The Lost Cause Comedy Vault Vol. I

[Unreleased/ Untitled Mixtape - ‘Late Night Drive’]

Written, Produced By C’cxell Soleïl + neocloud

& Performed by Blū Tha Gürū 

[The Festival Project ™ ] 

The Complex Collective © 

{Enter The Multivere}

04. James Bond 

This motherfucker isn’t even funny!  

His dirty little fuckin’ brother might be even dumber; 

I wonder

What kind of fuckin’ love spell I was under

When i wrote this album 

Fuck it: 

That’s just how i won a Tony! (Tony!) 

The irony of Italy and throw in a third: 

Tony; 

You owe me, 

Like i’m the only fuckin lonely stoner full of

‘Gnochi?’--

–Gn–Gno–??

W–wait–

Gnocchi?

Nevermind,

Fuck it.

What you think i’m like a genie in a bottle, bro?

Don’t even got a body, bro! 

And I am not a fuckin blondie 

But uh – 

That sounds good, yo… 

With chocolate chips– 

This must be the battle, cause i’m sinking ships 

Loose Lips, 

Dude this fuckin’ guy has got a big mouth, 

Like a blow fish 

I went low, sis, 

So you went hi-hoe, Snow White 

This life is hopeless 

I–

Don’t know Pincohio: 

I know Jipetto’s broke and off his fuckin’ rocker, 

Down on his luck, but all I got is 

Frankenstein's Monster 

[I’M ALIVE.]

–but barely, cause I drove my G6 off of a bridge and– 

[DIED.]

In California 

Two blocks from the Brooklyn bridge in 

[Fi-Di]

But I never walk over it;

Cause I think of jumping off so much 

[I hate my life.]

Call me Al Bundy
Cause I hate my wife, 

Said every man! 

It’s badder than banter 

I got a cat in a hamper 

I’m microwaving a hamster 

Live on a fucking broadcast– 

I just turned the devil off 

Then I talk to God last, 

I got a medal of honor 

Cause once-upon i felt a hard blast 

Growing an apple tree so i can have a hard glass 

of hard cider 

Doing squats so I can have a hard ass 

She’s mad now, 

But i got a cash cow , 

I went to a lash-brow bar tho, 

and afterward, 

It’s all gone (gone, gone!)

Life is even harder when you’re not a blonde 

But suddenly my life is Lights, Camera, Action! 

Now i’m James Bond

Dunadunadunaduna 

What up 

I’m on Wall and Broad Street 

Pulling up on Whole Foods market 

Got a silver Glock in my pocket 

Trench coat, 

I’m a Lost Cause 

And I got a lot of Balls

You are mad that you are not me

What up; 

I’m on Wall and Broad Street 

I’m a lost cause 

And I got a lot of Balls

You are mad that you are not me

Dunadunadunadunaduna

Batman! 

James Bond 

Dunadunadunadunaduna

My name is 

Dunadunadunadunaduna

Batman! 

Nah!

Dunadunadunadunaduna

James Bond 

My name is 

James Bond 

My—my name is 

James Bond

James Bond 

My—my—my 

Name is 

James Bond.

{Enter The Multiverse} 

L E G E N D S 

{Enter The Multiverse} 

Parallel Park [The Whip] 

Performed by Blū Tha Gürū 

Prod./Composed by C’cxell Soleïl  + neocloud.

Written By: C’cxell Soleïl

UK Drill Hybrid NY Drill

(Peep my attempt at a British accent. Lolz.) 

I wrote this song in LA pre-pandemic (2019-2020) 

Inspired by the hypnotic sound of my blinker, I had to parallel park so often in LA every time I did it I would rap using my blinker as a beat. 

Cool to finally breathe actual life into it. 

S/O 

To the west coast, I guess if there was a such thing as LA Drill, this is it.

Working on accents, impressions and other funny stuff, the music is just a passion…

Idk. Anyway.

The full and complete Old School Hip Hop Mixtape Coming Soon, trying to figure out how to shoot the music video for the last single titled James Bond on a ltd. budget cause art costs out the nose these days.

Link to the full mixtape soon, will be free to DL. 

Enjoy this lil Drill bop in the meantime, though.

Love,

-Blu. 

A Little History On The Subject:

UK drill emerged primarily out of Brixton, South London around the early 2010s, spearheaded by crews like 67 who imported the stark, percussive aggression of Chicago drill and cross-pollinated it with indigenous UK soundsystem culture.

That lineage directly intersects with dubstep's birth in neighboring Croydon, inheriting its low-end architecture: both subgenres share the foundational DNA of South London pirate radio, Jamaican dub pressure, syncopated half-time rhythms, and an obsession with cavernous, sub-bass weight.

UK producers transmuted that sonic heritage into drill’s signature sliding 808 glides and frantic, syncopated hi-hat patterns—a distinct sonic alchemy discovered online by Brooklyn artists like Pop Smoke and Fivio Foreign, who sourced beats directly from British producers like 808Melo and AXL Beats to ignite the transatlantic phenomenon of New York drill.

The Complex Collective © 

[The Festival Project ™ ] 

‘Parallel Park [The Whip]’ -  Blū Tha Gürū

Untitled/ Unreleased EP’ 

LYRICS: 

I parallel park the whip

I parallel park the whip

I pull up, I rip and I dip

I parallel park the ghost

You see me i'm doing the most

Damn if I stamp it

This is not the post office!

I'm ballin!

They're callin’ my phone;

Step into the party--

I'm coming alone;

Pull off with the homie,

I bought him a blonde;

She show him her OnlyFans

I get a percent back

If she give him some dome!

On The Low!

I cannot park in the hood

my rims are too chrome,

And my exhaust

Loud

like I am a proud

Boy

Don't talk to me now,

Boy

I found a good spot

And i'm tryna parallel park

I parallel park the whip

I parallel park the whip

I parallel park the whip

I

Parallel park the Whip

I parallel park the whip

I parallel park the whip

I parallel park the whip

I parallel park the whip

I parallel park the whip

I parallel park the whip

I

Parallel park the Whip

I parallel park the whip

I parallel park the whip

I parallel park the whip

California kisses

He fell in love he's calling me the Mrs.

But miss me with that shit!

I am a savage:

Made man

Rockefeller, Malkovich

Space X, Billionaire

Natural face,

Fake hair

Natural ass

Waist Snatched

Butter. lips

Butterscotch interior;

See your beater clearer in my rearview

Than you see you in your mirror

(You wish you could be here!)

Cause

I parallel park the whip

I parallel park the whip

I parallel park the whip

I

Parallel park the Whip

I parallel park the whip

I parallel park the whip

I parallel park the whip

I parallel park the whip

I parallel park the whip

I parallel park the whip

I

Parallel park the Whip

I parallel park the whip

I parallel park the whip

I parallel park the whip

Excerpt - The Chronicles of WTF

INT. MODERN ESTATE - LIVING ROOM - DAY

A cavernous architectural expanse of cast concrete and austere luxury.

CHARACTER NOTE: C.C. (played by Meryl Streep) is an ageless deity and primordial mystic disguised in mortal refinement. Across parallel timelines and cosmic shifts she assumes myriad forms, but in this realm she embodies Old Hollywood royalty—silver-screen elegance, supreme poise, and the chilling authority of an ancient power disguised in tailored silk.

C.C. sits ensconced behind a sprawling low marble table. She remains entirely absorbed in her manuscripts, pen poised, an imperious sovereign whose authority requires neither volume nor effort.

Her ASSISTANT (20s, hyper-attentive, subtly overwhelmed) hovers near the entry.

C.C. (without looking up) Go into my glass case.

ASSISTANT Which one?

C.C. In the den.

ASSISTANT The trophy room?

C.C. In the den.

INT. DEN / TROPHY GALLERY - CONTINUOUS

DIRECTOR’S NOTE: The camera tracks slowly behind the Assistant into an intimidating, high-ceilinged rotunda lined with a curved panoramic window overlooking the precipitous canyon drops outside.

Opposite the glass horizon stands an immense, built-in vitrine: tier upon tier of polished bronze, silver, crystalline monoliths, engraved medallions, and soaring statuary celebrating an exhaustive lifetime of prestige.

The Assistant lingers framed in the threshold, utterly paralyzed by the overwhelming labyrinth of accolades.

She blinks, exhales, and pivots back toward the living room.

INT. LIVING ROOM - CONTINUOUS

C.C. remains motionless over her documents, pen scratching steadily against parchment.

ASSISTANT What did you need?

C.C. Oh. Go into my glass case.

ASSISTANT Okay?

C.C. And get my trophy.

The Assistant squints, bewildered by the sheer logistical impossibility.

ASSISTANT Which one?

C.C. The pretty one.

A tense pause. The silence is broken only by the rhythmic scrawl of C.C.'s fountain pen.

ASSISTANT Which one?

C.C. You’ll know it when you see it.

The Assistant swallows hard, nods submissively, and turns back.

INT. DEN / TROPHY GALLERY - CONTINUOUS

CLOSE UP - SHELVES

The Assistant paces slowly down the length of the illuminated glass cases. Gleaming brass wings, faceted quartz prisms, heavy gold wreaths. All of them possess an ornate, detached elegance.

She arrives at the farthest alcove.

ANGLE ON A LOWER SHELF

Tucked between two towering obelisks sits a solid bronze figurine: a sculpted, unclothed MAN. He carries a distinct boyishness—youthful features, an open, unassuming expression, and a magnetic grace.

There is no engraved placard. No commemorative laurel.

The Assistant slides the glass panel aside. The mechanism glides with a muffled hum.

She lifts the figurine. It has noticeable density. She turns it over in her hands, searching for markings. Blank.

She glances up at the sweeping glass window overlooking the sunlit abyss of the canyons, then down at the statue again.

INT. LIVING ROOM - CONTINUOUS

The Assistant appears in the archway, holding the bronze figurine gingerly with both hands.

C.C. lifts her eyes from her papers for the first time. A faint, knowing flicker in her gaze.

C.C. Oh good, you’ve got it.

The Assistant hesitates, disarmed by the sudden validation. She steps briskly to the low marble table and bends to set the statuette down.

C.C. (CONT'D) (firm) No, not there.

The Assistant snaps upright as if struck by a current.

C.C. studies the space for a fraction of a second, then gestures dismissively toward the kitchen.

C.C. (CONT'D) There. On the island.

ASSISTANT Mmhmm.

The Assistant complies, setting the bronze figure squarely on the pristine quartz island counter.

C.C. Could you get me a water? And whatever you want.

ASSISTANT Sure.

INT. KITCHEN - CONTINUOUS

The Assistant pulls open the stainless steel refrigerator door. The heavy door obscures the hallway alcove directly behind it.

She retrieves a chilled glass bottle of sparkling water and a mineral water carafe from the interior shelf.

REVEAL SHOT

She swings the refrigerator door shut.

Standing directly where the open door had masked the view is a completely NAKED MAN (early 20s, olive Irish complexion dusted with light freckles, soft pink lips, and dark brown eyes brimming with a wide-eyed, boyish innocence—evoking a young, fresh-faced Jimmy Fallon).

The Assistant drops both bottles. They strike the hardwood floor with a deafening rattle; one rolls wildly under the lower cabinets.

ASSISTANT Oh!

Flushed crimson, the Assistant drops instinctively to her knees, averting her eyes while scrambling to trap the spinning bottle.

The naked man remains motionless, standing on the polished floorboards like a recently unpacked museum relic, his face completely serene and unblemished.

C.C. (O.S.) (calm, flat, from the other room) There’s a towel.

Scrambling on all fours, shielding her peripheral vision with an upturned forearm, the Assistant blindly reaches for a linen dishcloth hanging off the oven handle.

Without looking directly at him, she extends the small towel into the air.

A youthful hand gently receives it from her grasp.

The Assistant retrieves the lost bottle from beneath the toe-kick, scrambles upright, and avoids looking anywhere below his collarbone.

The man has neatly knotted the compact kitchen towel around his hips. It barely covers him.

His dark brown eyes rest on her with unclouded, gentle innocence.

MAN Hello.

The Assistant winces, turning an accusatory, wide-eyed stare toward the living room archway.

C.C. (O.S.) Bring him here.

The man extends an open palm toward the Assistant, maintaining a hold on the towel with the other.

She takes his hand. His skin is warm, supple, completely real.

INT. LIVING ROOM - CONTINUOUS

The Assistant escorts the Man out of the kitchen, guiding him to the opposite perimeter of the marble coffee table. She releases his fingers instantly.

C.C. looks up, conducting a cool, forensic inventory of his silhouette, his freckled features, and his calm disposition. After an agonizing second, she offers a singular, almost imperceptible nod of assent.

C.C. Good. Now take him to his room.

ASSISTANT His—

C.C. snaps her head up. Her gaze turns glacial, chillingly final.

The Assistant’s voice catches in her throat.

ASSISTANT (CONT'D) Okay.

The Man extends his hand again, smiling faintly with docile compliance.

INT. NORTH RESIDENTIAL CORRIDOR - CONTINUOUS

STEADICAM - FOLLOWING

A long, minimalist hallway illuminated by recessed baseboard LEDs.

The Assistant walks with measured speed, holding the Man’s hand. He trails quietly alongside her, his youthful, freckled face placid and agreeable.

They pass three identical walnut doors.

The Assistant slows to a halt, realizing she has no frame of reference. She releases his hand, hoping his instincts might guide him.

The Man simply stops dead in his tracks. He stands in the center of the runner rug, draped in a dishcloth, hands resting politely at his sides.

The Assistant studies the blank walls, exhales through her teeth, and grasps his wrist once more. She pulls him past three more doorways, making a sharp, arbitrary pivot toward a door on the left.

She turns the brass handle and pushes it open.

INT. GUEST BEDROOM - CONTINUOUS

A grand, museum-like suite: a massive circular burgundy carpet dominates the floorboards, matching heavy velvet draperies frame an expansive window overlooking an internal stone courtyard, and an antique rosewood bureau sits quietly in the corner.

The Man steps into the center of the rug, motionless.

The Assistant takes one deliberate step backward toward the corridor.

His dark brown eyes watch her with gentle, boyish detachment.

She takes a second step back.

The Man pivots gracefully and sits on the edge of the mattress.

The Assistant takes a third step backward, crossing the threshold into the hall frame.

They exchange a silent, prolonged look through the doorway.

The Man reaches out, grasps the inner edge of the heavy door, and pulls it smoothly shut until the latch clicks into place.

Through the solid wood, a muffled, soft voice carries out:

MAN (O.V.) Bye.

INT. LIVING ROOM - CONTINUOUS

LOW ANGLE - ON THE COFFEE TABLE

The Assistant marches back into the room, coming to an abrupt halt across from C.C.'s table, radiating unspoken demands for an explanation.

C.C. completes a handwritten notation, caps her pen, and raises her chin.

C.C. You can go, now.

The Assistant maintains her posture, daring the room to supply a rationale.

C.C. looks straight through her with impenetrable indifference. The sheer weight of an ironclad NDA and an unwritten rule of survival hangs heavily between them. The Assistant knows better than to break the silence.

C.C. (CONT'D) Your check is in the escrutoire drawer.

INSERT - ANTIQUE ESCRUTOIRE

Against the architectural concrete wall stands an antique mahogany escrutoire—a high-end writing bureau flanked by twin miniature tiered open bookshelves on either side of a centered nest of petite drawers.

The Assistant crosses quickly to the bureau. She catches a delicate miniature golden drop-ring pull with her fingertips and draws out the center drawer.

Inside rests an unmarked hardcover volume, bound shut with a tailored silk ribbon. Tucked securely beneath the knot is her payroll check.

ANGLE ON ASSISTANT

She stares down at the spine. The title remains obscured, turned away beneath the fabric. Curiosity pulls at her for half a breath, but a wave of profound, uncanny unease takes hold.

She snatches the tied bundle without untying the ribbon, tucks it firmly under her arm, grabs her coat from the rack by the threshold, and practically flees through the heavy front door into the corridor outside.

{Enter The Multiverse} 

L E G E N D S 

The Complex Collective © 

[The Festival Project ™ ] 

‘An Impromptu Talk With God.’

The Lost Cause Comedy Vault Vol. IV (Preview)

Unstoppable.Co

{Enter The Multiverse} 

The Complex Collective © 

[The Festival Project ™ ] 

The Lost Cause Comedy Vault Vol.II

Unstoppable.Co

{Enter The Multiverse} 

The Complex Collective © 

[The Festival Project ™ ] 

The Lost Cause Comedy Vault Vol.II

Unstoppable.Co

{Enter The Multiverse} 

The Complex Collective © 

[The Festival Project ™ ] 

The Lost Cause Comedy Vault Vol.II

Unstoppable.Co

{Enter The Multiverse} 

The Complex Collective © 

[The Festival Project ™ ] 

The Lost Cause Comedy Vault Vol.II

Unstoppable.Co

{Enter The Multiverse} 

The Complex Collective © 

[The Festival Project ™ ] 

The Lost Cause Comedy Vault Vol.II

Unstoppable.Co

I was lied to at the whole foods market. 

The line was unfathomably long and this tiny manhattan whole foods was stuffed with bodies, 

Back to back. 

I knew there was another checkout lane upstairs, 

And I headed that way, but then a dude in an apron and a radio was like 

“The line is much longer upstairs.” 

And i was like, 

“Longer than this?” 

And he was like 

“yeah it’s much worse up there.” 

And i was like

“Okay.” 

But then i felt something in my heart that said he was lying and i was like 

“You’re not lying are you?” 

And he didn’t respond. 

So i got in line, for like 2 seconds, 

And more swarms started loading in, 

And I was like 

“No.” 

And I don’t know how, but i just knew he was lying. 

It was a trap. 

So I went past him without saying anything, 

Cause I already just knew something was off. 

And I went upstairs, 

I even took the regular stairs instead of the escalator, 

To give myself some time to prepare.

And when I got upstairs, 

Guess what. 

The line was not worse. 

It was better. 

It was like another planet. 

It was like a regular ass line. 

I WAS LIED TO AT THE WHOLE FOODS MARKET.

{Enter The Multiverse} 

The Complex Collective © 

[The Festival Project ™ ] 

The Lost Cause Comedy Vault Vol. V (Preview) [Uncut/Unedited Bonus Material]

Unstoppable.Co

The Complex Collective ©

[The Festival Project ™ 

JOHN OLIVER 

Check it out, I’ve done something you’ll all very much like. 

SETH MEYERS 

Are you sure?

JOHN OLIVER

We’ll, I’d bargain, 

JIMMY KIMMRL 

Bargain what?

JOHN OLIVER 

Has anyone addressed you about your gambling addiction and that possibly, it’s starting to interfere with your work?

JIMMY KIMMEL 

Not yet. 

JOHN OLIVER 

Well then, I won’t be the one to force it. 

Carrying on. 

[they all just sort of stand there awestruck; JIMMY KIMMEL finishes placing a bet on FANDUEL]

JOHN OLIVER 

Please, gather round. 

JIMMY KIMMEL 

Why should we all have to “gather around” you?

JOHN OLIVER 

Would it be more comfortable for you if I called it “a huddle” and told you that people might be placing bets on it?

JIMMY KIMMEL 

..,probably. 

JOHN OLIVER 

Alright, lads: huddle round, then! 

JIMMY KIMMEL 

That does sound better. 

SETH MEYERS 

Although, somewhat more homosexual. 

JOHN OLIVER 

And you’re protesting, Seth Meyers— to he whom has built his brand on the accessibility of metrosexuality?

SETH MEYERS 

I’m not arguing. 

JIMMY KIMMEL 

He just called you gay. 

SETH MEYERS 

He said “metro” 

JIMMY KIMMEL 

But what does that mean?

JOHN OLIVER 

Speaking of “almost”, it appears we may be one-off a host; does it seem like we might be missing something, or someone

[all simultaneously in unison] 

no. 

Not—no. 

I don’t think so. 

No. 

No, probably not. 

JOHN OLIVER 

Very well, then. Let us carry on with our “huddle” 

[they all do, besides Jimmy Kimmel, who appears to be placing a bet on himself for being the last one into the huddle, before sliding his phone into his pocket, and displaying a very slow, small-stepped strut across the toom] 

Yo. Put me In The group chat. 

What? No 

Why not. 

You’re not in the strike force! 

Who says? 

Uh…The Strike Force. 

What does that even mean? 

You know what? I don’t know what it means. 

The Complex Collective ©

[The Festival Project ™ 

Unstoppable.Co]