That's great, it starts with a prophecy, pseudo-science on TLC—Louie C.K.'s dad needs voter ID.

Times Square hurricane, hipster with a butter churn.

Yelp is for shitheads, please don't be a shithead.

Feed it off your iPad, smart, no, snark.

Your neighbors are belabored with small talks, art walks.

Wireless perspire, playing hella shooter games, bongs will make you higher than a vaporizer might.

Right of right and coming with a filibust, private trust, ringing up... your... debt.

Team by team reporters baffled, trumped, tethered, fired.

Look at that bass drop! Fuck. Dubstep.

Uh oh, overflow, population, tweet your food, and blog it, too.

Don't shave yourself, serve yourself.

Yelp's still for shitheads, use it then your heart's dead.

Dummy with the CAPTCHA, can't get my password right—right.

You Hipstamatic, Democratic, slam, bright, white, quite right, don't be so uptight.

[Chorus] It's the end of the world as we know it, it's the end of the world as we know it, it's the end of the world as we know it and I feel fine.

Wheneverthefuck, Hulu hour. Watch three days without a shower.

Ben and Jerry's, Chuck and Larry's, buy your soup at Cash & Carrys.

Dropping out, uniforming, coffee pouring, blood selling.

Every mom in Escalade. Automotive degradate.

Buy a banjo, buy a moped. Step down! Step down!

Watch your credit drop, dropped.

Uh oh, this means flop house, no spouse, then you're getting deloused.

A tournament, a tournament, a tournament of bands.

Offer me solutions, offer me alternatives and I decline.


The other night I Googled Grimes. Generational divide. Feeling old before my time.


Cam'ron. Mankind. Dave Chappelle and Lance Bangs. Birthday party, cake pop, bacon doughnut, boom!

You broken-hearted, Wiki-smarteds. Face. Book. Check. Right?