"The name’s RG, and since the beginning, just like Charlie Sheen I’m “duh… winning.” Genius pure bred, making try hard’s drop dead, making little kids pee in their racecar beds. I’m just too good, go check my technique, you end up getting beat, no hide and go seek. Admit I’m too sick, concede and lament, I ask: “You mad, bro?” and then you rage quit.
Pixie, you’re making my ears bleed, you need a muzzle. Why you so mad all the time, did you mum never give you a cuddle? You’re the type of guy who could die of a heart attack just in a shower, you need to chill out, and stop whining for at least an hour. Every time I read your posts, all you do is scream at me, it sounds as if when you wrote it, you were high on LSD. Just like John Lennon, I’m a legend, I can see through all your tricks. I wonder how much effort it takes for you to be such a twit. You whiner, you think this is me being mean? You’re about to get crushed by the TWeb political machine. You better quit now whilst your ahead ever so slightly, when it comes to squashing fundies I come recommended highly. You’re weak, between you and me there’s no comparison, you’re like a little kid versus an entire Army garrison. You are a dum-dum, about as much brains as a Dingo’s, judging by how incompetent you are, you dinlow. You can’t buy respect, but I’ll beat you for free, I’m a lyrical wordsmith, I’m about to give you a lobotomy. We’re tired of how you scream, and try to slander us, why don’t you do yourself a favour and just shut up? Because you’re a weevil, trying to avoid getting jabbed by my needle, but don’t worry I’ll squish you with my shoes, just like a beetle. Writhing in the dirt is how you survive, you are the most pathetic thing I’ve seen that is alive.
The name’s RG, and since the beginning, just like Charlie Sheen I’m “duh… winning.” Genius pure bred, making try hard’s drop dead, making little kids pee in their racecar beds. I’m just too good, go check my technique, you end up getting beat, no hide and go seek. Admit I’m too sick, concede and lament, I ask: “You mad, bro?” and then you rage quit.
I am Rational Gaze, prepare for my counter-strike, little known-fact: also great on the mic. You are The Pixie, a backwards-thinking un-evolved ape, with a blank look on your face as you stare and you gape. You whine and you rant like a little weasel, I went back in time and beat you in the prequel. Because, look at you, you're a delusional person. Now prepare for your impending doom, and looming termination. You can't rhyme against this powerful force, why even bother? Your IQ is so low, even a rock is smarter. You are a dull-wit, an incompetent twit. Call that an argument? I call that a copied Wikipedia link. You nit, let me remind you who you're messing with. Everything that you did, I'm the genius who refuted it, I'm the original dark lord, you're like Forrest Gump's apprentice. My arguments make yours look like the rantings of a turnip. You stink Pixie, your style smells something sour, you need to wash up dawg, here step into my shower. I'll turn your own arguments against you, I'm more than happy to cater, as you eat your own words and blush in front of the waiter. Come here, and learn from my robot verse, now allow me to place you into the back of a hearse. A little carbonite bath, prepare to suffer the wrath, of my homeboy Jesus from Israel, He'll get the last laugh.
The name’s RG, and since the beginning, just like Charlie Sheen I’m “duh… winning.” Genius pure bred, making try hard’s drop dead, making little kids pee in their racecar beds. I’m just too good, go check my technique, you end up getting beat, no hide and go seek. Admit I’m too sick, concede and lament, I ask: “You mad, bro?” and then you rage quit.
Encore! 22 years from the past, I could win this battle with my beard, and I'm going to whup you bad. I have read up on the facts, those things that you fear. Now, tell me Pix, how come you never sat down, and got beyond petty jeers? You're a washed up has been, on TWeb telling fairy tales, and you're going to lose this battle, against the might of England and Wales. You're without a doubt, an incompetent lout, I'll squash you like bear squashes trout. I've never lost a fight and so I won't start now, you're a horse with a limp, I'll put you down. This isn't Gettysburg punk, so I'd suggest retreating, for I invented rap music when my heart started beating. I do not battle, I just allow you to lose, my raps will blow your mind like a verbal John Wilkes Booth. I'll launch you into a mountain, I'm about to bring the pain, with your credibility in tatters your tears will fall like rain. I block bullets with my beard and deflect them with my skull. You're huddling up in the foetal position, in your race car bed by now. Prepare for the chorus. I've spread more blood and gore than forty score of your puny failed war, twit. I split your arguments with a mental roundhouse kick, with enough force to shatter a brick. I attack you and watch as you bleed, this is your hour of your most desperate need. My wit makes you wish that you were faster, fear not me, but take heed of the commands of my master.
The name’s RG, and since the beginning, just like Charlie Sheen I’m “duh… winning.” Genius pure bred, making try hard’s drop dead, making little kids pee in their racecar beds. I’m just too good, go check my technique, you end up getting beat, no hide and go seek. Admit I’m too sick, concede and lament, I ask: “You mad, bro?” and then you rage quit.
Oh boy, look at what we have here. A moron with a keyboard, trying to be idiot of the year. You sound dumber than a rooster, or even a frog, you got outperformed in an IQ test last year by somebody’s pet dog. Put down that rattle, junior, leave us grown ups alone and, stop drooling all the time and stop eating sand. You are dopey, and most certainly not intelligent at all, so you should probably stop throwing around words like “droll.” I think I’d sooner believe in Smurfs than listen to you, sounds like you could do with going back to school. You are the sum, of everything I despise, a dysfunctional hypocrite with an IQ less than 5. Just trust me, your fifteen minutes of fame came and went, go back home, before I curb stomp you to the pavement. Your brain couldn’t handle a 16th of what mine can do, I think the truth is that my intelligence just scares you. And now, Mr. Bond, you die! I’ve killed bears with my hands since the age of 5. Everything that you do is just rehashed fodder, the mods will eat you alive like a swarm of piranha! I sound more intelligent than you when I fart, I wonder if you even know how to spell the word art? You don’t belong on TWeb, you belong in an asylum, we won’t regret when you’re gone, your presence is cumbersome.
The name’s RG, and since the beginning, just like Charlie Sheen I’m “duh… winning.” Genius pure bred, making try hard’s drop dead, making little kids pee in their racecar beds. I’m just too good, go check my technique, you end up getting beat, no hide and go seek. Admit I’m too sick, concede and lament, I ask: “You mad, bro?” and then you rage quit.
The name’s RG, I’ve got a license to thrill, I’ll make you swallow my rhymes like a steroid pill. You make less sense than even a banana, or a walrus wearing Hulk Hogan’s bandana. I’m coming at you with style and flair, I’ll suplex you by your own hair. You’re nothing more than a moron, dude. You want beef? Then eat my lyrical barbeque. You’ve got a ringside seat to your own smackdown, brother. You sound like a basement dweller who still lives with his mother. You’re a freak, a phony, a rice-a-roni jabroni, I’m going to bounce just like a cheque from your alimony. Come on dude, you and I both know, I’ll hang you from the ropes, just like a South Park puppet show. I’ll choke hold you until it stings, I’ll leg drop you all the way to Beijing. You should be locked away with no parole, whereas I am musical suburban commando. This is your drubbing, chump, so set me give you a tour, even still, my ego isn’t nearly as big as yours! Oh yeah, It’s a bout get real, watch me snap into a Slim Jim Kim Jong-il. I don’t really like to bust mental midgets with glasses, but when morons step up, I call them dumbasses. When it comes to debating, with me there’s no equal, so you should spend less time whining, lest I hit you with the sequel. Punk, this is the orchestration of your cremation, on behalf of the TWeb intelligentsia confederation.
The name’s RG, and since the beginning, just like Charlie Sheen I’m “duh… winning.” Genius pure bred, making try hard’s drop dead, making little kids pee in their racecar beds. I’m just too good, go check my technique, you end up getting beat, no hide and go seek. Admit I’m too sick, concede and lament, I ask: “You mad, bro?” and then you rage quit.
Look what the cat dragged back from the dead, you stink like Chewbacca with a skunk on his head. I'm the next Stephen Hawking, you're too dumb to fly a kite, here's some aspirin, you're getting a headache tonight! Because your arguments are terrible, and mine are incredible. Who even listens to you anyway? Every atheist fears me, and now that you're right next to me, I can understand why they used a rock as sit in for you, Pixie. Sit down son, let me give you a history lesson. Ask yo lunch, I pack more punch than Smith & Wesson. Never say never? You'll never be forgetting! I've crafted masterpieces that will last throughout the ages, you link to dodgy websites and Wikipedia pages. I'm committing verbal murder in the major third degree, my name is Rational Gaze, my good sir, maybe you've heard of me? Not the watered down version, I'm the real OG. You want to trade blows? You can't even rap back to me! I've got plenty more material with me backstage, when is the last time your raps even so much as filled a page? I'll be spamming with Quanta, there's not much time left. What else can I say? Your own whining made you deaf! I would smack you, but in England we don't hit little girls, but I'm glad you're here so I can insult you, you toad! There's a crowd of onlookers applauding me, you've only got the usher, telling you to leave.
The name’s RG, and since the beginning, just like Charlie Sheen I’m “duh… winning.” Genius pure bred, making try hard’s drop dead, making little kids pee in their racecar beds. I’m just too good, go check my technique, you end up getting beat, no hide and go seek. Admit I’m too sick, concede and lament, I ask: “You mad, bro?” and then you rage quit.
When I apply my battle theory, minds are relatively blown, so take a seat pix, oh, I see you've brought your own. What's with your posts? I can't really tell. Sounds like WALL-E had some trouble with the speak and spell. I'll school you anywhere, MIT to Oxford. All your fans will be like: "Um, that was awkward." I'm as great as two rappers, so you better be scared. Because it means that I am RG squared. You've got no idea what you're messing with here boy. I've got my settings set to 60 posts per page, that's how I roll y'all. You sound like someone with the brains of a troll doll. I'll be stretching out the rhyme, like gravity stretches time, when you try to put your little p-brane against this kind of mind. I'm the best, I'm the Snoop Dogg of science, I'll be dropping mad apples on your head, from the shoulders of giants. I'm the giant whose shoulders you'd have stood on if you could stand, I'll give you a brief history of pain with the back of my hand. You can't destroy matter or me, for serious, as I rip holes in you bigger than the hole in your whole OP was. There are 10 million, million, million, million, million, million, million, million, million particles in the universe that can observe. God took all of the ugly ones and put them into one nerd. You want to bring the heat, with the mushroom clouds you're making? I'm about to make raps from scratch, like Carl Sagan. And whilst its true, that I'm insulting you, I'm a super-computer, you're a TI-82.
The name’s RG, and since the beginning, just like Charlie Sheen I’m “duh… winning.” Genius pure bred, making try hard’s drop dead, making little kids pee in their racecar beds. I’m just too good, go check my technique, you end up getting beat, no hide and go seek. Admit I’m too sick, concede and lament, I ask: “You mad, bro?” and then you rage quit.
How are you going to battle? I invented hip hop! When my heart started beating, it’ll never stop! Still, I find it amusing how you are so arrogant, you ugly, no good, idiotic barbarian. Ooo, whatcha gonna do? Wear a bucket on you head and chant: “Hail Xenu?” The Great Wall couldn’t keep my raps out of China, your words are insignificant and minor. Bwahahaha… COME ON!!! You better give up now before you feel the wrath of Kahn! You silly sausage, you’ll need more than just luck, given that it is obvious just how much you suck. I govern a hoarde, your army is weak. What are you going to do, attack me with an army of sheep? I’ll serve you up along with some goat, and use the remains to make a brand new coat. You wet yourself due to my lyrical meanness, what can I say, my homeboy is Jesus! Prepare for the upcoming pillage, so get out of our face, and go back to your village. From Poland to Korea, I ravished the land, refuting atheists all the way from New York to Japan. Don’t try to talk to me about the Bible, you’re a delusional moron who is just in denial.
The name’s RG, and since the beginning, just like Charlie Sheen I’m “duh… winning.” Genius pure bred, making try hard’s drop dead, making little kids pee in their racecar beds. I’m just too good, go check my technique, you end up getting beat, no hide and go seek. Admit I’m too sick, concede and lament, I ask: “You mad, bro?” and then you rage quit.
Gosh, I can't believe how much of a troll you are. When it comes to debate participants, you've literally lowered the bar. I'll rip your bones apart, just like that, and turn you into glue. Welcome to the battle of Waterloo, part two. I've got skills, just like my homeboy Horatio Nelson. You're the dumbest thing to fail here, since Jaecp and Tassman. You can keep your whining, I've got the facts you know. So why don't you just give up, and go back home? How dare you address moi, you adolescent worm! I am British, you are a buck-toothed nerd with a perm. I spit at you, harder than a Llama, smacking your face until your lips swell up like car tyres. Call up some of your friends, you gangly freak show, before I throw you over the mountain, you probable poe. This moron's about to see just how hard a battle can be, after this all of your buddies will be voting for me. Why don't you run away to your mother and father's and hide, this is a rap rollercoaster, you're not even old enough to ride. I don't care how many of your brain cells you've killed, you stand no chance against an opponent so skilled. Sacrebleu, t'as une tete a fair sauter les plaques d'egouts! I'm going to pwn you badly, as you holler and hoot. I'll whip you so bad, I'll make a dum-dum meringue. You're style is so bad, it's as if you want to get banned.
The name’s RG, and since the beginning, just like Charlie Sheen I’m “duh… winning.” Genius pure bred, making try hard’s drop dead, making little kids pee in their racecar beds. I’m just too good, go check my technique, you end up getting beat, no hide and go seek. Admit I’m too sick, concede and lament, I ask: “You mad, bro?” and then you rage quit.
Oh I am afraid that this won’t be pretty, as I refute your claims as you dally and dilly. You couldn’t argue your way out of a paper bag, you’re out of practice, my victory is more certain than death or taxes. Fact is, you’re a hack, whack dodgy joke. You’re more see-through, than even a single-pane window. I’ll craft a lyrical coffin and put the nails in, you couldn’t make a living as a used car salesman. Rational Gaze here, with a unique one-time offer, watch me crush this bald fat foppish general bother. I shall take an auger to force-feed you oats, and shoot your arguments down, like a regiment of red coats. I am lord of making rhymes, you are just stale, getting news of your failure posted to you through the mail. You think you can defeat me? Well, you’re in for a shock! I’ll blast you with lightning bolts, and you shout: “STOP!” Just stop? But I love these intolerable raps, it just takes one easy move for me to make you crash. I’m great, and on it! I’m an educated gentleman! That is why, unlike you, I am rolling in the Benjamin’s. Can you follow me, Pixie, because it’s about to get serious, you’ll be dazzled and blinded until you’re bi-focal curious. I can break down wood with my hands, you couldn’t break a piece of Balsa! I smack you in the face to make a double-chin salsa! Your style is so broke, it is worse than that of a nipper, now watch me dispose of you with a tipper. I guess then for you it is just too bad, I’ll keep making rhymes that make you mad.
The name’s RG, and since the beginning, just like Charlie Sheen I’m “duh… winning.” Genius pure bred, making try hard’s drop dead, making little kids pee in their racecar beds. I’m just too good, go check my technique, you end up getting beat, no hide and go seek. Admit I’m too sick, concede and lament, I ask: “You mad, bro?” and then you rage quit.
Yo, I'm the G, to the A, to the Z, to the E, yo, I'm the Rational G, studying at university. Coming my way onto TWeb, to shatter your delusional web, as the time flows and your confidence ebbs. You see this battle has been raging for quite some time full throttle, yet I am doing fine, as you start losing the bottle. You think the universe caused itself, like a magic trick, that's not good logic, my posse's far too quick for this delusional atheist schtick. You clearly don't know anything at all, you try to walk tall, yet you will fall. You're nothing more than a tick, this is a verbal flick, with the power and force of crane kick. On the shoulder's of giants I have built up this machine. I silenced that deluded grade a whackamole shuny, and my raps grow stronger and harder almost daily. Storming the forums by force, dominating the discourse, atheism and logic are split in schismatic divorce. Soon you will see, a secret you have not yet seen, the reason why I am increasingly keen. Our Lord will one day come for us, no, he's not based on Horus, give it up for JC, and bring it in with the chorus.
The name’s RG, and since the beginning, just like Charlie Sheen I’m “duh… winning.” Genius pure bred, making try hard’s drop dead, making little kids pee in their racecar beds. I’m just too good, go check my technique, you end up getting beat, no hide and go seek. Admit I’m too sick, concede and lament, I ask: “You mad, bro?” and then you rage quit.
And then there was Sparko, duking it out on the straight and the narrow. A raging bull in the ring, he did his thing, and punched berty on the chin, like he was Bobby De Niro. Now I've got The Pixie in my scopes, along with those other dopes, I'm backed by the pope, you're unable to cope and without all hope, as you slip on the soap of your own slippery slope. Neither improbable nor impossible, and now wholly unstoppable. I'll roll you up as you atheists fold up. You haters talking bull, don't you know that I am completely invulnerable? This rap of my making has arrived for the taking, and I'm the intellectually honest Christian who, unlike Richard Dawkins, Chris Hitchens or even Anthony Flew, believes only what the evidence shows to be true. Whereas if you were dyslexic I'm sure you'd hate dogs too. Time to open your eyes and get yourself wise, the age of reason will rise to be atheism's demise and whilst you faith-heads all cry, asking: "Why, Dawkins, oh why?" I'll still be popping my collar rolling in the dollar.
The name’s RG, and since the beginning, just like Charlie Sheen I’m “duh… winning.” Genius pure bred, making try hard’s drop dead, making little kids pee in their racecar beds. I’m just too good, go check my technique, you end up getting beat, no hide and go seek. Admit I’m too sick, concede and lament, I ask: “You mad, bro?” and then you rage quit."
Pomp and self hype aside, that was the best 90 seconds of entertainment I've had in quite some time. Thanks
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