3. Georgia Tech Yellow Jackets
The only people who wear yellow jackets is Hollywood fruities and old ladies on Easter. If they’re gonna have a sissified name, they should do it right and call themselves the Georgia Tech Boutonnieres, which is French for, “I got a flower stuck on my jacket.”
4. Orlando Magic
Ain’t this cute. Little fairies with batons prancing around putting spells on princesses. You think a fairy’s gonna go to the boards with Amare Stoudemire?
5. Los Angeles Clippers
Clippers is what hairdressers call their scissors. Only L.A. would name their team after a hairdresser shop.
6. Jacksonville Jaguars
Named after a rich man’s car. That’s soooo scary. Don’t be coming into our house, boy, or we gonna get all climate-control seating on yo ass.
7. San Diego Chargers
See what I was saying about them So-Cals? One town names their team after hairdressers, and the other names it after trophy wives who get to firing up their American Express like its free ammo night at the gun range.
8. Stanford Cardinal
This here’s a rich kids’ school, but they’re only called the Cardinal, like they couldn’t afford more than one. You ever been to Baltimore? It looks like it got firebombed in a Teamsters strike. But they still got enough class to spring for more than one Oriole.
Here’s a tip, rich kids: If your pa done cut off your allowance, stick a couple beers in your pocket so it looks like you got a gun, and head down to the pet store. Then say to the clerk, “Hey pal, hand me over a batch of cardinals, or the iguana gets it.” This is how decent people get to putting S’s on the end of their names. Ain’t them professors teaching you none of them supplies and demand?
9. Utah Jazz
Named after music where guys screech on trumpets so it sounds like you’re in a traffic jam. Believe it or not, yuppies pay to hear this, when they coulda just walked on the freeway at suppertime for free.
10. South Carolina Gamecocks
Ol’ Verne likes to play hide the salami as much as the next trash, but you don’t wanna name your team after no manly reproduction apparatus, if you hear what I’m saying. It’s gonna attract the kinda lady who don’t got all her shots. Which means you’re gonna have to soak your manlies in turpentine to get rid of whatever she’s gonna give you.
The Ten Manliest Teams
1. Minnesota Vikings
The manliest team of all, on account of they’re named after guys who used to ride around in boats, kick the %$#@ outta Scotsmen for wearing dresses, and steal all their liquor and women.
2. Green Bay Packers
It ain’t glamorous, but trash who’s been evicted a decent amount knows the value of a good packer. Especially if you don’t got enough money for a U-Haul and got to fit everything in the skimpy-assed box of a Chevy S-10.
3. Colorado Buffaloes
Okay, so they ain’t much sport for hunting. But they’re big, furry, and they got them ZZ Top beards. You can tell they’re the union stewards of the animal kingdom by the way they stand around doing nothing.
4. Milwaukee Brewers
Makers of the sacred nectar. From what you call your religious perspective, they’re probably the fifth most important deity in the Universe after God, Jesus, the Virgin Mother, and bail bondsmen. Don’t root for these guys and the smart money says St. Peter smokes your ass before you get a word in edgewise.
5. North Dakota Fighting Sioux
Named after guys who didn’t have jobs and just rode around hunting and fighting for the hell of it. Think of ’em as the olden days’ version of bikers, only they dressed like them guys from Pocahontas and didn’t have to worry about burning oil in their horses.
6. Providence Friars
Nothing tastes better than when it got cooked in a batch of burning fat. Toss in some bologna and maybe a bone or two if you can get ’em away from the dog, and you’re looking at some good eating.
Hell, once when I was broke, I even fried up a catcher’s mitt for supper. It was a might bit chewy, but the kids said it was better than them vegetables we made ’em eat one time.
7. Maryland Terrapins
These is what most folks know as turtles. But seeing as how this is a college, they had to give it a fancier name, on account of rich people won’t pay twenty grand a year to send their kid to turtle-catching school.
According to Webster’s Dictionary, turtles is mostly found in “brackish waters.” I ain’t never been to Brackish, so’s I usually just get ’em at the pond or when they’re laying eggs in the asphalt. But make sure you throw ’em in the fryer before you eat ’em. My pal Donny once tried to eat a snapper before it got fried. The damn thing bit off his lips, so now he’s gotta drink beer through his nose.
8. North Carolina Tar Heels
This here’s a good working man’s name. It shows that when your team ain’t playing football, it’s doing manly labor and get all dirty, which chicks dig. If they was to call themselves the North Carolina Paper Cuts, chicks wouldn’t dig ’em.
9. Arkansas Razorbacks
I’m figuring the guy who named ’em musta done time, on account of getting stabbed in the back with a razor ain’t something a guy’s prone to forgetting. My woman once caught me with her sister when I was supposed to be out tomcatting with her aunt, which my woman didn’t mind on account of her aunt looks like a forklift. Anyways, after I passed out, the missus carved her name in my back with one of them Bic razors, just so’s I would remember I was married, which means I’m supposed to get her okay before having affairs.
Calling your team the Razorbacks is a good way of not forgetting this.
10. Indianapolis Colts
This here’s what you call your double score: Named after both a gun and a forty-ouncer of malt liquor, which always go good together.
The Manly Man’s Guide to Vehicles: A Scientific Study
Priests will tell you that man was started by Adam, that moron from the Garden of Eden.
I ain’t buying.
First off, a guy who orders an apple instead of steak ain’t smart enough to start a civilization. Hell, they hadn’t even invented cash registers yet. What’s he ordering a Granny Smith when the ribeyes was free?
Second off, judging by the way men think about vehicles, the smart money’s giving twelve-to-one that man evolved from apes to Trent Lott.
See, most men think all they gotta do is get a sweet machine, and the ladies’ll be flopping around ’em like a herd of gooses. Ain’t so.
This ain’t to say your vehicle selection don’t got consequences. Fact is, for lesser trash, a decent machine is the only thing keeping you from reading Vanity Fair.
But them sociologists is always saying vehicles is an extension of ourselves. I don’t know what that means. Which is why I got me this scientific survey.
It’s for finding out what vehicles is decent and manly, and what is for guys who can get hammered on stuff made in blenders. The survey was done very scientific-like, which means we didn’t do no shots till the interviewing was over.
You got a problem with that?
Pickups
Obviously, pickup trucks offer the manliest in driving experiences. Personally, ol’ Verne is a Ford man. But you gotta like that Dodge Ram. It got a hood the size of a bowling alley, and it’s named after an animal that head-butts stuff, which would make him a good partner for bar fighting.
But the fact is, there ain’t no going wrong with a full-size pickup—unless it’s made by them Japaneses, who suck at hockey, or the bed’s so clean you could iron Sunday dresses on it.
That ain’t true about midget pickups. According to that science I was telling you about, 98 percent of ’em is driven by fitness instructors. Seventy-two percent never caught a fish bigger than them mail-order brides from Taiwan. And 113 percent think NASCAR is a country by Egypt.
Station Wagons
The most underrated vehicle.
First off, they pass the number-one t
est for determining a decent White Trash machine: They can haul plywood.
Second off, they’ll score you sympathy points.
Most people figure a guy driving a wagon collects ceramic cats. Either way, that makes you invisible, leaving you free to drunk drive and haul oversized loads of scrap iron.
When a cop sees a sport-utility vehicle swerving on the road, he usually says, “That man is compensating for a very small penis and is probably snorting coke. Let’s pull him over, Mel.”
But when a cop sees a swerving station wagon, he says, “Poor schmuck. His wife probably jacked him in the divorce and all he can afford is a goddamned station wagon. Whattaya say we let this one go, Mel?”
I once had a wagon with a rusted-out floorboard so you could dump your empties along the freeway for the bums to pick up. That’s why station wagons is also good for community service.
Luxury Vehicles
A lotta people don’t figure White Trash got luxury cars. But say you built yourself up a decent chop-shop business, and you’re fixing to buy your woman something nice. For my money, there ain’t no better machine than the Lincoln.
First off, Lincolns is named after a famous president who got a good beard, which means he could probably hunt muskrat. And let it be said that the Lincoln is the finest barhopping machine on Earth. If your pal Joey starts ralphing in the back, you can roll down the power windows from the driver’s seat so’s he don’t get it on the carpet. It’s also got a big trunk, which is good if you’re gonna kidnap your ex-girlfriend’s dog.
Minivans
Minivans is kind of like station wagons: They get a bad rap even though they can haul plywood.
The upside is minivans got good kid-hauling powers, and can carry a decent amount of sawhorses or Sheetrock if you’re burglarizing garages.
Problem is, 83 percent of people figure if you own a minivan, you probably shoulda just dumped the wife and kids and paid child support instead, on account of it’s cheaper. Which makes you one of them fiscally irresponsibles. Which is why you shouldn’t buy no goddamned minivan.
Wimp Vehicles
Wimp cars is them cigar boxes with wheels that got names like Altima or Estrogen. Most people get to figuring wimp cars is for hairdressers and environmentalists. Which they is.
They don’t got good clearance when you’re ditch driving and get wrecked up easy when you get hammered and hit the neighbor’s garage.
However, 89 percent said if you was to put a brush guard on, even an Escort would look cool. They’re also good for ramming Mercedes when you’re jousting for the last parking spot at the Broncos game, on account of a crumpled hood will make ’em look manlier.
Sports Cars
Ol’ Verne got a serious beef about sports cars.
Okay, so there ain’t nothing finer than a babe with one of them top-shelf peroxide jobs, driving down the freeway with the wind in her big hair, looking like she got a blonde tumbleweed attached to her head.
That, friends, is good living.
But it ain’t so pretty when you see Skippy, cute little executive, shoved into his red sports car from France, driving like Ernie Irvan on crank cuz he’s late for his Lamaze class.
Seventy-nine percent of guys with sports cars ain’t very good at softball. Eighty-one percent cross picket lines. And 163 percent would be mostly blubber and mush if you was in a plane crash and got stranded and had to eat ’em.
Sport-Utility Vehicles
These used to be the preferred vehicle of four out of five trash. “I drive through highway medians and don’t gotta stop if I hit a grocery store.” That was the message they sent.
Sport-utility vehicles was also good for shining deer and tearing up your girlfriend’s yard after she dumped you.
But then the yuppies started buying ’em. Everything went to &%$#.
According to them sciences, 82 percent—give or take 40 percent—says sport-utility vehicles is now for lightweights. The heaviest thing they haul these days is soccer equipment and cappuccino.
Unless you gotta pre-’90s American-made with a classy naked lady hood ornament, the only thing this truck says is, “I can’t change my own oil; please pass the Cafe Vienna.”
Now that you read this far—or got somebody to read it for you—you’re finally realizing what it takes to live the wholesome White Trash way.
Problem is, some of you is getting them feelings of inadequacy. You know you ain’t lived right. You know you been sneaking Zimas and watching Friends reruns with the shades drawn. And you’re probably saying to yourself, “Thanks, Dr. Verne, for showing me that my life has fallen into a state of despair.”
You’re ready to amend your ways.
Yuppies Anonymous: A Twelve-Step Guide to Rectifying Your Sissy Ways
The good thing is that, nowadays, you get to blame this stuff on a disadvantaged childhood, which is the polite way of saying your folks sucked.
Maybe you was raised in some fruity subdivision with too many goddamned windsocks. Or maybe you wasn’t privileged enough to shoot long arms out of a duck boat when you was young.
Don’t worry. According to them modern sciences, going sissy, setting fire to the Junior Miss department at Kmart, or asking your grandpa’s false teeth for a date to the prom, all that stuff gets blamed on disadvantaged childhoods these days. Don’t ask me why. Just be thankful I’m giving you a good excuse here.
Problem is, them scientists ain’t invented no dope to cure you. Which is why you need my twelve-step program, Yuppies Anonymous.
As long as you’re in a twelve-step program, you get to say you’re “recovering,” which means chicks will have pity and won’t get as mad when you paw at ’em. It offers you, the Volvo-driving fruity, the chance to do something about your sickness. I ain’t saying you’ll get dewussified. But at least the meetings got free coffee and lots of people to bum smokes from.
The Yuppies Anonymous Twelve-Step Tradition
1. I admit that I am powerless over brie and white wine and grinding my own coffee beans from some candy-ass place in South America nobody ever heard of, and that my life has become wussified.
2. I have come to believe that a power greater than me can restore me to sanity, so I’ll stop posing in the mirror trying to look like them guys from the Benetton ads.
3. I made the decision to turn my life over to the care of some decent White Trash, who’ll drown me in a flowerpot if I even get to thinking about wearing pants that don’t got no blood or paint stains on ’em.
4. I made a searching and fearless moral inventory of myself. Okay, so I lied. But I got the idea on blocks in my front yard. I should be getting to it any day now.
5. I admitted to God, myself, and another human being the exact nature of my wrongs—only I left out the part about the sixteen-year-old on that business trip to Boston. I swear she looked at least twenty-two.
6. I am entirely ready to have God remove all these defects of character, even if He’s gotta torture my ass with some dental equipment from the Nazis.
7. I humbly ask God to remove my shortcomings, so I can throw out them goddamned garbanzo beans and beeline it to Old Country Buffet.
8. I made a list of all people I had harmed, and became willing to make amends to them all, except that old guy whose car I rammed at the hardware store last week. He shouldn’t have parked so close.
9. I made direct amends to such people wherever possible, except if it was at the same time the Mariners–Royals was on satellite.
10. I continued to take a personal inventory and when I was wrong admitted it, just so it wasn’t about that liquor store robbery on Thirteenth Avenue last Tuesday. I got an alibi.
11. I sought through prayer, meditation, and plenty of liquor to improve my conscious contact with the White Trash, praying only for knowledge and a few extra bucks, seeing as how knowledge don’t get you %$#@ if you’re living in some bushes in the park.
12. Having had a spiritual awakening as a result of these steps, I tried to carry
this message to other yuppies, so’s they would owe me when they got cured and probably buy me beers.
Okay, so I know what you’re saying right now. “Damn, Verne, this here book is what’s known as your literary masterpiece, one of them staggering works of heartfelt geniuses.”
Which’d be a good call on your part.
Fact is, when the New York Times gets to reviewing this bad boy, they’re gonna start saying stuff like “tour de force” and “taut, edge-of-your-seat thriller,” which is candy-ass for saying this book ain’t worth buying, but probably worth stealing.
Which is why I’m not understanding how you trashes still got questions. What? You want me to write it in Braille too?
The White Zinfandel Crisis
Dear Dr. Verne:
Last weekend, on the promise of getting a Texas fifth of Jack, I helped my worthless brother-in-law replace the tranny in his candy red ’72 Nova. Later that day, he came over and gave me a sixer of light beer and something called White Zinfandel (only it wasn’t white, it was sissy pink).
I yelled at him, told him to never come back. Was I right to act this way? Should I have accepted the light beer and wine? I assume they got alcohol in them.
—Clyde in Bangor, Maine
Dear Clyde:
Yeah, they got alcohol in ’em, but only enough to get Ashton Kutcher hammered. And most folks say if you drink ’em, you’ll go weird and start talking about Julie Andrews movies.
See, if you’re in a bar and you’re ordering light beer, you might as well be saying, “I enjoy wearing women’s undergarments and could you please turn the big screen to soccer.” I could go on about what you call your sociological implications, but the short of it is, light beer’s for guys who cried during Sleepless in Seattle.
White Trash Etiquette Page 11