OMGJeremy

Guide To White Trash Housing

I make no bones about my upbringing in the white ghetto. While my family wasn’t what I would call “trashy,” we were certainly not middle class, either. This mostly relegated my childhood to some of the darker corners of inner-city Indianapolis, where I was greeted by all sorts of wild, sometimes horrifyingly wonderful ways of life. There is a certain natural beauty to the lifestyles of the pathetically ignorant and painfully trapped denizens of any ghetto. And of course when I say “beauty” I probably don’t actually mean that word at all. To put it bluntly, many people in the ghetto have absolutely no desire to improve themselves and/or leave. They are simply content with the way things are, and have built a life around simply not caring. And sometimes, they just aren’t smart enough to care. You may think that possibly these people have found a new sort of Zen Buddhism that involves Pop Tarts and beating kids, but please stop kidding yourself. If they have a Zen it is accidental and usually sickeningly disturbing. I’ve had to spend the majority of my time away from home with these sorts of people; this gives me more than enough experience to share with you, should you ever have to spend time in a white trash house yourself. So if you discover one day that you have a long lost Uncle Jeb and find yourself invited over for a “gittagather,” you’ll know exactly the do’s and don’ts of stepping into his domicile. This is of course if you even make it inside before his seven dogs viciously attack you, sending you to the emergency room to treat every type of rabies strain known to man. Actually, you just may be better off with that scenario. If not, let’s start with…

The Culprit: White Trash Carpet

Who knows how many bottles of floor cleaner it would take just to clean the top layer off

One of the biggest offenders that you’ll first notice as you step through the front door will be the late 60′s carpet that has, over time, come to resemble an animal with a particularly bad case of the mange. Large tufts of it will either be missing altogether, or matted with various chunks of cat shit that were deposited dozens of years ago and never cleaned up. Other parts of this horrible flooring will have strange stains that have either discolored it, or mutated the carpet fibers into stiff, spiky things that will snag a sock clean off your foot if you walk into it the wrong way. In contrast to this carpet version of exotic lava rocks, you will probably find patches of motor oil scattered here and there. It will provide the surroundings with a garage scent that will mingle with the acrid odor of animal dung, and the all-pervasive scent of sour milk which will of course hail from the thousands of instances of drunken slobs dropping the milk on the floor as they drank straight from the carton or jug.

How to Deal With It:

Watch where you step, and insist that you need to keep your shoes on no matter how many times someone says “Take yer’ shoes off n’ stay a while, son.” Generally try to avoid the parts that seem to be claimed by animals, and adjust your walk so that you miss the majority of ancient cat turds that relentlessly soil this hellish carpet. Never touch the floor with your skin. Even if you slip in a massive puddle of fresh chaw juice, you must defy all laws of physics in order to save yourself.

The Culprit: The 52 Inch Projection Screen TV In The Living Room

"Bet ya' never saw a TV this BIG, huh?"

The hallmark of all white trash houses: the giant TV that sits in the living room that seems to cost more than everything else in the house combined. Or it did at the time they bought that monstrosity of a TV, which is usually around the late 80′s. Any newer TV will usually be rented from the local Rent-A-Center for the price of 300 dollars a month – twice the cost of the rent, or any food being purchased. While the owners of the TV will readily point out just how awesome the TV is because of its aircraft carrier-like size, it is usually accompanied by 1/3 of the screen being covered with a giant green blob that no longer receives any other color. Or a crack that spans the entire screen and gives you a migraine headache if you stare at it for more than two minutes. The speakers probably also sound as if they blew out fifteen years ago when Grampa Joe got drunk, turned that fucker on CMT, and could not live any longer without hearing a Randy Travis video at around 140 decibels.

How to deal with it:

The viewing angle is probably in the negatives, so it’s best to not even try to watch it. Just maybe pretend to stare in its general direction, reacting when others react. Also, don’t get too close, as a family of mice have probably long since claimed the innards of the TV as their home. Bonus points if the TV is broken, and is currently being used as a stand for a much smaller, working TV.

The Culprit: That Old Guy That Never Gets Out Of The Bed/Chair

"DON'T TOUCH MAH JUG"

The tragedy of aging is usually too much for the white trash families to deal with in any sort of well-meaning way. Instead, most of them answer the extremes of aging family members by putting them in a bed or a chair, giving them a spittin’ can, and then checking to see if they’re still alive every few days. These poor old people can sit or lay unattended for days on end without so much as a holler in their direction. They become terribly lonely, and quickly become the most bitter and unpleasant beings on Earth. The main problem this presents is that anyone who accidentally wanders into the room where they are being kept is instantly treated to the very visage of death itself. The sudden regret of what you just did comes fast as the old person notices you and attempts to sit up to speak to you out of their cancerous neck hole. Things quickly get worse if you are an adolescent, as Grampa has just found a new servant that will do anything for him out of sheer fear. And if they don’t do it, he’s got a spittin’ can he can trick them into thinking is a can of sody pop.

How to deal with it:

Before you enter, ask if any family members are bed-ridden. It is forward and kind of rude, but it will at least avoid any unpleasantries later, like running out of the house in a special kind of traumatic horror. If you do however stumble onto them, quickly retreat before Death’s grip comes upon you. When you are faced with their appearance, attitude, smell, you may find yourself plunging into your own kind of depression as you grapple with your OWN mortality, although they will only be speaking of their own. Try to focus on a neutral object, if you can find one. No not the bedpan bucket, no not the overflowing ashtrays, no not the faded photos they have scattered around the on the tables and on top of the blanket that is threadbare and patched. Try maybe focusing on the color of a thing, if nothing else. You must not allow this old person to suck out your will to live. Better than even getting into that situation, however: just tell your kid to go in there instead to “Play with Grandpa.” Remember, the more they cry, the faster they’ll move out when they turn 18.

The Culprit: Furniture

If you stare too long, the anxiety of actually sitting on it will only get worse

A staple of any fine white trash home is the dirty assed couch, and matching chair. Usually featuring huge, fake wooden arms adorned with a velvety fabric that has long since not felt like anything close to velvet, and now instead feels as if someone has covered the entire chair with semen and let it dry. Once you have scraped the skin off your arm by accidentally rubbing up against it, you’ll notice the lovely floral pattern that covers the entire thing. Usually consisting of dark brown colors that are only made worse by years of food stains that have found their way into the furniture. Often, a certain pet has claimed it as a home, and has decided to show that to everyone by pissing on it every day for ten years straight. Somehow though, it never really stopped the rest of the family from sitting in it even though it is hissin’ and growlin’ and pissin’ all over them whenever they draw near.

How to deal with it:

Stay away. If the room has anything else that can be sat upon, use it instead. Getting up after sitting on that furniture usually leaves you with an unclean feeling only rivaled by having sex with a transvestite in the bed of a dried out river in a local park. Also don’t look underneath it. For all that is holy to you, do not look underneath it.

The Culprit: The Bathroom

Just run

If for some reason you lose control of your bowels while visiting, you may need to make your way into the bathroom. You’ll quickly realize your mistake as you notice a room so foul that even homeless people would wretch in terror upon seeing it. Sinks covered with layer upon layers of shaving cream scum, and other such things that were never properly cleaned off. Now looking more like the layers of the Earth’s crust, with the lowest parts featuring a molded yellow color that would make a smoker’s lung feel good about itself. Looking to the right reveals the sixth layer of hell as you notice a bathtub straight from Beelzebub’s personal bathroom. Rings of stain that have never and will never come off. Ancient wash cloths that the owner’s family has been using to wash themselves for several generations. A showerhead that has not worked in ten years, and has now become the world’s second largest deposit of hardened lime. Should you even attempt to turn it on, it will make the sound of sixty harpies dying in unison. It is also unavoidable to not notice the epic wad of pubic hair that lies in wait at the drain. Six years old and going strong. Held together by semen, old hair ties, and the longest strand of back hair ever shaved off in the shower. It is terror redefined.

How to deal with it:

The word “hover” has never applied more. Also, don’t worry about flushing. No one else likely has in the last three years either. In fact, if you tried, you would probably just invite a toilet overflowing that would rival the Great Flood itself. Only this time, God would have no mercy and all would perish. Or at least WISH to perish.

The Culprit: The Kitchen

Food is the least of your worries

Should your adventure continue into the kitchen, you can bet you’ll instantly regret eating anything you may have had beforehand. Usually the sink alone will be home to at least several hundred pots, pans, and dishes that haven’t been cleaned in weeks, possibly even months. The owner will usually apologize, or offer an excuse for it all. Usually saying that every time they go to clean them, something comes up. That something is usually just a rerun of Dukes of Hazzard, or something as common as a meth binge. When the time does come to wash a dish off for company coming over, cold water will be poured on them from a faucet that has long since forgotten what hot water is, with the hope of washing off the majority of a dinner eaten on it three weeks ago. Making the mistake of opening the refrigerator will trigger a non-stop gag reflex thanks to food that reached an expiration date around the time the first war on Iraq was coming to an end. A bucket of KFC occupies one space, but looking in it for any sort of comfort will usually reveal that it has been sitting there so long that any chicken parts left inside has now began to actually grow its appendages back in an effort to escape the Colonel’s eternal prison.

How To Deal With It:

Try to eat as little as possible that actually comes from the kitchen. Instead, focus on food that has been cooked on a grill, or an open fire. At least then you are fully aware that all the diseases and parasites have been cooked off of your food. The food from the kitchen should be avoided like the plague. Actually, just don’t even go into the kitchen. It’s for the best.

The Culprit: Pets

It's best not to touch them

While visiting the home, you will certainly encounter dogs, cats, ferrets, iguanas, and probably some turtles and baby alligators. Most of these families will have a veritable pet shop worth of animals “for the younguns.” In an effort to keep the children occupied and away from the TV so they won’t be bawling to watch what THEY wanna watch, heaps of kittens and puppies will be given to them. Of course the little animals either grow up and get ugly from the parasites and diseases they’ve picked up, or die from neglect or abuse, so then more free animals are located and brought in. They are never fixed, so they often deliver more pets in a cyclical fashion, and dear god they are never trained. Occasionally, a fat housewife type will have a cluster of small dogs that she will treat better than her own children. You can bet that these little dogs will be aggressive and spoiled and either biting or humping your leg no matter how much you resist.

How To Deal With It:

For a large majority of the pets, you won’t have to worry about interaction, as they are borderline feral and terrified of all humans. If some appear friendly/too sick to get away, think twice about petting them. External parasites might get on you, and internal parasites might travel into you. There is also a chance that you may find a particularly pathetic specimen that inspires your love and pity and you will want to save it. Expect to shell out more than $75 for the chance, as these white trash folk are excellent at swindling their friends, neighbors, and relatives, even though they are generally terrible at holding down a steady job. If you encounter a pampered indoor animal, try your best to stay away from it or else you will receive a series of nasty bites which will be described as adorable and nothing to whine like a faggot over.

That should be more than enough to get you through a few hours at a white trash house. If anything else comes up that wasn’t covered above, simply try to use common sense. After all, common sense – along with the ability to differentiate between living in a clean house and a squalid pit – is what separates you from these fine people. Just remember, this is their chosen lifestyle, so it may not be appropriate to offer up advice on how not to be disgusting. Usually the best thing to do is to just grit your teeth and bear it, and realize that life in the ghetto just isn’t the same as everywhere else. With that in mind, you should be able to get through an evening cookout without wanting to scream too much.

And if you find you can’t, you can always go play with the dogs.