i’m rockin’ and you’re yawning but you never look my way

So there I was, sitting alone in the Houston airport yesterday morning, trying to pretend my Wendy’s breakfast sandwich was just as good as a Sausage Egg McMuffin (but it so. was. not.) when I decided to make with a little of the people watching. And in doing so, something occurred to me that prompted a lot of contemplation and pondering and soul searching during my four-hour flight to San Francisco:

I’m really kind of jealous of the black guys.

Not so much for their huge cocks or across-the-board athletic abilities or sassy overweight aunties or proficiencies to score with fat, ugly white girls, although those are fine things one and all. No, I’m really kind of jealous of the black guys because of the clothes they get to wear. Hoodies and track suits just look so… comfortable, you know? And don’t even get me started on the sneakers. It’s like you’re walking on air.

But I’m just a little too pasty to pull that look off, I’m afraid. And no sir, I don’t like it. Not one bit.