Paoli Bettini: What up, my Caucasian?

FF: So, tell me, are you lampin’ or what, Mr. World Champ?

PB: Straight, up, Flav. The party is on, you know, and I’m maxin and relaxin with my people, the ladies, a little Kristal, a little Henny… and smoking blunts like it rains in the classics, fo real.

FF: Word. So, when do you start getting your training on for next year?

PB: Hell, Caucase… I’m not even training for next year.

FF: Real?

PB: Yo man, think about it. I’m the Italian national champion. Pow. I’m the world champ. Kapow. I’m the Oh-lympic champ. Ka-PAOLO, son.

Like B-Real said back in the day, “Jump behind a bush when you see me riding by…” I will f*** yo shit up.

FF: You got yo props, no doubt, kid.

PB: Word, baby, word. So, check this. I’m gonna be rockin’ that world strip, got my gold helmet, shoes and bar tape. S***, let’s say I get the leaders jersey in the Giro or the Tour… what the f*** am I gonna do with it? I got too much bling as it is. Straight up and down, don’t even bother. Keep your stank ass yellow jersey.

FF: Aight. So, the grand tours are out…

PB: Flav, you ain’ listening. I’ll be there… S***, son I got representing to do. And tell the organizers now they’d best be hiding those podium girls. You heard what they call a martini with olive juice in it, right? A dirty martini? Well, check it out—I’m Dirty Bettini. Salty, baby, salty.

FF: HeheHe… yeahhh boyeeee…. That’s tight. So, what about the classics, tho G? You love them s****s, right?

PB: I’m not gonna lie, there are still some classics that I’d like to hit up, nowhumsayin? But with all this bling, I gotta roll slow so m*****f****ers have a chance to check out how ill it all looks. If I’m flying by, I might just be a blur… For real, kid. I’m gonna be lampin’ at the back, some Henny in the water bottle… making sure the team care is blasting some fresh beats to get those booties in the crowd shaking, baby, shaking!

FF: What’s your take on the doping scandals that be f*****g up cycling right now?

PB: Shit, the only doping scandal I’m following is that this J is burnt, son. [Yelling to Tom Boonen, former World Champion, who is nearby] Yo, Tommy, this shit is cashed. Twist me up another, b*****. [Quietly to Flav] My boy has been BLUNTED ever since I took his shit, man. But like I keep telling him, don’t hate the playa, hate the game.

FF: What is the secret of your success?

PB: No offense, money, but I ain’t sharing s***. Like that laundry lady said: ancient Chinese secret.

FF: C’mon, G, don’t play me like that. Give us a taste of what makes you the greatest!

PB: I’m crafty, son. Crafty. S***, if I had the raw abilities of my man Jan, I’d win every damn race out there, for real. Unite my head with those legs… It’d be straight Voltron, WonderTwin, whatever you wanna call it… but at the end of the day, it would be beat down for the whole daman peleton. Hurt with you power… work you with my head. KA-PAOLO!

FF: I hear you. So, what’s up with the shaved legs and the girly lycra, yo? The homies want to know if y’all sissies or what.

PB: Yo, Flav, you’re lucky I’m all zooted right now or the shoe at the end of this shaved leg would so far up that ass that I’d be able to clip your face to my pedals.

FF: Any last words?

PB: World champ, b******s. World champ.