When Slim Shady's "Aftermath" label starts dropping motherfuckers, where the fuck is you be at? Everyone start getting that new fear like all of our judgement day dreams coming true. When the day of reckoning comes through, I hope Mr. Dr. Dre is present-- I want him to be Pestilence. I do.
Because when and if he is, he will present an award that only lovers know-- the fuck you crackaz award for heterogenous lovemaking. Yep, and we will all live in heaven where there are nothing but motherfuckers at awards shows and network executives rating our rarity in the face of adversity.
Imagine, in fact, if you will, or won't, or have already, a world, a particular slice of heaven, that afterlife type shit, where there are, or were, or have been, or will have been already, a gaggle, or cuckold, a veritable cornucopia, of executive types, heard?, that knew--knew!-- that you weren't particularly zealous, much less overzealous, when you baked, or broiled, or what have you, that last, that very last, ziti. I imagine that. It pleasures me to know that when God pushes the DESTROY YOU AND E'ERYONE IN HERRE button, Sheryl Crow will get ridden the fuck on by mad n----s with fully automatic motherfucking plagues.
LANCE ARMSTRONG BE REDEEMED! Oh shit-- I'm in love with that. I am saved.
Holla back at'cha man, God. Those chains make me SWEAT, son. Grind that battle axe into the backs of the priveledged and unpriveledged sons of failure. Context be damned, 'cause I'm feeling you right now. Drestilence in the motherfuckin' heez, kid. That new new heat. No beefin', cats is smashin' headz over that new collabo with the archangel LudaChrist.