To: [redacted]

Date: Mon 29 March 2010 @ 4:03 PM

Subject: RE: Madame Bovary Response

Professor [redacted],

This book was whack. I mean, damn!—Emma Bovary is a stank-ass crab bitch. And there ain’t no other way to say it. Facts is facts. Don’t get it twisted!

I just don’t get how she was so bored or why she was showin’ so much disrespect. She was just some whiney little hoe who didn’t know how good she had it. Her baby daddy was a doctor, she got no fuckin’ job because she was one of them lazy hoes, she had a fly crib in the middle of France, nice ice round her neck, and she was still buggin. I mean, yeah, I guess she had a bitch of a mother-in-law, but who didn’t? That woman was all up in her grill, yo. It was about to get down. I know I was waitin’ for Emma to just punch the bitch. That woulda been tight. Y’know, if she just smacked her ass down and poked at her weave with a silver fork and tellin’ her to run her shit back. Yo, I woulda been all over that shit like you don’t even know.

But she was bored and got herself a fresh G like those bitches in those fancy, bourgey books she was readin’. And he just used her like she was some prostitute hoe. He probably went back to his guys and bragged and shit about how he was a mack because she gave it up so easy. Whatever. They kicked it for a while and then he was so over it, like the rest of them, and he just jetted like who the fuck he think he was, I mean really. It’s whatever.

I was talkin’ about it with my girl Trina. We was sayin’ about how it reminded us of that last book we read, the Notre-Dame one with that little hoe Esmerelda. She was dancing for everybody to see in the town square with that fuckin’ goat. You know she was just pop, lock and droppin’ it and I was thinking, Shiiit, if I did something like that in Grand Concourse, I’d get my ass beat by one of them Dominican mamas. That ain’t no joke.

And then that dumb bitch Esmerelda was hiding from the angry mob of peoples and she seed her man, Phoebus, and she starts yellin’ out his name and I’m thinkin’, Shut up, bitch! You wanna get caught, fool? I was telling Trina, it’s like when you’re hiding from the Chola gang, you ain’t gonna be trying to make noise and shit or else they gonna find you and woop your ass into tomorrow. And that stupid, dumb bitch was screamin’ and they found her. Like duh, bitch. I hope you wasn’t surprised. And then they killed her, but I didn’t feel bad because, I mean, that’s what you get for acting like a stupid bitch, bitch!

I mean, she just stupid. She gotta realize that her man was nothin’ but a playa, that he moved his ass on and got himself a new trick he call himself seein’. He wasn’t her man no more. And that’s a shame but it’s a hard truth to face, girl. Move it or lose it. Buck it up and truck it out, yo.

And daaaamn, what is it with all this horseback riding? That shit’s nasty. They ridin’ them horses like they ain’t got nothing else to do. They just be ridin’ and ridin’ all day long and all I’m sayin’ is that someone’s gonna get a yeast infection. I know you mentioned in class that whenever horseback riding is mentioned in these 19th century books that the writer really be talking about sex. Why couldn’t Flaubert just get to the point, you would think he was writing some kind of pastral porno with all these damn horses up in this book. What is this nasty stuff you makin’ us read if they gettin’ it on all the time with all this horseback riding?

Yo, but foreal. Emma Bovary ain’t got nothin’ on my homegirl Anna Karenina. Homegirl knows how to fuckin’ do her shit, yo. Emma was just being all cranky and shit and then swallowed that bottle of arsenic like some kind of attention-grabbin’ hoe. I wasn’t havin’ it, nuh-uh! I was all like, Fine, if you wanna die that’s good because, you know what, I just want you to shut up and die already cuz you were being a whiney little bitch for the past 200 pages. But my girl Anna was all up on that train shit. You know. It was like she was standing on that train platform, she patted her weave and then she just jumped. She was a woman on a mission and that’s true gangsta status. She really knew how to handle her shit and you gotta respect that. I know I do. I respect it hands down. Tolstoy got Flaubert beat in that department, yo.

XOXO,

Ghetto Diva

The post A Ghetto Diva’s Response To Madame Bovary appeared first on The Faster Times.

Surely the importance and pleasure that are dually attached to his functions should be considered. My client, the sweating, unnamed Frat Boy with unclipped toenails and an unsightly amount of nipple hair, must fend for himself against an enemy plotting against him. Of course he did not act alone, but had an accomplice. And it is their common fault, the fault of both members, the fault of both drives, that lends my hand to writing this plea.

On the eve of Friday, 28 March 2010, the accomplice, Sorority Girl #716-A, known to many as ‘Brittany,’ approached a group of girlfriends to ask if her daisy duke shorts were too slutty-looking. The record shows that the group gasped, murmurs of no, ohmygodno, and of course not’s resounded. Sorority Girl #712-C, known to many as ‘Katie,’ told the accomplice that she looked so very hot, so very Kim Kardashian meets South Beach at sunset. The record shows that there is no such thing as too-slutty-looking at a white trash bash. The group agreed with those sentiments. High-pitched giggling ensued. It has been recorded.

Once at the party, and upon guzzling unquantifiable amounts of Pabst Blue Ribbon and Natural Light, Brittany became unable to walk properly in her wedge heels, placed large amounts of strain on her ankles, and may or may not have flashed some pussy to innocent passersby at the bottom of the staircase. My client was noticeably intoxicated, held Brittany with his left arm outstretched at an angle of 65 degrees North to West and called her a babe before accidentally projectile launching three bittles of saliva onto her face.

My client politely asked Brittany if she would like to join him for extracurricular activities in his bedroom. She agreed before belligerently dropping a red cup of Jungle Juice on the floor. It is this action that my client read as consent, and it should be noted that such activities cannot take place alone. The need for an accomplice is necessary. Both are at fault.

So you ask what is the motivation? Well, of course we all know the answer to that. Despite the wranglings of lawyers and judges, nature will go her own way. Though the coital experience ranked moderately low on Brittany’s Vaginal Richter Scale, with a magnitude of 3.4 Joules per second squared, the evening ended with a weak and apathetic handjob, a less than stellar performance. My client should not be seen in any negative light. It is my hope that the court will look kindly upon my client, who despite the events and alcohol consumption of the evening, realized that the body has enough blood to fuel the thinking of only one head.

Signed,

Michel de Montaigne, Esq.

The post In Defense of The Frat Boy’s Penis appeared first on The Faster Times.