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Broken

Most days, I fool myself into believing that I’m above the emotion of it all. Most days, I walk around feeling that I’m psychologically invulnerable. Most days, I repress the horrific stuff that I see.

Some days, I can’t.

Some days, the façade cracks off, and I sit here, alone, not knowing how to deal with it. Some days, I get a glance at how miserable and horrible and motherfucking cruel life can be, and it corrodes my heart.

Goddamn it.

Earlier today, I sat next to a teenaged girl, a pretty girl, a bright girl. You’d look at her, and you’d envy the life she has in front of her. You’d envy what she’ll accomplish. You’d look at her, and you’d fall prey to the illusion of her feigned happiness.

You’d look at her, and you’d have not a fucking clue that, a few days ago, she ate two bottles of pills, hoping that it would crush the life you think you envy.

She’d have eaten more, if she’d had more, but she didn’t. Still, she figured it would be enough. In that moment, the culmination of years of depression and adolescent angst and teenaged cruelty and parental indifference, she figured it would be enough. But it wasn’t.

She woke up the next morning, and it wasn’t enough. And she was surprised. And she was angry.

She was angry, angry because she woke up. Angry, because the pills hadn’t killed her. Angry, because she was still here, a miserable fucking failure. And she felt that way today, as I sat there, three feet away, expressionless.

Because I’m the professional.

Because I have to keep it together when everyone else is falling apart.

And I do. Because I’m professional. And because I can. But goddamn it, some days, this shit destroys me.

I just kept thinking about how broken she was. She sat there, expressionless, both of us expressionless, and told me about how her life had imploded. It hadn’t, really, not from a literal perspective, but really, her perception is the only reality that matters.

Her reality is the only one that mattered, when she ate those pills, and woke up, angry to be alive.

She sat there, calmly, and talked to me about the rumors at school. The unfounded rumors, being known as a whore, as a druggy, as a drunk. She’s never touched a drop of alcohol. She’s never been around drugs. She’s never been sexually active. But who gives a fuck? The kids in her school don’t. That’s what they hear, and that’s what they think, so that’s what they tell her. Because, to her, their perception is the reality. Their perception is the only reality that matters.

And because she lives in a small town, a hick town, a town where some little adolescent cunt can spread rumors about an innocent girl and make the whole school think those rumors are true, she has no hope. She has no future. She has no escape.

Her life is broken. And I saw that, I saw that, carved into her face, as she sat there, expressionless, and talked to me about how badly she wanted to be dead.

Of course, because I’m the professional, I get to be the strong one. Because I can hold it together in the face of absolute and complete misery, I get to be the one to share the news. Because I can sit there, expressionless, I get to be the one to share the news.

I get to be the one to tell the mother of a 15 year old girl, and my daughter will be 15 much quicker than I’ll be able to prevent, I get to be the one to tell the mother of a 15 year old girl that her daughter, with all of her hopes and dreams and desires, wants nothing more than to be dead.

And I sat there, expressionless, and watched as my words sucked the life out of a mother. I watched a mother, who’d previously thought herself a strong woman, stunned. I watched a woman, a mother, destroyed, in front of my eyes. And, because I’m the professional, I’m the one that needed to destroy her. It wasn’t me, really, but for this mother, it was. And, for this mother, her perception is the only reality that matters.

Motherfuck me, I wish I was just writing this as some dramatic exercise. I wish I didn’t see what I saw today, what I see every day. I wish I didn’t have the fear, the soul crushing terror, that my daughter, my beautiful, amazing daughter, might someday have to face this. I wish I didn’t have the fear that my daughter, who has the entire universe at her fingertips, might someday think that her only solution lies in as many pills as she can cram down her throat.

I wish I didn’t fear being that parent, having my heart shredded as someone sits across from me, expressionless, telling me that my daughter wants to be dead. I wish I didn’t have the realization that life is cruel, and that control is a farce, and that after all of our efforts, all we can do is roll the dice and hope for the best.

I wish I didn’t, but I do. And tomorrow, I’ll go to work. At some point, I’ll sit there, expressionless, and keep my shit together, because I have to, and because I can. Please, for fuck’s sake, do not take any of this as a joke. Please, don’t take the time you have with your kids for granted.

Please.

Please.

….all the normal rules apply.”

Trust me: you will learn to love this phrase.

Back in the day, my buddy and I came up with an amusing game to pass the time, an exercise combining psychology, philosophy and straight up immaturity. The concept is simple. You’re locked in a room with two people. You have to have sex with one of them. Which do you pick, and why?

There are a few simple rules, all of which apply, all the time.

1.  Saying “both” or “neither” is not acceptable. Under the rules, which are inflexibly carved into granite, you have to have sex with one of them. If you don’t, you and everyone close to you will be struck by lightning immediately and die grisly, ash filled deaths. While he didn’t invent the game, God is with me on this one, and will not hesitate to smite the motherfucker who attempts to break this rule.

2.  No-disease clause–even if the person in question is known to have ten different STDs and an active case of dysentery, you are fully immune.

3.  Most importantly, you absolutely have to provide the rationale for your choice.

It works much better if you pick non-obvious contestants. Sure, you can pick between George Clooney and Brad Pitt, or maybe Jennifer Aniston and Angelina Jolie, but really, where’s the fun in that? It’s far more interesting to debate the merits of having to pick between two people about whom you likely won’t have masturbatory fantasies.

Example: “RADventures, you’re in a room. All the normal rules apply. Mitt Romney or Rick Santorum?”

An interesting dilemma, as each definitely has their merits. Mitt Romney is ridiculously wealthy and has great hair. He also appeals to my desire to bag me some Mormon tail. However, I have to give the edge to Rick Santorum, primarily because of his rampant homophobia. We all know that the most pronounced homophobes are thinly-veiled, one-step-out-of-the-closet-homosexuals. Since Rick Santorum clearly knows his way around a blow job, I’m picking him. Oh, and won’t it be fun to brag to everyone about how you got an actual sample of Santorum, straight from the source himself? No contest: Santorum all the way.

Men, women, animals, inanimate objects, real folks, cartoon characters, alive, dead….nothing is off limits. Well, except for the one time I started the game with a loved one, only to find her horrified when I asked her to pick between her father and her mother. She never did answer. Rulebreaker.

So that’s the game. I give you the choices. You respond in the comments with the rationale for your choice clearly laid out. And, just to get things started, I’ll give you three sets of choices. Pick from any or all of them.

You’re in a room. All the normal rules apply.

—Madonna or Demi Moore, neither wearing makeup or with recent access to plastic surgery/Botox?

—Tim Tebow or Jesus Christ?

—Snoopy or Garfield?

Happy Monday.

You think you’re a tough guy. You may bench press 500 pounds. Perhaps you’re a ninja, fileting a person with throwing stars while simultaneously firing lightning bolts out of your ass. It doesn’t matter.

Because, really, when it comes to dealing with the pair of determined Mormons knocking at your door, you’re just as much of a coward as I am.

Join our church, sinner.

If you’re being honest, you’ll admit that you handle your biannual Mormon visits the same way I do: you hide, army crawling into the basement and locking yourself in the safe room for 5 or 6 hours until the coast is clear. There is no shame in this, even if you soil yourself as you wait for them to leave. It’s the only logical response.

Unfortunately, as I recently discovered, your avoidance is futile. If they don’t convert you while you’re living, they’ll catch up with you in the afterlife. There is no escape. They will find you. Ladies and gentleman, I give you the Mormon Church, proudly baptizing dead people for generations.

I guess there’s some loophole in the Bible that allows Mormons to baptize people post mortem. To a Mormon trying to boost his recruitment numbers, Dead Mormon Baptism (DMB) is a useful discovery. Back in the day, you’d knock on fifty doors, getting a single person to agree to a follow up visit. The next week, you’d return to find that he’s burned his home to the ground and fled the country to avoid detection. Now, you just need to find a willing volunteer over the age of twelve to serve as a proxy for the dead person in question, and BAP! You’ve just been DMB’d!

Let’s say that you really dug the show Diff’rent Strokes as a kid. You think, “That Arnold kid was soooooooooo hilarious. He was sooooooooo cute, always trying to figure out what Willis was talking about. He should totally be Mormon.” You find a volunteer, drive them to the nearest Temple, and baptize them in the name of Arnold. On this planet, the volunteer towels off and goes home. In the afterlife, BAP! Gary Coleman, you’ve just been DMB’d!

Wha'choo talkin' bout, Mitt Romney?

You don’t have to have any previous ties to the Mormon faith to be DMB’d, and in doing my research, I found an eclectic mix of dead Mormons. George Carlin? Replace those seven dirty words with seven divine ones, “Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.” BAP! You’ve just been DMB’d. Pope John Paul II? Sorry about that eighty years of celibacy, homie, you’ve just been DMB’d. Rapper Eazy-E? He’s spitting rhymes in the afterlife with his new group, M.W.A.: Mormonz Wit Attitudes, courtesy of DMB.

They’ve been particularly enthusiastic about DMB’ing the Jews. After all, what better way to demonstrate your sensitivity to the horrors of the Holocaust than by performing DMBs on thousands of its victims?

Well intentioned Mormon: “Mr. Schindler, do you mind if I make a copy of your list? From where I’m sitting, I see a pretty hefty batch of future DMBs.”

Schindler: “You’re a monster.”

Mormon, smiling widely: “Don’t worry, don’t worry….we’ll get you, too. It’s kind of like Jello: there’s always room for more DMB!”

Surprisingly, this has generated some controversy. You’ll be tickled to learn that, alongside legions of Jewish folks, a certain evil, closeted homosexual with a tacky mustache has also become a corpse Mormon. Adolf Hitler? I’ve got your master race right here–you’ve just been DMB’d!” I’m no theological expert, but I’m pretty sure if you’re trying to expand your appeal to people of Jewish faith, inviting Hitler to be a part of your polygamous fraternity may not be the best P.R. move. Just sayin’.

I mean, isn’t that a tad awkward? Imagine Anne Frank (another proud DMB’er), having a latte at her local DMBbucks, when in walks Hitler, ordering a Venti Caramel Macchiato with four Splendas and vegan milk. I have to think this has the potential for some animosity.

Anne Frank: “Motherfucker, I spent two years in an attic because of you. The only reason I got caught in the first place was because of those fucking Mormons, knocking on the attic door and leaving their pamphlets on the Welcome mat. I looked out to see who was there, and a few of those Aryan assholes saw me. I should kick your ass right now, DMB or no DMB.”

Hitler: “My bad. Can I get you a biscotti? The almond one is delish.”

Come to think of it, I’m starting to get pissed thinking about this. Twelve years of Catholic education? No longer relevant. Attendance at countless Sunday masses hung over like you read about? Needless suffering. Living my entire life believing that every time I masturbate, God kills a puppy? The guilt I’ve carried about this for decades, all for naught.

On a positive note, fellow sufferers, feel free to indulge in those things you gave up for Lent this year. Drink a keg of beer, eat an entire pig on Friday, and engage in random acts of sodomy. Who cares? Since the DMB is apparently your Get Out of Jail Free card, you may as well get your fill. Cheers.

Future Mormons.

P.S. To any random Mormon who stumbles across this, relax. Take the joke, I’m just fucking around (mostly). Besides, after that shit you pulled with gay marriage in CA, you kind of had it coming, don’tcha think? BAP! You’ve just been RADventured! Peace.

Not long ago, a pleasant gentleman gingerly stepped into my place of business. He announced his presence at the front desk, and then promptly requested assistance removing the bottle he’d accidentally stuffed up his own ass.

Yep, you read that correctly.  This avid environmentalist chugged a beer and then recycled the empty into his holiest-of-holy-holes. He even went for the gusto on this one, as he planted it fat end first. Yowza.

Feel free to take a moment to adjust uncomfortably in your seat while you ponder that image, forever seared into your skull. That’s awesome.

You’ll forgive me if I’ve been a bit distracted. If you walked around every day with that memory, and a thousand others like it, you might have some initial challenges in refocusing, too.

Fuck it, though. Life is good. Life is fucking absurd, but it’s good.

Can you imagine the expression on the dude’s face, a millisecond after he realized he’d lost the bottle up his colon? The thought, “Ohhhhh, dude….this is tragically bad right now.”

How would I explain that to Mary, exactly?

Mary: “Hey, I couldn’t help but notice this hospital bill for emergency rectal surgery. Something you need to share?”

Roy: “Not enough roughage in my diet, apparently.”

Mary: “Wait…this note says you had a bottle jammed up your ass…WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT?”

Roy: “I love you, baby. We’ll get through this.”

I’ll be hollering back soon.

It’s time to rip shit up.

 

 

 

Alexander the Great

A few months ago, I attended a Catholic wake.

As is customary at these events, I walked past a line of family members of the deceased. One by one, I offered my sincerest condolences, stopping at the head of the line to hug the parents of the person that died too soon. I wanted to say something, anything, that might provide them some measure of comfort in their time of grief. Of course, the only thing I could offer was, “I’m so sorry for your loss.”

Because, really…what do you say to the couple who have just lost their son after a lengthy, excruciating battle with cancer?

What do you say when you look inside the open casket, and see the body of a 20-month-old boy?

Of course, all you can really say is, “I’m so sorry,” and then shut the fuck up, silently mourning their loss and despairing for the patent lack of fairness when two wonderful people lose their only child.

And then, when the dust settles, you emerge with a determination to do something, anything, to help.

This weekend, my oldest and closest friend, Brian, is riding in the Pan-Mass Challenge. Every year for the last bunch of years, he’s trained for months, riding hundreds and hundreds of miles to prepare himself for the PMC, which raises money to fight cancer. Each rider races for a particular individual or set of individuals who have been stricken down by this plague.

This year, Brian is racing for a number of children, including the 20-month-old boy I last saw a few months ago. This boy’s name is Alexander Whipple, also known by his happy moniker, Alexander the Great.

Alexander’s mom, Nancy, has set up a blog of her own, The Cookie Gal. Check it out, as she has some good ideas how to donate money and/or time for a number of causes, particularly for the eradication of cancer.

I don’t ride a bike, and I’m not adept at fundraising. However, I do have a voice, and I can use that voice to bring attention to those cause which merit your collective efforts. If you have the means, consider donating to the PMC or comparable charities. If money is tight, consider donating blood platelets. Sure, you’re afraid of needles, but get the fuck over it. Maybe it will be my kid that needs these platelets at some point.

Maybe it will be yours.

Most of the time, this blog is my escape. It’s a place where I can focus on life’s absurdities, and more importantly, it’s a place where I can laugh. This is the first time I’ve used it as a bully pulpit to remind people, including myself, that the slightest gesture by many can make an enormous difference for the better. This is the first time I’ve elected to be a cheerleader for a cause like this.

It won’t be the last.

Much love to all, and to Alexander the Great, sleep well, little man.

Recently, my buddy Chris asked me out on a man-date. I graciously accepted. Is Roy celebrating a mid-life crisis by hurtling out of the closet and embracing his inner diva princess?

Sorry to disappoint, but it’s nothing that salacious. We’re going to head out fishing. Aquatic wildlife shall be slain. Beer will be consumed. At some point, flatulence will enter the fray. You call this grunt fest two Neanderthals getting back to their prehistoric roots, before the whole “walking upright” thing came into vogue.

I call it the early stages of a bromance.

Fellas, you may be thinking, “Gosh, I’d like to start me one of these new-fangled bromances, but I have no idea where to begin.” Luckily for you, I have some answers.

STEP ONE: Meet another dude in a non-threatening environment, preferably one in which some of your manly tendencies are on display.

Work is a good starting place for most.  A few well-timed comments about sports, anecdotes about a bachelor party you once attended, or a hushed tone as you implore your male colleague to check out the rack on that hot 22-year-old temp….all of these are effective icebreakers at the onset of your bromance.

If your workplace suffers from a testosterone deficit (as mine did over the past six years), all is not lost. Family activities are equally acceptable, particularly if said activity is something that your average fellow wouldn’t otherwise consider if family wasn’t present.

In my case, this activity was regular attendance at my daughter’s dance class. Imagine, a beautiful Saturday morning. Two dozen little girls (and one little dude) displaying their dancing prowess by jumping up and down on a wooden floor while wearing extraordinarily loud tap shoes. It’s like they have little anvils in the heels of their shoes, each step resulting in shattered windows and ultimately forming the epicenter of a mid-level earthquake.

Not fun, especially if you’ve had a lively Friday evening. Word to the wise: do not attend an early morning dance class if you are ragingly hungover.  However, your problems will dissipate as you look around and realize, “Hey…that dude looks in even worse shape than I am. Perhaps I’ll go over and commiserate.”

Without any real effort, your simple query, “Hey man…rough night, huh?” will result in a slight nod, an even slighter smile, and the thought, “Hey, this guy seems cool enough.”  The seeds of a bromance are planted.

STEP TWO: Attend a group outing with your prospective bromancee.

After some innocuous interactions at the original meeting place, it’s time to see how things go in another environment. It’s too early for a full-fledged man date, because really, you barely know the dude. He seems cool enough, but maybe he’s just sizing you up, contemplating the time when he will brutally slaughter you and your entire family with an axe. Mom didn’t raise a fool, so you want to explore a group outing, preferably in a public place. Safety is maintained, and with a family activity, you always have an out if things suck.

Example One: “Hey dude, we’re having a great time, but I’m pretty sure Olivia is allergic to playground equipment. We need to go before she swells up like an old-style zeppelin. Did you see what happened to the Hindenburg? Not pretty.”

Example Two: “Hey dude, I’m having a great time, but Mary’s in a pissy mood, so we’re going to have to split. Women. Probably a bit of the PMS in action.”

Child health and the wrath of hormonal, tempestuous spouses: two Get Out of Jail Free cards, redeemable at any uncomfortable group setting.

With any luck, you’ll have a few hours to determine the character and motivation of the prospective bromancee. If he’s an obvious douche, you’ll suddenly find yourself unable to attend the next family gathering, either because of “last minute work stuff” or because “I think Olivia may have given me leprosy.” You do that a few times, he’ll get the message.

If he’s cool, then you’re ready for the next step.

STEP THREE: Someone delicately broaches the subject of the man-date.

This is the most difficult part of the process, in my estimation. The man-date must be approached in a precise manner, and certain topics need to be clarified right up front.  If you ask a dude on a man-date, there are three possible outcomes:

1.  He thinks you’re a cool dude, was contemplating asking about the man-date himself, and happily accepts;

2.  He’s homophobic, interprets your request for a man-date as an invitation for a blow job, and immediately runs you down with his truck;

3.  He secretly digs dudes, believes you share his romantic preferences, and suggests watching Brokeback Mountain at his home theater while your respective wives and children are out of town. You’re forced to decline, citing a rare medical condition which renders you unable to watch movies, as the moving pictures cause you to have Grand Mal seizures.

Here’s an actual example of the dialogue leading up to my impending man-date, quoted directly from our Facebook messages.

“Now the serious shit – I see you hike or have hiked at one point…. I love hiking with people that do not complain……for some reason (my wife and daughter) feel I have strategically designed the trails and such to fuck with their hiking capabilities thus wearing them out! God I am such a dick for that, right…I am down for a hiking trip! I guess this is my way of asking you out on a non-gay date….huh-huh-huh…..see back to girls they have it easy….going to the movies or some shit is easy and even if it had gay tendencies that is considered “fucking sweet” (most times). So yeah….hangin’ out totally cool. Even if you both want to come over some night and chill that’s fine.  Let me know….”

Let’s highlight some elements of Chris’s message. He references hiking, pitching it as a manly activity that is strenuous but nothing too daunting, like running an Ironman Triathlon. He emphasizes the manliness by noting the challenges of hiking with his wife and daughter. He uses the word “date” but qualifies it as “non-gay” to assuage any homophobic concerns I might have.  He offers the alternative of hanging out at his place, adding that I am free to bring my wife to ensure the non-sexual nature of his request. Either that, or he’s grooming us to join a swinger’s club. Regardless, he’s covered his bases nicely.

My response:

“As far as the man-date, fuck yes, yes let’s make this happen. I’ve run into the same problem with hiking….I’m apparently an inconsiderate fuckwad with the audacity of having a longer stride than Mary. So, even when we’re walking at the same pace, I gradually start to drift ahead, not even knowing. This, of course, is typically perceived by Mary as proof that I don’t love her and have no interest in being with her. One day we’ll chat about the hike I took with Mary at Yosemite National Park, a place of wondrous beauty which I saw less of because we were screaming at each other. I love my wife, Chris, I truly do, but…you understand.”

I voice my approval, and am quick to point out that I, too, have experienced spousal stress while hiking. Bonding over the shared annoyance our spouses display toward us is an effective building block for a bromance. I emphasize my love for my wife, not only to be a good guy, but to affirm my heterosexuality as well. If you’re going to be hiking a remote trail with some dude, he’ll be comforted to know you’re not spending the entire time daydreaming about his junk.

I continue:

What’s cool, too, is that Mary will be so happy I have a friend to hang out, I’ll be able to get away with more than usual. (Our wives) will think it’s both cute and adorable that we’re hanging out, and will view us spending time together the same way they view (our daughters) having a play date. 

His response:

“Woman are great they treat us like little children when we are married.  So I get the comparison to (our daughters playing)! That’s cool it will make the “gay tendencies of a man-date” just that much more easy to swallow! 

In this exchange, we have both regressed further into adolescence. We’re going to hang out, and relish being able to get away with even more boorish behavior than usual because our wives will find it cute.  We also have to reiterate that this is in no way to be considered a romantic date.

And then I fire the big guns with my final, multi-tiered response:

I really dig Freudian slips. Like, when a dude writes, “It will make the gay tendencies of a man-date just that much more easy to swallow.” Typically, my man-dates don’t involve swallowing until the third date. If you’re looking for anything more than some heavy petting on the first date, we’re probably going to have to slow things down.

Gay innuendos aside (and really, what’s gayer than the word “innuendo?” “Hey, where are you trying to stick that thing?” “Well gosh, I was trying to stick in you end, oh?”) I really dig fishing, and have some gear. I don’t go out nearly enough, don’t even have a license for NH, but would be stoked to get out there to drop a line. Fishing is one of best activities in existence…it’s an activity, so you’re doing something, but it’s low key and stress free, so that even if you didn’t catch shit, hey, you can claim you did something that day and feel great about yourself.

First, I have to show off some semblance of intelligence by mentioning Freud. Next, I get crass, which impresses most dudes. I affirm my love for fishing, a manly and primal activity. Finally, I wax poetic with my philosophical ruminations about fishing. I’ve represented myself well in all spheres of importance here.

We wrap things up by exchanging cell phone numbers, primarily so we can say things like, “Hey, hit me up on my cell when you want to hit the dusty trail. We’ll grab some brews, let the broads do their thing and get our chill on.”

Every so often, a blog comment is so stellar, it deserves its own place at the head of the line. Social Assassin, it’s time to be recognized.

A few months ago, on a beer-fueled whim, I wrote a post in which I openly waged lyrical beef against William Shakespeare. Admittedly, it was a preposterous concept, but I had fun with it. I even filmed a video, with my man DJ Randy Boyer providing the original beats.

In the States, making fun of the Bard is just harmless tomfoolery. In the UK, you can slaughter an entire village of orphaned amputees and get off with a stern warning, but mocking William Shakespeare is a capital offense. A few days after the original post, I received a comment from a friend of mine in the Isle of Wight, England.

His name is Kevin Crews. He calls himself the Social Assassin. And his comment is the best of any I’ve received on this blog.

Well sit back, relax, chill out and unwind,
The Assassin is back with an axe to grind,
So step off, you don’t want what’s about to take place here,
Throwing down to defend my homie Will Shakespeare,
Who’s come under attack from some punk-ass player,
Who seems to think that it’s perfectly fair,
To savage his skills and deride his prose,
And mock the way ‘Old Will’ delivers his flows,
A pretty cheap shot from an amateur scribbler,
With the lyrical content of a two-year-old dribbler,
Picking Shakespeare as your target struck me as odd,
That’s like Vanilla Ice trying to hot-box with God,
‘Cause let me make this plain and it’s just how it goes,
Will can fuck up his critics and still chill with the ho’s,
When it comes to scoring poontang Will’s no freakin’ amateur,
Drives the women wild with his Iambic Pentameter,
They line up round the block seeking Big Willy’s pleasure,
And he gives every one of them ‘Measure for Measure’,
He’s most flash with the cash, dressed in svelte finery,
With his quill on the left side to keep his pimp hand free,
Covered in glory and swimming in riches,
Even Queen Elizabeth I used to be one of his bitches,
She singled him out for royal patronage and attention,
And he paid her back in ways that a gent does not mention,
He beat both Wordsworth and Byron at a tavern rap battle,
Firing off rhyming couplets to make the alehouse rattle,
Some playwrights tried to diss him while he was well on it,
But he mowed those playa’s down with a drive-by sonnet,
In ‘The Tempest’ of his lyrics others writers quail in terror,
Your whole attack on Will was ‘A Comedy of Errors’,
You need the witches from Hamlet to come ferry you,
To the lyrical cemetery where ya’ momma gonna bury you,
How are we supposed to take you seriously, I ask,
RADventures and your pansy little fluffy pink mask,
That you borrowed from Puck in Midsummer’s Night Dream,
(The later abridged and edited homosexual scene),
The author of the legendary ‘Julius Caesar’,
Makes your rap sound like Will Smith in the middle of a seizure,
Show my homie Will a target, you know he’s gonna whack it,
Whilst your rhymes sound like they came from a cereal packet,
So next time you walk the block tryin’ to rep’ that you’re hard,
Throwing your weight around and calling out The Bard,
Remember that each challenge can come with a cost,
And be careful you don’t end up with ‘Love’s Labour’s Lost’,
So retract your statement that the Bard’s words stank,
For butcher’s of Our language you should check yourself, Yank,
At least our nation remembers just how to pronounce,
Hell, enough with this Radventures fool, homies I’ve gotta bounce,
I’m meeting Shakespeare later, all up in ‘Da Club’,
There’s some bitches getting hot in there looking for the rub,
So peace out to my brethren, time to head outta sight,
We’re going ‘G’s up, Ho’s down’ on Windsor’s Merry Wives tonight……

As Will Ferrell put it in Old School, “That’s the way you do it…that’s the way you debate.” Awesome job, Kevin. For real.

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