This will never stop being funny, for so many reasons. White people unironically co-opting black street slang; publishers so eager to get another bullshit "memoir" on the racks that they get gulled by a halfwitted valley girl with a contrived soap-opera in her back pocket; the "memoir" racket itself, an ostensibly high-falutin pastiche of Springer lifestyles shrink-wrapped with the requisite frisson of either redemption or nihilism.
It ain't about the people who slap this shit together and pass it off as autobiography because the fiction market is oversaturated. Nor is it about some contrived distinctions one way or t'other over "reality", as if a "reality" teevee besotted nation could tell the difference. It's about the people who buy into this shit for the same reason they watch Behind the Music.
Let's not get all existential -- or even surprised -- over this, folks. As I've said before, this is why they call it show bidness and not show friends. Probably the only commercial artistic field more over-inflated than the publishing world is the "art" world itself, where some asshole can make a pile of pants with some broad erasing a book, and some other asshole will wonder how to "save" it. I don't have enough cranial capacity to properly roll my eyes at that happy horseshit.
Believe dis, yo -- when I finally writes my membwars an' shit, muthafucka's gonna hafta come in a plain brown wrappa, an' I don' mean Fitty Cint.
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