A Cannibals Confession – Urban White Trash: The Wonder Woodie

I’m becoming that which I’ve always parodied, the pale skin on the back of my neck has a rosy red glow radiating from beneath its surface and though I don’t quite sit on the porch in my underpants (yet) – I’m becoming world weary white trash. After a night of pint pounding on my day off, I awoke at my pals place (SAGA - did you steal my boxers?). He was still passed out on the couch downstairs, so I logged onto his computer to entertain myself until he arose to fetch breakfast for me – I’m his meat eating mentor - he’s my people eating protégé – I awaited for him to serve me a Danish or some leftover Chinese… also preferably female. Breakfast never appeared, so on the web I went, I considered saying “hi” to you folks, but words were weak at the time… grunting was communication of choice (further proof of my affliction).

I was looking at used El Camino’s for sale in the local area… a back yard accessory for our new home, I must be stopped. I don’t know the first thing about restoring an old vehicle – but I’d like nothing more than to prop an old Galaxy 500 up on cinder blocks, pull lint from my belly button, drink beer and babble on about the lovely ladies of lore – maybe have some rockabilly in the background for good measure. I briefly consider taking my cannibal cranium to the emergency room to have this trashy tumor removed, have my neck dyed whiter or perchance have my seed wiped from the earth all together.

When KITE from the No Fun Club commented on the monkey man post a few days back he mentioned that the primate in question should endure a “liquid plumb’r enema” – “double if he owns a Camero”. I had better not mention that I looked at one of those as well. I guess I won’t be asking for his help, nor will I allow him to writhe around on the hood like Tawny Kitaen from the Whitesnake videos. Go fly a Kite!

The El Camino isn’t my dream car either, it’s just tacky enough to get a laugh, get some attention and yet kitschy enough to drive your dog to the park in and not have her leap to her death for fear of public ridicule by the other puppies (as an added bonus - I like to embarrass the wife, gives me the giggles). I want a Woodie. No, I’m not in need fist loads of Viagra just yet, I want an old school vintage 1940’s Ford Woodie Wagon – the stereotypical surfboard optional – but ultimately required in time to make winter driving all the more humorous for all involved. I’ve also been afflicted with an undying love of Tiki culture, the combination of the two will likely ensure my spot in the cheese-please hall of fame, so I’ll see you all there (I’ll have a Kapu-Kai waiting for you). If my dream ever rolls over white, maybe I’ll paint a nice phallic Tiki on the hood with “Got Wood?” written beneath it. That’ll bring down the property value.

Is it my retro-sensibilities shining through? Is it my insatiable need to draw attention to myself? Perhaps I've eaten some bad meat. Should I just sell the new house, embrace the inevitable, don a greasy white tank top and move to the trailer park court claiming my rightful place upon its porcelain throne? For all I know the vehicle would just sit in the yard rusting away like a poor wooden orphan – left to the northern elements, pining for the bikini clad beach babe who sat in the passenger seat but thirty some odd years ago. If cars could commit suicide, this one would surely be a candidate - my Woebegone Woodie. Maybe I should just purchase a hot tub instead, that way when the neighbors look into our backyard, they wouldn't see an abandoned vehicle, they’ll get an eye full of my pale white arse streaking across the lawn, maybe I should petition them to see what would be worse.

iPod played "Southern Culture on the Skids - Doublewide" while posting