Without fail, when these people speak within audible distance, originally I think it's spit that wants to shoot out my mouth, but after little evaluation, it's assuredly vomit. Really, there's not much on this planet that tastes worse than bile. Maybe battery acid, head cheese or some guy's cock would come into play here for all the heteros reading. But to figure out what actually does happen to wiggers when they mature, first we must analyze the root of the cause, and I guess it all starts in suburbia with a young lad we'll call . . . Timothy.
Timothy, a single, White male is living with his happily-married parents. The breadwinners of this household have decent jobs, suitable education, and pronounce their words to conform to society standards just as each of their parents had taught onto them. Ahh, but young Timothy feels something awry with proper pronunciation and the art of elocution, and tragedy is looming in the weeks to come.
His daily routine has evolved into awakening, going to school to try and fit in with his 4-6 White friends, of whom he doesn't truly feel a bond with and apparently hasn't for some time. Timothy does his homework and spends time with his virginal girlfriend when he can, considering his curfew. He has slim usage of his parent's car and a part-time job at some shitty 'Italian' restaurant where the proceeds from Pizza Hut then go toward getting Timmy ready for adulthood-like responsibilites. Our young hero has what most teenagers would consider a rigorous schedule, therewith work, school, sleep, and trying to put his middle finger into the girl who lives a few blocks over.
Then, just as predicted, tragedy strikes. Timmy sits down in the living room to relax and turns on the television, and as he scans the channels one after the other, he stops on Mtv---a network presumably put here on Earth by way of Lucifer---and begins to watch a rap video. Timmy's eyes enlarge and he seems quite interested in all the blinging jewelry, spinning rims, and black men making a repeated 'forward' motion with their arms into the camera as they lip-sync to a redundant and quite irritating song. I'm afraid with all of that coupled with some female African-Americans dancing by a pool in bikinis, it's apparently all over for our young hero at this point.
The next couple weeks, drastic changes overcome Timothy. He starts skipping class a few times because a member of the Black community is going to hang out, and with Pizza Hut now providing Timothy with enough funds to aquire dazzling attire such as Tommy Hilfiger, Sean John, and a tennis visor he apparently wears backwards so the back of his head can't get sunburned, Timmy almost looks as if he can fit in accordingly. Coincidently a few weeks pass and Timothy further abandons his own heritage while concurrently adapting to Black culture by showing up late for his job. As of late, he's been allowing his grades to go downhill because he can't moderate his intake of marijuana, of which his new friends seem to have an ample supply.
Timmy's old friends don't even know him anymore, as they have grown tiresome of his bad attitude, the 'accent' he has picked up, and most importantly in the halls when they say, "Hey, Tim," he now insists that they call him T-dog. His now semi-virginal girlfriend has opted for a single status because she can't really tolerate being around Timothy anymore due to his persistent request of her letting him "hit that." And when Timothy's parents ask why they haven't seen that sweet girl around lately, he simply replies, "She was acting like a little biznitch."
Worrisome, Timothy's parents put strict rules upon him. He is grounded, can no longer use the car, and had better find a job because it's been four months since Pizza Hut fired him for stealing money. Growing tired of rules and responsibilities, Timmy leaves home and pursues a career in the street pharmaceutical distribution market, medicine specifically useful to glaucoma patients and hippies. This type of behavior allows Timothy to acquire a nice car and a decent apartment completely furnished, yet all gets lost or stolen when he goes to jail on drug charges, however, his cumulative time in jail has made him quite the spades player from now on.
T-dog is in his mid-twenties now. He swears he's never getting 'caught up' again because jail is for suckers. Aside from still selling drugs, T-dog steals car stereos and peddles mixed tapes out the trunk of his car. He sees his family on birthdays and holidays, which turns into an uncomfortable situation for mom and dad because he always brings Keesha, but they view her as the lesser of two evils because of when they only saw their sweet Timothy on visiting days. Off and on he'll work construction, but it rarely lasts because the people he's surrounded himself with the last decade have taught him that everything in life should be given to him and not earned.
Finally at age 30, once everyone's abandoned him, T-dog still has three kids by two different women to support. A form of maturity overcomes him and he begins to pronounce his words the way his parents had intended, so he can now get a job working with the general public, which barely suffices. Going straight has never been so hard for our young hero, as the parties with Moet, Patron, bags of weed and strippers has now dwindled down to a six pack of Pabst, Internet porn at ISDN speeds, and picking through the dirty ashtray in hopes of finding a roach.
Recently Timothy has been seen at Denny's late at night in the smoking section. The veteran waitresses and waiters always know when ol' T-dog is in the house because they can hear him rave about how good he had it for six years and how he's seemingly set for life, yet only leaves seventy-five cents for a tip and an ashtray filled with Tourneys. Unfortunately for his parents, his children, and especially him, he will be around for another 30 years and will assumingly be moving your furnature one day soon. Tip him well. If for nothing else, then just do it out of pity.
And that is what I assume happens to wiggers when they turn 30. Life sucks, mother fucker. Better get used to it. In essence, stop watching TV and try to pull an original thought out of your vaccuous head, douche bag.
Oh yea . . . and keep it real, dog. On my mamma, keep it real.
Z.
E-mail:embittered@catharticlament.com
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