Every Thug Needs a Book Review

Aug 20th, 2006 | By | Category: Columns

Do you ever lie awake at night, tossing and turning, wondering what in the pantheon of literature could be considered “The Worst Book In the World?”

Of course not, because that’s my job.

And, dear readers, after much searching, I have indeed found this precious prize, this rare
shining jewel, this disease ridden bloated corpse of a novel.

May I present to you, “Every Thug Needs A Lady” by Wahida Clark:

This thug just needs a real hairdresser.

“Every Thug Needs a Lady” is writer Wahida Clark’s second novel about “the rugged thug filled lives of Jaz, Kyra and Angel” and is basically a romance novel. Sort of like a cardboard box is basically a house to Homeless Jim. The book itself was published by Black Print Publishing, which has a defunct website. Clark herself seemed to have some issues getting the novel published:

“Unfortunately this project was caught in the cross-fire of the drama and politics of my publishing company-changing owners, administrative problems blah, blah, blah. Now that the smoke has cleared and the changing of the guards has taken place, they immediately wanted to get this into your hands, like yesterday . However, to do so would be without me going over the final draft…So as a result ,and since you waited so long, you the first Twenty Thousand (20,000) readers get me Raw & Uncut.”

Clearly, Clark has a mind for math–which is a good thing as, with a toothbrush she fashioned into a knife, she scrawls out the remaining days of her sentence. That’s because Clark is incarcerated. In prison. Y’know, the place with all the bars and basic cable.

At first, when picking up this “thug romance” I tried to tell myself not to snub my nose at someone who writes from prison. Why, famous murderer Nathan Leopold wrote a wonderful memoir in regards to his time in jail. Perhaps Clark would also regale me with tales of redemption and visions of the sandy beaches of Puerto Rico.

But for Clark, the testament to her incarceration would instead be porn. And lots of it.


The plot is simple: Two women, Angel and Tash, find themselves falling head-over-stupidity for two drug dealers. Will their love for these two menses survive? Or melt away like so much malt liquor on the curb?

As the story develops, the reader learns more about these two main characters. Tash is a soon to be college graduate who doesn’t like to wear underwear, while Angel, a lawyer, is serious, studious and knows how to identify her emotions in the classiest ways possible:

“…every time Kay touches me my panties get wet. Everytime I hear his voice my panties get wet…I’m not ready to fuck yet, but I want to get fucked. You feel me? All niggas don’t know that when a ho wants to get fucked and she’s playin’ hard to get all he gotta do is know what to say and do the right things and them panties are comin’ off. All niggas also don’t know that a bitch could have a man, she could even be married, but if the pussy is hot and she feelin’ vulnerable, if the nigga got enough game, say the right words, do the right thangs, them panties are comin’ off (119).”

Surprisingly, this statement is also used by Jack McCoy in this year’s season finale of Law and Order. McCoy, you saucy minx!


While Tash is quickly smitten by her man Trae, Angel is less convinced to take on her mocha man, Kay, despite both of the men being–how do I put this…totally fine? Yeah, I guess:

“Trae, Kay, and another dude (Ray? Shay?) were coming toward them (duck!). Trae had on unfastened boots (he is totally going to trip on his laces), baggy Phat Farm jeans (he’s bloated–that time of the month), a doo-rag (gangsta!), and a ripped sleeveless sweatshirt (he cut it up himself–and he does one hell of a cross-stitch). Kay wore the same (they got dressed together, it’s manly), minus the doo-rag (darn, every woman needs an extra hankie), plus a vest (bulletproof vest sale! 20% off!). His chest and arms were flexing those huge muscles (but the real question is: can he make his nipples dance?) (120).”

Confused? You should be, this book has no plot save for vast descriptions of Gucci shoes, cars and a woman’s “special place”. The No-Plot continues as the characters “bounce” into the club. Trae soon talks Tash into giving him a strip tease:

“Put your leg up here,” he said, pointing to his crotch.

“That’ll cost ya. Pussy shots are extra.” He put even more money in her waist. She put her foot up in the chair and was poppin’ that coochie…He started barking (124).”

If only Cyrano de Bergerac had known the way to a woman’s heart was a couple of dollahs and some barking–he would have won the love of Roxane before going through all that pain and suffering and death and stuff.


Tash is dedicated to pleasing her man, so much so that she ditches her friends to spend time with him:

“I now see why you don’t have a man,” Tash said. “I’m sorry to mess up our girls’ night out, but I would be real stupid to tell Trae ‘F you. Eat at the club, nigga! I’m going out!’ You got me twisted. I probably could get away with it, but I ain’t gonna go out like that. That nigga pays all of my bills. down to my magzine subscriptions. I’m drivin a 2001 Benz. And what years is this? Yeah, 2001, and it’s in my name. He treats me good, and I’m not even goin’ to mention his bedroom skills. So when my man says he’s hungry and needs to bust a nut, I’m gonna be the perfect lady and oblige happily.” (145)

Oh Tash, you are as far from being a lady as I am from Uzbekistan.

However, Trae has his high points. Like the fact that he’s magical and quickly informs Tash that she’s pregnant:

“I’m telling you, Tash, you’re pregnant…your cervix door is closed shut. Any other time, I’m able to go deep as I can and you love it. Now I’m hittin’ up against that wall, and it’s hurting. Them fuckin’ birth control pills didn’t work (150).”

Trae Thug. Drug Dealer. Lover. Gynecologist.


The honeymoon soon wanes as Tash grows jealous of Trae’s other ladies:

He picked Tasha up off the stool. “C’mon, ma, it’s time for us to get crunk.”

“Put me back down, Tra,” she said with an attitude.

He held her tight. “what’s the matter with you?”

“Your ten minutes was up fifteen minutes ago. You had better been tyin’ up loose ends, burnin’ them, and letting them bitches know it’s over. I ain’t the one, Trae. I already told you once.”

Trae started laughing. “How you gonna be thereatin’ your baby’s daddy?” He kissed her on the cheek. “My baby’s dady better let them bitches know that it’s all about Tasha and they need to find somebody else to fuck (191).”
Their heated battle escalates until Tash enrages Trae to the point of–enragement:

“I’m sorry. Please forgive me,” she said, holding him even tighter. “I love you so much. Please forgive me.” He kissed her cheek then bit down on it real hard. He wasn’t letting go.

“Owwwwww! Trae, you’re hurting me!” she squealed. He bit down harder. “I said I’m sorry,” she creid. “Owwwww! Please stop, Trae,” she cried in anguish. He bit down a little harder before letting go, and she cried harder as he lifted her out of her ride…while he rolled a blunt and spoke on the phone to someone about bringing a new tire and towing the car to Tasha’s, she was putting ice on her brusied cheek…he jumped back into he Nav, still talking to the car people. She put a piece of ice in her mouth, slid over next to him, and went to unzipping his jeans…he couldn’t even stay mad at her after that…when she finished, she zipped his jeans up in between kisses, apologizing some more…(235-236).”

Later that evening at I Beat My Wife Manor:

“She threw her plate in the microwave and joined Trae on the sofa to watch the game. After the game they jumped in the shower, and she washed his hair…she braided his hair and gave him a manicure and pedicure (238).”

Nice, very nice. I hope the corpse of Cyrano de Bergerac is taking notes.


Angel, as a lawyer, is a little more stubborn when it comes to her love for her drug-man, Kailyan, especially after she passes the bar.

“Angel received her notification that she passed the bar. She was ecstatic. She was now Attorney Angel Denise Smith, Esquire.” (221)

And I’m Doctor Eileen Candy Munroe Lavelle, Professor!

Again, there is a bump in the rode of her love life with Kaylin. Kaylin is soon incarcerated with Trae for drug-dealing. Despite the fact that both men are in prison, Tash and Angel are placated because they now live off of all the money both men gained selling drugs to children and crack addicts. That’s pretty funny, as funny as me trying to make sense of a book that has the phrase “bust a nut” at least two times per page.

Kaylin and Angel hit a bump in the motherfuckin’ road because Angel refuses to have sex with him in public when she has visits with him at the jail. It gets even worse when Angel beats the crap out of some other “chicken” who visits Kaylin. After realizing her mistake, Angel decides that she will have to show her man how much she loves him by dressing up like a skank and having sex in public. Ah, young love. However, Kaylin is so angered by Angel he refuses to see her. Bereft and alone, Angel goes home and writes a letter to her love.

“Dear Kaylin,

First off let me say that I miss you and I love you more than anything. I’m sitting here at the dining room table feeling deflated. I’m wearing a tailor-made, butter-soft leather, wraparound skirt. I also have on a lacy garter belt, silk stockings, no panties, and a see-through blouse with no bra on (304).”

You know, this is the same type of letter that got Clarissa Harlowe in so much trouble with Lovelace…


So, after reading this novel and consequently washing my eyes out with bleach, I decided that I could no longer take it. I, too, must join in the fray of “thug-romance”. I enlisted the help of the amazing writer Alison Burke and we quickly mapped out our ingenious, sexy novel. It will sell millions!

Purist of the Hos: A Novel by Eileen Lavelle & Alison Burke

Synopsis: Jimi Jam is a player who plays by his own thugged out playa playin’ rules. That is until he meets Raquelle Purist, the hottest substitute teacher to ever walk into his Pennsylvanian private high school. With a mysterious past, an ass that won’t quit, and more baggage than Escobar in Vegas, Raquelle has everything that Jimi wants. Except maybe a sweet stash of cocaine and a new Benz with a six cd changer and a heated steering wheel–and maybe some fuzzy pink dice. But does Jimi Jam have what it takes to score the purist of the hos?

And here is an excerpt from this soon-to-be classic:

“Splashing his new Nike Kicks, the malt liquor for his fallen homies had subsequently ruined his whole look. Jimmie Burkowitz, better known as the street playa with the tight sounds, “Jimi Jam” held his best girl close.

“Aw, look here bitch, don’t you see what theys done to my kicks. These fallen homies. But it’s aight though…” he grabbed his crotch as a sign of respect and turned to walk into his single story ranch-style house.

“Damnit, Jimmie, I’m your sister, get the fuck off!” she pushed him  so he fell at the doorway.
“Why you gotta play me like that girl?” Jimmie said as he adjusted his velour baby blue pants suit.

But it was too late, his ho gave him a look of disgust before hopping back on her tricycle and riding into the sunset.

“Shit man,” Jimi said. ” Kenny Chesney had it right. What I need is a ride or die chick.”

Hell yeah, bitches.


Frequent target of fallen angels, Eileen hides from their seductive wrath in the hallowed confines of Defenestration HQ, where she hopes to erect a wall of words between herself and the forces of evil.

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