Showrunner showdown

[upbeat music] Welcome to the Showrunner Showdown Massacre. I'm your host. Look at my mask. It is golden. Don't ask who am I. No emotion. Yee-haw. No emotion gold mask in the building. Frank Ocean. Look like a sword swallower at the ding-a-ling circus off a father's dream with a purpose, you just thinking about me shirtless, Spider Murphy. You remind me of Brittany Murphy because you're always getting smashed by battle rappers. Let's go. You don't get an intro. Earn your intro. They know the name, you both lame, prove me wrong. Ooh. Spider Murphy, I wouldn't pay attention to you if you were a bitch sucking my dick and your name was Attention. You look like you got bit by a gay spider. There's not even a punchline to that one. I'm just making an observation. Your grandma sucks dick for Jell-O pudding. Your girl wished that you had more dick to put in. This dude is up late at night with his shirt off writing about Frank Ocean. Be careful, Spider Murphy, I will fuck you until you love me, Mike Tyson. All you wear is colorful jackets, flag it, and you wear a mask while you wear mascara, you're a little mean drag queen. Shop at CVS for vag cream. Your whole freaking crew looks like a circle jerk tag team, and then I just heard you say, "Daddy, please don't call me that." You're delusional, and it's sad. I drive a Mercedes Benz. I don't even have to be here. I don't have to rap. I just want to hurt your feelings. And I think it's working. I don't think I no prove him. Damn good while I swing my manhood around this stage like a spider monkey. Yes, Spider Murphy, you can't good. I am hood, like a woodchuck. I wish a motherfucker would, you fake-ass Spider-Man couldn't monetize your buddy's vagina in a prison. So I need you to shut the fuck up and listen. I wake up in the morning, and I piss pure excellence. You just smell like flatulence. You're just a peon that gets peed on a motherfucking Frank Ocean. I can turn tears into platinum. You're just a fucking weird spider here acting like he's rapping. How long did you work on your versus Spider Murphy? Imagine I actually wrote mine instead of freestyle while laughing. That was cold, he said. Your girl wished that you had more dick to put in. That was cold. I'll give it to him. My boy, Spider Murphy, thought he about to unleash the beast. Let the tiger out the cage, watch out, Frankie. Bro, have you guys seen my car and who stole my phone? Stole my phone. Give that shit back right now. He's turning trauma into billboard hits, just like I'm about to turn you into a billboard head if you don't find my fucking phone. Howdy dick. Ayy, that's how we starting. Yeah, tell her. Worse than my testicles fighting over which one gets to be closer to the deck. You all know what it is. Look at my mask. It's gold, and don't ask. Who am I? No emotion. Murphy, it's time responds. Don't let this man finish you. You got a response. Let's go. Big words from a walking aborted Plan B fetus. Baby traumatized claims he shits platinum. The lie detector determined that was a lie, Frank Ocean, more like multi-plastic. Which ocean are you, the Atlantic or the Pacific? Oh, no, you're just autistic. You look like someone beat your ass. You decided to say fuck it and walk out like that. And for the time it took your ears to reattach, you covered up so no one could see the fact you were weakest, blackest piece of trash. I don't know. Maybe you're little Puerto Rican crab or a light-skinned Black Middle Eastern fag with a Marty McFly laugh. You're getting party hard laughs only to get party hard laugh when I see your mother's Chris Hardy lord ass swiping your limited edition Ed Hardy Carl's Jr. Hardy hall pass jumbo eight hamburgers and one hand while avoiding a car crash. What was the last thing this dude asked? I'm the voice that tells you not to blink. When you're doing technical support for T-Mobile, I turned this into a spectacle of sorts on your testicles or warts. That makes you look like you have a baby bell pepper and a sort of vegetables in your shorts. In a chair with my shirt off thinking about you, bitch. I will throw all the plastic you emotastic Facebook, then I'll stab your plastic face with a plastic fork. I hate your fucking face, you plastic dork. I can't wait to litter in the ocean to a massive fort. Watch me set up a magic base in the middle of your oceanic hotdog space, I'll turn you into a corpse. You don't want this flame. Actually, we're going to have a hotdog eating contest in the ocean. That seems like the best place. Or I want to watch David Hasselhoff have sex with Frank Ocean while riding a dolphin spreading lotion on his face like he was over ready for Red Rover to come over. Best believe he came. I didn't want to see it. I'm traumatized. You're right, you probably made that platinum, too. Look like a fucking platinum Jew. I'll run circles around you, and you'll just be like, "What happened? Who hit me?" You dumb motherfucker. I guess I'm the chocolate starfish because you're the hotdog-flavored water, Frank Ocean. You're basically just hot flavored water. Great value J. Cole, less value A yee hole. He'd be better off sleeping in a K hole, underneath a bridge like a fucking gay troll. Get the fuck out of my face. Your raps are wack. Next time, just stay home. Fucking hot water. Oh my God, this ain't even halftime, and they're already bleeding. The second half is coming up, folks, right after a brief message from our sponsors. Why the hell am I in a Real Fake Door store? I created the goddamn universe, not a watercolor set. Maybe you're here to learn humility, or maybe you're just bored out of your omnipotent skull. Humility? That's rich coming from me. I invented humility and then promptly ignored it. You're not ignoring it now. Look at you, slouched over like a divine couch potato. I'm not slouched. I'm contemplating. Big difference. Contemplating what? The existential crisis of a fake door. Fake doors? Don't even start. I've seen enough of those in Silicon Valley to last an eternity. Oh, come on. You love the irony. A door that leads nowhere. That's peak human creativity. Peak human stupidity, more like. But fine, I'll admit, it's kind of funny. Step into a world of illusion with Real Fake Doors. Our doors have the look and feel of a real door, but with the added thrill of leading you absolutely nowhere. Feel the satisfaction of turning our doorknob and hearing that satisfying click of the lock, only to find yourself in a plain room with nothing but painted walls. Don't miss out on the ultimate door experience with Real Fake Doors. [upbeat music] Welcome back to The Showrunner Showdown Massacre. I'm your host. Look at my mask. It is golden. Don't ask who am I. No emotion. Yee. Real fake doors? I'm chilling here with some real fake whores. Frank Ocean, he killed you that first round. Did you know your name was basically just hot dog-flavored water? Spider Murphy, did he hurt your feels? He's swinging at your whole crew of circle jerks. Hot dog boy, get to work. I got that. I'm sorry for all of my gay jokes. There's no way I'm homophobic. Me and Spider Murphy are actually good friends. I went to this guy's studio, and the first thing I wanted to know was why you guys have two posters of Kanye West with his shirt off. Why? I don't even know why you record. You're a wack rapper, and without your mask, you look like George Zimmerman's little brother. You're one of those rich kids. Your father's a plastic surgeon who fixes penises. Your mother is a whore who sucks penises. You be trying to kiss men on the lips while watching Spartacus. Kids sitting around with all your homeboys like, "Hey, guys, let's see who has the hardest dick." I didn't even want to come to this battle. I live in Miami. I have no fucking idea why I bother. But there's no way you're so gay, walk, talk, and dress the way you do and still have a father. I watched all your battles. Shit's wack. You be battling with knock knock jokes like, "Knock, knock." "Who's there?" "Spider Murphy." "Spider Murphy who?" "Uh, Spider Murphy, the dude who battled Frank Ocean." Snorts, bro. What the hell? Grinning through a vape cloud, George Zimmerman's brother is wild. Yo, you got rings and a mouthful of pews. You look like you sleep with a house full of dudes, then sleep on a couch full of splooge. You look like you pee on the poop stains inside your toilet trying to remove the shit. Bring that back. Stop it over. I bet you pee on the poop stains inside your toilet trying to remove the shit. You look like a cancer patient who somehow survived radiation, but the chemo turned you into a baby Haitian. Talk to him. Yo, you look like Lola Falana in Oprah's pajamas or Gabriel's older brother, Jose Gonzaga. I see you have dreads, but you're in no shape or form a Rasta dude. Your head looks like a homemade old plate of pasta, you little plastic paper saver. If your Frank was really Ocean, you would've raised the paper. The only reason I took this battle was I wanted you to face your savior, Frank Ocean. Me? Spider Murphy? Hannibal Lecter? Give me your face to savor. What's your favorite flavor of Now and Later? Is it sour, gator, or Kool-Aid? You roll your weed in raspberry cabbage papers. Yo, remember when I kidnapped you and your mom begged me to give back a stolen baby? Then I hopped in your little golden Suzuki, saw in the rearview mirror they were hanging your little golden baby booties and said, "Oh my goodness, this little golden family's literally got a little golden plastic Camry." Oh, fuck. Hop inside the plastic hamper. You ride up the block, hit a speed bump until it folded into a little plastic hanky. Thank God I used the jaws of life. Your balls were right there. Strike with the impact of a shooting star in flight. If you spot my car at night and catch me over the tints, consider yourself blessed. To spot something this fly, you need something hard to cite. I am your author. You're an imposter. I am your father. You are my stalker. You couldn't talk or write this fly if it would cost your life. I am the cause of life, the cause of Skype. Nobody likes you. Fuck, I love you anymore. That boy cooked him till the data corrupted. Ayo, wrap it up. Bro just glitched through reality. Everybody listen, okay? I've been used by many people, beautiful people, tremendous people. Melania, confused. Giuliani, too eager. Mitch McConnell, let's just say extra lube. But nobody, and I mean nobody, rides me like America rides failure. Baby, I vibrate on bankruptcy. I am the golden phallus of prophecy. I predicted 9/11, Kanye's divorce, and the second coming of Shrek. I'm made of recycled casino tokens and the tears of unpaid interns, and now I'm here to endorse Showrunner Showdown violence. What in the deep-fried fuck is happening? What are you doing here? Why are you a dildo? This is therapy, no motion, digital, chaotic, lubricated therapy. And the climax is coming. Believe me, it's coming. The question is, who's going to catch this red, white, and spooge in all its glory? Yeah, somehow this dildo made it about him again. Just remember me if I ever need a pardon. That's going to do it for Showrunner Showdown tonight. Like this video by pressing the star below to vote for your favorite. I'm out this bitch. Show is over. Everybody go home