—New Hampshire White Trash
Dear New Hampshire Trash:
First off, fighting with your relatives is what separates us trash from your lesser class of people, like what they got in Hollywood. When they fight with each other, they hire up some fruit boy lawyer with them oval-shaped glasses to throw paperwork at each other. Decent people, they try to shoot each other, on account of it’s cheaper.
But I’d be thinking about getting some new lies when you get caught naked. Me, I never had much luck with the she-started-it excuse.
The first trick is to pretend like you’re a doctor and you’re doing one of them mammograms, which is this test doctors thought up so’s they could feel their customers’ boobs. But since it’s a big French word, husbands won’t know what the hell you’re talking about. Which means they’ll get their ass outta there right quick on account of they don’t wanna catch no French stuff.
But say you’re dealing with a smarter than normal husband, like maybe he’s a union steward or something. That means you go to stage two: Pretend like you didn’t know she was married.
Of course, your cousin ain’t gonna buy this, on account of you was at the wedding. But just tell him you was hammered that day, and that you thought you was romping with your own woman. He’s bound to cut you some slack, on account of this probably happened to him before, too.
The bird dog thing is more serious. Since you ain’t got the three hundred, I’d try trading your uncle something of equal value, like your life-size pheasant statue that doubles as a cig lighter. That’s gotta be worth a couple thousand, seeing as how it’s art. Your uncle could probably trade it to some yuppies for their SUV, then everybody’s happy.
How to Score with Bob and Impress Human Services
Dear Dr. Verne:
I found me a real good man. His name is Bob. He was working on the construction site near my office. One day I was outside for my smoke break and we got to talking.
Then his union went on strike, so we spent about a week doing the bone dance in my trailer. It was all romantic and stuff, but then they settled the strike. Human Services brought back my kids about the same time.
Since then, I haven’t been able to get no quality time with Bob. I ain’t opposed to locking the young ones outside on a nice day for a couple of seconds, but with all this damn rain, they keep tracking mud on my green shag carpet and I have to wipe down my plastic furniture covers. Any suggestions?
—Searchin’ for Solitude in Massachusetts
Dear Searchin’:
You got what them pointy-heads call your parental dilemma. You can’t be locking the kids out too long, on account of the neighbors will rat you to Human Services, who’ll send your kids to live with them yuppies, who’ll teach ’em not to shoot their 12-gauge at the rats in the house, which means they’ll be wrecked by the time you get ’em back.
Then again, a fine lady like you deserves to get her bone dancing in with Bob.
What you need is a toolshed.
Whenever I have Velvet or Sherry or Honey Bee over while the old lady’s working the graveyard shift, I send the kids to the toolshed. I give ’em a bag of Marshmallow Mateys and tell ’em there’s five bucks in it if they can shut up and pretend they’re playing in a crack house with no electricity.
Seeing as how five bucks can buy a lot of cigs or a pawnshop buck knife, the kids is happy to obey. That way they stay dry, so’s they ain’t dragging no mud in the house, and I got plenty of time to play jackhammer with them aforementioned ladies.
But say you ain’t got no toolshed. Me, I’d think about locking ’em in one of the Trans Ams you got on blocks in the front yard. Tell ’em it’s a spaceship, and if they get out before you come back, their eyes’ll get burnt up and they won’t be able to watch SpongeBob no more. That’ll teach ’em.
And if your old man happened to take the Trans Ams with him when he left, which ain’t likely, Bob can make himself useful and dig a dry hole under the trailer. Tell the kids to play army and pretend it’s a foxhole. Then toss a few firecrackers out the window from time to time to make it seem authentic.
This is what pointy-heads call nurturing their creativity. Human Services will be impressed.
Todd’s Big Tornado Scam
Dear Dr. Verne:
During the last tornado at my trailer court, me and my wife, Lorlene, were only able to get six out of seven of our kids into the culvert. The tornado picked up Travis, our ten-year-old, who was making a run for the woods. The damn thing dropped him in a nearby farmer’s sorghum field.
Now this farmer hates me cuz I’m always fishin’ his pond without his okay. So he recognizes Travis as my kid and turns him over to the county social services department and starts ranting about child neglect. The local press picked up on it and showed a lot of video of Travis limping around with all these bruises and bandages.
Now, Verne, I know Travis and I know his fake limp. He’s milking this for all it’s worth. The whole county is treating him like a king.
I’m mighty proud of him. There’s even some old rich couple who wants to adopt him. This couple would probably die soon after, and Travis and his real family would be set for life.
My problem is Lorlene misses Travis and wants to fight to get him back. Me, I’m loving the extra room in the trailer and next week I could save $3 when I take the family to the drive-in for our summer vacation.
Verne, what should I do?
—Todd in Tulsa
Dear Todd:
You and the missus oughtta be right proud the way you raised that boy. There ain’t a lotta kids these days who will milk a leg injury for the sake of their family.
But you gotta do something about the missus. First off, it’s her job to think about what’s best for the family. If she’d do one of them cost-benefit analysises, which is how rich guys figure money stuff out, she’d know it’s way better economics to have Travis soaking them elderlies instead of mooching off you.
Second off, tell her to quit bawling about missing the kid. Hell, he’s only ten. She’ll have plenty a time to see him when them old folks die, you get rich, and all you gotta do is sit on the porch, swill Beam, and watch the drunk drivers ram the train bridge.
Fact is, I ain’t seen my two oldest in three years, ever since they got caught trying to rob that dermatologist in Nebraska. But you don’t hear my woman squawking. That’s because she knows if them two’s in prison, they ain’t at home snarfing up all the Captain Crunch and liquor.
Sports is the religion of the White Trash. Only it’s better cuz they got it on TV at bars and they don’t mooch for money without giving you a beer.
But some people—mainly them TV fruities with the five-quart mousse jobs—get to defiling the name of the Cleanup Hitter in the Sky by saying them dainty games is sports. So let ol’ Verne clue you on what’s right, and what will get you sent to the Burning Lake of Fire.
Tips on What Sports Is Good and What Sports Is for Guys Named Chauncey
Those of you who got Catechism probably recognize this from Corinthians: “And on the Seventh Day, God figured He was already in deep &%$# for violating the union rules. So He declared it a day of rest to keep OSHA off His ass.
“‘Kick back,’ He told all the guys in the shop. ‘Have yourself a couple of brewskies, just so long as it ain’t none of them designer beers from Europe. And for chrissakes don’t be watching no fruity sports. You start watching tennis and the next thing you know everybody wants to be in management and we got nobody to run the jackhammers.’”
But like a lot of things, people got to thinking the word of God was optional. Now it threatens what you call your very existence of the once proud White Trash Nation.
Here’s a handy guide to keep you in the good graces of God. Games is rated on a 1 to 10 Manliness Scale.
NASCAR: 9
Racing’s got engines and noise, which is manly. It also got tow trucks and crashes and explosions and fire. But can’t somebody figure out how to get some
grenade launchers into this bad boy? You put some heavy artillery on the hood of Dale Jr.’s car, and they’ll finally start showing NASCAR on primetime, instead of shows about guys named Scooter sucking up to Donald Trump.
This woulda got a 10, except they let Jeff Gordon in.
Baseball: 8
The most drunk-friendly game. Since nothing ever happens, you can get hammered, fall out of the bleachers, crack your melon open, go to the emergency room, get twenty-three stitches, barhop your way back to the stadium, and not miss a batter.
Basketball: 7
At this point you’re probably saying, “What gives, Verne? That guy Dennis Rodman got a red hairdo and wears dresses. And basketball got cute little matching outfits, just like tennis.”
You got yourself a point here. Basketball’s got too many skinny guys, like they might be vegetarians. And them baggy shorts? Hell, why don’t they just make ’em plaid and call it fratball? The first guy to drink two beers, get punched out, and throw up on a sorority chick wins.
But at least basketball also got a lotta manly talk in it. You never hear no tennis announcer say, “Steffi Graf thunders into the paint and RIPS DOWN THE TOMAHAWK JAM!”
Boxing: 3
Boxing used to be a sport. But then they got to charging for it on Pay-Per-View. God got pissed.
Corinthians 12:02: “And then God found out if He wanted to catch the Holyfield–Tyson fight, He was gonna have to spring fifty-nine bucks on Pay-Per-View. God announced a boycott.
“‘Next guy around here who orders Pay-Per-View gets his ass personally kicked by God,’ He said. Though Paul figured he could whup God—seeing as how God wasn’t exactly buff, on account of He spent most of His time laying on the couch bossing people around—none of the disciples wanted to risk their cushy patronage jobs. And so it was decreed.”
Figure Skating: 1
Guys named Boris prancing around in ballerina costumes to public radio music. There’s no checking. No penalties. You never see ’em drop the gloves and duke it out with them other fruities in ballerina costumes. And I’ll be damn sure you never heard nobody at the bar say, “I’ll lay $50 and take the 6 points on the wuss in the pink outfit.”
Football: 10
Fat guys smashing into each other in space uniforms. Almost as good as a Bruce Willis movie. All that’s missing is the T&A and explosions.
Golf:–3
Here you got a bunch of guys named Lance and Chauncey. They’re wearing matching pastel outfits and riding around in go-carts. They ain’t even cool go-carts, with dual exhausts or nothing. They’re them plastic ones old men use for fetching groceries in Arizona.
Hockey: 11
The official sport of the White Trash. Nothing better than toothless guys trying to filet each other with unsharpened lumber. The only problem is you can’t pronounce their names, on account of half of ’em got drunk and spent their vowels on hookers and tattoos.
Olympics: 1
Gymnastics? Midget fourteen-year-olds boinging around on a mattress.
Skiing? Get a snowmobile, pal.
Diving? I could show you twenty guys in powder blue tuxes jumping into a Best Western pool at a wedding reception. But they don’t put it on ESPN and call it a sport. It’s called twenty drunks falling in the water.
Bicycling? If your car got repossessed and you’re stuck riding a bike, be a man, get a job or rob a 7-Eleven and earn for yourself. But don’t think cuz you’re broke you can call it a sport. If that was true, sitting on the steps drinking forty-ounce Millers at 11:00 a.m. on a Wednesday would be a sport, too.
Soccer: 1
You ever heard of England? It used to be this big country that captured all these extra countries around the world. Then the English started playing soccer. Pretty soon they got so dainty they was getting their ass kicked by India, which got an army about as good as Iowa’s.
Tennis: 1
It beats the hell outta me why people wanna see them little foreigners hit a fuzzy ball. You can almost hear their mas yelling, “Don’t get your clothes dirty before the regatta, Skippy.”
They even got a fruity way of keeping score. Six-love. Sounds like a sex line. “Call 1-900-6-LOVE and talk to Skippy, Biff, and Douglas, three naughty little probate attorneys waiting to fulfill your hottest dreams.”
How to Keep from Getting Your Ass Kicked at Sports Bars in Wisconsin
Nothing causes bad luck faster than rooting for sissy teams. Guys see you at a sports bar, pounding wine coolers and yelling for a team with effeminate qualities, they got no choice but to take you out back and beat you with a cardboard Old Style display. It’s White Trash law.
Take the guy who shows up at a Stevens Point, Wisconsin, bar with a Drew Henson jersey on. First off, he ain’t gonna get no chicks. Decent ladies know “Dallas” in Cambodian means, “I get my ass beat at arm-wrestling by bank tellers.”
That’s the bad luck I’m trying to clue you about.
There’s basically three ways to avoid getting your ass kicked in a sports bar.
1. Don’t Root for Nobody from the South
When people think White Trash, they think South. Folks is always confusing us for them rednecks, who’s different, on account of they got no teeth and play banjos and look like their ma was a zoo animal.
But there’s a big difference between your quality White Trash and your garden variety inbred.
See, us trash is more behaved. When we date our cousins, at least we take ’em out for dinner and buy ’em something pretty before we get to having babies.
But people still get confused, which is why you don’t usually wanna root for no southern teams, unless they got really manly sounding names.
Say the foreman sees you rooting for the Florida Marlins. Now in case you ain’t clued in, Marlins is a big fish with a long, pointy horn. But your foreman, he’s used to fishing for quality, like your walleye and what have you. So he thinks Marlin is that magician on TV. And everyone knows magicians is practically mimes.
Which means if he sees you rooting for mimes, he’ll get to figuring you got the IQ of a belt sander. Which means he’s gonna assign you to mopping the hazardous waste room, on account of you won’t know better.
2. Don’t Root for Fruities from Southern California
The guy gets home from work every day at 6:00 p.m., slips out of his cute yellow sweater and his Dockers, cranks up some Yanni, and sits on the couch, careful not to get crumples on his fuchsia jogging suit.
“Honey,” he says to his woman, “I had a hard day at the computer factory, lifting them heavy computer chips and all. Could you please get me a designer water with a lemon twist?”
That’s why you don’t root for nobody from Southern California. Next to France and Melrose Place, there ain’t no place sissier.
Everybody in Southern California is either a advertising guy, a computer geek, or has fake blond hair and talks like he was in that movie The Birdcage. You ever see a guy from California chop a cord of wood with only an ax and a sixer of Pigs Eye?
Say you go to that bar in Stevens Point dressed like a Californian. You got your man-purse, your cute little Hawaii shirt, and about seventeen pounds of hair gel. The smart money says you get your ass whupped before you pound your first wine spritzer—even if there’s only old men and cripples at the bar.
What happens the next day when you show up at the plant, and all the guys is wanting to know what happened? If you gotta say, “I was rooting too loud for the Lakers and got my ass whupped by a quadriplegic,” expect to get reassigned to hazardous waste storage by noon.
3. But What If a Southern Team with a Sissy Name Is Playing Them Candy-Asses from Southern California?
Here’s where the figuring gets hard. On one hand, you got your inbreds. On the other, you got fruities who’d rather be watching Barbra Streisand on Pay-Per-View.
So you go with the tiebreaker: whichever name sounds the manliest.
Say Duke is playing USC. Duke sounds like a bunch of tea-sipping frui
ties from England who got wigs and tights. “Cheeves, I seem to have misplaced my spectacles.”
USC is named the Trojans, which used to be an army from Greece or someplace like that. Since armies is manlier than cross-dressers, go with USC.
But that ain’t true if you’re watching, say, Florida–UCLA. This time, the southerners is named after a Gator, which bites people and makes good cowboy boots.
The Southern Californians is named after a Bruin, which most people call bears. But if he was a real bear, he wouldn’t be living in California cuz the only thing to eat in the garbage is tofu and low-fat yogurt. That’s why they call him Bruin, which in bear language means, “I got an appointment with my hairstylist at three.”
But say you got the worst of all cases: The Anaheim Mighty Ducks is playing the Dallas Stars.
One team’s named after a movie that didn’t have no explosions. The other’s named after some actresses who spend all their time in tanning booths and getting electrolysis.
At this point, slowly back away, turn off the TV, and burn your clothes. You don’t want none of that getting contagious on you.
Teams That Will Jinx You So You Won’t Even Be Able to Grow a Decent Beard, Like That Dainty Ethan Hawke
1. Alabama Crimson Tide
Named after red laundry soap. What happens when they get tackled and their pants get dirty? Does their moms come down and pull their ears?
2. Philadelphia Phillies
I like chicks just as much as the next guy, but I wouldn’t name no baseball team after them. Next thing you know, a pitcher is getting shelled in the middle of the fourth inning, and the manager stops the game to talk about his feelings.
White Trash Etiquette Page 10
