White Trash Etiquette

by Dr. Verne Edstrom, Esq.

  How Am I Gonna Get Rid of All Them Blenders?

  Dear Dr. Verne:

  I’m worried about getting hitched. First off, how’s a guy supposed to be married when there’s so many barmaids I ain’t nailed yet?

  Second off, I figure I’m gonna end up with seventeen blenders and no place to hock ’em. What you gotta say about that?

  —Harry, underneath the 9th Street Bridge

  Dear Harry:

  Don’t worry about the first part. Cheating on your wife used to be called cheating on your wife. But then yuppies didn’t like that name, on account of they think cheating is bad for some reason. So they changed it to open marriage. Which means you ain’t cheating, you’re just being open.

  So be up front with your woman. Let her know that chicks dig you, and that by being into openness, you’s just providing what you call your community service. If she squawks, tell her she’s being selfish and setting a bad example for the young ones.

  Besides, if you call it community service, the next time you get nailed on a burglary rap, you can bed down barmaids as part of your sentence.

  Now about them blenders. You’re right. There ain’t what you call your good secondary market for small kitchen appliances. That’s why when you send out the invitations, ask for handguns, power tools, and TVs. These is what sells best at pawnshops and bars.

  Can I Still Wear White If I’m a Tramp?

  Dear Dr. Verne:

  I ain’t exactly a virgin, and the priest knows, on the count of he’s one of the guys who done stole my flower, if you hear what I’m saying.

  Can I still wear white? Or do I gotta go with my second choice, which is lime green?

  —Melva in Muncie

  Dear Melva:

  Going on color alone, I’d be thinking about your lime green anyways. Limes go good with gin and you can rub ’em under your arms when you ain’t had time to bathe. You don’t wanna get to stinking on your wedding night, otherwise your man might be figuring he’ll sleep in the parking lot instead.

  But if you’re truly wedded to the white, I wouldn’t go a worrying. The way I hear it, half the guys north of the Kentucky line done picked your flower, Melva. So if you was going by the virginity rules, you’d have to wear a funeral dress.

  But the bright side is this: You ain’t a looker. That means if anybody in the crowd got to pollinating you, he sure ain’t fessing up to it.

  Besides, what’s the priest gonna say? According to priest rules, they’s only supposed to sleep with altar boys. If he talks up about you, the guy’s liable to get demoted to the Baptists, where they don’t allow drinking and they’re too cheap to even hire a pope.

  Which Is Better Wedding Music: Mariah Carey or Molly Hatchet?

  Dear Dr. Verne:

  My woman’s been planning out our wedding like we’s some candy-ass rich people. Most of it I don’t mind, just so she leaves me outta it. But now she tells me she wants to have Mariah &%$#@#$ Carey music when we walk down the aisle. That’s where I gotta draw the line.

  See, a lotta guys from the plant’ll be there, and I don’t wanna have ’em see me walking to no fruity music, on account of they’ll think I’m gay, which means I’ll probably get transferred to management.

  I was thinking about a compromise, like that Molly Hatchet, who’s nice and lovey and all, but still rocks. But she says that’s more like confirmation music, and that if she can’t have Mariah Carey, then she wants Whitney &%$#&% Houston. Are you kidding me? You gotta settle this, Verne.

  —Mike in Atlanta

  Dear Mike:

  I’d say both of you’s wrong. Weddings is basically boring as hell until you get to the drinking part. Ain’t no music gonna fix that.

  So if you don’t wanna get transferred to management, make sure to hook the church up with a big screen over the altar. That way, while you’re getting hitched, the boys from the plant could watch the Georgia–LSU game on big screen. Which means they won’t start booing your ass if the vows take too long.

  Now you being decent trash and all, you know you’s a good parent. After all, it ain’t your kids who’s growed up to be perverts like that guy on Fox News, am I right?

  That’s cuz you’s known to read quality self-help books, like this one you’re spilling SpaghettiOs on right now, instead of them low-rent self-helps, which is always calling for tender nurturing and all that crap. You get to doing any of that nurturing, the next thing you know your kid’s singing showtunes and wearing sparkly pants.

  But seeing how you raised him right, he’s probably sitting in jail as we speak. This here’s what you call your teachable moment. Which means it’s time to teach him the most basic lesson in life.

  Choosing the Right Bail Bondsman

  See, if he picks a bad one, he’s gonna spend a lot more time in jail. Which means he ain’t gonna be around to play wheelman for that Bed, Bath & Beyond robbery you was aiming to do.

  Think of your bondsman as your best friend. Truth be told, he’s actually better. Unlike your best friend, a bondsman will borrow you money.

  It works like this: Say your kid gets caught burglarizing a plumbing and heating company. Now if he happened to get some of them Carrier Infinity central air units, I know a guy who’ll buy ’em.

  Anyways, the problem is he got caught. And seeing as how busting outta jail ain’t real easy these days—they got pretty good food and TV, so why would a guy wanna leave?—you’re gonna have to bail his ass out.

  Enter the bondsman. For some money or collateral—which is stuff that got value, like a stuffed moose head or some cows—he will put up the bond for your kid’s release. That means if he bolts for some of them greener pastures, like they got in West Virginia, the bondsman will have to pay off the court.

  But this means the bondsman’s also gonna be pissed. Which means he’s gonna send a biker named Judas to beat your kid with towing chains and haul his ass back.

  This here’s what you call your foundation of a lasting, loving relationship.

  Now there’s one simple rule for choosing the right bondsman: Make sure his name is manly sounding, like Mack, Frankie, Jesus, or Louie. Never hire a guy named Maurice or Oliver.

  As you probably know from your own prison adventures, burglarizing a plumbing and heating company ain’t real high on the criminal food chain. Your kid’s gonna be in a holding cell with twenty guys who just decapitated their family. So you don’t want to put him in no position where he’s gotta say, “Guard, I must insist on speaking to Maurice immediately.”

  Them other twenty guys is gonna think he’s calling for his interior decorator. That means they’re either gonna stab him to death or, worse, make him talk about drapes.

  But say his bondsman’s name is Louie. Then he can say something manly like, “Yo, guard, I gotta get on the horn with Louie.” Don’t that sound better? It lets the other inmates know your boy hangs out with guys who got good criminal-sounding names. Which means they’ll quit asking his thoughts on Berber carpeting.

  It’ll even get him a little status. So the next time one of them decapitators don’t like the creamed corn the jail’s serving for supper, he’ll get the extra helping.

  If You Can Trust Your Lawyer, He’s an Amateur

  The other main thing about parenting is making sure your kid got a good lawyer. You don’t want him getting stuck with no guy from the public defender’s office, on account of the guy probably isn’t good at stealing, which is why he got a government job, on account of they got teachers.

  If you ever watched Animal Planet or Court TV, you know lawyers is what you call your unique species. They’re the only member of the reptile family who carries a briefcase.

  Scientists figure lawyers is adaptable to all climates, as long as it got copy machines and white wine. Like wolves, lawyers survive by attacking the weakest in the herd—namely widows, CEOs, and other lawyers.

  They also got what you call your highly developed mating system. When the male and the female lawyers meet,
they don’t climb naked into the shotgun seat of a Chevy Silverado, like decent people. They trade lies and paperwork, which done gives birth to baby lawyers, only they call ’em “billable hours.”

  Still, science guys ain’t quite figured ’em out yet. Though lawyers look vaguely like real humans—except for them hairdos that got lacquered so much you figure they got a night job as an end table—they don’t actually got a heart. When some lab-coat guys from Johns Hopkins once did an autopsy, all they could find in their guts was some child porn, three hundred grand in cash, and a one-way airline ticket to a country that got no extradition treaty.

  All of which makes choosing the right lawyer damn hard.

  Last thing you want is to show up in court, your kid’s looking at three years for knocking off the Donutland, and all your lawyer talks about is due process and crap like that, instead of doing some quality lying, which is what you’re paying him for.

  That’s why your ol’ pal Verne done invented this test to make sure your kid’s lawyer is a genuine scumbag, and not the artificial variety.

  Testing Your Lawyer’s Scumbagocity

  1. Drop a nickel on the street. If your kid’s lawyer dives for it, give him one point. If an old lady beats him to it, but he wrestles it away by punching her in the throat, give him two.

  2. Say you’re sitting at the bar during one of them delays where the judge goes golfing. Ask to hear the lawyer’s favorite stories about defrauding crippled people. If he sits there thinking for a spell, then finally says, “Hmmm, there’s just so many, I don’t know where to start,” give him one point.

  3. Hire a dentist to look at his teeth. If they’re sharp enough to bite through an iron stair rail, give him two points.

  4. Instead of paying him in cash, ask if you can give him some rebuilt transmissions and a Hefty bag full of meth. If he smiles and says, “Yes, the resale opportunities at my daughter’s elementary school would be quite promising,” give him one point.

  5. Ask the lawyer how many offspring he’s eaten. (“Offspring,” in case you ain’t clued, is Chinese for “kids.”) If he says, “I’m sorry, we only eat our young on special occasions, like Easter,” he’s not a dedicated professional. Knock off one point. But if he says, “Gawd, I haven’t had offspring in months. Do you know where I can score some?” give him one point.

  6. If your kid’s lawyer ever says the words “truth” or “justice,” knock off six points and rat him out to the bar association.

  The Scumbag Index

  Now it’s time to see if the lawyer is the kinda low-down skank who can get your kid probation, or if he mightta got born again and thinks God’ll cut off his tongue if he tells more than sixteen lies per minute, which ain’t enough for good lawyering.

  Total the points and see where his Scumbag Index’s at. This’ll tell you what he’s good for.

  If he ain’t good for nothing, try selling him to the Vietnamese. They eat carp. Which means they’ll probably eat lawyer too if you was to sweeten the deal with a few packets of soy sauces.

  7+

  This here’s a lawyer’s lawyer, the kind who runs over little kids on the way to work just to get psyched up for the day. Give him six Hefty bags of meth and them bootleg Yo-Yo Ma tapes you ain’t been able to unload, so he’s always on retainer.

  5–6

  Your kid’s lawyer only runs over stray cats and meter maids, but could probably handle misdemeanors and divorces.

  3–4

  The worthless bastard has only been indicted four times. He gets weird about embezzling from churches. Maybe you could let him wash you car, on account of a guy like this ain’t gonna get too many lawyering jobs, and you’d only have to pay him a quarter cuz he wouldn’t know better.

  1–2

  The guy does pro bono work, which is Latin for “I’m too dumb to send a bill.” The last time he bribed a judge, he tried giving him six dollars and a pound cake. He hardly ever steals from the collection plate at Mass. He’s about to get disbarred.

  The Insensitive Man’s Xmas Survival Guide

  You’re a man. Which means on the evolutionary scale, you’s more advanced than a Chicago alderman, but way behind a pair of fishing waders.

  Sure, you try to be sensitive. Like that time your kid was bawling cuz her guinea pig got ate by the German shepherd. You put your arm around her all comforting like and said, “Hey, kid, what’s with the tears? I was thinking about eating that rat anyways. Probably go good with some mustard.”

  But you still caught hell. That’s because White Trash being sensitive is like Leonardo DiCaprio winning a lumberjack competition. It ain’t gonna happen.

  Problem is, you got Christmas coming up. It’s the most important time of year. If you nail this, every time you smash the car or get fired over the next twelve months, you can say to your woman, “Yeah, but remember that bracelet full of jewels I got you for Christmas?”

  It don’t matter you only paid thirteen bucks at the pawnshop and it’s inscribed to “Leslie” when your woman’s name is Charleen. It’s the thought that counts.

  The thing is, Christmas is the worst season for men. It’s the time we gotta do some reflecting on the needs and wishes of others, which ain’t our natural way.

  But I also got some good news: They changed the rules of Christmas.

  See, it used to be this celebration of Jesus, who they say was a damn good carpenter—even though he dressed like them fat ladies who stay in their nightgowns all day and watch TV. But then Jesus’ in-laws grubbed on to the rights to Xmas and sold ’em to Halliburton.

  Under the new Halliburton rules, they pretty much dropped all that caring crap and just made it a time to go broke buying presents.

  Problem is, you still gotta fake like you care. See, most women ain’t aware of the new rules. They still want you to be sensitive, like that fruity Hugh Grant. Which is why I got this five-point guide for faking your way through Christmas buying.

  1. Avoid household appliances

  Men is naturally attracted to these. They’re large. They’re shiny. They got engines. But women don’t see appliances as what you call your expression of love—except if they’re German. They’ll get to figuring you view them as unpaid maids. Your true feelings will be exposed.

  2. Avoid power tools

  Chances are your woman never whispered in a moment of tenderness, “Honey, if you really love me, you’d score me that 9/16-inch chromium-plated drill bit I was always wanting.” That’s because women is weird; they don’t understand the joys of hammering, sawing, puncturing, and blow torching stuff.

  Fact is, giving your woman something real nice, like a radial arm saw or a rotary sander, could get your reproductive unit chopped off or, worse, make her donate your liquor cabinet to the Salvation Army.

  3. Resist the old Bait & Switch

  A lot of guys is powerless against the Bait & Switch Strategy. They’re at Kmart and there it is, a brand-new Denver Nuggets sweatshirt or hunting overalls just your size. You know your woman ain’t gonna score them for you. After all, women is always buying wuss stuff for Christmas, like sweaters with pictures of loons on ’em.

  So you buy the sweatshirt and hunting pants for her, knowing they won’t fit. Then you’ll score ’em by default.

  Problem is, we’re men. We can outsmart kindergartners and bathroom fixtures, but not much else. Your woman will be onto you. And when you protest by saying, “Honey, I always thought you looked like Demi Moore in size 38 camouflage pants,” make sure there ain’t no loaded weapons nearby.

  4. Think volume

  As a man, most of your brain is used for thinking about yourself. Fact is, outside eating and cable, there ain’t much IQ left to consider anything else. That means you don’t know what the hell your woman wants.

  You can fix this by buying in volume. Instead of buying your woman one coat, buy eight in different colors. Chances are she won’t like none of ’em, but she’ll at least think you tried. You just happen to be pathetic.


  Which is the great thing about women. They always cut you some slack for being pathetic. She’ll expect less of you in the future, which is way better than having her like what you got her.

  5. Buy lots of worthless crap

  Since men ain’t got the mechanical requirements for an imagination, we usually go for worthless gifts. Like winter boots, clothesline poles, a rear-window defroster.

  But don’t expect your woman to turn to you on Christmas morning with moist eyes and say, “Oh, honey, new rain gutters!”

  Most people want worthless stuff for Christmas. You know, like jewelry, opera tickets, and them imported cheeses from Tennessee. The goal is to give them junk they’d never buy.

  That’s because in America, the best way to show your love is to waste your money on someone else.

  Lessons on Winning Bar Fights, Scoring Points with the Boss’s Wife, and Drunk Driving During the White Trash Social Season

  Now seeing as how this here book’s about etiquette, which is French for “don’t be an asshole,” we best get to discussing the finer points to acting proper during the White Trash social season, which begins with the first beer at kickoff on New Year’s Day, and usually ends when you done passed out in a Dumpster behind the fish market on December 31.

  See, most people figure parties is times of good cheer. You’re supposed to get together with friends, family, and coworkers, celebrate them good fortunes, and be thankful you ain’t a U.S. senator or got your arm mauled by a wolverine.

  But to White Trash, parties is loaded up with what you call your dangerous perils. All the things known to go wrong for our people—open bars and romantic interludes in the parking lot of a Holiday Inn—is all under one roof. If you never cheated on your husband or blowed chow on the best shoes of the foreman’s wife, this here’s your opportunity.