This is the official uniform of Authentic Deep People.
Now Deep People ain’t good for much. They can’t fire-bomb a scab’s house or clean a walleye. But they’re awful good at standing around museums staring at stuff and not saying a word, as if they drank a fifth of Jack and is watching Naughty Car Wash Babes III.
But they ain’t drunk. They’re just held in rapture.
I don’t exactly know what rapture is, but it’s important to being deep. The trick is to stare at a painting or sculpture for a long time, pretending it’s so meaningful it cut off your tongue. Then, after about a half-hour, say something about its “gripping isolation” or its “transcendent insight into the systematic betrayal of faith,” just so folks don’t think you’re a mute.
It don’t matter that no one will know what the hell you’re talking about. That’s the point of being deep.
Faking Like You Know French
If there was truth in advertising, most paintings would be titled, “Globs of Paint Thrown on Canvas and Hocked at a Gallery Because I Had to Pay the Rent.”
Problem is, Deep People figure this stuff got metaphors and symbolism in it. Which brings us to lesson number one: Always pretend art has meaning, even if it looks like it was knocked out by a two-year-old who got a hold of some latex while her ma was on the phone.
Say you’re at a museum with the old lady, and you’re staring at an eighty-foot canvas with one red dot in the middle. Strike a deep and thoughtful pose, hand on chin, like you’re captivated by its power. Then, after a long silence, say something French.
Of course, you don’t know no French. Which is why you gotta use the names of hockey players: “I find a disturbing sense of gaetan duschene in her work.”
The Beret People will be intimidated by your deepiocity. They won’t notice that the painting reminds you of a former winger for the Minnesota North Stars.
The Performance Art Scam
Before the 1960s, this was called Stuff People Do Before Becoming a Ward of the State Mental Hospital. Then someone figured out that Deep People would pay top dollar to see loonies.
So a bum, tired of sleeping on heating grates, laid down on the floor of the Chicago Museum of Art, stuffed himself in a giant Ziploc bag, and called his work “This Is Just as Good a Place as Any to Sleep.”
Performance art was born.
The bum became the toast of the Wine and Brie Circuit. One problem: He suffocated to death.
So some other bums cashed in when they left his body in the museum to rot, calling their project “Works in Decomposing Carcass.”
They are now tenured professors at Berkeley and get to sleep in their offices.
Sculpture’s Red Green Period
There was a day when you could slap up an eight-footer of some naked Greek guy and everyone was happy. Problem was, everybody could understand it, which means no one could feel superior, which means it wasn’t very good art.
In order to become deeper, sculptors started welding rusty Viking grills and old lawn furniture together, calling it “Interdisciplinary Works in Stuff Welded Together That the Artist Couldn’t Unload at His Garage Sale.” They claimed it was a metaphor for the decline of Western Civilization.
The Red Green Period was born.
It ain’t easy to fake your way through this stuff. But a few handy lines will help you pawn yourself off as one of them aficionados of sculpture.
Say you’re trying to hit on the babe from the plumbing fixtures aisle at Home Depot. She’s going to night school at the community college, taking up legal secretarying. You figure she’s gotta be deep.
So you take her to the new exhibit of the noted New York sculptor to see his greatest work: a propane tank painted with white enamel. Okay, so it’s just a propane tank, for chrissakes. But being deep and all, you fake like you’re held speechless.
After the standard period of silence, you say something like, “Its lines speak to a piercing violation of the human psyche.”
Then, you add, “I’ve always admired his work with utility industry hardware.”
If the Beret People nearby nod their approval, say something critical. (Lesson number two: You can’t be deep if you ain’t always bitching about something.) Compare his work to another hockey player.
“Of course,” you sniff, “his work is not equal to Lucien LaFreniere’s, who was the master of the propane genre.”
LaFreniere had a cup of coffee with the Islanders in the mid-’80s. Nobody’ll know what the hell you’re talking about. Which means you’re deeper than them.
“Yes,” they will agree as they slink away, intimidated by your insight. “LaFreniere was the forerunner of the modern propanists.”
Your babe will think you’re cultural. She’ll want you to spend the night at her place.
If There’s No Unshaven Detectives, It Must Be Deep
Sometimes art museums got movies. But you’re supposed to call ’em films.
Film means it was directed by some guy with a thin mustache from Europe who don’t read box scores.
Movie means it was directed by some guy who’s originally from Nebraska, but dyed his hair blonde, moved to Hollywood, and started saying stuff like, “Love ya, babe. Ciao.”
If it got no action and has subtitles and the camera stays glued to some lady for fifteen minutes while she stares out the window and looks like her best hunting dog died, it’s a film.
But if it’s got unshaven detectives who break department rules to work with big-boobed babes to hunt down international terrorists with crewcuts named Hans, it’s a movie.
Say you’re a woman who just got a job in the claims department at Mephistopheles Insurance. And say you got a hankering for the boss. He ain’t that good looking, but he’s a boss, which means he probably got ice cream and a good liquor cabinet back at his place.
So you pull out the skimpy wardrobe you got from your sister, who didn’t need it no more after she quit the strip joint when she had her sixth kid.
It works. He asks you for a date before lunchtime.
But instead of taking you to a bar, like decent trash, he takes you to some goddamned film festival about the great directors of Greenland. So you gotta fake like you’re deep. Otherwise, you ain’t scoring none of that liquor and ice cream.
The key to faking a film knowledge is citing the great masters.
So say you just done spent four hours on some double-feature with subtitles. You don’t even know what language they was talking. As you stroll from the theater, say something like, “Ah, touches of Fellini.”
Your boss won’t call your bluff. He’s an insurance guy, for chrissakes. He thinks Greenland’s an amusement park in Vermont.
“However,” you add, “the cinematic minimalism was preponderantly influenced by Bergman, wouldn’t you agree?”
This is a lock to work, since everybody knows the masters is supposed to be deep, but nobody’s ever seen their movies.
Your boss will nod his head in approval. He will realize you’re deeper than him. He will change the subject to his theories on term life policies.
And the next time you go out, he’ll take you to a Die Hard sequel.
I’m thinking it was Shakespeare who done said, “Love is a many-splendored thing.”
You know what he’s talking about? Me neither. But it proves a valuable point.
See, Shakespeare was from the olden days when they pranced around in wigs and tights. And since wigs and tights guys knows stuff about flowers and interior decorating, they’re also supposed to know about love. And seeing as how some candy-ass like Shakespeare don’t even know what he’s talking about, that just shows how complicated proper sparking really is.
So let’s get to the mailbag, cuz I know you got questions.
My Girlfriends Say I Gotta Set Boundaries with Earl
Dear Dr. Verne:
I got me my mobile home from my ex in the divorce decree. While I been divorced from Earl for five months, I been letting him sleep ove
r. I’m between men right now, and while he’s not what I call a one-woman man, we do got us a history and two kids together.
Anyhow, now that our Saturday nights have become regular and all, he feels the trailer is his again. He’s been leaving his beater truck in the yard. It’s without a engine and you got to ride it Indian style, seeing how’s there ain’t no floorboard.
Well, Verne, my girlfriends say I gotta set boundaries. What the hell does that mean?
I mean, he ain’t asked me to tattoo his name on my hindquarters, like he asked me when we was hitched. I just feel maybe I should draw the line somewheres, but least I get some lovin’ and Earl leaves his Wild Turkey bottles and Old Mil cans for me to cash in so I can get the wee ones beans and Tang.
—Cherri, Burlington, Vermont
Dear Cherri:
Boundaries is one of them things the feminisms thought up. Here’s the best way to explain it:
Think of yourself as a motel. Seeing as how you’re single and on the prowl again, you want to make sure that “vacancy” sign is always lit up, just in case some guy with a good back injury settlement wanders by and figures he might stop in for a spell.
But seeing as how Earl’s hanging around, he’s like a big “no vacancy” sign. So the back injury guy is gonna figure your motel got occupied, and he’s gonna stop at the neighbor lady’s instead, on account of she’s got nicer trucks parked on her yard.
Which means as long as Earl’s there, your motel’s gonna be empty. Which means you ain’t gonna show no weary traveler the full bouquet of your female-like hospitalities, if you get what I’m saying.
Which is a long way of saying them feminisms want you to kick Earl’s ass out.
Now I’m hearing you about it being good to have a man around and all. Even if he’s a stiff, he can still cut the grass and haul old car batteries to the compost pile. Plus it’s always good having someone to bitch at when you’re crabby or out of liquor.
Problem is, you don’t wanna get too cozy.
Say you meet one of them guys who does oil changes at Tires Plus. The guy probably makes top dollar, like $7.50 an hour, plus bennies. And say you take him home some night. It ain’t gonna be good for starting no healthy relationship if Earl’s passed out naked on the kitchen floor.
If I was you, I’d get me some of them boundaries. Start by telling Earl he gotta sleep in the truck just in case you bring the Tires Plus guy home. Let him know he can only sleep in the house when you’re horny and there ain’t no other decent men around.
Second off, don’t let him use the remote. Nothing makes a man feel more unwanted than not getting to touch the channel surfer.
Last but not least, tattoo somebody else’s name on your hindquarters, like Mel or Tires Plus. It don’t matter who it is. Earl will be able to tell by your butt that he’s permanently outta the picture, and that he should go back to Wanda, the broad he dumped you for when you got divorced in the first place.
If none of this works, shoot him. Men get to understanding real good when they got some buckshot in ’em.
Our Bud Is Getting Held Hostage in the Suburbs
Yo Verne, You Dawg:
We need help. One of our buds got drug to the suburbs by his ol’ lady. Better than his ol’ double-wide, she said.
We’ve been worried about him, but he’s trying to make it right by not tying his sweaters around his neck or trading in his F-150 extended cab for a wuss Isuzu Trooper.
He keeps making noises ’bout putting a dirty mattress, a couple of buckets of the Colonel’s extra greasy, and nine or ten twelvers of Busch in the back for partying with the girls from the strip joint. But when push comes to shove, he keeps drinking Zima and talking about racquetball.
What can we do to help ’im get back on the Beam and not get us in jail or shot by his woman?
—Bob & Ray, Windsor, Ontario
Dear Fellas:
Sounds to me like your bud got converted over to the dark side. He’s in the hands of the devil. This calls for one of them exorcisms. You’re gonna need a priest and plenty of liquor.
Now the key to exorcisms is using his devil ideas against him. See, them yuppies is always trading in their used girlfriends. They get to sparking with a babe, but pretty soon she’s pounded them quiches like a longshoreman who just got back from sea. Next thing you know, their woman’s the size of a decent strong safety.
Now good trash knows there ain’t nothing wrong with a woman who got a little beef on her, specially if you’s planning on stealing some scrap iron, which is damn heavy hauling by yourself. Besides, if God wanted women to be perfect, he woulda made ’em into bass boats instead.
But them yuppies don’t like ladies who got a little worn tread, on account of it don’t impress nobody at the company golf outing.
Since your buddy is probably already brainwashed in them fruity suburb ways, bribe the priest with some liquor so he’ll tell your bud that his woman is looking a might craggy these days. Seeing as how he’s a priest, he ain’t gonna be partial to no babe over the age of fourteen anyways.
Your bud will dump his yuppie woman like a bad slice of ham. And since she got all the loot, he’ll be sleeping on your couch in no time.
Then you can hook him to a decent lady, the kind who got big hair and puts on her makeup with a power painter. Once he gets in them ever-loving arms of some genuine trash, consider the guy cured.
Locusts, Famine, and Forty Years of Flatulence
Dear Dr. Verne:
Me and my buddy, Galen, we owns a drywalling business. A couple weeks ago we was hanging and mudding some rock on a remodel job in one of them strip malls in the suburbs.
In the strip mall was one of them wussy bars. Galen (he’s a real bird dog) kept noticing these good-looking yuppie chicks going into this wussy bar.
Now those yuppie chicks don’t do nothing for me, but Galen says that all babes, even those yuppie babes, deserve to have a real man once in a while.
So one night after work Galen and I wandered down to the wussy bar only because I wanted to do what was right. Well, one of them yuppie babes got kinda friendly with me. We ended up back at her place and she got real friendly with me, if you know what I mean.
The next morning I woke up and smelled the worst smell I ever sniffed. I asked the yuppie babe what the hell was the smell. She said, “I just have a little flatulence.”
Verne, I was real scared. I don’t know what flatulence is.
Now Galen, he’s got a real smart son, Galen Jr., by either his second or third wife. Hell, Galen Jr. is so smart he almost got into the sheet metal apprentice program.
Anyways, Galen Jr. thinks that the flatulence may be one of them sexually transmitted diseases. Verne, should I be soaking something in kerosene?
—Stan the Drywall Man, Providence
Dear Stan:
I’m thinking this flatulence is one of them Bible things. Say too many people get to stealing and drinking and coveting thy neighbor’s woman, which makes Moses pissed. So he orders up one of them forty years of flatulence, which means floods and locusts and famine. That way people know not to &%$# with Moses.
I asked the barmaid at Johnny’s Tavern if this was right. She said yeah. But what she don’t got figured is why that yuppie babe was talking about locusts when her apartment got to stinking.
Me, I figure she was just trying to impress you with big words, seeing as how you got your own business and you’d probably take her to the Indian casino every night if you was married.
But the barmaid, she figures that yuppie babe was worried about Moses putting forty years of flatulence on her for sinning. If she was decent and God-fearing, He woulda born her with spandex and nine kids already. But since she’s taken to them Godless yuppie ways, she knows Moses’ll be more ornery than a foreman who just got his child support jacked.
Next time you sees that yuppie babe, give her a five-gallon bucket of Ortho. She’s gonna need it for when them locusts show up.
When God
created the world, He started out with woman, seeing as how she had more complex architecture and plumbing. Besides, He was dying for conversation cuz He hadn’t invented TV yet.
Anyways, it took Him damn near all week—three days working on the brain alone.
Then, late on the Sixth Day, the hardware stores was closed. Knowing that He wouldn’t get overtime for working Sunday, God just slapped together man with the leftover scraps and headed for the bar.
Which is why men ain’t too smart. He figured if He just made ’em strong enough to carry in the groceries, there might be a use for ’em.
Ten Tips for Women Who’s Ascared of Getting Stuck with a Loser
This here’s what you call your ten-point checklist for finding yourself some husbands. It’s to help you decide the difference between a worthless man—one who ain’t great, but good enough to have babies with—and a low-down, nasty, lying, cheating man, who’s only good for affairs.
Now when it comes to men, the selection ain’t good. But think of it like rummaging through the clothes bins at Goodwill. At least you got volume on your side.
1. Is he a pervert?
All men is perverts. But there’s a big difference between regular perverts and gentlemen perverts. Regular perverts take you to Hooters on your first date and spend the night telling stories about the biggest jugs they ever seen. Which ain’t classy, especially if they only got enough money for chicken wings.
Gentlemen perverts is at least self-respecting enough to buy you a decent meal and some plastic jewelry before trying to get you in the sack.
If your old man A.) named his reproductive unit after a World War II cargo plane; B.) still subscribes to National Geographic for the naked Amazon babes; or C.) is a lawyer, chances are he’s a pervert. Don’t let him near your kids.
2. Does he live with his ma?
If he still lives with his ma, he’s used to getting picked up after, which means you won’t have time for affairs with the guys from the Paint & Sealant Department.
White Trash Etiquette Page 6