As for the zinfandel, it’s obviously Europe-sounding, where nobody can even clean their own fish, much less do a decent Pizza Hut robbery.
I’m figuring you gotta get this guy away from your sister, before they get to reproducing. The guy probably can’t even punch out a school administrator. You don’t want your nephew getting no poor role modeling.
Dockers Anonymous
Dear Dr. Verne:
I think of myself as kind of a regular guy. I drive a pickup, drink domestic beer straight out of the can, wear boots, and ain’t never used any of that sissy sunscreen. I got one problem: I wear Dockers trousers. Not the kind with the fruity pleats, but dang if they’re still Dockers and I got to put ’em on every day. Is there a support group like Dockers Anonymous or some head shrinker that can help me?
P.S. I ain’t no sissy lawyer or nothing like that.
—Mike in Billings
Dear Mike:
You keep talking about trousers and pleats, and guys from the FCC is gonna shut down my book on account of it got obscenities in it.
Now, wearing Dockers is one of the Original Sins, right up there with punching grandmas and singing along with Ashlee Simpson on the radio. I’d be damn sure I wasn’t outside when it’s lightning out. Three-to-one says God smokes your ass before I get done with this here response.
See, everybody knows Dockers guys is kin to Liberace. In the commercials, they’re never talking about venison sausage or Skoal or repacking the bearings on a ’82 Trans Am. They’re always saying dainty stuff like, “My, that’s a nice blouse you got on.”
I’m thinking you need medical attention. Back when I was young, if I was to ever act fruity—like maybe watch public TV—Verne Sr. would take me out back and pound my ass with a Weber grill.
This is what medical guys call your Pavlovian experience. Anytime you go fruity, like say the words “trousers” or “pleats,” one of your buddies should smack you with a grill. Take it from me: A guy gets to learning fast this way, specially if it’s got burning charcoals in it.
Scumbag Lawyer: “Babes Won’t Listen to Me”
Dear Dr. Verne:
I need your help. I am an attorney in Orchard Park, N.Y. There are three women in my life who are making it a living hell: my secretary, who does what she wants when she wants; my colleague, who criticizes everything I do; and my wife, who only lets me have some once in a blue moon.
How can I get these women to do what I want?
—PW’d in Orchard Park
Dear Candy-Ass Lawyer:
In case you ain’t noticed, this here book is called White Trash Etiquette. Which means we’re supposed to be talking about power steering and drunk driving and demolition derbies. Which means we ain’t supposed to be talking about sissy lawyer problems. That’s what they got Esquire for.
Now a course no woman gonna pay you respect. You’re a lawyer, for chrissakes.
Let me ask you this: Say you got a friend who got this dainty-ass job, right? And say all this guy does for a living is throw paperwork at people and wear suits made by some guy who drinks Chardonnay and thinks Beer Nuts is too fattening. Would you A.) respect him, or B.) beat him with a wood splitter?
Your secretary don’t listen to you cuz she don’t have to. What you gonna do about it? Hairspray her?
Same goes for the wife. Most lawyers got pipes like bankers. What you gonna say? “If you sleep with me honey, I’ll show you my BlackBerry?” Just be thankful she ain’t sold your ass to one of them animal testing labs.
Now about this colleague. I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about, but it sounds like pervert talk. You ain’t one of them creeps who collects pictures of naked children, is you?
I’m thinking you need what you call your intensive therapy. First off, you gotta quit that fruity job. On the manly scale, it’s like being a theater major.
Second off, lose the cute little Tommy Hil-figer uniforms you probably wear in your off time. The only ladies that stuff attracts is them fancy ones with the smiles so tight they look like they’re held up with scaffolding. Buy yourself something classy instead, like a couple of London Fletcher jerseys.
Then you gotta get manly in your talking. Me, I’d start out by practicing some basic phrases like, “Woman, you got more of that roast beef?” or “I wonder what a DNR permit costs for hunting Carrot Top.”
Then you gotta trade in your briefcase for a tool belt. Since you probably still walk prissy, I’d stick something big in it just to compensate, like maybe a shop vac.
Finally, I’d weld me a winch and a blade on the front of your Nissan Pathfinder so it don’t look like all you haul is them Waterford crystals. If you got no blade, just cut the metal outta your neighbor’s BMW when it’s dark out, then brace it with some treated four-by-fours. She ain’t gonna look pretty, but the ladies is gonna think you got more chest hairs.
My Old Man’s Gone Sissy
Dear Dr. Verne:
I’m sixteen and I got a problem. It’s my old man. I mean, he’s cool enough, was a grunt in ’Nam and rolls his own ammo for his .44 mag.
The trouble is his job. He’s a registered nurse. I got in so many fights about it in school I got expelled. I keep begging him to get a manly job, like loading trucks at the co-op or faking a back injury in a fight with a psych patient and go on disability.
But he just tells me to shut up and be glad he can afford my Ritalin. How can I deal with this, Doc?
—Ike in Minot
Dear Ike:
If the old man keeps registered nursing, sooner or later he’s bound to buy a Range Rover, just so’s he can get a good parking place at the Nordstrom sale. He’s gonna forget how to cuss. And you’ll know he’s on the brink of lesbianism when he starts hyphenating his last name and trying to order them big salads at Long John Silver’s.
What you gotta do is appeal to the old man’s heart. Let him know that you care too much to see him go wussified, and that if he don’t quit that damn registered nursing, God’ll send him to the dainty part of Hell, where they only serve Coors Light and the big screens all show figure skating.
Before we finish, let’s bow our heads in some prayers for the Ten Commandments. Last thing we need is St. Peter on our ass. If someone messes up the paperwork and we get to Heaven by mistake, we could probably still borrow money from the guy.
1. You shall have no other Gods before me—except for cable TV.
2. You shall not make no carved image of Heaven above, cuz God owns the merchandising rights. Don’t try horning in on His turf or He’ll beat your ass with a pool cue.
3. You shall not take the Lord’s name in vain, unless it involves bosses, the Los Angeles Lakers, or shooting yourself in the kidney while you’re out pheasant hunting.
4. Remember the Sabbath day, keep it holy. If God wanted you to work, He would have made football on Tuesdays. Any moron knows that.
5. Honor your father and mother, cuz someday they’re gonna croak. You could inherit their F-150 if you stop acting like an ingrate.
6. You shall not commit murder, except when there’s a good reason, like finding your old man in bed with the cashier from the Dairy Queen.
7. You shall not commit adultery at the same motel where your sister-in-law works.
8. You shall not steal. (Only applies in Utah and France.)
9. You shall not bear false witness against your neighbor, unless you figure he’s gonna rat you out on that bowling alley robbery. Then beat him to the punch.
10. You shall not covet your neighbor’s house, nor shall you covet your neighbor’s wife, especially if he’s about to get released on parole. Then again, if he’s doing time for something sissy like embezzling from a flower shop, covet all you want.
About the Author
After graduating in just eleven years from the White Trash Studies program at the University of Wisconsin—Green Bay, DR. VERNE EDSTROM, ESQ., set out to write a book Emily Post would be proud of—if she knew how to hang drywall and steer
a bass boat with her feet. PETE KOTZ, a.k.a. Verne, lives in Cleveland, where he edits Cleveland Scene, one of the Midwest’s best alternative weeklies.
WHITE TRASH ETIQUETTE. Copyright © 2006 by Pete Kotz. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the publisher. For information, address Broadway Books, a division of Random House, Inc., 1745 Broadway, New York, NY 10019.
BROADWAY BOOKS and its logo, a letter B bisected on the diagonal, are trademarks of Random House, Inc.
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Edstrom, Verne.
[Dr. Verne’s Northern white trash etiquette]
White trash etiquette / Verne Edstrom.
p. cm.
Rev. ed. of : Dr. Verne’s Northern white trash etiquette. c1999.
1. Rednecks—Middle West—Humor. 2. Working class whites—Middle West—Humor. I. Title.
PN6231.R38E37 2006
818'.602—dc22 2005050160
eISBN-13: 978-0-7679-2503-7
eISBN-10: 0-7679-2503-3
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