What’s crackin, B? This week we gettin straight absurd with The Stranger by Albert Camus.
My man Meursault ain’t trippin bout the fact that his mama just died.
Matter of fact, this thug don’t seem to get bent over much of anything.
Meursault slides over to the beach where he hollas at some fox he knew from back-when named Marie.
Even though his mama only been stiff for twenty-fo,
Meursault don’t waste no time slippin Marie his French baguette. Know what I’m sayin?
Later she ask if he wanna get married. And he all like,
“For sure baby. If you want. Not like dem cuffs mean nuthin.”
Man, you sure pimpin ain’t easy?
For a lil while now, Meursault been chillin with some mack-daddy named Raymond.
Thinkin his woman been actin a hoochie behind his back,
Ray-Ray gives her five across the face and brings the law down on his ass.
With Meursault’s help, though, Ray-Ray shakes off the 5-0 and gets off scot-free.
Thing is, the bro of Rad-diddy’s fine lil peach jonezin for some STREET justice.
He and his Arab posse roll up on Ray-Ray, whip out their shiv, and shank him real good.
Later, Meursault rolls up on one of those A-rabs, takes a good long look at his piece,
and realize that whether he shoot or not, it don’t make a difference.
And once the sun’s hot- ass rays start doggin our man, he whips out his glock and POP POP —
Fool gets smoked.
Meursault gets thrown in the clink, and the law puts his ass on death row.
But it ain’t only cuz he 187ed a fool.
His realest crime is bein a stranger to the rules of society and not havin a heart like errybody else.
Before Meursault bout to get tooken out fo good,
a chaplain drops in to give him one last chance to embrace the big G-man.
All the sudden — Meursault snaps, get all in the preacher man grill, and say
“Look, bitch. Nothing matters. I did some things in life. I didn’t do other things. And none of it matters.”
Right before he bout to snuff it, our boy finds a lil peace in knowing for sure that it's all bout to end.
And the universe ain’t even gonna blink.
Damn man. This cat don’t seem to give a sh*t bout nothing.
If a muthaf**kin meteor dropped down instantly icing a million homies, this fool wouldn’t bat an eye.
But does him bein this hard make him a bad dude?
Truth is, he ain’t bad or good. He just different from the rest of us.
Day in day out, yo regular erryday hood ain’t got the nuts to tussle with the truth:
Life is meaningless, and what we do or don't do, what does or doesn't happen to us — none of it matters.
When we start bitchin and moanin bout how good or bad somethin be,
we really just imposin order where it don't belong.
And when a homie who don’t play dat game swangs in to town, he a stranger to errybody.
But even though ain’t nothin seem to bother this hustla, a death sentence can trip up even the hardest of hoods.
When Meursault starts marinating on meetin the man upstairs,
he flips sh*t bout how these fools gonna ghost him.
To Meursault, the worst part bout it is that there ain't no chance he gonna duck the reaper.
"All I care about right now is escaping the machinery of justice, seeing if there is any way out of the inevitable...
What really counted was the possibility of escape, a leap to freedom, out of the implacable ritual,
a wild run for it that would give whatever chance for hope there was."
And if you packin a big literary d*ck, you know that my main man Dostoevsky droppin dat same angst in The Idiot:
"But here I should imagine the most terrible part of the [guillotine] is, not the bodily pain at all—
but the certain knowledge that...your soul must quit your body and that you will not longer be a man—
and that this is certain, certain! That's the point— the certainty of it."
What Meursault don't realize till the end is that hopin to escape the machine
ain't no different than all those other bullsh*t lies that wankstas tell themselves on the reg.
There's only one way to roll like a big dog in an indifferent world: with one hand on yo nuts.
Embrace that you ain't gonna escape a damned thing, especially death.
And when yo time comes to dive six feet deep, ain't nobody gonna give a damn.
Cept me, padna! Cuz I want you to take yo hands off your nuts and hit dat subscribe button.
See you next week. Peace.