Wigger FAQ

What do wiggers do at work?

Where do wiggers work, anyways?

The answers to these pressing questions are finally here...

To start, Wiggers shall from here on in, be referred to as Wiggers, as opposed to wiggers. Wiggers signifies them as a breed all onto their own, which I assure you, is the honest truth.

Wiggers work the overnight shift at gas stations. They might be lucky and snag the day shift, but it's rare. Their cologne is generally too strong for the day clients. Night customers have either lost their sense of smell due to drugs or vomiting from alcohol abuse.

It takes them 2.3 seconds to respond to the doorbell on the outside of their little gasstation enclosure, which only means that they were doing something they were not supposed to. If someone takes longer than a few seconds, I will permit that. But answering the doorbell immediately?! Wigger, you must have been whacking off or dancing like a moron to bad music.

Which brings me to the next point... Wiggers must at all times, be blaring gangster rap. Or even commercial ChingyLingy shite. With rap surrounding them, Wiggers feel as though they are a rapstar as well. You must understand that the Wigger-Ego is a fragile item.

If rap music is playing, the Wigger responds in two ways:
1. Rolling or smoking a huge joint, or hitting a bong (preferably with white trash females or other Wiggers).
2. Dancing like a retard.

I caught my little Wigger partaking in option two... spastic g-thang homie moving. I walked up to the door and saw the Wigger adjusting his hat in a smooth fashion and attempting to dance to music I could not hear. I rang the doorbell, Wigger jumped and let me in promptly. Rap was blaring, cologne was everywhere... it was far too easy for me to identify his species.

I was face to face with a Wigger.

I asked for my brand of cigarettes, and I had to play hot and cold with him until he found them on the shelf. Then he asked me in true Wigger style, "What are the difference between cigarettes anyways?"

"Pal," I responded, "it's not that hard to figure out. Some are stronger than others. Some have a different taste than others."

Maybe it was my common-sense, or maybe it was my disheveled look, but it was at that point that he gave me the dreaded "once-over".

And immediately after, I blinked at him without an ounce of emotion, and then I turned to leave.

I'm pretty sure he said "bitch" on my way out the door.

Stupid Wigger.