Top 10 White Trash USA Towns listed the top white trash towns in the USA.

I haven’t lived in any of them, although I’ve been to several.

Fall River, Mass. is only forty miles from the South Shore.

A methopolis leading the Bay State in assaults, welfare claims, and crime.

It wasn’t that bad in the 1960s, but Fall River is only # 2.

1. )Portsmouth, Ohio is another meth ghetto.

2. )Fall River, Massachusetts has winter on its side.

3.)Sedalia, Missouri has the Ozarks Fair for crackers and grits.

4.) Pensacola, Florida girls sport house arrest anklets.

And meth beach brawls.

5.) Morristown, Tennessee, where meth RVs are fun.

6.) Elkhart, Indiana likes meth RVs too.

7.) Asheboro, North Carolina, where meth tow trucks rule.

8.) Rockford, Illinois – I’ve been there.

The town center was a ghost town.

9.) Canton, Ohio – nothing says white trash better than the flag of the slave states.

10.) Jackson, Michigan loves Kid Rock, but truthfully white trash is just another downtrodden minority taught to be ignorant by the neglect of the ruling class.

There are good people everywhere.

Even in white trash ghettos.


Back in the late 50s my Irish grandmother took my older brother and me for a monthly visit to downtown Boston. We left her house in Jamaica Plains and rode the trolley into Boylston Street. The El from Forest Hills to Washington Street was quicker, but Nana preferred the trolley. My late grandfather had driven them out of Forest Hills. Once on Washington Street she headed to St. Anthony’s Shrine for a ritual of lighting candles. The priest on duty heard her confessions. Her penance was five Hail Mary’s and one Our Father. Nana asked if we had been good boys. We nodded yes. At six and seven Frunka and I were too young to have broken any of the serious Commandments, especially since my childhood atheism was a secret to my family and friends.

Next stop was WT Grant for hot dogs and then we went over to the Orpheum Theater.

Nana liked handsome movie stars and she was particularly partial to Robert Mitchum. THUNDER ROAD was a hit in May 1958. The actor played a Korea war veteran running moonshine through the hills of Kentucky. A hot-rodded 1951 Ford, illegal whiskey, hillbilly gangsters, and a rocking title song.

“Don’t tell your mother about us seeing this movie.” Her accent was pure County Mayo.

“No, Nana.”

Neither of us were brought up to be rat finks.

We sat in the darkened theater and heard the rocking title song.


And there was thunder, thunder over Thunder Road
Thunder was his engine, and white lightning was his load
There was moonshine, moonshine to quench the Devil’s thirst
The law they swore they’d get him, but the Devil got him first.

We left the theater singing the chorus. Nana warned us not to sing it in front of my mother.

“She doesn’t like whiskey.”

Years later I heard from my aunt that Nana had brewed whiskey and beer during Prohibition. Our Irish blood was true to our devotion to spirits. My juvenile encounters with alcohol were restricted to beer bought by the town bum, Red Tate, and hard liquor siphoned from our parents’ bottles. My next door neighbor and I rationalized this abasement of vodka saved the adults from drunken misbehavior.

Moonshine remained beyond our reach.

Only white trash drank ‘busthead’.

In 1970 I was attending BC. My college friends from the South extolled the virtues of ‘popskull’. Al Wincent and Hank Watson drove taxi together for Checker Cab in Boston. We were hippies, but liked to finish the night’s work waiting for the go-go dancers from the Combat Zone.

One night a blonde from Tennessee invited us to her apartment in the South End. We drank distilled alcohol from a jug. Its strength content was near-lethal, but Al slurred, “It might kick you in the head, but it doesn’t have the light. I can’t explain something you can’t touch unless it’s in your hands. Once you taste it, nothing else will taste like it.”

I accepted his explanation and in the summer of 1971 I hitchhiked to Virginia from Boston. The trip took 7 hours from Mass. Ave. to the Tap o Keg in Georgetown. Al was waiting for me. It was almost 1am, but the bars along Wisconsin Avenue stayed open until 4. The southern girls were friendly to long-hairs. A red-headed coed from hill country knew where to get some ‘shine. Her name was Billy.

Al made a call from the payphone and twenty minutes later we met a thick-tongued grit in a alley. He was standing next to a rusted Ford pick-up.

“You ain’t no revenuer?” His accent was Appalachian. He smelled like his burly body had been dipped in medicine. A .38 was in his waist.

“Jimbo, put away that gun. He ain’t no police.” Billy laughed at his accusation, but I understood his concern. The federal government frowned on the sale of untaxed alcohol.

“$15 for three.” Jimbo pulled a tarp off a crate in the flatbed loaded with clear glass jars. Al cracked one open.

“Smells like good shine. Watch.” Al lit a match to the liquid. A blue flame. “Good color. Won’t make you go blind.”

“That’s right.” Jimbo finished the transaction with the speed of a snake needing to take a piss. He drove away with a rumble. The V-8 under the hood was not stock.

“Here’s to ‘shine.” Al chugged a sip. His face went sour and then his body shuddered with spasms to every muscle. “Now that’s ‘shine.”

He handed me the open jar. I offered some to Billy. She waved it away.

“Ladies don’t drink ‘shine. It makes them crazy. You go right ahead.”

I brought the jar to my lips. Mountain Dew wasn’t made for sipping. I pour a good swallow down my gullet. White lightning splashed down my gullet and flashed against my spine.

“Now I understand.”

“I thought you would.” Al toasted my conversion to ‘shine.

Billy accompanied us through the night. She felt responsible for the two of us. The last thing I remembered was singing the chorus to THUNDER ROAD over and over until it faded to a mumbled lullaby. Morning came ten hours too early. I was in a strange bed in a woman’s room.

Al lay on the floor.

“How you feeling?” Billy lay next to me. She was older than us by a few years. 22 to our 19.

“Okay.” My hangover was survivable and I sat up in bed. There were no spins. “Did we drink it all?”

“Every last drop.” She pointed to the empty jar by Al. He looked comfortable in that position. “Your friend made sure of that. You feel like some breakfast.”

“Yeah, that sounds good.”

How about some bacon, fried eggs, and grits.”

A southern wake-up dish.

“Sounds even better.”

I was south of the Mason-Dixon line. My breath tasted of ‘shine. Billy’s accent was a drawl. Moonshine was good, then again I always knew it was, because like my Nana I liked Robert Mitchum too and he was a good ole boy.

To hear THUNDER ROAD by Robert Mitchum, please go to this URL;

You Bet I Would # 4

A little white trash with that lap dance?

She ain’t no cheerleader.

om/_WAIyd-SgW9A/TTTFGDog6iI/AAAAAAAAF44/0A3Pu_fJDHM/s320/10.jpg” border=”0″ alt=””id=”BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5563288147554527778″ />
A little white trash with that lap dance?

She ain’t no cheerleader.

White Trash Fairy Tale

Traditionally there are only three ways to get rich; birth, marriage, or theft.

Anne Nichole Smith, Texas sex bomb, stepped off the runway of a strip club into popular culture by wedding an admiring oil tycoon. Their sixty-three year age difference evoked cries of gold-digger from the billionaire’s family. That accusation might have been true, but the old man certainly looked happy in all the photos of them together and upon his death his lawyers announced that Anne Nicole Smith had been bequeathed a third of his fortune.

This rags to riches fairy tale was denied a happy ending by her in-laws. They contested the last testament with the traditional viciousness of white rich people. $300 million was a fortune to give a buxom blonde high-school dropout. I was pulling for the blonde heiress, but each week her name tarnished in the tabloids by another scandal. The in-laws were playing for ‘winner takes all’.

Nothing those scandal sheets liked better than to see someone from the lower class fall back to white trash earth.

First her son died of a drug overdose and then Anna Nicole Smith herself was found dead of a drug overdose administered by her ‘doctor’. All the drugs were legal. She left a daughter and the US Federal Court has decreed that the deceased starlet’s young girl will never see any of the money left to her by the tycoon, proving once more that the rich stay rich and the poor get dead.

Her daughter should be happy to be alive.

The only question is for how long.

White Trash Test

The Halloween pumpkin on your front porch has more teeth than your spouse.

You let your twelve-year-old daughter smoke at the table in front of her kids.

You’ve been married three times and still have the same in-laws.

You think a woman who is “out of your league” bowls on a different night.

Jack Daniel’s makes your list of “Most Admired People.”

You think Genitalia is an Italian airline.

You wonder how gas stations keep their restrooms so clean.

Someone in your family died right after saying “Hey, y’all watch this!”

Your Junior/Senior prom had a daycare.

You lit a match in the bathroom and your house exploded right off its wheels.

The bluebook value of your truck goes up and down, depending on how much gas it has in it.

Ya’ can’t git married to yer sweetheart ’cause there’s a dang law against it.

You think loading the dishwasher means getting your wife drunk.

Your toilet paper has page numbers on it.