11. Feel the Madness

Macho Man Randy Savage, you call yourself. A rapper, huh? A big musical artist. MC Macho, master of ceremonies. Well let me tell you something, you little gangsta puke. You’re not MC Macho. You’re McMacho, relatively speaking. A pale imitation of the real thing. You’re Diet Macho, a regular gaslight special, yeah.

With your hip-hoppin’ and your hot-doggin’…they say you can’t teach on old dog new tricks. Well, you’re a ghost ringing my doorbell on Halloween, yeah. You say, “trick or treat,” and I say, “YOU AIN’T GOT NEITHER, PUNK!”

You want to know how to feel the madness? It’s simple, yeah. Very easy, uh-huh. Get into your car, slide your shiny music pie into the radio slot and PLAY YOUR OWN SONG, YEAH!

And while you’re at it, let a kitty cat lick that licorice juice off your chin. You’re poison, Mister Diet McMacho Man. Unhealthy at any time, at any dosage. And I am the antidote. I’m your antibody because you ain’t anybody, punk. You will never feel the madness. I am the Macho Madness. And you will never feel me. You feel me? I am gone. GONE FOREVER, YEAH! Drifted off into the Great Beyond, uh-huh. Sky’s the limit, and space is the place.

And you aren’t even a memory, Mister McMacho Man. You were never on the menu. You aren’t even a Happy Meal. YOU’RE A SADNESS MEAL, YEAH! You’re a soggy French fry under a baby’s car seat. You are limp, and you are forgotten. Not even the kitty cat would eat you. No. No way, no how, no why. Now go sing yourself a lullaby, you little old baby McMacho. Because when it comes to your music, YOU’RE THE ONLY ONE LISTENING, YEAH!

1.75 out of 5 cups of coffee in the big time.