Black Bastard. If that sounds like I'm hating, good. Mission accomplished.
God blessed me with an abundance of gifts.
An abnormally large and egg shaped head that can be used as a weapon if I’m ever attacked by a ostrich or even as a football if I’m ever accidentally decapitated. The ability to effortlessly create haikus using only different euphemisms for “vagina.” A voice that subtlety reminds people that I probably scored higher on the PSAT than they did. Spicy farts. Skin dark enough to scare white people at night, but not dark enough to dissuade them from asking me for directions during the day. Completely irrational athletic ability. (There’s no way someone who looks how I currently look should be able to dunk a basketball. Seriously, every time I dunk now I feel like I’m Punk-ing myself.) A decidedly utilitarian smirk that makes Dominican women want to wrestle. A penis the exact same color as my eyes. A “hmm. maybe he can grow on me or something“-able face.
Yet, despite these gifts, I’m completely overcome with envy whenever I see a picture of Common or James Harden or Black Thought or even Flo Rida. Why? Well, those motherf*ckers can grow completely full beards, a task I dearly want to be able to accomplish.
Now, this isn’t to say that my beard game is in the toilet. As seen here, I do have a decent amount of facial hair, and I have received compliments on its fullness, its color, and the way it feels when I perform cunnilingus. Basically, Paul Pierce I am not.
But, although I’d never want to pull one of those Rick Ross full-face beards, I’m completely disheartened by the fact that I’ll never even have the ability to do that; a realization that has occasionally induced face-shivers, shower wall slides, and enough tears to fill a half gallon bowl of Cheerios.
Honestly, I couldn’t tell you why I envy the beard so much. Perhaps it’s because I enjoy food so much that I know I’d love scouring my beard for random scraps of bacon if I got hungry. Maybe I secretly wish I was a Blaxploitation star, using my beard of virility to save sassy women from jive turkeys, rampant pimps, and wack orgasms. And, well, maybe I just think I kind of look like a very handsome monkey when I’m completely clean-shaving, and a perpetually full beard will help me look less primate.
Who knows?
I do know, though, that although I don’t really believe it when old men say things like “You know, if you splash some urine on your face, it’ll make your beard grow fuller,” I don’t not believe if enough to never try it. (And by “never try it” I mean “not try it as soon as I’m done writing this“)
Anyway, people of VSB.com: Can anyone relate to my beard envy? Are there any qualities or characteristics that you always wished you had, but God obviously had other plans?
—Damon Young (aka “The Champ”)
