investment fray! You wanna Brawl with Porky? Better be prepared for consequences, For I need no Mr. Saturn to break right through your defenses…
Behold: I'm sporting heavy arms to heavy metal, With an evil power on my side, though not your faggot devil. Welcome to the womb of woe, wherein awaits your final fight; You can consider yourself dead, and it's too late to make it right!
Boy, I'll drop you as hard as your own lame league! Props, though, on those garments: The costume's spot-on; looks just as if you found it in the garbage. Not-so-devious raccoon-ass; you should take a page from Sly, Because I mean business for realsies, and I'm not your buddy, guy!