I really should've added more paprika... no, that's too much now... but is it, though? I think it needs mor-sHIT IT ALL CAME OUT FUCK fuck no it's supposed to look like that yeah
Is that a turtle in the basket? Cause I'm not cookin a fuckin turtle, shit *pockets turtle, glances over to shoulder to evade producers* cmon joseph let's get outta here little pal
*running by with a vat of bubbling oil* AHHHHHHHHH
Ah mon dieu, the smell of freshly baked garlic bread is more glorious than American independence and my ass in spandex
I'm using turnip in this casserole because it's time to- *glances at hand, squints* turn... up! Turn up! Oh, I get it, cause... yeah, John told me to fuckin say that.
Now, I remember my grandmother used to tell me two onions in a soup, not one, because despite the breath issue onions are very good for the immune system and taste splendid in a nice, homecooked southern me
*twerks while stirring* mAC AND CHEESE with VaNiLlA IcE cReAm BITCHES!!!1!!1!
*visibly ill* None of you can cook why are you here
SEASON FINALE The errant bolt strikes Kendrick Lamar with a thud.
The sound of the battle dims to silence. Handsome but simple King Drake reins in his white warhorse. Ye stills with his scimitars. In his silent bedchamber, Frank Ocean drops his head.
No-one looks more horrified than Macklemore. A child prince, the sun-bleached upstart from the sea, nominal ally and friend to the court. But admiration cannot right all wrongs, and tweeted apologies cannot call back the flight of his arrow.
Kendrick’s great Andalusian rears, silhouetted against the battlefield. His rider slumps to the ground.
The good kid, Rosecrans-born, crown prince of the West, is dead.
SEASON 2 TEASER TRAILER A twilight shot of Drake’s fairytale kingdom. His castle rises, illuminated, over the sleepy valley. The winding river reflects the glow of the houses.
2014 has been kind to Drake. Against all odds, the lord of Toronto has done well without his greatest friend and advisor. Lords Frank Ocean and Macklemore remain staunch allies. A tenuous treaty has been forged with badlands king Beyonce and her all-female murder gang. Even the political alliance/marriage with warlord Nicki Minaj has been largely uneventful. Drake’s halls echo with the whines of her hyenas.
Only one absence has marred the halcyon summer, a disappearance Lord Ocean alone has noted: the Based God has left the court, vanishing into the meadow, taking the bees and the sun and the bloom of spring with him.
Under cover of darkness, three figures emerge from the west.
On the right stands an ancient warrior. His black armor glints dully in the moonlight, his flail swooping in slow, easy circles. Too long has the might of Compton lain dormant. Too long has he coiled in his den, tolerating Kreayshawn, Mac Miller, the twerks of Miley the Tongue. Dre rides for blood, for vengeance, for the second rise of the West.
On the left, a pair of lions slink from the gloom, their shaggy throats wet with gore. They drag a war chariot behind them. Holding the reins stands a lanky figure, draped in shamanic furs. Smoke rises from his dreads. Elegant fingers raise a spell cane of bone. Only one thing could rouse the Dogg from his slumber in the dankwood: a shared vision from a raven’s eye, the careless slaughter of the prince of Compton.
In the center, a cloaked figure pulls up his skeletal horse. He stinks of iron and bile. A year of wandering the dusk lands has left him with a pronounced slump in his wounded shoulder, a bloodless chill in his flesh, a pale fire in his eyes. His hands twist the reins. He raises his gaze. It is KENDRICK LAMAR.