You know what really grinds my gears?

Wiggers. Straight out rap-loving-biggest-fakes-of-the-fakes-white-boys-trying-to-be-something-they're-not-wiggers.

In an attempt to be impartial: anyone can be and do anything they want -- including throwing cats, licking toads for hallucinogenic effects, and "two girls one cup" -- to each his own -- but when you're so fake to such an ostentatious level as a wigger -- well, I just find my self screaming, "Wtf! Stop it, you look ridiculous and really, you're not fooling anyone!"

At a point where I feel as my grandpa once did (rest his soul), I just can't fathom the need to dress in clothing that is completely oversized to such a point where you walk with that idiotic swagger and showcase that stupid smirk with sheer confidence -- but really you're scared shitless -- you're a rich kid with a perfect upbringing playing off of the plight of the poor, criminal echelon of society. Well, actually I do understand. People want to fit in -- story of our lives I guess. Wiggers -- I really don't like that term because it is derives from such an awful expletive -- want to be a part of the glamorized life of gun-toting-rap-singing-millionaires. The problem is that the chances of these kids reaching 50 Cent potential (by the way, what is that potential?) are as likely as polar bears and ninjas teaming up to take over the world. Possible, yet unlikely.

The worst part, is that this "glamorized culture" is a haven for all of those things that your mom told you not to touch or do. Drugs, guns, murder, whores, booze, grow-ops, conning, dealing, banana importing, and all of the essential criminal activity that comes along with being a gansta.

I just find myself asking, "Really? This is how you want to represent yourself? As a low-life without a brain cell awaiting for parole and slinging crack to the neighbourhood kids? Stellar role model."

But, in the end, rock to your own beat, do as you will, just don't shoot, sell drugs, or sleep, with those that you constantly prey on and victimize with your shitty music denoting the aforementioned. 

For the love of Fitty!

Hope springs eternal in the human breast;
Man never Is, but always To be blest:
The soul, uneasy and confin'd from home,
Rests and expatiates in a life to come.

-Alexander Pope,
An Essay on Man, Epistle I, 1733