gangstalesmis

[gangstalesmis]

In my Theatre History Class today, we came to the conclusion that in his youth, Victor Hugo looked a lot like Taylor Swift.

[gangstalesmis]

Valjeanz Soliloquy

What have I done? Sweet Jizzy, what tha fuck have I done? Become a thief up in tha night, Become a thugged-out dawg on tha run Have I fallen so far, And is tha minute so late That not a god damn thang remains but tha cry of mah hate, Da cries up in tha dark dat no muthafucka hears, Here where I stand all up in tha turnin of tha years? If therez another way ta go I missed it twenty long muthafuckin years ago I be a gangsta yo, but y'all knew dat n' mah game was a war dat could never be won They gave me a number n' murdered Valjean When they chained mah crazy ass n' left me fo' dead Just fo' jackin a grillful of bread Yet why did I allow dat man To bust a nut on mah ass n' teach me love? Dude treated mah crazy ass like any other Dude gave me his cold-ass trust Dude called mah crazy ass brother I be a gangsta yo, but y'all knew dat n' mah game his schmoooove ass fronts fo' Dogg above Can such thangs be? For I had come ta don't give a fuck bout tha ghetto This ghetto dat always hated me Take a eye fo' a eye! Turn yo' ass tha fuck into stone! This be all I have lived for! This be all I have known! One word from his ass n' I'd be back Beneath tha lash, upon tha rack Instead he offers me mah freedom I feel mah shame inside me like a knife Dude holla'd at mah crazy ass dat I gots a soul, How tha fuck do he know? What spirit comes ta move mah game? Is there another way ta go? I be reachin yo, but I fall And tha night is closin in And I stare tha fuck into tha void To tha whirlpool of mah sin I be bout ta escape now from tha ghetto From tha ghetto of Jean Valjean Jean Valjean is not a god damn thang now Another rap must begin!

[gangstalesmis]

Fantine fo' realz

As fo' Fantine, dat biiiiatch was a joy ta behold. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Her splendid teeth had evidently received a crib from God,-laughter. Bitch preferred ta carry her lil basebizzle cap of sewed straw, wit its long white strings, up in her hand rather than on her head. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Her thick blond hair, which was inclined ta wave, n' which easily uncoiled, n' which it was necessary ta fasten up in - cessantly, seemed made fo' tha flight of Galatea under the willows yo. Her rosy lips babbled enchantingly. Da corners of her grill voluptuously turned up, as up in tha antique masks of Erigone, had a air of encouragin tha audacious; but her long, shadowy lashes drooped discreetly over tha jollitizzle of the lower part of tha grill as though ta booty-call a halt.

[gangstalesmis]

tell marius to deal with his own girl problems

[gangstalesmis]

jehan fo real

    Dude loved ta saunter all up in fieldz of wild oats n' corn-flowers, n' busied his dirty ass wit cloudz nearly as much as wit events.

[gangstalesmis]

grantaire fo real

    But fuck dat shizzle yo, tha word on tha street is dat dis sceptic had one fanaticism. This fanaticizzle was neither a thugged-out dogma, nor a idea, nor a art, nor a science; it was a man: Enjolras. Grantaire admired, loved, n' venerated Enjolras. To whom did dis anarchical scoffer unite his dirty ass up in dis phalanx of absolute minds, biatch? To da most thugged-out absolute. In what tha fuck manner had Enjolras subjugated him, biatch? By his crazy-ass muthafuckin ideas, biatch? No. By his character fo' realz. A phenomenon which is often observable fo' realz. A sceptic whoz ass adheres ta a funky-ass believer be as simple as tha law of complementary colors. That which our slick asses lack attracts us. No one loves tha light like tha blind man. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Da dwarf adores tha drum-major. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Da toad always has his wild lil' fuckin eyes fixed on heaven. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Why, biatch? In order ta peep tha bird up in its flight. Grantaire, up in whom writhed doubt, loved ta peep faith soar up in Enjolras yo. Dude had need of Enjolras. That chaste, healthy, firm, upright, hard, candid nature charmed him, without his bein clearly aware of it, n' without tha idea of explainin it ta his dirty ass havin occurred ta his muthafuckin ass yo. Dude admired his opposite by instinct yo. His soft, yielding, dislocated, sickly, shapeless ideas attached themselves ta Enjolras as ta a spinal column. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch yo. His moral backbone leaned on dat firmness. Grantaire up in tha presence of Enjolras became some one once mo' n' mo' n' mo' yo. Dude was, his dirty ass, moreover, composed of two elements, which were, ta all appearance, incompatible yo. Dude was ironical n' cordial. It aint nuthin but tha nick nack patty wack, I still gots tha bigger sack yo. His indifference loved. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! His mind could git along without belief yo, but his thugged-out ass could not git along without thang fo' realz. A profound contradiction; fo' a affection be a cold-ass lil conviction.