Make no mistake, that this was a calculated, manufactured demoralization campaign, to instill the concept of the wigger into the cultural lexicon. In 1990, 'the powers that be' tried in vain to astroturf Vanilla Ice as the urban white role model, but the record industry forgot to take the authenticity factor into account. "Ice Ice Baby" coincided with the boon of gangsta rap, which made the idea of a white rapper even more pathetic than it already was. Not a single teenager was going to put their hair into a faggy pompadour and shave the sides of their eyebrows, when the most popular rappers were authentic ghetto black criminals. Wiggerdom was dead in the water by 1992.

 

Nearly ten years later, the concept of Eminem was meticulously refined in such a way to better cater to the hip hop-enjoying white teenager: a pestilent low class white kid with a shaved, bleached head. His style was attainable. With the way that he was seemingly accepted by blacks, namely Dr. Dre, he was a wigger's wet dream. A true white nigger. King wigger. Eminem's style became acceptable amongst the white youth, who would soon be adorned with amateur tattoos and pierced ears. He served as a cultural Trojan horse expressly designed to cater to the disenfranchised young white man. A young white man divided from his peers due to class disparity. A young white man who perhaps lived and worked amongst blacks. Perhaps even fraternizing with them in his free time. What happens when that brain matures? The golem strikes back.

 

 

 

Replace this text with information about you and your business or add information that will be useful for your customers.

 

I'm at a red light. I peer towards a lawn with a Trump-Vance campaign sign firmly planted into the grass. Beyond the sign, I see a man of maybe forty-five, wearing a wifebeater, with a shaved head and a cigarette hanging from his lip. He's working under the hood of his green 2002 Ford Explorer. When he emerges, wiping his brow, I notice a tattoo on his forearm: an indistinguishable name in Old English font. "Post-wigger," I laugh to myself. I don't know him, yet I do.

Post-wiggerdom is a phenomenon unique to lower socioeconomic status white males of a certain age. They are the former wigger teenagers of the Eminem era, now fully-matured, with teenagers of their own. The post-wigger is all too familiar with the degeneracy imposed on them by the disgusting media, and is completely adverse to all things urban, despite carrying the mark of the wigger on their arms, or sometimes, on their necks. The post-wigger has a thousand-yard-stare that puts Vietnam War vets to shame.

 

POWMIA

 

 

POst-Wiggers MIA

 

 

Rap music, to the post-wigger, represents a dark period in their lives, eliciting a visceral response, not unlike Alex DeLarge's reaction to Beethoven's 9th. They committed crimes, abused substances and fucked disgusting fat pigs to this music. It makes them sick. Today, they prefer family-centric country music like Luke Bryan and Jason Aldean, if anything at all. Their children will not make the same mistakes that they did. Exposure to black culture for long periods of time has given the post-wigger incurable negro fatigue. He has served at least a little bit of time in a correctional facility. He cannot stomach them.

 

He changes the channel when McDonalds commercials come on the television.

 

He sizes the Amazon deliveryman up with his eyes.

 

The post-wigger dealt drugs in 2002.

 

Today, he manages a tire store.

 

The post-wigger stole catalytic converters in his heyday.

 

Today? He installs drywall.

 

The post-wigger is an isolationist because he lost some of his closest niggas to Chinese fentanyl.

 

The post-wigger is a nativist because Guatemalans undercut his manual labor bids.

 

Post-wiggerdom is conservatism for the lower class.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

About the author:
Flat Arthur is a prolific writer who you may know from such zines as "Dogwhistle" and "Troll Death Do Us Part". When he is not thrifting for physical media or training dogs to do a "roman salute", you can find him posted up outside of the Seven-Eleven on Wharf Avenue on his laptop, frantically typing into the void.