Under the glossy veneer that is my big, gay exterior, I'm pure thug. Never mind that I'm so white, either. The mailman didn't.

Mailman: Hey man, how's it going? Phil: Pretty good, thanks. Mailman: That's good, bro. Phil: Um, so... did I miss the outgoing mail? Mailman: No, man it's still right here. Phil: Sweet. Thanks. Mailman: Have a good day, man.

I suppose now would be a good time to point out our respective attire. The mailman was bedecked in standard mailman drag, replete with the blue pants with the dark blue line down the seam. He was sporting a poorly trimmed beard and the usual mailman cap. Oh, and he was whiter than I am. Cut to me, styling it up in white shorts and a bright red polo shirt, going for the win with the high-tech sunglass covers for my glasses.

Because Mr. Mailman made sure to emphasize every single "man" by drawling it out a good three seconds, I'm left forming one of two conclusions. 1.) He thought I was gangsta. 2.) He wanted me to be gangsta. Either way, he was hoping to prove that he could keep up with the best of us, even if the "best" turned out to be white, gay, and the only gang he could make it in would be the Big Gay Mafia.