I, of late, have had mixed feelings about this here blog I’ve been working on. Although I feel I’m doing a service to mankind, I also bring into play a recent spiritual journey I’ve been on, in which we are all of the same essence and to destroy one part of the spirit, is to damage all of the spirit. I’ve been wrestling with this on many levels and I think it’s time to call it quits here. It’s been fun, although sometimes it was dull, like right before that year sabbatical I treated myself to. This is not for a lack of readership, although it has waned lately because of the aforementioned sabbatical. There is still enough interest in the blog to warrant its continuance. This is not for bowing to my enemies, as I’m still running circles around them and will soon surpass them.
I’m just trying to put myself in a better place and to continue this mean and fun blog would be detrimental to that ends. I still stand by my assessment that self-publishing and much of the indie-writing world is damaging the literary community to a fearful full-on toxic destruction. I still think you should go the traditional route to get published because then you’ll truly know if you’re any good or not. I still have yet to read anything self-published that’s actually worth reading, save for the occasional anthology. It’s still a joke to me. But, I must remain and let it go. I’ll let a new-found hero of mine (and someone I now greatly look up to) close it out and speak for me in what I may have failed to assert here. Thanks for the fun, you shitty, shitty writers.
Once, when we discussed negativity towards others, he said that we ought imagine that we each have an individual connection with a God or higher power through “a Doc Brown from Back to the Future-style metal helmet” (bear with me) that has an electric tendril that reaches up through the sky, puncturing the ozone layer, into the heavens, past the Milky Way, right into the mind of God. Like them hairdrying plastic mushroom contraptions beneath which elderly ladies sit in hairdressers, but instead of being attached to a plug socket, they are attached to God. When someone, a critic, a teacher or an enemy attacks you, it’s as if they are petulantly disgruntled and dissatisfied with their own connection to the universe and like snitchy little berks, reach over and yank your tendril. We are all connected to an objective higher mind and through that to each other, so why bother jerking around with other people’s connection? It’s a senseless interference. We all do it, but really what’s the point of sniping at our fellows? You may as well go into your garden and holler abuse at a nasturtium. In the end it’s between you and God.
My Booky Wook 2: This Time It’s Personal
This fuckin’ guy, here. You know it’s bad when a public figure has to self-publish a book. You can just see it on Nagin’s stupid mug though. I never trusted him. I remember when Katrina went down and his face was everywhere. He just looked dumb. He still looks dumb.
Now he gets to sit in prison, right? He’s in trouble for some typical shady-politician stuff but I won’t get into that. He looks about ready for some good old fashioned New Orleans butt-rape though. Fitting for someone who helped butt-rape such a great city.
I’ll skip the stupid and overwritten introduction and get right into chapter one: Landfall Blues. This fuckin’ guy, here.
Her Wonder Woman like strength destroyed everything in her path…
I don’t understand the reference. Wonder Woman isn’t a destructive force. Maybe he wrote this when Beyonce was in talks to play her in a movie? That might explain it.
Like a well-devised secret battle plan…
Now we’re getting to the truth. He’s anthropomorphizing this chaotic act of nature in an attempt to downplay it to fall under his ineptitude. He simply can’t wrap his brain around something this big. Here’s the worst bit of chapter one:
The winds were screaming around city hall and the Hyatt hotel louder and crazier than a wild banshee roaring down the streets. It made a hollow and constant drone like sci-fi possessed gods chanting ominous incantations. The raindrops were so large that they sounded like gunshots as they hit buildings, cars and the ground.
Okay, where do I start with this? I’ll go with the banshee. There’s a difference between screaming and roaring, first of all. So did the fucking banshee scream or roar? Then in the very next sentence, it’s not a roar or a scream (or a yodel), but it’s a drone. And not just any drone, no. This is Ray Nagin. This is a drone like sci-fi possessed gods chanting ominous incantations. What the fuck is a sci-fi possessed god?? And those weren’t incantations, those were people outside crying for help as they died. And those “gunshots” weren’t raindrops, THEY WERE ACTUAL GUNSHOTS.
Let’s forget about the rest of over-long chapter one, which contains lines such as:
…shattering glass windows like packs of Mardi Gras beads or painted Zulu coconuts tossed into a sea of people, many who get hit in the face as penalty for not anticipating where these pieces were really going.
She [Katrina, a HURRICANE] had never been to Bourbon Street but heard we served an alcoholic drink called the “Hurricane” and she wanted one for the road.
She [Katrina, a HURRICANE] was now sprinting to get some Bourbon Street libations.
Here are some more of the chapter titles:
John Wayne Dude
Radio Cuss Out
This is a very long Amazon Preview, you’ll have to excuse me. Hey, it’s very long, much like the relief effort and government response and the time it took to get some fucking functioning trailers to these now destitute people who no doubt had to dodge Zulu coconuts and Wonder Woman’s invisible plane. This fuckin’ guy, here. It’s easy to blame Ragin’ Nagin, I guess. And that’s what I’ll do, since this blog is about him. Wait, wait… RAYgin Nagin. Because his name is Ray…NEXT.
Next he spends too much time describing himself getting ready to ride in a helicopter (once again taking too long, I should say) and proceeds to bash the New Orleans Saints a little bit (WHO DAT, asshole) while flying away from the Superdome. He notices that the elevated interstate highways were filling with people. Were. WERE. This was well after the flood, they’d been up on those fuckin’ freeways and starving long before Nagin strapped himself into that helicopter. There’s no “were”, it had already happened. Things from Nagin’s chopper looked like spilled black coffee or like frosted flakes. He could see the stress on people’s faces. From a helicopter. In the wind. Okay then. NEXT.
Next he bashes Michael Brown, head of FEMA, for a few paragraphs, calling into play his inexperience and ineffectiveness in dealing with the storm. That’s a case of the black guy calling the kettle black, Mr. Nagin. NEXT.
Next he claims to barely sleep on wet, sweaty sheets and pretends to feel bad for the people down below, still waiting on buses to get them the fuck away from him. NEXT.
Next he claims to help search a wrecked hotel for a place to sleep. I’m sure he did. NEXT.
Next, what doesn’t kill him makes him stronger and he should be Hercules after the morning he’s had. Aw, poor baby. Try spending a month locked up in a detention facility with no paperwork and no real charges and no real food and no contact with the outside world because you were in the wrong place at the wrong time or because you went out to your car to get some food you’d left and you got nabbed for “looting”, you fuck. NEXT.
Next he bitches about the president and the governor. There are valid complaints about them as well, but Mr. Nagin is one of the Three Amigos here. Don’t get it twisted.
No more NEXTs.
This is an incredibly self-absorbed and narcissistic take on the Katrina tragedy, written by a man who still can’t see outside of his barely throbbing and rarely functioning frontal lobe. It’s his version of OJ Simpson’s “I didn’t do it but if I did, this is how I’d do it” book. He fucked up just as much as the next guy but you wouldn’t guess it here. He was one of them, if one was to believe Mr. Nagin. He had to wade past purple and bloated corpses, right? He had to fall asleep listening to dogs yowling and dying of starvation all night, right? He had to watch family members die while waiting in line for the buses, didn’t he? He got infections and illnesses from stagnant water turned toxic, didn’t he? He slept on the freeway, huh? He dodged roving bands of armed looters, I’m sure. This fuckin’ guy, here.
And now another hurricane is rolling by. Only this time it’s Hurricane Karma. And the only banshee Ray Nagin can hear is his own screaming as he gets butt-raped in a federal-pound-you-in-the-ass prison.
Some Amazon Previews are simply too short to write up a proper shitty review. That’s where this series comes in. And I hate it when people self publish a book and claim it’s part of a series before other books are even written. Get a life.
Look closely at that cover. Like really closely. See her mouth? See the herp sore? Why would you put that on the cover of your YA/kids novel? Teenage boys read too (I did) so why would they want to stare at a cold sore? Why would anyone want to stare at one? I know this is a young cover model and you don’t exactly need her in a bikini, but still…PHOTOSHOP ABRASIONS AND LESIONS. Maybe she gets a cold sore in the book and it ruins her prom night or whatever it is young girls do these days. Her twerk party. Nobody wants a herp twerking on him.
Get it? Her name? Abby Normal AKA abnormal. The prologue (motherFUCKER) tells us that her middle moniker is Noughton. Abby Noughton Normal. Not unnormal. Are you following this? She’s not unnormal so she’s normal. Abnormally not unnormal. That’s SO Abby. LOL she has a cold sore. AnySTD, if this book really is for kids, that prologue has got to go. It. Is. So. Boring.
Until she was eight, Abby spent some part of every day with her grandparents[Nan and Papa]…Because both of Abby’s parents work, her mom in a law firm and her dad a chef. [BOOORRRRIIIIINNNNGGG] Then Nan and Papa moved away. Papa got a new job with a school for Marine Engineers [sic] (men who worked on ships) and he and Nan lived at that school. [WHO CAAAAAAARES. BOOOOORRRRIIIIING. AND WHAT IS THAT ON YOUR LIP? ARE YOU SICK?]
No kid will read that. Not even the author’s kid.
I heard the front door open and immediately put down my I-pod.
Nobody uses Ipods anymore. And it’s Ipod, not I-pod.
I eased myself out of the red Barcalounger…
No kid knows what a Barcalounger is. I don’t even really know what a Barcalounger is.
“What is this?” My grandmother held up an almost empty can of Campbell’s tomato soup.
The directions on a can of Campbell’s tomato soup say that it’s one can of soup and one can of water. Why would there still be soup in the fucking can? Unless it was one of those big cans, in which case Grandma AKA Nan should hit Abby over the head with it a few times, the wasteful little piggy shit. No wonder she has sores on her mouth.
Isn’t that what we all want?
Yes, of course, white guy pressing his boner against a woman on a rock. That’s what we all want. And how do you “play successfully”?? If you fail at playing, just off yourself. But what, pray tell, is the Dream Life Formula?? Allow me to unpack.
This book is apparently taught in sentences.
One sentence at a time.
One after the other, no paragraphs.
Maybe they’re supposed to be inspirational or quotable?
Some of the sentences are randomly bold and centered.
Some of the sentences are randomly bold but not centered.
No longer does he have to suffer the humiliation of asking for time off from work…
That’s humiliating? Because I do it all the time.
We wrote this book for YOU to be able to change the status quo and Live Your Best Life by following the path we had to walk in great pain till [sic - a till is the part of the cash register that encases the money, you might have meant "'til" or even just using "until" would have worked] our souls bled and our self-respect stopped existing.
So you want the reader to follow the same pain-filled, soul-bloodletting, self-respect-killing path that you followed? I hope it’s off the beaten path! I’ll walk it proudly then. And sadly.
That’s WHY we wrote this book…
Really?? Is that why the title of that section was Why Did We Write This Book? I was hoping for a section with holistic recipes, myself.
The disclaimer section (fuck you!) follows and tells us that it’s a little too risky to start a business (which is what I assume this book is about) and that it’s not the author’s fault if you fuck it up and that we, the readers, must assume that any products mentioned are affiliated with the author. I smell “Shark-Tank-Laugh-Off” here. Do you ever watch that show? You should.
I’m assuming this isn’t the actual content of the book because there’s nothing very practical in the preview chapters. It’s things like:
Like the caterpillar you will become the butterfly!
You will not be exposed to information overload…
Live, Work, and Play…You have to create a balance between them…
Design your own business…
No more brain fog, no more indecision, only clear living…
The quest to live your dream is not static…
Designing your dream life and an online business is not living it…
You will be equipped to build a 5-6 or 7 figure per year business…
All I read though was
This is a book version of those spam emails you get all the time.
The preview marketably ends with
What prevents me from living my dream lifestyle right now?
Uh…Reading shit like this definitely doesn’t help. Go read The 4 Hour Workweek by Tim Ferriss instead.
There is no shortage of Amish literature among the self-published. The main character is always a Rebecca or Hannah and there’s always something about sexual desire or being illegitimately pregnant. Because I guess having sex is the only sin that Amish women commit? What about their fashion sense? Sin-FUL. Anyway, it’s misogynistic and backwards and insulting to women. Wait, isn’t misogynism pretty much insulting to women? Anyslapthatho, most of these terrible Amish books are written by women, if not all of them. It’s gross, especially the erotic ones, like this book. I don’t believe in living and fucking your darkest desires vicariously through characters in your books. It’s dangerous and sickening and a threat to literature and a threat to women. Cut it out.
This “book” is part of a short-novel series about a girl who accidentally looks at “the largest penis she’d ever seen” and falls bonnet over heels into a sexual underground she never knew existed. There’s like 17 books in this series or something, I didn’t check. But keep your desperation and innately depraved sexual desires to yourself please. Or go take them out on some actual Amish people. Cut the shit.
Here’s the problem I have with this writing. It’s not that it sucks (and it does), it’s how the action is described. Looky here:
…Holt Prendergrast shatters a mournful tranquility by clearing his throat with enough force to make the room cringe. Thawed by the broken silence, his wife Judy mechanically lurches forward, grabbing a tissue and ineffectually dabbing at her dry eyes. Shifting uncomfortably in his chair, Holt clears his throat again and cracks his knuckles. Judy looks over, her lips parting as if to speak. Snapping them shut, Judy faces forward…
First of all, try and snap your lips shut. Go ahead, try. That’s right, YOU CAN’T. And even if you could, you’d just look like a ridiculous caricature of yourself. Secondly, what a name. Holt Prendergrast. Just say it to yourself a few times. Regal. Legal. Elegant. Holt Prendergrast. Thirdly, he “shattered” a silence. Do you know what shattered means? A throat clearing would hardly shatter anything. Fourth of all, his wife was “thawed” by it. Um, thawing is a slow and gradual process, not exactly something that can be shattered. Fifthly, she “mechanically lurches forward.” Huh? Do you know what a lurch is? You pretty much can’t do it mechanically, it’s abrupt. Finally, Holt cleared his throat again. Why? Judy had already mechanically lurched. She was paying attention. That passage is so boring and tedious, the author had to add in all of these colorful and SNAPPY words to make up for it. I can only assume the rest of the story is written that way. No snapping thanks.
Buy it here!
Recommended reading whether you love hockey, romance or both.
LOL That’s a real quote from a reviewer. What if you love neither though?? I swear, there’s a genre for everything. There’s also Amish Lit. For real, look it up. And there are a lot of books on it. The Amish. Maybe I’ll find one for a review soon. I hope there’s Amish sex in them. But for now… Hockey!
Between the Pipes. I hope the pipes are a woman’s thighs. SCORE! I pucked her good. Right between the pucking pipes.
Guess what? This puckin’ book starts with a foreword. A book about hockey players sticking pucks and sticks in each other does not need a foreword. You know what needs forewords? Pucking reference books. The bible. Memoirs. Stop putting forewords and prefaces and prologues and introductions in your books, self-publishers. It’s becoming the brand of mediocrity. That said, allow me to unpack this foreword.
There’s three long and pointless rambling paragraphs about how writing is this woman’s passion and she dreams of cotton candy clouds instead of funnel cake storms or something like that. She probably eats a lot, i.e. she’s fat. Eh, sorry. I’ve made it a point in my new beginning as a blogger/reviewer to not make these things personal. I made it three blogs before I did though. That’s good, right? Anyfat, what the hell does a girl know about hockey? Unless you’re Kevin Smith’s wife or a big ol’ bull-dyke, probably nothing.
So this chick focuses on the positive and not the negative because the “negative will eat you up”. Oh, more eating references. She’s not fat, no. Guys, I’m still in the foreword. This is what she’s talking about and it has nothing to do with hockey or getting pucked in the ass. I think she needs a good puck.
Anyfuck, after all of that blathering, prescription-induced rambling (what mother of SIX kids isn’t on meds?), we now have our synopsis. YES. Now we’ll hear the ins and outs of hockey, right? Right…
Between the Pipes is more than just a hockey romance novel.
HAHAHAHAHahahaha I’m sorry. I never thought I’d hear that sentence. Just read it out loud and you’ll see what I mean.
What is love?
Then the author tells us what love is. It’s more than great sex, compatibility, enjoying weekend getaways, apparently. Bullshit, love isn’t anything more than that. It’s definitely not more than just a hockey romance novel.
True love is so far beyond this you can’t even begin to comprehend unless you are one of the few who have or have had true love.
The only thing I’m having trouble comprehending is that sentence. Puck me, that was bad. I think it needs a comma or two? I’m a bleak person, my writing has often been described as bleak and “French Existentialist”, but there’s been more than a few people who’ve had or have had true love. This lady has to be a chunker. Or a hockey goalie. Oh! Hockey. That’s what this book is about, remember? Where?? Where the puck is the hockey??
Two more giant paragraphs about love later, and we’re finally at the actual synopsis. This book is about a striking farm girl who’s loveable and innocent and flirty, AKA a slut. FINALLY. This girl plays hockey apparently. But…
Little did she know that her passion for hockey will threaten to steer her away from her course toward becoming a spectacular goalie and extinguish her glimmer of hope in finding absolute love.
What the puck does that sentence say?? And I knew she was a goalie, AKA fat, AKA a big ol’ bull-dyke. And how could her passion for hockey steer her away from becoming a great hockey player?? Think about that for a second. But wait, there’s more!
Next, there’s Hank, a black kid in an all white neighborhood. Man, he must really have it tough. Those all white neighborhoods are scary places, you racist. But for some reason, this black kid has a “language barrier”. What, ebonics? You racist. Holy puck, we’re not even to chapter one yet. What the puck am I doing with my life??
Chapter one starts in the present. It says so at the beginning. Then the second part is also in the present. Except the first of the chapter is a diary entry about how daddy never knocked any pucks between her pipes or something, I don’t know. Then “everybody knows Katie”. She’s a farmer’s daughter and totally not a slut. But she’s 18 now, which means the author can write all of the sex scenes she wants, the fat pervert.
Just like other parts of the preview, we’re given three long and boring paragraphs describing how quirky and unique Katie is. She was addicted to egg whites and oranges straight from the tree and she ate bugs or something gay like that. OMG so pucking quirky.
This was uniquely positive and free-spirited Katie.
OKAY. Jesus pucking Christ, you just told us that using three pucking paragraphs. We didn’t need that stupid as puck sentence too.
Then BAM, we’re “5 years prior” and Katie likes a boy. Is it Hank? Puck no, he’s black. She likes Mat With One T Hayes, who of course is a careless douche.
He led her too [sic] believe he was really into her,but [sic] she found out later he had a girlfriend and was only using Katie for her sea-doo [sic, that's a brand name, it should be capitalized] boat.
They’re prom king and queen three years in a row. They broke up and got back together three times in five years. BO-RING. I broke up with my girlfriend and got back together three times in the FIRST year. Still no pucking mention of hockey. Or the black kid. Just a bunch of angsty preteen girl bullshit. I thought this bitch was 18?
Then the book jumps back into the past because those “5 years prior” have passed by now. Right? Puck me, this is hard to follow for a book about hockey. FINALLY! No, not hockey. Sex. Some good old fashioned teenage pucking. Katie is ready to give her virginity away to Mat With One T because she’s tired of losing sleep over it. I feel like the author is living vicariously through Katie, don’t you? It’s kind of disgusting.
Mat (With One T) attempted to chuckle but it sounded more like a cat getting stepped on.
I’m sorry, what?? A cat getting stepped on? THAT IS NOT A CHUCKLE. He’s about to ram his stick between Katie’s quivering teenage pipes, maybe it was an orgasm? Good God, this is bad.
He pulled her close and kissed her. He pressed his hardness against her. At least that’s working, he thought to himself. Funny thing was, it was her exact thought too. A testament to their two-year-old connection.
Holy puck that was creepy. The Amazon preview ends mercifully there before things really get rough. They’re teenagers when this is happening by the way. Underage pucking is fine though, right? Nobody is going to read this shit anyway.
I have bad news, everyone. The future is really really boring and things don’t change much. Are there what looks like (a joke you’ll get later) robots? Doesn’t look like it. Are there what looks like androids? Not yet. Are there what looks like meals in pill form? Nope. But basically think of every other trope about the future and you have what looks like Tomorrow Once More, a time-travel novel that starts off in the year 2234. You read that right. That’s 200 or so years into the future. But that’s not good enough for our story, no. It goes from there to 3853. Think about that for a second. Think about how far humanity has come in, say….2500 years. Pretty far, am I right? Things are much much different, we’ve evolved as a people, as a society. Technology has come so so far. We’re maybe a hundred years from flying cars, I’m convinced.
But in the year 3853? According to Dennis Butler, here are some features of our world in 1800 or so years:
- Paperwork dated from the years 2281 and 2283. Ah, the future 80s. Good times, good times. I assume they’ll be.
- Chair cushions that can last 1600 years and still be cushy.
- Bismarck. Fuck yeah, Bismarck survived.
- Flying cars. Now we’re getting somewhere.
- Cows. No shit. Cows.
- A guy entering data into a computer system. No robots for that?
- A whistle that tells prisoners it’s time to eat.
Alright, I’m good. That’s enough stuff to explain how fucking boring the future is, right? Some tings never change, said Jackie Chan once. Onto the meat of the novel. Because, no joke, the start of this book takes place in a corporate prison that doubles as a livestock farm. Almost 2000 years into the future, corporations still run everything. And we’re their slaves. And we still farm cows. I could maybe buy all of this if the novel was set in 2234 instead. But it’s not, it’s set in
And then the dude, his name is Mane Lason. Or Laser Man. Something like that. Anyname, Lane Mason goes even further into the future. Good God, I hope that part is not in the preview. Actually, I hope it is.
So of course, there’s a preface and it explains a little too quickly how time travel works in that universe. In 2234. If you travel at the speed of light but there’s no mass or gravity around you, everything near you slows down but the rest of the world speeds up. Got it? First they tested it on bugs and plants and it worked BUT HOW DO THEY KNOW IT WORKED IF THEY SENT THEM TO THE FUTURE. FUCK IT, LET’S SEND IN 22 YEAR OLD LANE MASON, A TEST PILOT. A HUMAN. HE CAN TELL US IF IT WORKS OR NOT FROM 25525223 YEARS INTO THE FUTURE BECAUSE WE CAN ONLY SEND PEOPLE INTO THE FUTURE, WHERE HOPEFULLY TIME TRAVEL HAS REALLY BEEN INVENTED AND THEN HE CAN HOP A TIME MACHINE AND COME BACK. SO IF HE’S NOT IN OUR TIME MACHINE, THAT MEANS IT WORKED AND WE DIDN’T VAPORIZE LANE MASON, 22 YEAR OLD TEST PILOT. HUMAN.
So Lane wasn’t very handsome or tall but women still liked him. What in the?? Handsome and tall guys are the only ones who get the girl. This is the future, remember. Lane was able to stay calm under pressure because he retreated into himself and thought about women. That’s the secret! All along! Let’s time travel! The scientists launch this pod thing with Lane in it and then they blindly speculate and assume (that’s SO science) that the experiment worked because when the pod reached the end of the light beam (don’t ask), the hatch was opened and Lane was gone.
We the readers know it worked though because then comes chapter 1. Lane exits the pod with some food and works a 1600 year old lift with some lube (don’t ask) and goes to the surface. This is all thanks to the same geniuses who developed everything else “flawlessly”. It’s 1231241234 years later but everything still works. One thing still works (I don’t remember what it was) because it moved the whole time Lane was gone. 09346u80896 years later and it still moves! What looks like flawlessness! Then he does this:
We know Lane is in the future because everything looks like something from Lane’s former life. Such as:
What looked like a livestock farm.
What looked like chicken houses.
What looked like a small city.
What could only be a prison.
What looked like a movie playing.
These police-types took Lane to what looked like a federal pound me in the ass future prison but it’s actually Kobe-Striploin, a corporation that enslaves people to butcher cows and literature. Kobe-Striploin, you read that right. There’s also Legumes Industries. I’m not making that up. And Bean Sprouts LLC. I’m making that one up. Apparently in the future, we’re enslaved by corporations but it’s only for two years because after that, we’re “retired” AKA killed. WHO ARE WE CULLING ALL OF THIS BEEF FOR THEN?? CEOS??
He grabbed my two hands and secured them…
But at least we still have two hands! I’ll end it with this:
This man actually believed I was mentally handicapped because I had no idea how the world worked. Well that was certainly true.
Truer words have yet to be spoken.
This book got some great reviews. 118 out of 136 were five star reviews. Highlights? Sure:
IM GIVING THIS PART 2 A FIVE STAR CAUSE IM STILL READING IT. SO FAR ITS GOOD. WELL PART ONE WAS GOOD SO PART 2 HAVE TO GOOD ALSO. KEEP IT UP MY BROTHER!By
beijing48 AKA GREYEYEZ
I can’t believe my boy gone. This book had my mouth open the entire time and CJ shocked the hell out if me with the things he did off impulse.By
After Part 1 and than finished 2 and was able to converse with him how emotional attAched both books had, This brother is The Truth, I pray the day he can attend the HBF, they may be my first visit too the City!! Cash is all that I love his writings, I am not a girly book lady, I am a lady so to give too me the Real and the Raw!!! Mind stimulations, I love his readings I cAme from what he writes so me relating is what gives me the drive, and he gives it too me Good… Thanks Big homey ! U had at TNM with YOUNG BLOOD..and now Iam hooked, with TG 1&2 Thank. You my Brother!!! This is what I’m talking about!!! I can get enough, and willing to go the lenghts magnficento!!!By
SHIT’S RAW!! Which means it’s poorly edited and written completely in street-speak. That’s right, the whole book is written in nearly indecipherable slang. I wonder how a thug would pronounce ‘indecipherable’? INDECISIVABUB!
I often marvel at how prolific bad writers are. This guy, Ca$h is his name, has eight novels under his gun belt. Eight novels. Eight bullets. One gun. One man. Who will do whatever it takes. Thugs cry too. Anygun, these novels have titles like “Trust No Bitch” and “Trust No Bitch 2″ or “Thugs 2 Death Row Row Row Your Whip It Good 3″. And these covers, man. Deez coverz.
Instead of mixtapes at gas stations, they should put out books like these. Imagine what the literary world would look like then?!? In fact, I think I’m going to listen to hip hop while I finish this review. Oh! The review, sorry. Here it is…
Tamika, answer your muhfuckin’ phone ma!Fa real baby girl, I hope you’re not on no grimy shit!
That’s how the book starts. This is after, uh…what’s his name? CJ? That’s what it says before the book starts so that’s what I’m going with. Gangsta-ass CJ. Right. This is after CJ lef’ dat triflin’ ass skeezuh tree fone messages.
Something didn’t feel right. ¢J had a mad crazy ass feeling all up in the pit of his stomach, yo. He dun cheated on Paprika in da past so she dun smashed a homie in da interumm.
Anycry, CJ cruised around in his Maybach and peeped his trap and didn’t worry that the police was down the block becuz he done paid dem hos off too. Niggaz couldn’t fuck wit CJ’s hustle.
I’m not making this up, it’s really in the book. He even spelled niggaz with a Z.
So where was I? Bitchez (he didn’t spell that with a Z, I did) was sprung on CJ’s dick because of his turnt up perpetual scowl or his waning swag or some other stupid slang bullshit. So he does what any real playa’ does. He calles Mashika a FOURTH time. You can be all hard and gangsta and chillsville, population: ME all you want but you lose it all when you act like a girl when dealing with a girl. I’ve seen it time and time again. It doesn’t matter how hard you flex, nigga. Z. In the words of the Geto Boys in their hit hip hop song, Damn It Feels Good To Be a Gangsta:
Real gangsta-ass niggas don’t flex much
Cuz real gangsta-ass niggas know they got ‘em.
Maybe Ca$ha should listen to that song a few times, it’ll learn him some. He ign’ant.
Let’s skip ahead in the text a little bit more, shall we?
I fell up in The Atmosphere with my goons to reclaim my bitch straight G-Style.
I’m making an ass out of you and me and assuming The Atmosphere is a shittily-named club because C@sh doesn’t tell us. That’s so Cazh! It the space of a short paragraph, CJ gets his bitch back after a minute or two of it being tense in da club (Worldstar!!). That was easy. But oh shit! Caprica was bunned up wit’ dat young boy’s seed. Dat young boy is Nard, the nigga she cheated on CJ wit’. That’s really his name. Nard. Avoid the Nard. You followin’? Damn, so much drama in the AMZ. That means Amazon…I just…Moving on…
Then everything turns italic and CJ takes his bitch to the abortion clinic to rid her gut of dat seed and wants to snap her neck becuz she wants to have da Bebe’s Kid and give it to Nard.
Fuck me, this is bad. It’s all happening so fast. This is still page one. Or two, I don’t know. I’m still not making this up. He made his bitch abort the baby and then asked her if she regretted it when they got home. I can’t go on any longer but I browsed the rest of the preview. His bitch gets killed (what a wasted abortion, $350 down the drain, just like the fetus) and so does her family and we can’t forget…
Next we switch to Raheem. Do you want to find out what happens to Raheem??
Go read “Pimp” by Iceberg Slim instead.
- UPDATE 5/20/2014
I feel like it would be remiss of me to not review the rest of the preview. It’s awfully half-assed of me and not reviewing it would make me just as bad as the dingleberries I’m reviewing. Also, I read it and it’s really good, guys. Like really good. Here go Raheem.
R&B singer Sparkle has died. It said it in the headline, except they called her a songstress. It said so on BET too. Good ol’ BET, simultaneously celebrating black culture while pushing it back thirty years. Poor Raheem. Guess how he deals with Sparkle’s death? Like this:
Just kidding, not like that.
Let’s count how many different ways that Raheem cries:
I sucked in air to help calm the emotions…
I bowed my head, fighting back tears.
A single tear broke from the dam that was holding them back.
I sniffled back more tears…
…burying my face in my hands.
My mood matched the dreary weather.
My knees buckled…
There was a pang in my heart…
Get the point? Nigga’z sad. Sparkle used to be a crack ho (those are the best kind of hos) but Raheem dun brought her up outta it, fam. He called her ten times after she suicided. Yeah, she topped herself but probably not, because this is Thugs Cry 2 and she probably got murdahed. What is with thugs and phones?? Stop calling people, stop Instagramming. Is that how you spell Instagramming? Who the fuck cares, stop doing it. The internet is full of gangstas, innit?
Raheem calls CJ (remember him) and tells him to get strapped, FAM. Or something stupid like that. Then it’s onto CJ again, who’s hanging out around the morgue with Cujo and Star and Nee Nee and Snoop (for real, I wish I was joking) and Ms. Jerkins was dead! Who the fuck is Ms. Jerkins?? Why is there always a Snoop?? The only Snoop who really matters is Snoop from The Wire. Dat bitch cold.
And I’ll whisper ‘No.’
Crap movie, by the way.
My apologies for the delay in new blogs. I’ll return to it soon. Until then, go watch Beasts of the Southern Wild or something.