Ball so hard, motherfuckers want to impose a monetary penalty on me due to my violation of various by-laws that I’m contractually obligated to follow.

What’s 50 grand to a motherfucker like me, would you please remind me?

Ball so hard motherfuckers want to fine me. First thing they got to find me. Which they can’t because my crippling sense of social anxiety and regret at my life choices has caused me to withdraw from society and live a life of solitude as the ornamental hermit in an English garden so I can work on my math proofs.

Ball so hard this shit crazy. Shit job market don’t phase me. I could go 0 for 82 in interviews I’m still down like an apple in the 1680’s.

Ball so hard, this shit weird. We ain’t even supposed to be here. But through sheer luck we’ve survived disease, nuclear weapons, and the moral implications of tinder to make it to the modern day, where we are confronted with an existential post-modern crisis that we are ill-equipped to deal with in a constructive way.

Ball so hard, got a broken clock. Rollies that don’t tick tock.

Why does Jay-Z get away with making obscure references to watch construction that nobody actually gets and still be in the mainstream, but when I drag Pope Leo X out for another joke about Papal decadence, I get categorized as “alternative and offbeat?” That shit’s a mystery.

Doctors say I’m the illest, cause I’m suffering from realness.

Got my Prussians in Paris, and they’re going to kill us.

End.