You might want to exchange that crown for a tiara.

The Independence Examiner had a a hard hitting (not really) piece on the 4 Identity Confused knuckle heads, who recently beat two men in an Independence church parking lot, killing one and seriously injuring the other. The Examiner took a few excerpts from one of the offending douche bags My Space page. It was edited,(washed of all meaning and context) for the readers. It was so diluted they wouldn't even include a link to the page they reported on. The reporter missed the real story here. Aside from the tragedy of four dirt bags taking the life of a young man who was playing ball in the parking lot, the real story behind the my space page of Justin M. Trotter, is his contrived street thug persona. It's a growing problem throughout the Metro, but seems especially prevalent here in Independence. Well there won't be any beating around the bush here, so lets just get to it, shall we? Normally I would just pick these clowns apart, make some derogatory remarks, and move on. But to steal a line from Jules of Pulp Fiction, " I'm in a transitional phase, I don't want to hurt you, I want to help you. So in keeping with that spirit of helping my fellow Independites, I am composing a letter to the four misguided young men, who if convicted, are facing lengthy prison terms.

Dear Soon to be Fuckin in a Winnie the Pooh suit,

I have no idea if you are in fact guilty of the charges leveled against you. It is totally plausible that the authorities have mistaken you for some other group of Wankstas, (white punks who attempt to emulate black gangstas and fail). There are so many of you misguided ass hats prowling the streets of the metro, it's possible you are innocent. Highly unlikely, but possible, considering at least one of you admitted to attacking the two victims without provocation. In any event, should you be found innocent, you are well on your way to the joint anyway , so just use this letter as a guide for your dismal future.

As I was reading your My Space, my space, really ?, it became increasingly clear that you are part of a growing trend of pasty white kids, who think adopting an urban black street dialect makes you a gangsta. It doesn't. What it makes you, is a walking advertisement for the pro choice movement. Your use of said dialect comes off as genuine as someone from Little Rock adopting a contrived Australian accent. Your use of the word Niggaz in your my space page, is but one example of a major faux pas that will get your shit pushed in when you get to the joint. You are going to gravitate toward the young black guys who run much of the prison yard, I suggest you greet them with a hearty, "Wuz up my Niggaz". After you are released from the infirmary, and the bruising of your entire body, including the soles of your feet, has faded, these young urbanites will gladly welcome you into the fold. You will learn to cornrow hair, wash draws,(underwear), and scrub socks in a prison toilet. You'll also need to learn to be content with your new found status , because you will be ostracised by everyone else in the prison. Before long you will change your name to Peaches, or Mercedes, rouge your cheeks, and stain your lips with koolaid, and start wear your prison shirt tied at the midriff like Ellie Mae. Hence the term, "Fuckin in a Winnie the Pooh suit". I realize that Ellie never actually wore a Winnie the Pooh suit, it's a prison metaphor.

I realize much of your life experience was derived from grand Theft Auto, Vice City, and Menace to Society. I am saddened to have to tell you that unlike Video Games, and Hollywood dramatizations, the real world of criminals doesn't have a reset button, and there is no super power boost mode that will allow you to escape when the wolves come calling. "It's a Hard Knock Life" isn't just the lyrics to a Jay Z song, or from the Movie Lil Orphan Annie. No my dimwitted, soon to be walking funny wiggaz, you are going to be living a real Hard Knock Life. Shit gets deeper. In a few years, maybe just months, your friends and family will write you off. Mom will decide that your commissary money is dipping too deep into her beer and cigs fund, and the money orders and letters will slow to a trickle, then stop altogether. On the bright side, you will have mad skillz at hair braiding , sock washing, and a few other tricks. While some of those tricks may leave you with a bad taste in your mouth, heh, that's just your pride fuckin with you. Fight through that shit. When you are living it up on the yard, hands soft from hours of greasing scalps with Blue Magic, smoking joints the size of toothpicks, while curled up in a corner with Debo, you are gonna thank me. You'll think, "M M was right, I look pretty good as a girl".

The first few years are going to be touch and go. The days of impressing like minded, clueless, suburban white kids are long gone. No more will you be able to post pictures of your pistols, or your scrawny pot plants, captioned with tough guy thug dialect. There is no My Space in prison. There are no girls to impress out of their panties with manufactured stories of being "one of the most savage motha fucker youll ever meet". That's a mighty bold statement and one you will be retracting. In comparison to the guys you are about to meet, you are as soft as the Bear on a Snuggle fabric softener box. Medicated cotton is hard in comparison to you 4 young wanna be's. I would advise you to get religion when you get to the joint. Toting a bible won't save you from the well earned abuse you will be suffering, but it will give you someone to talk to in the long sleepless night ahead. You four morons should be happy, you are finally living the life of a true gangsta, locked up, devoid of hope, your future bleak, congrats and welcome to the big time. You earned it, and you deserve to reap all the rewards that come with it.

Sincerely and Fuck you very much,

Midtown Miscreant