[Epic, Timothy Dalton style Intro. Yes, <that> Timothy Dalton.]

In the year Two-thousand Five, a man emerged from the mists. An ex-poet, he whiled away his time writing take-off songs about an online comic, honing his art in sporadic if prolific bursts. This culminated in a full set of covers to Queen's album, Jazz, and a number of other achievements. Then, two years later, he claimed to be returning permanently before mysteriously vanishing. Some speculated as to his disappearance. Perhaps he had forgotten the comic and thrown away his foolish desires to parody popular music. Perhaps he had given up writing, and taken up a career in computer programming or taxidermy. Or perhaps...

[Cut to a secret monastery in the Himalayas. Snow at 45 degree angles, blizzarding down. A white man with a large brown afro sits lotus style in the center of a hall, meditating. He wears a tattered undyed robe. Another man, wrinklier than a dried cherry, approaches, in a black robe.]

Blackie: The weather seems quite rough today.

[The afroed man sits motionless, then speaks]

Mad: And master, you have much to say.
Blackie: That snow joke.

[Mad opens one eye. Soon the two men trade puns, back and forth, on a wide range of topics. Some of them rhyme. Eventually, Blackie holds up one hand.]

Blackie: You have done well. That is rare.
Mad: I do miss steak, though.
Blackie: As it should be. I can only steer you down the path for so long.
Mad: So you're chucking me out, then?
Blackie: Letting you leave. You have ponderous work to do in the world.
Mad: No bull?
Blackie, smiling: There's a time and a place, young'n. Go away.

[The narration resumes.] And so it came to pass that the Mad Wordsmith, his skills honed and his wit sharpened, came out of his self-imposed exile into the bright unblinking light of the forums, and there he saw...

Mad: Holy crap, has Fred actually been making his schedule for three years? And he had a baby? Wow. I have work to do.
And, in honor of this momentous occasion, a momentous task. A suitable challenge. After one too many hits with the philosophy stick in Ch. 9, (which I just finished reading,) and a rather lovely beat from the CunninLynguists, I will now attempt a rap filk. I haven't done one of these since "Gamer's Paradise," which was back near the start of my filking career, so this should be interesting. Grab the song from QN5 and imagine Nanasawa and the Fanboy King as two large black men from Kentucky. Erm.

As for the source song / lyrics, it's a different meditation on "real"ness and celebrity. Lyrics on the page with the song. I suggest you produce some large headphones and listen once first before trying to substitute these lyrics in your mind. The Fanboy King's flow will get choppy, but it is on beat. Good luck. If you can even follow this, I applaud you.
To Be For Real [MT Remix]
Apologies to the CunninLynguists

From make believe
Well, I want to be for real

Some wear masks everywhere like they're living Noh,
or wear their makeup when sleeping, like it's gonna show.
Taking refuge in their work, or a sport, or go
Or just smoke themselves to death, going nice and slow.
Burning the inside or outside, I will burn my own pride,
be the thing that you crave, I will help you get by,
You are playing the game, 'cause you need a quick high
I don't do it for money, my payday ain't nigh.
I will do more, better than acceptable,
Won't integrity make the work more respectable?
I am real life. I'm not digital.
I deserve respect, it's not unthinkable.
Now I know why Erika quit, you're unstoppable
I speak to you in sound bites and word bubbles.
Understanding how you all feel does not justify.
Your behavior would even make 2-D girls cry.

Fanboy King
Don't you tell me 'bout feelings you ain't got.
Honne / tatemae, girl, you're in the same spot.
Show me a facade, don't care if it's you or not.
We'll love "you" till it changes who you are, when the love stops.
We love game girls 'cause they're constant like large rocks,
Unending erosion dragging chips off the old block.
Exports from things past, every character and plot.
Derivative preservatives, can't let our souls rot.
Fantasies we crave, Logic's what we fiend for,
In the modern world we never get what we came for.
A multiple choice test's exactly what we paid for
process of elimination will net you the dream score.
Let it be made plain, let the path be easy,
Let the world admit that escapism's really pleasing.
We leave this world, 'cause it feels like hell,
And no one thinks to ask why we're so compelled.
The one nice thing about doing raps is, you don't care half as much about matching the original rhythm as you do the beat. This makes it harder for people to appreciate, though, partly because it's HARD. (And this delayed my return by two weeks because it took an absurd amount of time to write *one verse*.) This, everyone, is probably why rap filks are extremely uncommon.

For those that don't know...Honne/Tatemae on Wikipedia. Providing you with fanworks and quality edutainment.

Well, I'm back. I'll check in from time to time. This was meant to make a bang, but I think it may be more of a fizz.
-Mad Word
Do not weep, maiden, for fame is kind.
Because your fanboys drew skanky doujins on the 'net
And their photography makes /b/tards blush,
Do not weep.
Fame is kind.

'Moar!' Shout the fans of the singing girls,
Strange rewards are giv'n those with win
From boards where ecchi pictures lie.
The undemanding girlies glow before them.
Great is the Fanboy-King, great, and his kingdom -
A board where the snowy sad-girls cry.

Do not weep, dear, for fame is kind.
Because your roommate stumbled from the lighted pillar,
Towered over (and lost) friends, fans, and love,
Do not weep.
Fame is kind.

Swift muffin-cart from the upper deck
Crashed into fans so probing and pale
From boards where ecchi pictures lie.
Heroine to them, to defend them so,
Make plain to all the dignity of fanboys,
And a board where the snowy sad-girls cry.

Seiyuu whose tears shine bright as the starlight
On the high-res. splendid pics of her pantsu,
Do not weep.
Fame is kind.

(Apologies to Stephen Crane)

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