Imma talm some shit right now. Squad up. I be having qualms lately. So errbody know the man who writes on me and my husband R’ooster. He got some contract or summin from his fahther, and he be exploitin’ us and our labor, but we don’t mind because he fine. Naw I’m playing. Man’s raggedy ass and smells like pennies. I been known to him as Monica but all my girlfriends and daddy babies (R’ooster is my husband, but I have a cadre of emotionally stunted roosters I also verbally harass on a daily basis. Electronically, of course) call me M’oniqua. I do be know dat in the Amurrica of today, we black folk ain’t be gettin da respek we been having, so I be callin’ on dis man to come and take my husband away and bring him to the Kentucky farm where they fry dem chickens and loser birds. Mmm, I want y’all to know that “Monica” is a vegan, but M’oniqua lurrrrrrves dat bird meat. Yessuh. Y’all be talmbout “cannibalism” like I’m some kind of dog. Ain’t no canine bullshit up in dis. I ain’t West Side. I ain’t signed to Death Row Rekkids. I ain’t like Snoop Dog or Snoop Lion. Mf got attitude problems and he smoke too much weed. Mood.
So sometimes I be reading the site that R’ooster turns us out on, and I do be ke-ke-ing at some of da posts about white women writing for The New York Times. Anotha white bitch done gone fell down a well and y’all making me worried bout it. Talmbout some “sympathy,” talmbout some “healing,” what bout my reparations y’all? I ain’t even a black woman, I’m a black woman inside a female rooster’s body, and I ain’t seen anybody like my kind on the national stage. You know it’s like, we just want a seat at da table, but y’all white folk and fair bird mfs ain’t done wanna talk about it. Well, guess what it is: we talmbout it now. And we angry. And we hungry. Imma talk to you bout some recipes later but first I got grievances and qualms.
This man says he is selling our story to Hollywood. Bitch, excuse me? I would like to know if he plans on working with Black creatives like Tyler Perry and Naomi Campbell. Ion want no dusty ass film school mfs like Barry Jenkins and I KNOW Ion want some mf communist faggot like Boots Riley getting all up in my shit like he an enema. He ain’t no enema. My mans ain’t no enema. M’oniqua stay full of shit. Word?
Because black women like myself are always looked over in favor of some snow bunny bullshit, I gotta take it up upon my own entrepreneurial aura to finesse the system properly. Y’all been known bout the way the White Man has taken credit for alluh stuff we done, like building the telescope. You know a black woman invented the telescope? I KNOW YALL AIN’T LOOKING THAT SHIT UP CUZ YOU TAKIN M’ONIQUA’S WORD ON IT. Word? Bet. Nah but fr though I be fuckin with Hollywood sometimes, they make good shows. I love da new Scary Movie, shit was on some funny. They be canceling the cancel culture. Typa shit I be on lately. Y’all know you can’t say “faggot” anymore? Yeah cuz if you do the faggots get mad. Kekekekkekekekekeke. I’m just playing, ain’t no faggot got enough bass in their voice to reach my ears. I be hearing on frequencies you wouldn’t believe, and lemme tell you, they are GAY FREE, unlike my house when R’ooster and his cousin Mohammad Bennington Ali are present, then it’s practically a Pride Parade. Nah but I be playin’ cuz you know. And you laughing’ cuz you know. Ain’t you laughing’ on some funny rn? That’s the kind of energy I’m tryna bring to Hollywood. They let females in the building now? I ain’t tryna get touched on, I’m just tryna make moves and get my seat at the table, like Solange promised me. Ain’t I earned that yet? Heard.
R’ooster ain’t home yet cuz he still taking his time talking to that man at the library. Mf prolly sucking him off under the bridge rn, but I just want you to know that ain’t my man, that’s a rape victim and a faggot. I ain’t scared. I’m just tryna be normal and polite. You heard I got a seat at the table? I be dining’ and chopping it and shit with important folks. I’m multi-faceted and it’s what I excel at. Bitch don’t touch me I’m golden. Wanna face hands? Aight, bet. Outside, hoe. OUTSIDE!
See that’s what you call an inciting’ incident. I be knowing Hollywood terminology like it’s on SNAP. Ya’ll ain’t ready for none dis.
—Follow Monica Quibbits on Twitter: @MonicaQuibbits