A rant on Nathaniel Hawthorne

Dear Nathaniel Hawthorne,

            You sir, are an imbecile. Thanks for defiling the world and the 1^st semester of my English class. You wrote probably the most retarded book I have ever read so far, next to A Tale of Two Cities. You do not know how much agony this book has brought to me and my family. I got a C in English class because of how your book is impossible to read. Not only is it in stupid 12th century vocabulary, but the plot and readability of this book is so annoying, I shot it out of the literary cannon. I assume you don’t know what I’m talking about, so I’ll explain. The Literary cannon is a steel toed boot I wear whenever I drop kick books I don’t like off of my balcony. Whoever it was that decided your book was an “american literary classic” is a moron. I was forced to spend roughly two months with your infernal book in which time I could have done something so much more productive. Thanks to your book, my nights were spent eating ice cream, crying, and watching Oprah, all at the same time. My innocence is gone, and your book replaced it with the kind of feeling that produces some of the most wonderful suicide letters. Why couldn’t you have written something even moderately interesting. Who wants to read about some puritan hag committing adultery and getting pregnant? I guarantee no one in the late 21^st century will want to read your book. I can justify that because no one wants to read it right now. It’s a shame Hitler didn’t get his hands on every copy of this book… I’d be thankful for that. I’m sorry if this seems like a rant, but your book just sucks. It ruined my life. You better be happy the English department didn’t let me burn this book, because its starting to get cold, and I need to keep my house warm. Thus is probably the one benefit of your book: paper to BURN. Also, now my English class thinks I’m a retard because I wefused to read your book, and failed every test on the book. You should come to the 21^st century because I know quite a few people that need to beat the crap out of you; and before you leave take your ratchet book and A Tale of Two Cities with you… they dont belong here. Your book is like a troll within literature. It just goes around ruining people’s day and feeling good about itself. Why did you have to write it? Why cant you write like a normal person? You should have spent your time just going around the custom house counting all the illegal Mexicans instead. And don’t even get me started on the custom house. From your description, it sounded as if it were an Indian brothel. But anyway, I have a single suggestion for you. Go work for Disney Channel… you’ll fit in just fine.

With most disregards,

The Priest of Pain