The White-Trash End-Of Summer-Bash

This passing Saturday I had the good fortune to attend my friend Kellie's house party dedicated to the, shall we say, "less ambitious" in regards to fashion and class. The event (found in the title of this blog) brought again to life the celebrated lifestyle of the Trailer Park Boys that littered society around 5 years ago at the height of the Canadian tv show's popularity. While it has remained a popular show and still impacts many Canadians daily, apparently, this was a one-night-only dose. There were mullet wigs, bras hanging from clotheslines strung across the kitchen and living room, paper plates that would serve more adequately as napkins, and the tallest beer cans within the Canadian border (Boxer, apparently). I was attired in freshly slit-kneed jeans, a 'vintage' denim jacket that I was frequently seen in back at Wesmor High School in Prince Albert, an offsetting pair of aviator shades to add mysteriousness to the look, and to top it off a shiny hairstyle slicked back and held more than firmly with at least a half cup of "styling product". On the kitchen counters was an arsenal of macaroni salad, potato salad, and freshly husked corn cobs, to pair with whatever miscellaneous mystery meat everybody brought for their own barbecuing indulgence. Image and menu aside, the first priority of mine was to concoct the most befitting country song/white trash anthem/musical joke in honor and celebration of the occasion. Here she be :O)

THE OLD FRONT PORCH

I was drunk driving into town one day
The old Parisienne is the only way
Ever since Mom's Sunfire up'n'died
Mom owns a diner with a salon in the back
Where you can get yer nails and hair done in black
And at the same time get yer chicken done deep fried

Patio lanterns, And dust on all the bottles
Never ever being alone
Never doing any wrong, Just playing those mean old country songs
On the old front porch at home

Got to the diner in time for lunch
Some cold hot dogs'n'KD to munch
Planning Friday night with old Delphis and Clem
Pick up some whiskey and some lemonade
Then hit the Auto Salvage with a raid
Then steal some Christmas lights from Wal-Mart and hang them

Patio lanterns, And dust on all the bottles
Never ever being alone
Never doing any wrong, Just playing those mean old country songs
On the old front porch at home

Well Mom's old diner burned down last night
Left the curling iron by the pilot light
And the town declared a public holiday
Collected insurance and so next year
I'll steal Mom a '98 Cavalier
From the Auto Salvage and be on my way

Patio lanterns, And dust on all the bottles
Never ever being alone
Never doing any wrong, Just playing those mean old country songs
On the old front porch at home

As you can imagine, this was an instant hit.

The party goers eventually 'wrastled' an old dresser into the backyard with a sledge hammer ready to beat it into a very effective firewood pile. With some help from my geetar playing compatriot Ryan, we proceeded to entertain the firepit drunks well into the night. At around 1 am or thereabouts half of the crowd took a cab down to the ideal destination for a night like this; the Longbranch (the local country western bar). I opted out of that cab ride, knowing full well the amount of teeth I had at that point in the night could easily be chiseled down to half simply by setting foot in that bar... especially looking like I'd just stepped out of a time machine from Kentucky in 1976. A drunk redneck starting a fight at the Longbranch isn't that hard to predict. So I landed a spot on Kellie's couch to crash for the night and later the next day, after quite the cleanup operation and a lunch at Original Joe's that only got nibbled at, I checked out the famed "banjo bowl" football game between our Saskatchewan Roughriders and neighboring province Manitoba's Winnipeg Blue Bombers. The banjo bowl has, for about a decade now, been the sequel to the meeting between the two teams on Labour Day. If both provinces were to go without these two games each summer, I think the chaos would be worse than the regular bodypainting and vehicle-torturing that seems to cling to these two teams like a bad cold. It seemed like a fitting end to the weekend that was shrouded in a very comfortable trashy aura.

Plenty more where that came from, I'm sure. It may not be until next summer though. Slit-kneed jeans are a little chilly around here 8 months of the year. Cheers readers!