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Oh man, I just gotta send out props to the straight-G white guy at Circle K today. C'mon, you know who you were, you mac-daddy'n b***h magnet. Hell, you didn't even wait to arrive in the parkinglot to announce your pimpin ways: your bumpin stereo was audible two blocks away, and I know because our truck windows rattled 20 seconds before your arrival. And as you know, NOTHING says "bad a** a-comin" more than stereo speakers that have nothing to do with music, but everything to do with noise.

Once you pulled into the parkinglot, there was simply no doubt as to who you are as a man. Your white 1994 4-door Chevy S10 SUV (no full-size SUV needed when you already got a Grip A street cred, right bro?) was done RIGHT. All the windows were tinted so dark they were essentially opaque. And that's what a gangsta gotsta have, right? I mean, ya don't want no one peekin' in yo' donked ride while you gettin' yo' hourly swerve on wiff da next lucky female in the back, right?

And there IS no doubt, whatsoever, that you were a player, because you had affixed to your back window a 10-inch chromed cut-out of the playboy bunny. Could there be ANY doubt as to your sexual prowess once the already-impressed citizenry get a look at that universal symbol of stud-pile aboard? No, I don't think so.

Your 22 inch rims were icing on the cake. It's true that the size of the wheels left so little room for the rubber bands that masquerade as tires as to render the ride of your dubbed mini-slade akin to having no tires at all, but such things are trivial. What counts is that your crunchin' pimp-ride was PROPER.

Taking all this in was nearly a bit much for most of us pumping gas and buying lottery tickets, but there was no doubt as to the overload of gangster-esque once you stepped from your ride. Even though you were as white a man as I have ever seen, your threads and bling were of the hook, ite?

White sleeveless basketball jersey that barely contained the roll of baby fat that encompassed your man-boobs and had the name of your favorite player spelled out on your back. Hey, that was really you LeBron James? I had to check twice, but then I realized at 5'6'' and 230lbs of twisted steel and sex appeal, you weren't tall enough.

And your shorts were SO hood. Size XXXL, were they, LeBron? But you were saggin' correctly, though this was because your back fat forced your white basketball shorts to hang halfway down your neon-white thunder thighs that most likely had the consistency of cottage cheese without the flavor and usefulness.

Not to be outdone by your bangin' ghetto stereo, you wore enough necklaces and bracelets to bling yourself right to the top of Rapster Gangsta Pimpdom. What I couldn't understand, though, was one of your necklaces adorned with the peace simbol. What I'm thinking was that you wren't aware of the fact that one of your bling-blings was adorned with an item that goes back to the 1960s and actually had meaning and merit, which unlike the rest of your shiny bobbles, actually hinted of a degree of consciousness. but none of that for you, though, right? Nosiree, just indiscriminately pile on 1 inch gold chains and let the ladies find you.

Of course you had the latest in $250 basketball shoes. But inwardly I asked myself: were the shoelaces untied simply because, like any real Gangsta up in the hizzy, it's how you roll, or was it because your fat belly prevented you from achieving the needed bending position for tying said laces. Regardless, I'm convinced that those kicks see a great deal of hoop time when you and the posse chill at the courts before rollin out for the nights of cappin, pimpin, and slingin.

Even though we left the Circle K humbled by your overt sex-machine ways and sleek gangster ride, I realized that I just had seen the blueprint of what it means to be a real man.