“Telephone rings]
[Boy who answers phone:] Oi fala comigo
Guy on phone: Yo let me talk to Snoop
Snoop answers phone: E ai?
Guy on phone: Yo dog we on the way to do the video
Snoop: Fo shizzle! “
This is what I am forced to write day in and day out. Me, a beautiful platinum Cross Townsend pen. I was meant for signing large checks in mahogany paneled offices. I was meant for writing tasteful notes of invitation to the latest high society gathering. I was meant for signing legal contracts merging giant corporations. But not this! Never this!
Here I am being handled by rough hands in a room that smells like skunk and big macs. My smoothly flowing ink records words that would make a sailor blush while my owner blathers on about “keepin’ it real”.
Every day I try to plan my escape. When he’s not looking I roll off the desk and try to make it under the couch but I just can’t seem to gather enough steam. He always sees me lying on the zebra skin rug and picks me up. “Seem like y’all gots a motor in you. You’s always rollin’ off the desk.” He puts me back in the holder and I wait for the next opportunity.
I try not to be such a snob but some truly awful things have happened to me here. I will never forget the time my owner tried to smoke me. His friends laughed uproariously at my pain and humiliation. “Yo, Snoop. What you think that is? That’s yo pen dude. How it taste?”
I haven’t been the same since. The dew has left my blossom. I swelter here in an unsuitable environment and long for release. Please, if you ever come to visit my owner, slip me in your pocket when he’s not looking. I’ll be forever grateful.