Last night’s shocking death of legendary rapper Rapt iller-Than Rex, at an amusement park, has sent ripples of stock veneration and sentimentality through a community already rocked, this year, by hundreds of predictable casualties. Rapt iller-Than was born Titus Primrose Jackson the Third in an undisclosed location in a gated community to bourgeois parents who’ve been voting Republican since Rapt iller-Than‘s father, Titus Primrose Jackson the Second, scored a well-paying job as an extraneous token at a Liberally-racist service provider in the nation’s rapidly-growing Prison Industrial Complex. Easily brushing off accusations of conflict of interest (Rapt Iller-Than’s rhymes are allegedly designed to encourage the kind of attitudes and behavior bound to divert his fans directly into the carceral ecosystem), Primrose the Second, who encouraged his son to rap before he could talk, puffed on his pipe and commented: “Well, only the Black kids are really affected, after all.”
Rapt iller-Than joins the so-called “27 club” of morbid cash cows for record labels that would never, under any circumstances, engineer the lucrative deaths of the disposable assets their executives hold in social contempt. Rapt iller-Than’s only release, the EP titled “EP,” will probably remain at the top of Billboard’s Dead Rapper Charts for hours or even days until Kanye West’s scheduled suicide on an undisclosed date guarded closely by industry insiders. The genre Rapt iller-Than pioneered, the counter-intuitively-named Witch-Hop, a rubric which had no apparent relation to his beats, lyrics or stage presence (in his one public appearance as a performer, Rapt iller-Than wore a dark suit and skinny tie and read his lyrics from a leather-bound volume), has captured the imaginations of his largely pre-pubescent female White suburban audience, triggering a shortage of brooms in hardware stores around the country. “Rapt-Iller-Than’s untimely death is the best thing to happen to the broom industry since sawdust,” said one anonymous hardware store source.
Various famous actors, porn stars, rappers and members of Congress have taken to Instagram and Twitter to make the safest, most virtue-signaling and nearly-identical expressions of hyperbolic grief their teams could generate on short notice.
Critics of Hip Hop who claim, while rolling their eyes, that “any egocentric mediocrity who can spout rhyming doggerel and adopt an embarrassing stage-gimmick can do it; Hip Hop is to music as bowling is to athletics,” have been denounced on Social Media for exploiting Rapt iller-Than’s tragic death to make a valid point.
Fans have been placing wreaths, teddy bears, illiterate notes, random garbage and jars of aborted fetuses, of unknown vintage, at the site of Rapt-iller-Than’s death (the Go-Kart range) at the amusement park. Fans are reminded that they are expected to pay the amusement park’s full entrance fee (double-price for toddlers) in order to pay tribute to the fallen rapper. The amusement park’s custodial workers have pledged to remove Rapt iller-Than Rex’s body before it becomes a public health issue. None of the suspects in Rapt iller-Than’s death are currently being sought by authorities. His crime-scene chalk outline will linger on the asphalt until the indifferent rain finally washes it away.
Below, in a world exclusive, we present the lyrics (printed without permission) to Rapt iller-Than Rex’s only single, Boner 2 Tha Bone (italicized syllables represent stresses in the meter; lower-case hyphens represent rests):
THE IMPERIALIST 