I don’t know any of my neighbors particularly well which I guess is a sad thing. It would be nice to live across from a guy like Cosmo Kramer from Seinfeld and observe all his slapstick hijinks. In defense, I don’t have that many neighbors and we all seem to do our own thing. We all have busy, fast-paced lifestyles, or at least that is the impression that we all like to give off.
I have spoken with the gentleman that lives directly across the hall from me. He lives in the only other single unit on our floor. He smokes incessantly on our fire escape and always manages to slam the door when he comes in and out. But for the most part he seems kind and neighborly. He has introduced himself a couple of times but I always forget his name. He is a trauma doctor at the local hospital; an interesting fact that might come in handy when I have an accident or I have a guest over who has a medical condition or an allergic reaction to something I serve.
Aside from the door slamming, he is a neighbor’s dream tenant. He keeps to himself, never throws parties and there is never a foul odor coming from his apartment. These are all admirable qualities in my book.
However, there is one other apartment on our floor. The two bedroom unit at the top of the stairs is occupied by an unholy couple of “Wiggers” who have no regard for their neighbors and no common sense on how to successfully co-exist in an apartment building. Because of them, there is constant chaos along with a continuous and never ending barrage of noise and bad music. They smoke in the hallway and the idea of placing trash in a receptacle is foreign to them.
Why O why O Lord did you have to send me Wiggers?
For those who are unaware, Wiggers are white kids who display African-American personality traits and stereotypes, usually the negative kinds that are associated with Gangster Rap and other demeaning forms of Black culture. The term is meant to be disrespectful.
I first heard it in the 80’s when rap and hip hop music were beginning to take off. In grade school, my white bread peers and I rushed towards all things related to Black entertainment and Hip-Hop culture. We tried to play basketball like Michael Jordan while listening to music by Kool Moe Dee and Slick Rick. The lyrics were often laced with expletives. At night, we would spray paint graffiti on mailboxes and city benches, and talk to each other in a slang that was neither easy on the ears nor made any sense. I was never any good at it, and I despised those of us who displayed a knack for speaking in, “gutter talk” as my mother would say.
I thought I had left those days behind with my exodus from New York in 1998. I was wrong. I have come to learn that Wiggers are everywhere and in everything. I don’t think they have infiltrated the upper echelons of government…yet. But there could soon come a day when a lawyer arguing before the Supreme Court addresses the chief justice with, “Yo, peep this, my boy is mad innocent yo. Him say he wouldn’t even dare da night Tywon flipped out. You’s gots to come correct… right hizee!”
Wiggers have been spurned on in recent years by the likes of Eminem and even more depressing figures like Kevin Federline. Ali G has done a good job at displaying just how asinine and ludicrous these people look and sound. In assuming this personality, Sasha Baron Cohen has exposed these individuals for what they truly are…freaks running loose in society.
Wiggers have all the encouragement in the world. If somebody told me that if I acted out Black stereotypes and said disrespectful things in songs that I would be a multi-platinum selling artist with money and power, I would immediately ask them where I can get my hands on some heavy gold chains and warm up pants.
“K-Fed” as he is known to all four of his adoring fans proved that even as a divorcee, with a child, you can still go out with and be spoiled rotten by one of the hottest and most desired pop princesses the world has ever seen…and make out pretty well on the divorce settlement. It seems the more bizarre the Wigger personality, the more popular they become.
I can still remember the short lived reality series detailing Brit and K-Fed’s sexual appetites. Quality television. I don't know how the network could have ended it after only three episodes.
My Wiggers moved in during the fall of 2006 after I had been living in the building for three years. At first, I was surprised that two such individuals would be able to afford a unit in what has become an expensive area. I know I have second thoughts about cutting such a hefty rent check each month, but then again, I am a little older and a working professional who also got a great deal on the apartment.
All I really need to do is walk through the neighborhood and ogle all the beautiful people to realize I am not paying for square footage but location and atmosphere. This makes the presence of the Wiggers even more baffling because they are certainly out of place being so close to the lake in a neighborhood where there is a designer coffee house on every corner and an endless supply of girls with headscarves and pink North Face jackets to fill them up.
Wiggers feel more comfortable in places like Little Rock, Arkansas and Elizabeth, New Jersey. There, they can indulge in conversation and grand-theft auto with other aspiring Wiggers.
My Wigger neighbors are probably between the ages of 20 and 22 and I believe they are attending classes somewhere, or they are supposed to be. I don’t think they go often as there is rarely an hour in the day when deafening, bass heavy music is not screaming at passerbys through the door.
They are most likely sucking off Mommy and Daddy’s checkbook to cover their living expenses. I don’t blame them; I was spoiled during my time in academia. I did not have to hold a full time job to make tuition payments. But why did they have to bring their wiggerish ways into my building?
It should be stated though that your average wigger lifestyle comes at a fairly exorbitant price. There are baggy, designer jeans to purchase from popular labels like FUBU, Sean John, and Tommy Hilfiger. There is also an insatiable need for the brightest and most recent Starter and New Era baseball caps. (Note to wiggers in training, never break in your cap or remove the price tags displaying the hologram of the manufacturer, and make sure to wear to one side, never the traditional way or backwards, and also never break it in as this trend is now dated and has been overcome by the newer, flat look).
Baseball and basketball jerseys are also quite costly. If one isn’t careful, you can easily drop a thousand bucks on the latest Iverson replica game outfit or Oakland Raiders warm-ups, so all Wiggers should “slow their roll” and attempt to balance their budgets.
A modern day Wigger also needs a steady supply of menthol cigarettes, (preferably New Port or Salem Lights) along with a constant stash of malt liquor. Your everyday American Wigger also embraces a language that’s chock full of profanity and delivered in the same intonation and pronunciation that Dr. Dre or Snoop Dog embody in their albums.
It would also behoove your typical Wigger to wear gaudy, cheap looking jewelry in the ears, nose, and eyebrows as well as on the wrists and fingers. There are also a fair amount of female Wiggers or “Wigger-ettes” as they are called who are fond of sporting necklaces with their name written on it in a thin, plate-metal script.
Their accessories could best be described as shiny and childlike and to the relative lay person, may appear like they were purchased for a quarter from a gum ball machine outside the local Aldi. I have seen more than my fair share of these necklaces, insanely enough, on very attractive looking women…that is, they are only pretty once you looked beyond their corn rows and penciled in eyebrows.
But the age old Wigger practice of wearing this kind of jewelry, or better yet, having their names tattooed on their bodies completely baffles me. As if they would ever forget their names, for shame.
If you ever had the privilege of seeing a Wigger-ette in her natural surroundings, be careful not to stare too hard. These foul-mouthed tough girls are not to be insulted. Their tastes in couture are very strong and they do not take well to constructive criticism. They are just as prone to fisticuffs as their male counterparts.
Fighting is a large part of the Wigger lifestyle. It often involves one person being beaten by numerous Wiggers. I saw this many times on St. Patrick's Day in New York City. One on one fighting is not part of the Wigger mantra, but it is important to hurl insults and quote gangster movies at an opponent while they are down on the ground being kicked.
Now that I have brought you up to speed on your common, everyday Wigger, let me tell you about last nights disturbance.
At about 2:43 A.M. I heard a pounding on my neighbor’s door... the Wigger household of course. I heard these tremendous thuds not because I was hanging out in the hallway or walking up the stairs. No, I was half asleep in my apartment… in my bed…under the covers…with the door locked.
I should tell you that the building I live in is very old, probably pre World War II, and has ancient heating furnaces which clang in the middle of the night. For the first month I lived there, I was convinced the clanging was being caused by an intruder and I would go out into the main room armed with the only weapon I could find: a 12 inch novelty baseball bat one purchases as a souvenir for a toddler at a Major League Baseball game. You can imagine how relieved I was that I did not have to thrash anyone with such a meager and non-threatening tool.
I guess the building architects chinced when it came to designing the thickness of the walls because the pounds bestowed upon the Wigger door were coming through loud and clear, almost as if they were happening in the same room that I was attempting to sleep in.
This went on for a good 35 minutes. It was so loud and aggressive, I thought barbarians were attacking the complex or the entire Chicago division of the Drug Enforcement Agency were executing a search warrant, and their frustration at not being allowed in only forced them to make the pounds more thunderous. If I did not know better, I would have thought that someone was using a tree trunk to sound a giant gong.
I can only assume one of the Wiggers must have forgotten or lost their keys and thought their Wigger counterpart was asleep inside. If one of them was asleep, than this person was capable of sleeping through the bombing of Dresden. I hope there was'nt an actual person in there, because if there was, I am jealous that I can’t sleep that soundly. Instead of the air raid noise that goes into effect when our country is under attack, this pounding should have signaled the end of the world. I was almost in awe that a human being was making this sound repetitively. His hands and fists must have been torn and bloody from the noise that was being produced.
He would knock hard for a good minute and then stay quiet a minute before resuming again. This went on for a while. And there was never any talking or screaming at the inhabitant that may or may not have been inside, just knocking.
I don’t blame him for not uttering a word. He knew the whole building was up. He understood that if we heard anything less than a voice reminiscent of Mr. T or Clint Eastwood, the entire association of tenants would have exited their apartments, tire iron in hand, and commenced in a most merciless beat-down that Martin Scorsese himself would be proud of.
To the unknowing tenant, the knocking gave an aura of mystery. Could the person be a dangerous psycho or a crazed killer? Certainly not. I knew that it was some scrawny white boy making up for his lack of strength and size by putting every ounce of energy into getting back into his apartment.
I wanted to kill this kid, and place his head on a pike in our mail room for all to see what happens when a Wigger disturbs the peace and tranquility of a building full of sleeping professionals.
Sadly, I tolerated it all. I remembered the time in college when I was locked out and couldn't get back into my apartment. Wiggers usually don't stay Wiggers forever. Usually it's a phase they go through. I remembered what it was like to be young, confused, and unable to establish a consistent personality, identity or image of myself that I could be happy and stick with for a while. So I pardoned him.
I thought about calling the cops. I thought about what a great lesson this lout would learn. The cops would no doubt have a blast busting a Wigger. After being cuffed in the hallway, and then thrown headfirst down the stairs and into the back of the police car, the cops would probably stick around the holding cell back at police department and watch this tenderfoot fool be made an example of by hardened thugs who were not just living out a Coolio fantasy. No, mark my word; this would be a real Gangster’s Paradise.
But alas, the better nature of my Christian upbringing got the better of me and I endured the torture until the Wigger in question either left the building to crash at another Wiggers domicile, or he just hunkered down on the floor, exasperated from his attempt to gain entry. I don’t blame him. He had to have been drunk at that hour and the fact that he kept the pounding up for so long as he did is a real testament to his utter carelessness for his neighbors and his fortitude to get a good night’s rest in his own bed.
If he did bunch up his Starter or First Down jacket into a pillow than I hope it was a cold night in that hallway and that he couldn’t fall asleep because his hand hurt too much from the knocking. And I hope than when he was awakened from the bitter chill of the Midwest morning air that there was a side-splitting headache, a plethora of canker and cold sores along with a stiff back ready to greet him when he opened his eyes.
When I woke up the next day I was exhausted from not getting my usual seven hours, but I eagerly jumped into the shower. As the DJ’s of 97.1.FM updated me on the traffic and weather for the day, all I could think about was what might be waiting for me out in the hallway. Would there be a sleeping Wigger that I could accidentally stumble over with my steel toed boots, or perhaps spill my scolding cup of tea on? I reveled in these thoughts and when it came time to leave my apartment, I opened my front door like a child entering the living room on Christmas morning. I peered down the long hallway and didn’t see anyone there.
Disappointed, I stomped down the hall as heavily as I could, making sure to put as much hate and animosity in those steps as possible so that if he was around the corner, out of sight, than he would at least know the terror and misery that was coming his way.
Alas, no Wigger, but on the ground in front of their door were tons of paint and wood chips. One piece was as long as a hammer. It was as if the warriors from Braveheart took a battering ram to the door, but somehow it stood its ground. The scene should have been an advertisement for deadbolt locks and how nothing can penetrate them.
The debris stood there for well over two weeks. I am sure the maintenance guys marveled at what might have happened. But I knew the truth.
In conclusion, I do not want to mislead you. There are decent and friendly Wiggers out there who can comprehend the idea that some people like to sleep at night. This rant should not deter you from giving the Wigger a chance to be polite. There are civil Wiggers among us who work during the day and attend classes. They should not be oppressed or discriminated against because of their less deserving ilk. Instead, these standouts should be heralded for their attempts to lead respectable lives.
There is no changing the fact that Wiggers are living in our society. The sad truth is that the negative types are more visible than the decent ones. Shady Wiggers can be seen in the background of TRL daily as well as on daytime television shows like, “Maury” where they are often contesting paternity test results. They are a constant favorite of “The Jerry Springer Show” where they are attacking their fellow Wigger brethren for sleeping with their Wigger-ettes.
Often times, Wigggers live comfortably among us and co-exist in peace. But the situation mentioned above is just another example of the Wigger mentality being at odds with normal everyday citizens.
Always remember to be kind to your fellow Wigger. Love them even if their rap video sneer and mock gold and phony diamond grill bother the hell out of you. Be aware of who they are, what they are capable of and how persistent their knocks can be.
I would not wish this terrible experience on my worst enemy, but I would wish it on my neighbors.
Good night America, and sleep cautiously.
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