Lily Tuck has won the National Book Award for fiction, narrowing it down to just one woman writer from New York for the Times pull its hair out over.

Dennis Loy Johnson: “When I got there I found the place crawling with security, a bunch of heavy set guys with ear pieces and Uzis slung over their shoulders. It was a big place, dark, creepy, with a moat and a drawbridge. Moody was inside surrounded by toadies peeling grapes for him. He leapt up and grabbed me by the lapels and said, ‘You gotta help me! You gotta get me out of this! Those women at the Times?Caryn James, Laura Miller, Deborah Solomon?they’re trying to kill me! I mean, when Michiko Kakutani gets out of her court?mandated anger management classes, I’m a dead man!'”

So listen all, peeps. We got this here Whitbread dope piquing crosst the pond. My boy David Mitchell got jacked, dig, but there other choices instead. Add some shortening to them cookies, biatch, and you get a list so simple that my ditch-dirty cuz could bake youze some mean pumpernickel blinded.

Dwellin’ on da fiction:

So we gots us a clear favorite with Alan Hollingshurst. Wasn’t enough for The Line of Beauty to scarf the Booker, now it needs Whitbread too. Sheet, book’s got bigger appetite than my libid. Leave the boy alone. Bee-effin-seiged by ‘views, he is. Cat can’t stop answering dubyaass questions. So he out, cause we all tired of his Thatcherism-ramblin’ ass.

Kate Atkinson has nice name and tome titled Case Histories. No doubt ever’one’s main forens-fixated folk is pleased by this. Still, the girl’s favorite books are hackneyed as hell, and I ain’t talkin’ taxi. So she out too, cause we like influences spiced, if you know what I’m sayin’.

Annie Levy’s got that Small Island, smart, sassy and cerebral. We like that and nice curves in a hot momma. But more postwar posturin’? We sick of the Gravity’s Rainbow offshoots, dig? Maybe ’cause we drinking 40s and revisiting the mack daddy who started all this — who is a lot clearer than these messy folk. No, Levy’s out, just cuz we be chillin’ through year’s end.

Then there’s this freedom-soundin’ author named Louis de Bernieres with Birds Without Wings. Boy’s humble with the Tolstoy comparisons. Sounds like a right cat. Our horse is on him. Go Louis go! We may be movin’ on up to Paris if that Penn Ave. bad lay push us in da slums.