Mr. Carter and I don’t rock.

I don’t like fake Martians. I don’t like Lil Wayne anymore because he inspired so much of this garbage talk about being a Martian. Dwayne Carter is nowhere near as complex as an alien being would be. He is a mere mortal, and it’d be so lovely if all of his stans would acknowledge that. I’ve never claimed to be a gangster, but I don’t think a gangster would have to ride in a tinted-out SUV with security guards who are twice his size. Why the fuck have I seen you with your red flag draped on the left, Dwayne? You don’t fool me, sir. I’m on to your little game. There’s no way you can be a real gangster and an outcast at the same time. The gangster persona is so mainstream that there’s no possible way you can also be this vague, intellectually indifferent, freak of musical nature. Fuck your dreadlocks and leather vests. Fuck your Chuck Taylors. Fuck your electric guitar. Fuck your platinum grill. Fuck your blunts, your weed, and your lean. Shit, fuck the styrofoam cup that you sip your lean from. Besides, lean is so 2007. I’m officially done with Mr. Carter, and I hope everyone else decides to boycott his music. I firmly rub my breasts everyday and have yet to feel a lump, so why would I want a cancer in my life? You’re not fooling anyone besides gullible high school students. I’ve snorted lines of coke bigger than you, fucker. Kick rocks.

Your love is criminal and I’m married to the Mob/I’ll never want a divorce, the hit squad will just have to off me…


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