- "Do you hear this? Hm... Sounds like the clock of G Man's career ticking. Tick-tick-tick... Tick-tick-tick... Tick-tick-tick... Mwahahahahah! Shout-out to Québec. MIX LA Productions. Quatre, cinq, zéro. Now it's your time G Man. I'll show you how we do it in Canada. Check this out."
- —JF begins the rap.
Unauthorized representative of the Brett Keane posse
Everything you say follows the laws of thermodynamics
Increasing disorder into the brains of those who believe in magic
You may actually be the first failed YouTube pastor
Your poorly worded rhymes dishonor all of your ancestors
We lived on this planet long before you were even born
Including the single cell that gave birth to you and the corn.
Your threshold for proof goes back and forth too frequently
Like Mercedes Carrera's boobs in her last movie
Your circular theoretical framework is an impasse
'Cause when you hide from the truth, it comes back right up your ass
Suddenly expands, bullshit spurts out like shoelaces
An explosion from which remain no traces
Except your ass is now split in two pieces that hang
Like motherfuckin' space/time right after the Big Bang.
I could download your entire YouTube legacy
Encode it into a self-replicating machine sent to posterity
And as this Von Neumann probe reaches intergalactical space
All the lifeforms in the universe would see your face
An even newer testament for my technological empire
Except for you this time there won't be no savior
Boltzmann brains would pop into existence just to laugh at your shit
And all across the universe, you'd be known as the greatest fuckwit.
The only way you'll ever contribute to scientific knowledge
Is if you let me cut you in thin slices after you're dead
Or I may detain you in a room with just enough food to subsist
Until you acknowledge that at least one starving African child does exist
Or I might lay you flat in a brain scanner
And ask you about this very day, and try to remember
Then your brainwaves may finally allow scientists to elude
How it feels to get owned in your own language by a French white dude.
Just turned you into French cuisine, but expect no reduction of heat. Uh.
I will always be as relentless as I was on this sick, mid-90s beat. Yeah.
The only way to seek cover from my wrathful rhapsody? Hahahahaha!
Would be for you to get adopted as part of Brett Keane's family.