Three words: Excessive **** bleaching.
I was preparing for the lead part of Blackula, the Return of Totem and its' accompanying close-ups by ridding myself of those unsightly portwine stains around my sphincter, when the Bleacher-in-Chief got a call on his mobile from-- dare I name drop here? Why, yes, I do! --James Cameron, resulting in his copiously splashing much bio-Clorox across my dusky, but juicily darkened skin.
After quickly rinsing my eyes out (boy, does that stuff burn!) I looked down to see I had inadvertently begun channeling Michael Jackson during his formatively wannabe-white years. At that point it was really just a "in for a nickle, in for a dime" kind of situation. It'll take years of medical restoration to achieve that glorious hue of black that was the Alabama Black Snake, so I'm enjoying all the social perks of being caucasian while it lasts-- you know, things like the good water fountains, not being arrested for entering my own home, the lack of ingrown hairs or sickle cell anemia, and an overwhelming urge to drink pinot grigio instead of Colt 45.
I imagine Mrs. Totem will soon pine for my formerly prodigious ****, thus precipitating another racial change to the darker, but for the time being she's enjoying our solidly white middle class income.
Thanks for asking, Nobs!
Totem