The poisonous seed for this unique brand of social caste is sown in the very fertile soil of American suburbia, where it takes root and flourishes, stimulated by Jay-Z remixes on Z100 and the readily available supply of Sean John and Marc Ecko duds at the local mall. It is, indeed, the ubiquitous Wigger.
The first, and undeniable marker of Wigger, is their Caucasian race, which they attempt to disguise under a mass of South Pole sweats and brand spankin' new Timbs, not to mention a warped version of 90's ebonics.
After attempting to "get down" with their "brothas" (aka the one black kid at school, who listens to Dave Matthews Band and wears Polo by Ralph Lauren) and getting denied, homeboy swaggers (See DB #6) home to a two-story Colonial with a pro-Cheney dad and Chico's-wearing Mom, only to take solace in Weezy's latest release.
On the weekends, Wigger like to get down by sippin' on some purple drank stolen out of the medicine cabinet and loiter around in mall parking lots with his "gang" with a basketball and a jacked chain from Claire's Accessories hidden under his extra large t-shirt, proclaiming the "truth" that Tupac is alive and well. While in the 'hood most people have to look over their shoulder constantly, but in suburbialand, the only thing Wigger has to worry about is whether his AND1 jeans are going to expose his puny little butt.