I'm Ernest. Let's have some fun.
Dear white people, I love you because you fucking mean well. I should clarify and say that I am referring to white people who buy North Face jackets and take their babies to yoga class, NOT these fucking Newport-smoking teen moms named “Destiny,” spelled with nine E’s. Those kinds of white people are terrifying. I like farmer’s market white people, the ones who are always dressed like they just finished climbing K2 when all they’ve done all day is eat samples at Whole Foods. The ones who try to convince me that a fifteen dollar jar of organically-grown, locally-sourced, environmentally sustainable white peach marmalade is a worthwhile fucking purchase. I’m black, ho. Fuck Earth. Black people don’t really believe in recycling. Or, for that matter, artisanal jam. If you see me put my Coke can in the recycling bin, it’s because ONE someone left that shit within arm’s reach of my desk and TWO a white person is watching me. Seriously, if there weren’t so many white people around all the time I would literally be standing outside with a can of hairspray spraying that shit at the goddamned sun. Fuck being cold. The only black vegans I can think of are the ones dodging the bags of donated oatmeal raining down on them from Red Cross helicopters, but I love that about you guys, I love that you could sit down to an enormous Thanksgiving dinner and only eat the fucking green beans because a turkey with a brain the size of my toenail didn’t have a happy childhood. That shit is fucking admirable.