White Trash and random musings

Yeah, I know. I've been slacking, so now, like a good little boy, I'm checking in.

House update

Like you really care... Signed. Closing Monday. Move in the 4th. Rinse and repeat.

White Trash

So, last night the Pieman made his debut at Ms. Arroz's annual White Trash Bash, which is a delightful homage to the other side of the tracks.

The WTB had been scheduled originally to occur on one of the warm evenings of August (and the sweat on our brows would've added a nice touch) but, due to factors beyond the control of our hostess, it was postponed until this weekend.

The WTB is, as you may have guessed, a party where you can go and dress all goofy and pretend you are one of those relatives from your family reunion who you see only once a year and spend the rest of your time avoiding. The rules for the Bash are simple:

1. No political correctness allowed. You must be unapologetic in your stereotyping.
2. Noone's allowed at the party without something trashy on their person. Violators will be roundly heckled.
3. Teeth are optional.

Personally, I've been looking forward to this party. My wife has, too, but she neglected to go shopping for her WT outfit prior to the last minute. For my wife, not being ready at the last minute forces her into instant paralysis (was always fun while she was in college with a project due the next morning, she would always have put it off to the last minute, then found herself unable to do it). She sat on our rocking chair, bundled in a blanket (more for security than warmth) and, two hours before time to leave, fretted over the fact that she still needed to nap (she'd had a very long day at work), shower, and couldn't possibly get an outfit, but further couldn't possibly go without one, and finally couldn't possibly let me down by not going. A fine how-do-you-do.

Thank God for Goodwill.

My wife sent me on a mission to salvage our night. "Get me a t-shirt, a belt, and a gawdy piece of jewelry."

Perfect, I thought. I've been given carte blanche to trashify The Missus.

Goodwill is within walking distance of my current abode (which I didn't know until The Missus dispatched me to it), but given my time constraints, I drove. Once there, I was in hog heaven for this party.

Which isn't to put down Goodwill. As my friend Zack pointed out, most of the t-shirts there look like something I would own. I saw several, in fact, that I nearly bought. However, that would have been off-mission, and was therefore taboo.

My point is more that, while Goodwill has many useful items, there is enough variety in its offerings that you are able to find the stuff that some people with poor taste have given to benefit those who can't afford to exercise their own better taste.

I accomplished my mission in short order, and returned home triumphantly to bestow my gifts upon my wife. A horrendous belt, a gawdy bauble for her neck, and a t-shirt with disgusting colors celebrating pink flamingos.

Coupled with my old high school letterman's jacket (complete with numerals showing it to be 12 years young), she looked absolutely trashalicious.

Sad to say she was beat for trash-master, however, by Ms. Arroz, who showed up in a cheap wedding dress with a deflated exercise ball duct-taped to her belly, Hamm's in hand and cigaretted perched on her lips, portraying the ultimate in WT culture -- the shotgun wedding.

Well played.

So, it was a good night.

Oh, and by the way, JLowe took second place for the "Booty Hunter" t-shirt. But that's another story for another time.

Florida

So, is it just me, or do you have to be a moron to move to Florida?

I first started forming this opinion while watching Real World: Miami. That show, in a few episodes, undid all the cool in my mind that Miami Vice had spun back in the 80's. Once I realized that Miami wasn't all pastel-clad, stubbly cops with pet alligators and Ferrari's, my disillusionment soured me on the notion of Florida life. After that, the 1990's brought the spate of crimes against tourists in Dade County, which convinced me that the only thing worse than being a reality-TV participant in Florida was just passing through.

And now, courtesy of the Drudge Report comes this picture:

Really, I give up. Why would anyone voluntarily subject themselves to Florida? Sure, it's all sunny and nice every now and again, but after about the hundredth hurricane in the last 3 years, you'd think people would avail themselves of the opportunity not to come back from one of these forced evacuations. But, no, they keep coming back and trying to rebuild on the soaking wet remains of what used to be, only to get washed away again the next year. And, unbelievably, other people keep joining them.

Ecch. The retardation inherent in the human condition is enough to make me want to cry.

So, these are the thoughts that fill my mind when I'm not sitting down to blog all the time. To some extent, maybe blogging less would be a good thing, because I'm more productive when I do finally sit down after having a day or two to think of stupid stuff.

But then I couldn't give you the dailty recap on my home acquisition. What fun would that be?

So I leave you now, as always, to play X-Box. However, The Missus is out tomorrow night on a business roadie, so I imagine I'll dredge up something to dazzle you with come Tuesday evening. If you care to read it,

Catch ya later.