Well, gang, it's that time of year again. On Saturday, July 14, 2007, Oklahoma City was blessed with its fourth annual celebration of all things white trash. Praise Hoseanna. Now, personally, I've never even heard of the first three times they did this thing, but apparantly it's pretty important...well, maybe just important to those named Jedediah or Lurlene. (two lovely, classy names, by the way)
Actually, my friends and I just went out there to hear a local band play (Ocean, check 'em out. They're great), so we were quite dismayed at the $20 cover charge. Well, I wasn't so much dismayed as completely perplexed because, well, when has anything that has to do with any form of trash ever cost more than a dollar fiddy at most? But, apparantly, it was an all you can drink/eat type deal, so MAYBE $20 is reasonable. I didn't have to worry about it for too long, though, because my elite connections got me in for free. Again, hallelujah.
The only way I can describe my reaction to what I saw when I rounded the corner is to say that I felt like Charlie looks when he walks into the chocolate factory for the first time. It was a mixture of awe and wonder and disbelievablity and 'I want an oompa loompa/jello shot now!!!.' The shnozberries tasted like shnozberries! It was wonderous to behold. There was an array of scantily clad men and women. The ladies donned the ever-popular cut-off shorts with the visible thong in the back. And one gentleman in particular donned his own pair of wildly trashy cut-off shorts with an attached blow-up doll tied suggestively around his never you mind. Everyone looked like they had been sprayed down with a water hose after makin mud pies at the crick. Beer was the only known hair product. (the only KNOWN hair product...). And, honestly, beer is quite healthy for the tresses, so no wonder we don't mind having it lovingly thrown on us by a 300 pound dude named Earl. And, Earl, you should probably just spit on our eyelids too...it's good for fighting wrinkles.
But the highlight of my night has to be the dreamboat wearing the high school jersey with the number 2 on the back. Oh, number 2...you melted my heart. I'm telling you all, I have never seen such eloquent air guitar playing since that fateful summer I took a 6 hour road trip with my dad during his Guns N Roses phase. Bless it. What I loved about Number 2 was his wild uninhibited desire to display his dancing talents. Either that or he was just REALLY trying to air out his crotch. And, sweet Lord love him, I just wanted to pluck him up and collect him to my motherly bosom when he started to grind up on the sign in front of the stage that clearly read "Fight Menengitis." I'm afraid that's not how we fight it, son.
I'm fortunate that Number 2 came up and talked to me afterward. I really got a chance to see his heart and how much he loves the music. We congratulated him on his dance moves and he walked away feeling pretty proud of himself. And if I can make a difference in one po white trash life, well, then Jesus can come on and take me home. I've clearly done my job.
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