Wednesday, April 29, 2009

Avoiding the Confusion..

Greetings Y'all!

I had the absolute pleasure of spending four years living on the Eastern Plains of Colorado, where rednecks are commonly referred to as ranchers, cowboys and farmers. (Sometimes they are all three!) I had a small ranch (by comparison) of 160 acres out in the middle of nowhere 8 miles outside a small town called Rush, 50 miles east of Colorado Springs. Oddly enough, no one was in one there, but that's what the town was called. They had a great cafe , but nothing else besides the volunteer fire department.

My place was called the Lazy Flying BS Ranch. (True story. I even had a brand on register with the Department of Agriculture. Look it up.) And we raised beef steers and horses.

I loved that place.

My nearest neighbor was a mile away and I could pee off the front porch with impunity. No one ever called the authorities that I was exposing myself. Trust me, that's a difficult thing to explain in most neighborhoods.

Some of the other things I could do from my front porch were shoot prairie dogs or sight my guns in, scratch myself, and watch thunderstorms in Kansas. (I knew they were in Kansas because I had my laptop out and was checking the radar to see where it was.)

One of the things we had out on the prairie was a breed of folk that brings a bad name to rednecks everywhere; the dreaded Trailer Trash.

This was in evidence in all it's glory when my pal and best friend a horny farm girl could ever have, Ryan "Milk. Milk. Lemonade." Smith, came to visit. (Yes, he actually worked that into a conversation when the wife and I asked a local girl, who ranch sat for us when we had to go out of town, to join Ryan and us out for pizza. She thought it was funny and asked after he left for home when he was coming back. Go figure. She must have a soft spot for the depraved.)

So, I get a call from Ryan one Winter day letting me know he was coming to visit, was somewhere in Kansas, and wanted to know how to get to the ranch. Thank goodness there were only three roads heading that way and he happened to be on the right one. He made it to the ranch later that afternoon and we made plans for the weekend to go snowmobiling up on the Continental Divide.

The next day we headed out to Monarch Pass, way, way, way up in the mountains. On the way to the paved road we passed by a typical site marking the location of trailer trash, a single wide up on blocks in front of a double wide.

Ryan spotted it right away.

"Will ya look at that!", he said in amazement. "I'll tell ya, you can't hide money."

I nodded in agreement. What else could I say?

Trailer trash are the kind of folk who dress a lot like rednecks, but there are some fundamental differences.

Aside from living in trailers and trailer parks, trailer trash are usually the first ones to pick a bar fight, usually with a redneck. They usually get their butts kicked as they are often too drunk to land the first punch anyway.

Trailer trash think everything is of value and will try to sell it to you for far more than they got it for. Most of the time, it's trash to start with and they don't end up selling it at all, but choose instead to store it outside of their trailer. (There's no room inside.. ) That explains the various piles of assorted trash out side the trailer. Hence, the moniker "Trailer Trash".

Trailer trash are notorious dumpster drivers. (And you thought it was raccoons. A fact most people don't know is that an unshaven trailer trash often resembles a very large raccoon.) It's how they replenish their inventory.

Trailer trash women are easily plied with alcohol, even if they are married, and it is usually OK to bed the married ones without repercussion from their husbands if you send them home with a six-pack. Consequently, trailer trash men are easily distracted by beer and porn. If you are ever negatively confronted by a trailer trash man, hold up a porn magazine and a beer, offer it to them and you will have a friend for life. They might even offer you their woman if you do it often enough.

There is the occasional redneck who lives in a trailer park, but they usually hate their neighbors. Mostly because a trailer is the worst place to hang a trophy mount. There's just not enough room to hang a decent trophy rack without taking an eye out trying to get past to head to to the bathroom.

So, now that we've got that cleared up, Ryan and I had a great time snowmobiling. For those of you who have never gone, it's a lot like a combination of jet skiing and four-wheeling, but on snow. And, you wear more clothes.

We rented some sleds (That's what they call snowmobiles up there.) and a guide so we wouldn't get lost and went up riding around some old mines, through some old logging roads and just rode and rode having a great time enjoying the scenery. It truly is beautiful up in the high Rockies. At one point, Ryan was facing going down a very steep hill (Like 80 degrees straight down for about 100 yards.) and he just jumped off the back. Thank goodness he didn't lose his sled in the forest, but it made me laugh and laugh. He's much better at fishing, and that ain't saying much.

Well, that's all for now.

Go Hurricanes!



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