Boutique Cupcakes

As I mentioned in WWCC's Intro/Welcome post, the topics of discussion in this blog are based upon 33 year of less than scientific research and dedicated, but non-creepy observations into the behavior of white chicks. But in an effort to truly grasp some subject matter, mere observations are not enough. There are times when you have to roll up your sleeves, fearlessly dive into some unfamiliar territory and eat some cupcakes.

It's not hard to understand why white chicks cherish cupcakes. They're adorable and delicious. And there's something alluring about removing the cupcake's paper cup wrapper. It's like cupcake lingerie, because knowing what's underneath doesn't make taking it off any less enticing. And sure, cupcakes are empty calories (one of the most reviled pairing of words in the white chick lexicon), but they leave behind little evidence unlike the dirty dishes and silverware associated with other forms of my favorite food group. Once the paper cup is tossed away, it's almost like nothing ever happened.

I've known for a while that white chicks cherish boutique cupcakes, but had never sampled one before. But just as a straight single dude can't really go eat Sunday Brunch, they sure as hell can't just casually stroll into a cupcake boutique. The only men who willingly enter cupcake boutiques are gay, on a mission for their hormonal spouse/girlfriend or doing research for a blog about the myriad things white chicks cherish.

I visited The Atlanta Cupcake Factory on Sunday with an open mind, an empty stomach and a salacious sweet tooth. I was escorted by friends Julie and Lauren--two fabulous white chicks and early, thankfully-loyal WWCC supporters, so I knew I was in great hands in a place where few single men have gone before. Only allowing myself one cupcake would have negatively impacted the breadth of my research, and it would be like telling a white chick she can have only pair of fabulous shoes in her closet. Plus, once I saw the display case at the Atlanta Cupcake Factory, I knew that settling on one or two or even a few cupcakes was not an option. So I got one of every cupcake in the case (minus Coconut because shredded coconut is super-gross) asked for a glass of milk and settled up with the Cupcake Factory to the tune of $36.

Turns out a fool with a sweet tooth and his money are soon parted.

I'd envisioned Julie, Lauren and I hanging out, enjoying cupcakes and having delightful conversation about the blog (I even brought along a little note pad and my digital camera sans-batteries), but that's not what happened. At all.

The Atlanta Cupcake Factory is a tiny place with no available seating inside. The one sit-down table outside was selfishly occupied, so we just awkwardly stood there as I sampled from the $36 Boutique Cupcake Bounty. It became less of a casual outing and more of freak show, as Lauren and Julie basically just stood and watched me eat. But they were great moral support, encouraging me to try "just one more" (I felt comfortable after the 4th, but Julie urged me on after the 5th...because stopping on an even number like 6 just makes more sense).

All in all the entire outing took less than an hour, and I ate $15 worth (that's a half-dozen in layman's terms) of boutique cupcakes in 18 bites. And then I went home and into a brief coma.

Here's a run-down of my Sunday findings:

Salted Caramel: White chicks seem to be big fans of the sweet/salty combo. And now I know why. Rich, gooey sweetness with just the right amount of salty-tang. Super dope.

Chocolate/White Chocolate: I love white chocolate, especially when it comes with more chocolate attached to it. A stellar cupcake.

Lemon/Blueberry: White chicks love this flavor combo in any form, so I had to give it a shot. Plus, I'd like to think the three blueberries on top served as my daily serving of fruits and antioxidants. I should've saved this one for last--it would've made for a nice palette-cleanser.

Chocolate Dulce: Something really sexy happens to caramel when it's called "dulce." And this cupcake was magnificent.

Sugar Cookie Vanilla: The whitebread of boutique cupcakes, but really good in that simple, yet effective way.

Key Lime Pie: A fantastic dessert on its own and in the form of a cupcake it was absurdly amazing.

I came out of my sugar shock on Monday and have since housed the remaining cupcakes. Red Velvet with cream cheese icing was uber-decadent and is easily a number one choice for white chicks everywhere. The Chocolate/Chocolate would be a great way to force yourself into a diabetic overdose. The Strawberry cupcake was summery-sweet and perfect. The Grasshopper cupcake was mint and chocolate seducing one another on top of cake. And I had an additional Chocolate/White Chocolate for good measure.

The Boutique Cupcake outing taught me two concrete facts of life:

1. The best part about being an "adult" is the ability to spoil your dinner with sweets anytime you want.

2. A boutique cupcake is the perfect metaphor for white chicks: cute, sweet and impeccably presented. And the really great ones will always leave you wanting more.

Eleven more in two days in certain instances.

(A big thanks to Lauren and Julie who supplied the camera-phone photos. And also a super-thanks to my friend, insanely-nice white chick, former Creative Circus classmate and gifted art director Jenny for helping to make WWCC's blog and Twitter feed look pretty).

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Wearing Flip-flops Regardless of Climate

I touched on my hypothesis in the “Summer Scarves” post regarding how white chicks love wearing certain clothing items during inappropriate seasons. It's easily one of their favorite things on Earth to do and can be as adorable as it is mystifying. Summer scarves are but one example of this fashion-in-the-face-of-weather phenomenon, because white chicks also cherish wearing flip-flops regardless of climate.

It’s true. White girls wear flip-flops year round, without even a casual recognition of the weather, recklessly exposing their pedicured feet to the unwelcoming elements of winter. Granted, I have lived in the Southeast my entire life and our winters can be particularly mild and short, but as a general rule, some may refer to it as "common sense," I tend to believe once the weather outside drops below 50 degrees or so one’s feet need not be exposed.

White chicks, please accept the blog’s most sincere apologies if WWCC's tone thus far has been harsh. I'm not as dumb as I look or act--I sort of get it. Flip-flops are cute (except for those hideous platform-sole kind), fun and comfortable. But, as I've mentioned in previous posts, I know any amount of time and effort spent trying to understand the reasoning or logic behind the actions and behavior of white girls is time wasted.

Also, I wish I had a nickel for every time I've seen a white chick wear the following outfit on a cold winter's day: a legitimate winter scarf, North Face/Patagonia fleece jacket, ridiculously expensive blue jeans and Rainbow flip-flops.

I’m currently lacking, and open to receiving, evidence from other regions of our fine nation, but I promise you, all white chicks in the Southeast own at least one pair of Rainbow flip-flops (possibly Havaianas if they are more internationally-curious). And the only weather condition which would prohibit a white chick from wearing her flip-flops would likely be a blizzard during a nuclear winter, and even that is a speculative guess at best.

But white chicks' love of wearing flip-flops regardless of climate is not completely without merit. Socks can be a pain the ass—they leave those pesky little collections of lent between your toes and are always disappearing somehow in the laundry process. Shoes often become untied--posing dangerous health risks to yourself and others in the form of tripping hazards. And is there anything more enraging than a shoelace breaking during mid-tie?

I'll be honest and admit I have a prejudice towards flip-flops. I am cursed with absurdly long, primate-like toes. I can pick objects off the floor with them and I am justifiably self-conscious about how they are on freak-show display in a pair of flip-flops. (I'll freely admit to wearing Chaco sandals because the straps cover a portion of my monkey toes. And I have been a Birkenstock patron during my life. But I will NEVER, EVER wear, not even by gunpoint, those horrendous woven-leather sandals for men aka "mandals"). So while I choose not to wear flip-flops myself, I would be remiss to neglect mentioning that they do serve a utilitarian fashion purpose for white chicks. They can put a cute, casual spin on any outfit--from shorts to sundresses to a bridesmaid dress. But I think white chicks have a deeper connection to their flip-flops than most people realize.

If you don't know what I mean, ask any white girl who goes out at night with her Rainbows in her gigantic purse or any white chick that keeps a pair of flip-flops handy on the floorboard of her car. Because after wearing some unreasonably uncomfortable high heels during a night out with the girls or a long day at work, there is absolutely nothing better for white chicks than putting on a pair of flip flops. It's instantly soothing and gratifying. Easy on. Easy off. Divine.

It's relationship nirvana. An ethereal blend of comfort, reliability and freedom--all blissfully co-existing in one pair of shoes. Flip-flops are the perfect back-up for white chicks. Just like that guy from high school she would totally marry if he's still single when she turns 40.

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Nonthreatening Singer-Songwriters

White chicks cherish cute, laid-back white guys that play acoustic guitar and sing songs which demonstrate their ability, effort and willingness to express their emotions. But can you blame them? Doesn't everyone want their body to be thought of as a wonderland by an attractive member of the opposite sex?

And at the risk of getting much too deep on a blog meant solely to amuse, isn't that what all white girls want in a man?

If the ability of a cute guy to willfully express emotion is a delicious cupcake (and white chicks already supremely cherish cupcakes) then a white guy who can be mysterious, hot and nonthreatening all at once while playing guitar and singing a song whose lyrics are "just so true" is the proverbial chocolate ganache icing on top. With sprinkles. And don't forget that a cute, non-threatening singer-songwriter can, like, totally change the way a white chick feels about tattoos.

And much like a cupcake, this entry will be short and sweet.

The following is a working list I've compiled of nonthreatening singer-songwriters that white chicks cherish. (Author's note: I happen to really like a few of these musicians, while I believe others to be complete and total douches).

John Mayer

Jack Johnson

Dave Matthews

Jason Mraz

the Avett Brothers (the only thing better than a non-threatening singer-songwriter is his bearded sibling)

Ben Harper

M Ward

David Gray

Iron and Wine

Mason Jennings

Damien Rice

Matt Nathanson

Howie Day

Bon Iver

Ryan Adams

Josh Ritter

Conor Oberst

Ray LaMontagne

Badly Drawn Boy

James Blunt (mega-douche)

O.A.R. (I realize this is a band, but I'm 100% positive only white chicks like them)

Did your favorite singer-songwriter make the list?

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Ridiculously Expensive Blue Jeans

It's true, dear reader, I have spent most of my 33 years on this splendid planet as a single, idiot male. But on a few occasions the clouds of idiocy have graciously parted, the heavens shined down their mystical light and I've experienced the good fortune of spending quality time (a few years, in a couple of cases) in the company of really special white chicks. One of whom, easily one of the most top-notch white chicks the world has ever known, introduced me to the certifiable fact that white chicks cherish ridiculously expensive blue jeans.

We hadn't been dating for very long when she spoke of a disagreement she'd had with her mother after a recent shopping trip together. They'd argued over blue jeans. Now, I made it perfectly clear in the "Summer Scarves" post that I am quite the opposite of a fashion expert. Until I dated then-girlfriend, I didn't even own jeans. Not a single pair. And I lived that way for roughly six years of my life. (Maybe it's because the word makes up the first syllable of my last name, but I've always felt more myself in a pair of pants). So it had been several years since I'd even shopped for blue jeans (as a general rule, I try not to enter malls unless it's by absolute necessity), but I foolishly assumed that white girls purchased jeans where everyone else did--usually some place like The Gap or Old Navy, maybe J. Crew or Banana Republic (if they were wanting "high end" jeans) or any other store that sells female clothing.

When I learned she'd gotten into an argument with her mom over jeans I was confused. But it made sense when then-girlfriend told me the retail price of the jeans was the cause of the controversy: $200. (This is an approximate figure, $200 is really about the median price for the various brands of ridiculously expensive jeans that white chicks cherish. It should also be noted that seldom are these jeans a perfect fit right off the rack. Often, they require some slight altering or hemming to get them to the proper length, which only adds to the price. And it's also commonplace to own several pairs of these jeans to accommodate the varying heights of a white girl's expansive shoe collection. It costs a lot of money to be a white chick).

"200?!?! For jeans?!?!" I asked incredulously.

Now, just as I've spent most of my life in single white dude idiocy, I've spent a near equal amount of time hovering uncomfortably close to the poverty line. At the time, I was living on Folly Beach in Charleston, SC, barely scraping a livelihood together as a freelance writer covering bands and supplementing that extremely meager income through a juice-bar/deli/barista gig and some occasional wedding reception bartending. So $200 was a TON of money then--roughly 20% of my monthly income. In my state of sticker-shock I thought of all the philanthropic, world-saving things one could do with $200--donate the money to any number of charities; purchase a daily ration of food for at least 15 child sweatshop-workers for a whole year; provide mosquito nets for an entire impoverished African village--the list is nearly endless.

"Blue jeans shouldn't cost $200," I said like a complete ignoramus. I don't think I've ever uttered a more uneducated, imbecilic sentence in my entire life.

Because I soon saw how then-girlfriend's posterior looked in ridiculously expensive blue jeans. I imagine it's how brand-new mothers feel when they first meet the child that's been growing inside their womb for nine months. It was glorious. Simply divine. Awe-inspiring.

I was an instant convert and have never looked back. And through the help of then-girlfriend I learned of designer brand names like 7 for All Mankind, True Religion and Citizens of Humanity. And thanks to my skills in non-creepy observation over the years, I've learned that ridiculously expensive jeans are the most versatile clothing item in a white chick's fashion arsenal. Paired with a sensible top, a fashionable jacket, and a high heel (or tucked into a pair of boots), ridiculously expensive blue jeans can be entirely workplace appropriate yet easily transition into a fun, flirty outfit for a night on the town. On a casual sunny day, a white chick can put on a cute headband, roll up the jean cuffs to mid-calf level, slip on her Rainbow flip-flops and she's ready for a day of window-shopping, maybe even a visit to the cupcake boutique, with her girlfriends.

As a way to express my gratitude to then-girlfriend for enlightening me, I took her shopping for a pair of ridiculously expensive blue jeans. My treat. It was the first time I'd ever been inside Saks Fifth Avenue. I don't remember the exact purchase price, but whatever the cost, it was an absolute bargain. I would have gladly paid double. And had the clerk requested it, I would have signed away my first-born child and my everlasting soul to Saks Fifth Avenue with a giant smile on my face.

Yes, it was true then and it is still true today, there are a lot of potentially world-changing, life-saving things a white chick (or anyone for that matter) can do with a minimum of $200. But there have always been injustices in the world. There has always been the suffering and strife of the disadvantaged. And we're all incredibly and unspeakably fortunate we've never had to live like those gnat-riddled children on those commercials who can be kept alive with a gracious pledge of mere pocket change. The world is not a perfect place and it never will be.

Ridiculously expensive blue jeans ARE NOT a self-indulgent fashion choice of white chicks to fit in with the masses. I believe quite the opposite, actually. The way white chicks look in designer jeans is their special way of making the universe a better place. It's their own selfless, exquisitely shaped gift to humanity. So whenever you're lucky enough be in the presence of a white chick in ridiculously expensive blue jeans, I urge you to bask in the glory.

Because for that brief moment, all is right with the world.

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Sunday Brunch

“It’s not quite breakfast, it’s not quite lunch, but it comes with a slice of cantaloupe at the end. You don’t get completely what you would at breakfast, but you get a good meal.” Jacques, "The Simpsons"

Sunday Brunch is the favorite meal of white chicks and they cherish the hell out of it.

It's the perfect storm of dining experiences for cute Caucasian females. Where else can you find so many variations of dishes involving poached eggs and the word "Benedict," fresh fruit, leafy greens, perhaps something slightly greasy and/or fried, and a brilliant inclusion of fresh avocado?

Only brunch...that's where.

But cherishing brunch is about way more than just the food for white chicks. It's the chance to look adorable (oftentimes despite the lack of a shower that day and a high probability of hangover) in a cute dress, possibly a summer scarf, and (if brunch takes place on an outdoor patio) over-sized sunglasses. (As a side note, white girls have an innate and uncanny ability to look super-cute while hungover. It's one of the things I love most about them. And there is no better evidence of that skill than Sunday Brunch). It's a completely wonderful opportunity, (and let's face it, these times honestly cannot happen enough) to catch up with other spectacular white chicks over a delicious meal.

And don't forget the day drinking.

White girls love day drinking. (Who can blame them, though? It's an awesome, entirely different world than drinking at night). And no other meal provides so many options for day drinking than brunch. It is not uncommon for a white girl to switch between sipping at least three different beverages at once at her brunch place setting. Along with the prerequisite glass of iced water, white girls will enjoy a "comfort drink"--possibly a Diet Coke, a coffee beverage, or tea (hot or iced), along with an alcoholic brunch drink--usually a Bloody Mary, maybe a Bellini in a more refined establishment and the fantastic possibility of the "Official Alcoholic Beverage of White Chicks"--the Mimosa.

Common topics for white chicks' brunch conversation may include, but are not limited to, the following:

--Who at the table has the most vicious hangover
--Vague remembrances of the previous night
--What was ordered from the Waffle House or Krystal menus at 3AM the previous night
--OMG, look at this picture taken on someone's phone from last night
--How awesome is this Bloody Mary/Bellini/Mimosa?
--Guys/guy parts
--Where was that fabulous dress purchased?
--That one friend in the group who is way sluttier than everyone else
--The "craziest thing" that happened at someone's job the previous week
--That weird guy/lady at work who is a total freak
--Isn't this brunch awesome?
--A brief remembrance of that one night in college
--The fight someone had recently with their mother
--Something stupid their husband/boyfriend/guy they're talking to did/said
--A run down of who's engaged/pregnant/getting a divorce
--The group's collective dislike of that one girl who, for unexplainable reasons, is an inevitable part of their circle of friends
--Seriously, this brunch is SO good
--Someone at the table's desperate need for a mani/pedi, hair appointment and/or spray tan
--How the waiter sort of looks like that one guy from that one movie or that one guy who was in their Econ class that dated their sorority sister
--A wholly inappropriate discussion in a public setting about sexual intercourse
--Best. Brunch. Ever.

You wouldn't think the best part of Sunday Brunch would be the ending. But it is.

Still looking adorable, only now half-drunk and satiated from a glorious meal, the rest of Sunday is wide open and full of possibilities for white chicks. How they choose to spend those few remaining romantic hours of weekend freedom are nearly limitless. And there's something truly special, magical and whimsical about however they choose to revel in that wondrous splendor.

It has been, and will continue to be, a marvelous day.

If Sunday Brunch has a negative side, it would be its exclusivity as a meal designated only for couples and white girls. It's true. Single guys only get to eat brunch on Mother's Day or on pity-invites from their married or coupled-up friends, but it's just not the same. Now, being a single idiot male does afford one a lot of freedoms. For example, I can eat every meal, if I choose to do so, in front of my television wearing nothing but my underpants. AND I can watch TV from my bathroom--it's pretty awesome. And that's just the tip of the freedom iceberg. But perhaps the most unfortunate fault (of which there are several to choose from) of being a single, idiot male is the lack of brunch.

Single heterosexual dudes just can't do some of the same things it's perfectly socially acceptable for a group of white chicks to do. We can't go out in a large group to a delicious fancy restaurant. We can't go shopping for clothes together and recommend shirts that would make one another look handsome. And, sadly, we can't go eat brunch together on Sundays and laugh. I wish I could more properly and eloquently explain why, but single guys simply can't eat brunch, and I think it's bullshit. Call it sour grapes, and you'd be absolutely correct. But I miss brunch. I truly do.



**Due to an overwhelming number of requests (which have totaled two up to this point) I will try my best to start updating WWCC twice a week from now on. But I cannot accomplish this feat without your help, dearest reader. So please, join the Facebook Group and share some recommendations for topics or other things you'd like to see covered in the blog.

Summer Scarves

White girls love accoutrement.

Undoubtedly, the history of fashion is wrought with examples of white girls adorning themselves with various accoutrement in order to attract the eye of men, the praise of their girlfriends, and the jealousy of "that slut" they'll never get along with (all white chicks have a nemesis). Now, dear reader, please keep in mind while perusing this blog post that I am by no means a fashion expert. (In fact the opening sentence of this paragraph, and this parenthetical aside you are reading this very moment, mark only the second time in my entire life I've ever dared write the phrase "the history of fashion"). The only sense I can make of white chicks' fashion sense is that nothing will stand in the way (not even the weather or common sense, for example) of a white girl's quest to look adorable.

Which brings us to the topic of this post on What White Chicks Cherish: The summer scarf.

Summer scarves. Thanks to alliteration the two words sound fantastic together, but that doesn't make them any less of an oxymoron. Like "rational" combined with "Glenn Beck" or "erudite" describing "Sarah Palin"--summer and scarves are an unnatural pairing of words and live at polar opposite ends of the season/appropriate attire spectrum. But not for white chicks.

I grew up in Columbia, South Carolina; a city famous for Hootie and the Blowfish and ridiculously oppressive summertime heat and humidity. I currently reside in Atlanta, Georgia, which features a regrettably similar summer climate with a way more metropolitan vibe, pro sports teams, and an infrastructure likely designed and maintained by a special needs class of second graders. I'm more or less used to sweltering summers after living in the Southeast for 33 years, but it's still hot. Really uncomfortably fucking hot. And hardly an appropriate season to wrap ones neck in decorative fabric as a form of accoutrement. But not for white chicks.

Despite the fact that it's summertime, and in many American cities the temperatures are reaching triple-digits, white girls everywhere are adorned in colorful scarves. Don't get me wrong, I think it's mega-cute, eye catching, and can really make a white chick's outfit 'pop.' But on really hot days I regret the fact that I have to leave air conditioning and even wear pants in public, and I cannot imagine having a scarf around my neck, clinging to my skin. Just thinking about it gives me the heebie-jeebies. But it doesn't bother white chicks.

So there it is, white chicks cherish scarves--even in the summer. Honestly, I think most of the things white chicks do defy logic and conventional reason in both confusing and intoxicating ways. And since trying to understand why white chicks do the things they do is an exercise in futility, I'll continue to go with the flow and stand in awe of them. Because white chicks are an adorably perplexing enigma.

But I have another, slightly off-topic, point to make with this post.

I'm a simple-minded male, so function over form has always been my fashion rule. And it's likely the reason why anytime I buy a new shirt, it inevitably looks very similar to one I already own. I do own a scarf, a simple, nondescript strip of utilitarian fleece purchased from Old Navy that I've maybe had cause to wear 20 times in the eight years I've owned it. I use it to keep my neck parts warm when it's cold out. Simple as that. And I state this fact because, unfortunately, I have seen the summer scarves fad carry over into male fashion as well. Though it would seem obvious that my own wardrobe, which consists mainly of tattered band t-shirts and three-to-five year old J. Crew pants, would prohibit me from casting dispersions on the clothing decisions of any self-respecting man, I MUST take a stand.

Gentleman, I think we can all agree that unless you're an adorable white chick, or one of the Jonas Brothers, you have absolutely no reason to wear a summer scarf. So please stop. Post-haste. Just don't do it. Ever. You look like an asshole.

Don't be shy, white chicks. Post some of photos of yourself rocking a summer scarf over on our Facebook Page. And please feel free to provide suggestions for future entries.

Chick-fil-A

Chick-fil-A is wonderful. And I think it's safe to say that everyone (aside from vegetarians and creepy, weirdo vegans) has a deep and profound love for this restaurant.

The original Chick-fil-A sandwich is perfection. And anytime I'm at a function that has a Chick-fil-A Nugget Tray, I make it a gluttonous point to eat enough to cause myself slight discomfort--and it's totally worth it, because they're awesome. There are side items in life I appreciate much more than french fries, but Chick-fil-A Waffle Fries are not only delicious, they're also a modern marvel of culinary engineering. Chick-fil-A Sauce tastes like Divine Creation (though white girls may prefer the Polynesian Sauce). The restaurants are nice enough where you can dine-in and not feel fast-food shame; their employees are at least ten-times more intelligent than the average functionally retarded fast food worker; and they never, ever forget to give your straw in the drive-thru.

And great god almighty, have you had a Chick-fil-A milkshake? Seriously, have you? They're unbelievable.

Undoubtedly, it's hardly a novel or even blog-worthy thing to espouse upon white girls' love (or anyone's for that matter) of Chick-fil-A. But what I have noticed to be truly unique is how white girls justify their love for this restaurant. I've heard way more than one white girl, on way more than one occasion, say something to this effect: "Chick-fil-A is my favorite fast-food restaurant, but it's not REALLY fast-food."

Now, a very important lesson I've learned during 33 years as a human is it's neither wise nor worth the effort to try to comprehend or refute the validity of female logic. So, despite the fact that your meal is presented to you before you can even inhale another breath after stating your order or the fact that you can purchase a Chick-fil-A meal whilst sitting in your automobile, Chick-fil-A isn't REALLY fast food.

If there is an unfortunate aspect of Chick-fil-A (other than the somewhat lackluster, but still delicious, Spicy Chicken Sandwich or the sheer existence of Carrot-Raisin Salad) it would be the hard-to-live-with fact that Chick-fil-A isn't open on Sundays. They say they choose to be closed on Sundays out of respect and recognition for Christianity's Sabbath. And that's a fine, perfectly socially acceptable reason. But I think they have another reason. Everything Chick-fil-A produces (minus that tired-ass ad campaign with the cows) is amazing. And Chick-fil-A knows once you've experienced amazing, it's only natural to want more of it whenever your heart desires. So it is my belief that Chick-fil-A choose to not open on Sundays in order to create a sense of yearning in its patrons. And at the risk of sounding vaguely chauvinistic, I will state my belief that white girls love to yearn.

After all, white girls are human, and I think it's perfectly natural for any human to want what they cannot have. I know I wish I had a nickel for every time I've wanted Chick-fil-A on a Sunday; the end-all, be-all of unattainable cravings.

Now, if you're a white girl and you've read this far and you're currently saying to yourself "I'm a white girl, and I've never yearned for Chick-fil-A--this guy is a jack-ass," allow me to present a hypothetical situation:

You wake up late on a Sunday morning with a powerful hangover. Your head is pounding and it tastes like something died in your mouth, but the wedding reception was such a good time. The bridesmaid dress you wore (it was pretty, but not necessarily what you would have picked out, given the choice) is red-wine-stained and lying in a heap on the floor where you stepped out of it. There was plenty of kick-off-the-uncomfortable-heels-dancing with the girls (likely to songs like "Livin on a Prayer," "Thriller" and of course "Don't Stop Believin") and you have the filthy feet to prove it (for the layperson, this condition is commonly referred to as "Baby WalMart feet"). After a long, hot shower you find solace in your favorite pair of fuzzy socks, comfy pajama pants and that one tattered, slightly over-sized, perfectly broken-in t-shirt. And is there anything on Earth you'd want more at that moment, the perfect companion to fuel your lazy day of recovery, than your favorite Chick-fil-A combo meal and the biggest fucking fountain Diet Coke you've ever seen?

Hell no there isn't.

Unless it's paired with the miraculously-perfect timing of a Julia Roberts movie-marathon on television which, of course, culminates in the powerfully touching "Steel Magnolias."

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