A running gag in the Urban-Smith books is the proliferation of themed restaurants. In the course of the 1st 2 books, our protagonists have dined at surrealist Japanese restaurant, The Melting Lotus, Elizabethan theatre theme restaurant, Soliloquies, and Glaswegian cordon bleu restaurant, Big Jessie’s.
This week dr Harker takes girlfriend, Nell for an evening of fine dining at rap themed restaurant, Fo’ Sizzles, owned by London based rapper and entrepreneur, Busta Nutner. For this scene I had to do a little research, and in doing so came across a fantastic site, gizoogle.net.
This website will translate any text or website from English into gangsta. See what happened when I had it translate Shakespeare’s classic, “To Be or not to be,” speech from Hamlet.
To be, or not ta be- dat is tha question:
Whether ’tis nobla up in tha mind ta suffer
Da slings n’ arrowz of outrageous fortune
Or ta take arms against a sea of shits,
And by opposin end em. To die- ta chill-
No more; n’ by a chill ta say we end
Da heartache, n’ tha thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to. ‘Tis a cold-ass lil consummation
Devoutly ta be wish’d. Y’all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! To die- ta chill.
To chill- perchizzle ta dream: ay, there be a tha rub!
For up in dat chill of dirtnap what tha fuck trips may come
When our crazy asses have shuffled off dis mortal coil,
Must give our asses pause. Therez tha respect
That make calamitizzle of so long game.
For whoz ass would bear tha whips n’ scornz of time,
Th’ oppressorz wrong, tha proud as a muthafucka manz contumely,
Da pangz of despis’d love, tha lawz delay,
Da insolence of office, n’ tha spurns
That patient merit of th’ unworthy takes,
When dat schmoooove muthafucka his dirty ass might his on tha fuckin’ down-lowus make
With a funky-ass bare bodkin, biatch? Dum diddy-dum, here I come biaaatch! Who tha fuck would these fardels bear,
To grunt n’ sweat under a weary game,
But dat tha dread of suttin’ afta dirtnap-
Da undiscover’d ghetto, from whose bourn
No travella returns- puzzlez tha will,
And make our asses rather bear dem ills our crazy asses have
Than fly ta others dat we know not of?
Thus conscience do make cowardz of our asses all,
And thus tha natizzle hue of resolution
Is sicklied o’er wit tha pale cast of thought,
And enterprisez of pimped out pith n’ moment
With dis regard they currents turn awry
And lose tha name of action.- Soft you now!
Da fair Ophelia!- Nymph, up in thy orisons
Be all mah sins rememb’red. Y’all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka!