The trailer is a single wide affair, with smoky dreams of a palatial spatial double wide on the horizon, but only if they had the winning lottery ticket to buy it with, or lay down a down payment, or get a job that wouldn't mean they had to uproot, sell the trailer and move to Nacadoches where it's hot and sticky, with snakes, armadillo's, alligators and bugs that haven't yet been identified by the entomologists for categorization to be studied in some university in some far off country whose name is quite foreign and unpronounceable, but surely, the people are friendly.
These flamingo's on the lawn, some with mardi gras beads wrapped around their plastic necks, made in China no doubt by Indonesians imported from their homeland. They journeyed all the way from far away, landed for sale at the RV store off Exit 52 and ended up in the yard in the trailer park, where there lives a dog with three legs who sleeps under the porch all day and whose name is Tripod, and can only these days limp after a rabbit he feels like chasing, and the rabbit knows it, but plays the game anyway for his old friend who lost a leg to a drunk driver going well over the speed limit and in the ensuing crash killed himself. Tripod lost a leg in the battle, but not the war, and he knows the rabbit won't run fast, and the rabbit knows that Tripod has no intention of catching him.
Now..those pink flamingo's...or punk flamingo's...better yet pink punks on sticks to go with those white punks on dope. The origin of the flaming pinko flamingo as lawn decor for the trashed of white has been shrouded in trailer park mystery, but may have something to do with the Virgin Mary statuary of the Catholic cadre, or the negro Lawn Jockey that was the great white hope of front lawn adornment and bizarre source of amusement in a by gone era of plantations.
Roman emperors had their chariots of fire, these beasts were real drag queen coliseum drag strip racers from gladiator hell. Today, the Recreational Vehicle is the prefered chariot of the upwardly mobile trailer parker. Hell, it's self contaned and it's got wheels!! It can park seductively next to another one of it's own vehicular kind, or it can cross the line, and the mix it up inter-racially if vehicles are capable of doing that, with those of another trailer race, creed and breed, for example a hot and steamy flirtatious fifth wheel or one of those sexy aluminum ass shakin' Airstreams that can cause an immediate erection, no disfunction here, for even the smallest teardrop drop dead trailer.
In the protocol of the RV park, it's a customary ritual (similar in importance to the rite of human sacrifice to hidden primitive tribes deep in the rain forest of the Amazon, or deep within a crater on the moon) to hang out, string out the paper lanterns, strung out like a collapsed veined junkie. The lanterns serve as a beacon, one if by land, two if by sea, but look at me. It's a preening procedure, a strutting cock attempting to attract a female mate, Mick jagger all over the stage, hands on hips, daring you, but it's all a euphemism. In reality, it's the trailerites themselved hanging out a not so secret code..."see, we're as tacky as you" and eventually like moths to a light, they come, two by two, a Noah's ark of Arkie's and Okie's, and soon the conversation intensifies to stories about traveling through the southwest as snowbirds will do and the latest technology in mobile living.
The new GPS system, the sound system, the satellite dish, yeah, hell yeah, all that techonology at your fingertips..nice to get away from it all, eh? But first you have to wean yourself from civilization, like an addict kicking a habit that had him or her shooting up with a wireless hypodermic needle trying to get a signal and a buzz, and there's nothing on the tube but paid programming for Kaboom by a dead cocaine head whose commercials they still run and a that damn Dyson ball vacuum that can do everything but give a decent British blow job, and it's all on cable, that I still have to pay for...but at least I can dream of what the Dyson might be capable of if in the right hands!
"We only got the satellite dish so's we don't miss NASCAR and the five hour marathon of Billy the Exterminator and Swamp People and Swamp Loggers and Ice Road Truckers the narrated history of Hillbillies on History and moonshine and the 25th Anniversary of "Deliverance" with some real pants dropping pig squealing action that would make Boss Hogg crack a smile, and if the girl next door was Marshall Tucker's sister, it's only incest and Tucker would Fuck 'er, and tomorrow I get my mullet trimmed so I look good when I take my second cousin to the dance down at the fire station where they have large, long powerful hoses (so the firemen will tell you!) to put out any fires that may flare up. "Little Jeannie flunked math but passed Incest 101 with flying colors doing a thesis on Jerry Lee Lewis and Myra, and all thanks to a little tutoring by Lucius Thibideau, a cousin once removed, to jail at first, then state prison for child molestation. Little Jeannie still writes him faithfully, and carries his baby.
White trash ain't bad, don't get me wrong. I have pink flamingo's that I swear Billy the Exterminator would want to rid my yard of, and quite honestly living in the land of wine, with more high and mighty snob appeal than anything else, I would much prefer to party with any of the down to earth, hard working Swamp People. Troy, Bruce, TJ, hell, even Willie! Now those two Guist brothers might be scary at first but...you only live once and I had never been skinned alive and eaten before so it would give me something else to write about. So lets have three cheers for white trash! There's a little bit in all of us, and that ain't bad...dammit, it's downright American!