Do you ever find yourself amused (and amazed) by peoples' white trash antics?
Sure you do.
Southern Fried White Trash takes a humorous look at the unbelievable mindset of the national subculture (and Southern specialty) we affectionately refer to as "white trash."

Thursday, February 17, 2011

Looking for a WT Summer camp for your kids? Look no further.

Yes, there is a White Trash summer camp. I know this, because it's located right behind my house. The camp counselors (aka, white trash homeowners) train year-round for the day-long summer camps that are coming up. Better sign up now if you want to get a spot. The demand is obviously on the rise.

The camp leader is the man who lives in the house. He and his significant other have oh, I'd say, about 14 or 15 kids, judging by the noise. They have a race track in their back yard. Correction - their back yard is a race track. They zip around in a dirty circle, the engine of the little dirt bike whining under the strain and a giant dirt cloud hovering over the track, which conveniently backs up to our back yard, our pool, our patio, our little oasis we built in which to escape the world every now and then.

In the middle of the worn track is a giant jump-jump, one of those inflated bouncy things that makes kids lose their little minds. I have lost count of the number of 9-1-1 calls and ambulance rides those little screaming angels have had over the two years that this family has lived in that house.

The lead counselor, or Dad for most of the year, made himself known to us on a day about 2 years ago, one just as breathtakingly beautiful as the one we're enjoying today. Marc and I were out enjoying the pool, just the two of us (a rare occurrence back then). We were floating lazily on our rafts, trailing our fingers in the water and soaking up the golden sunshine. And then we heard it - the loudest, most protracted, most disgustingly heartfelt belch I have ever heard in my life. It sounded like it came straight from the movie "The Exorcist." It went on for a good 2 minutes, no interruptions, no pauses, no coming up for air. And then another, and then another. He belched "Dixie." He belched "Rocky Top." I felt sick to my stomach. After 4 or 5 solos by this neanderthal, we gave up and went inside. It's been downhill ever since.

The family has apparently gotten themselves a dog, or possibly several dogs, again judging by the noise. I know this because I have the windows open in the house today. This (one?) dog barks non-stop, for no apparent reason. Can dogs be OCD? If so, this one is. Apparently he's very smart though, because he escapes the confines of the "camp" 2 or 3 times a day. And Dad, rather than track the little bugger, simply stands in his back doorway (which faces my house) and bellows for the wayward cur.  Lovely. By the time the dog gets bored and wanders back home, he has marked every yard in OUR neighborhood, killed every flower and shrub with his deposits.

Dad shouts numerous commands at the dog when the dog lets himself back through the gate (think Cousin Eddie in "Christmas Vacation"). Either this dog has a great bag of tricks, or he's just way smarter than his master. I lean toward the latter.

Ahh well, as warm weather approaches and teases us with a few days like today, I am resigned to the certainty that this family is staying put, not moving any time soon. But I do recommend the house - the summer camp - if you want your kids to have a crash course in white-trashdom. I'd give it...4 1/2 stars. To give it 5, I'd have to witness a senseless brawl or hear gunshots. The season is not upon us yet, though, so stay tuned.

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