Chill EB dis rap - in progress


@IndieScieNews on Twitter
Chill EB dis rap - in progress.

From ivandenisovich on WWP.

Chill EB dis rap - in progress

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Tony Ortega posted that he was impressed with Chill EB's latest from the Golden Era studio. It is a catchy tune - with an awful, deluded message. At one point Tony despaired that Anonymous didn't have an opposing rapper with the juice Chill EB could muster. (in any case, if someone did have the talent, they'd be making cash elsewhere, rather than doing the dozens on a guy with all his eggs broken).

Tony jokingly suggested Mike Rinder as the poet-respondent.

Anyway Tony, I think you're kind of missing the point.

Warblers like Mike Rinder don't rap, per se. But they do sound great reciting nursery rhymes with a kind of sing-song-in-your-face appeal. Any Chill EB face-off would have an asymmetrical response of a sort of studious, educated nature - but very funny, and very nasty.

Anyone can rhyme couplets as I've done below. If many people did so, all directed at Chill EB, then he would face massive enturbation in the comm lines. Imagine multiple, multiplying rhyming responses filling the You Tube channels with total disrespect for EB's jackass CCHR advocacy.


What’s wrong with you Old Chill EB?
Where is your sense of decency?

We love it when you do your rhyme
I hum your tune most all the time.

But all your motherfucking lyrics
They keep us laughing in hysterics

Opposing drugs in every case
And pitching zeroes in their place.

Who taught you that? It’s not your thought.
Is that the bridge you thought you bought?

The Brooklyn Bridge, oh that’s the one
It’s all yours? That must be fun.

Look, here’s a fan with bad depression
Out of work in the Bush recession.

Maybe some help from friends who care
Doctors who listen and a therapy chair.

Your help, that's right, like Lisa McPherson
Is to lock your friend inside isolation.
Alone in a room
Living with doom
In an idle tomb
A mind it swoons

Nobody talking.
Nobody listening.

No singing
No music
No trying at all.

No family
No laughter
No throwing a ball.

You’re sick in yourself, and you have to admit
You’re a talented guy who’s slinging bullshit.

How can free people ever give you a pass?
You won’t even think. You’re stuck on your ass.

Legislation is bogus when it comes from your lips.
You aren’t a real leader under Scientology’s whip.

Wake up get out and make us amazed.
Then people will follow the trail you have blazed.

But stay put where you are
And follow ol’ Slappy

And you’ll grow old too soon

You fucked up old lackey.

[My crappy poetry is up for grabs for free forever to anyone who wants to perform or change them for any purpose except Scientology or any of its related purposes. For any Scientologist, all rights reserved. Give me a call if you want the rights. Just let it ring, ok?]

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Chili bean, I'm gonna kick you off into space
Because your flow is just a disgrace
I don't even need to spit more'n four bars
To send your ass all the way up to Mars

You're a space machine, tasting these
And you're not getting too close to me
'Cause I'm kicking you back up into space
And I'm taking my balls and rub in your face
You know what - that's enough I'm the man
And I say fuck you to the chin-bead fan