Earlier this year I got an Evite to a “white-trash party.” I could tell these partiers would be trouble by what was written in the Evite: “We have spoken with the bus drivers and they remember us from last year. We have been told that we were ‘fucking crazy last year’ and that two of the drivers almost didn’t take the job. Yikes. That being said, there will be ZERO TOLERANCE for people fucking with the drivers or buses. This includes, but is not limited to, throwing things at or from the buses — and urinating anywhere other than your pants. Keep yourself in check.”
Why would buses be necessary at a party? Well, in true white-trash fashion, they were going to a monster-truck rally at Qualcomm Stadium.
As I drove up to the park in Clairemont where they were gathered, I heard a guy shouting through a bullhorn, which was followed by the crowd of hundreds — many of them in flannel shirts — yelling.
As I got closer, I heard the guy with the bullhorn yell, “When I say ‘monster,’ you say ‘truck’!” And when he said “monster,” the crowd yelled “truck.” This went on and on.
A girl standing next to me had a shirt that read “My boyfriend was a dirtybike.” A woman walked by with a shirt that read “Dirt Bird.”
I thought I saw a guy in a shirt that read “Jesus is my homeboy,” but when he got closer, I saw that it said “George Bush is my homeboy.”
There were a number of X-rated T-shirts. One woman with a big chest who wore a sexually suggestive shirt was being followed by a guy who wouldn’t stop hitting on her. At one point he said, “Come on, let’s go make out in the bushes. It’s a party. That’s what people do at parties.” She replied, “Yeah, well, people may do that at parties, but I’m not going to do that with you.” He put his head down and looked hurt. He looked up a few seconds later and asked, “Will you make out with her?”
Several people had blackened their teeth, and a few people had grills on their grins — those gold things rappers put over their front teeth, not the things you cook hamburgers on. Though they did have a barbecue grill there cooking up food.
An Asian guy with messed-up hair and a sweater that didn’t fit walked by, and my girlfriend said, “Hey, this is funny: I’ve seen a few Asian people here and a few other ethnicities...yet, this is a white-trash party.” Someone overheard this and said, “Well, everyone is something else, aren’t they? Think about it. What does it even mean to be white? People are calling Barack Obama black. That’s fine, but he’s also half white. Yet, nobody is calling him white. They all call him black. So, when people say someone is ‘white trash,’ they don’t necessarily mean they are Caucasian. They just mean they’re sitting in a trailer, picking their toenails, and listening to Jeff Foxworthy.” A person standing nearby took offense: “Hey, I like Jeff Foxworthy!”
Another Asian guy had a huge handlebar mustache. I said, “He looks like that character in Monopoly.” My girlfriend said, “I think he looks more like the character from Donkey Kong.”
One guy jumped up on a picnic table and held open a Playboy centerfold. A few people applauded. Another guy jumped onto the bench to get a closer look at it.
A guy walked by me with ripped-up jeans and a NASCAR shirt. I felt overdressed in my old Tom Petty T-shirt and ESPN cap.
I went over to check out the band that was playing. They were called the High Grass Rollers, and they played fast-paced bluegrass tunes on stand-up bass, guitar, and banjo.
A guy calling himself Dr. Kill-A-Brew was the hooligan with the bullhorn. He would occasionally jump onto the park bench and make announcements. When the band was taking a break, he got everyone involved in a sing-along to “Bad Case of Loving You.”
And speaking of bad cases, they had several cases of Pabst Blue Ribbon. Guys walked around passing it out. There was a huge chair made out of old beer cartons, which many people were taking pictures in.
A few people were smoking pot, so I decided to light up a cigar. I know there’s a smoking ban in parks, but I figured that only applies when you’re dealing with families enjoying the park and facilities. Although, as loud as this party was getting, I figured it was only a matter of time before the police rolled up.
About 80 percent of the crowd had sideburns. Some had them drawn on with marker. I asked one guy why he didn’t grow real ones. “I can’t grow facial hair. I wish I could. Hair just doesn’t grow on my chest or my face.” His friend said, “I can grow sideburns, but unless you’re old Elvis, who wants ‘em?”
A handful of women wore fake pregnant bellies. I overheard some of them say that they shouldn’t be drinking, right before they took a swig. One woman said, “Amy really is pregnant, and she’s not coming.”
One guy had a cast on his arm. I asked if he was wearing that for the white-trash theme. “Nah,” he said, “I actually broke my arm. I was jumping a homemade ramp on a motorcycle. I cleared the five trash cans my friends set up but crashed when I landed. It’s weird because when I hit the pavement, it didn’t even hurt. I guess it was all the adrenaline. You’d think I’d at least have some video of the jump for YouTube. But my friend who was filming...well, once I crashed, he dropped the camera to come and help me. It broke the camera and tape. I guess that’s kinda cool...nice of him and all. But, I would’ve rather we had it on video. Someone said we can fix the tape. I’m still looking into that.”
He may not have worn the cast to fit the white-trash theme, but his story sure did.