Dear John Steinbeck,
You listen here, John-boy, and you listen good – fuck you. Fuck you for making me think I might read an elaborate epic about fruits rising up against their herbivorous overlords. There were no goddamn angry grapes in the WHOLE FUCKING BOOK. I’m going to write a spiritual successor titled The Melons of Malcontent, and those watermelons are going to eat the fucking Joad family alive. How’s that for wrath, Ein-Stein?
(P.S. Also fuck you for making me imagine a grown-ass man getting breast-fed. Shit’s fucked up.)
Dear Nathanial Hawthorne,
Alright, you Downton-Abbey-sounding motherfucker, what was with all those names? Shit, Chillingsworth was a scholar, not a goddamn Bond villain trying to take over the country with a fucking blizzard-making blimp. And could you even TRY to come up with a less on-the-nose boring guy name than Richard Bellingham? You should’ve just gone with Tiberius McHoity-Toites and given up all pretense, ass-face.
(P.S. You win the award for most implied references of going to fuck-town. Congratulations.)
Dear Mary Shelley,
You fucked up big time, sister. You should’ve just given the fucking monster a different fucking name. Shit, you could’ve called him “Dave,” I wouldn’t give a flying dick. But if I’m talking about your shitty-ass book and some nerd-ass says “it’s technically Frankenstein’s monster” ONE MORE GODDAMN TIME, I’m going to resurrect YOUR corpse and burn it on top of a fucking mountain.
Dear F. Scott Fitzgerald,
You’re the fucking worst, Scotty. I’d punt your dick-ass into that pool Gatsby died in if you weren’t dead already. Not for your writing, of course. The novel was a wonderful commentary on the idealization of the American Dream. But every fucking other themed party I go to now is lined wall-to-wall with goddamn flapper dresses and gold beads and shit. STOP FUCKING ASKING ME TO CHARLESTON, I DON’T KNOW HOW.
By (surprisingly) Blake