#poor white trash

[oldshowbiz]

it exists today

[veronicaleighauthor]

Loft Magazine – Cover Reveal

This morning I decided to submit a story called, “Poor White Trash” to Loft Magazine, a publication by Loft Books. Less than an hour later it was accepted! That was the quickest acceptance I have ever had in the course of my brilliant career.

Without further ado, here’s the gorgeous cover of the issue my story will be published in!

Isn’t it extraordinary? It’s by artist Annabelle Amory, who’s over on Instagram, if you want to follow her. I’m going to follow her!

Will keep you all posted.

Until next time!

[sohannabarberaesque]

And not just the physical sort: Concern needs to be expressed about psychological and emotional abuse directed at children, in particular such manifested by the likes of:

suggestions that children leave the house after breakfast and not return until suppertime "to give [the parents] some time for ourselves and ourselves alone", especially during school vacations;

reinforcing the preceding with carefully-scripted patsies to explain to police officers and similar the absence of their parents in case questions start being asked, the better to lay suspicion to sleep;

insisting that their children devote their evenings all the more to schoolwork rather than TV, films or music, hoping such devotion to study will translate into a place on the school's Honor Roll, with a suitable reward likely once achieved;

holding the children to blame for the parents being driven to alcohol, narcotic drugs, "sexual vices" (including addiction to pornography), substantial credit-card debt and General Debaucheries, fearing that the welfare officers could take the children away suddenly and without warning save for being called to the principal's office after school;

having a portion of weekly allowance held back, especially heading towards Christmas, to "help you buy a nice gift for Mom and Dad" without any sort of match, unaware that it's difficult to find that "nice gift" on a pittance, even from the Workshop for the Blind;

having the kids left with close and trusted friends when the parents have to be out of town (especially interstate) "on business," "looking for work" or some similar excuse, and being asked to keep quiet about the whole for fear of "reprisals" from the welfare or, worse still, the police;

arbitrarily placing the children on "Brownie Points" or some such "system of incentives" to earn assorted "privileges" as would supposedly come in due course, subject to the right amount of points being earned thereby;

constantly blaming the children in drunken shouting-matches for "driving [them] to ruin after all we've done for you," followed by their either being driven to the bus station with one-way tickets out of town or the parents leaving the kids in the house, and in shock privation as well; and

coming home one afternoon from school and not seeing at least the mother to welcome them home, instead being left a note saying something like "you drove us to this," with further details best seen as horrible dictu and the kids left to call 911.

Such being especially likely in older "industrial" (lower working-class) and rural or otherwise economically-challenged communities, especially where being seen as "poor white trash" is looked upon as a Badge of Honour--reinforced all too often by the Confederate travesty of the Cross of St. Andrew, Martyr, or (in rare instances) with the Nazi swastika "blood flag" or the apartheid South African tricolour serving as a complementary Badge of Honour for being thus arrogant.

The preceding is brought to you as a public service.

[sohannabarberaesque]

Explosion of Pedigreed Bull, Cattanooga Cheese (usual Appy Polly Loggies)

[Mise en scene: A somewhat slow moment during a Cattanooga Cats concert in some class of a culturally-depraved environment which finds Kitty Jo going into the audience to ask questions of same in the manner of certain variety show hosts back in the day. Beside one arrogantly-dressed specimen of otherwise "poor white trash," the scene is as follows--] KITTY JO: So what exactly attracted you to our concert, if I may ask? OVERDRESSED "POOR WHITE TRASH" MALE, rather arrogantly: I thought there was supposed to be a revival meeting here this evening-- [The audience laughs their disapproval at the comment] KITTY JO: Sometimes, I have to admit that we use clever disguises to guess the reactions of certain types like yourself Who Should Know Better, only to realise that it's just us in concert-- [Whereupon the overdressed "poor white trash" exemplar, and a few others like him, storm out of the "opry house" serving as the venue, blowing Bronx cheers as an insult--and leaving some Jack Chick Tracts as an insult, which Kitty Jo picks up wholesale] SCOOTS, back on stage with a Rather Brilliant Idea: How 'bout we just throw them into the recycling bin I'm producing with my Magic Crayon, endowed unto me by one Gaston Le Crayon? [Laughter from the audience; eventually, Kitty Jo takes the stash of such poor exemplars of Winning Hearts and Minds to Christ and dumps them in same, with a mix of laughter and applause]

[schlock-luster-video]

On November 2, 2009, Bayou was screened at the Vienna International Film Festival.

[soadscrawl]

i was saying this to my best friend the other day but why are voltron aus making keith either rich or like a prince or something. why must you take his poor kid sparkle. that man knows a 7/11 slurpee he knows a walmart brand bottle of soda. he deserves to know the simple pleasure of an inflatable backyard pool. I know he got those fuckass black jeggings from a thrift store. and that fuckass mullet is from great clips. is keith kogane truly keith kogane if hes not taking his change to the coinstar at the grocery store. dont take this from my man!!!!!!

[leupagus]

It's funny because I don't even think Abbot is the most interesting person on the night shift, let alone in the show, yet I continue rotating him, as the kids say, in my head*

and I keep coming back to the idea of Walsh and Abbot as not-rivals-not-exes-but-a-third-dumber-thing.

Because can you just IMAGINE, the day shift winding down at the park benches after another shitty day, this time with Santos and Whitaker and Mel, but without Robby for whatever reason, maybe he’s taking some PTO and so Abbot steps in to pull a double like he’s some dumbass resident, but it’s the end of the shift so whatever, they’re all relaxing until Walsh comes stomping out there to scream at Abbot for some patient they sent up to Trauma Surgery an hour or so before, which Abbot responds to by bellowing right back, re-attaching his leg just so he can storm off after her when she shouts about practicing medicine from at least the 20th century if not the 21st, and also he still hasn’t answered Christie’s evite, and if he doesn’t want to be sitting at the kid’s table again he’d better fucking get a Partiful account and respond before she pulls his spleen out through his urethra.

The sound of Drs. Abbot and Walsh arguing fades as they stomp back toward the hospital, though it takes a surprisingly long time until Mel can no longer hear a shouted, “Are you shitting me?” from one or the other of them. But finally the doors close and there’s just the gentle susurration of traffic.

In the ensuing quiet, Santos lets out a low whistle.

Princess laughs and nudges Donnie for another beer. “Bet you guys won’t miss that,” she says to Javadi, who smiles and looks around the group in quick succession — nervous, curious, cautious.

“I always wondered, actually,” she says. “About— you know. Their deal.”

“Their deal— oh,” Mel realizes, almost as soon as she speaks. “You mean why they act so unprofessionally around each other?” Next to her, Dr. Mohan laughs.

“It’s weird though, right?” says Whitaker, his brows knit together. “Like, I know a lot of people who work here are friends outside of work, or like, have a close relationship—”

“Oh, they are not friends,” Donnie mutters, draining the last of his beer and crushing it tidily between his hands. “Way worse.”

“My money’s on exes,” Santos says, sitting up from her prone position on the cement. She takes Dr. Abbot’s seat, elbows on her knees, leaning forward. “Who wants in on the action?”

“The three people who don’t already know the answer don’t bet,” Whitaker says.

Santos looks around at them, her gaze identical to the one she wears when she’s assessing a new patient. “Fuck, you’re right.”

“So what is their, um, deal?” Mel asks.

“Okay, so,” says Princess, shifting side to side in her seat. “About three years ago, the higher-ups finally got us another attending—”

“Yeah, Robby’d only been asking for one ever since he’d taken over—”

“—and it’s this very charming Dr. Jonathan Abbot, we all love him down here, he’s great, right? I mean, great for doctors,” Princess adds.

“No offense,” Donnie offers, though Princess’s expression indicates that she may have meant a little bit of offense.

“Anyway, it’s all great. Except, at the same time we get a new trauma surgeon and our brand new shiny Dr. Abbot fucking hates her. They’re usually on the same shift so the whole place is just fucking miserable whenever she comes down to consult, and some of us are sociopathic enough, Donnie—"

“I was only friends with Melissa— not you, different Melissa— to get the skinny on what was going on with Walsh and Abbot!” Donnie protests.

“And what did you find out? Shit is what you found out,” Princess informs him.

“Not true, I’m the one who found out they were related.”

“They’re what?” Dr. Mohan says, looking equal parts horrified and about to burst into laughter. “That’s — oh, wow, that explains some things.”

“Wait, didn’t you know about this?” Santos demands, waggling her fingers to point at Mohan and Princess and Donnie in turn. “You’ve worked here for like—"

“I didn’t know anything about this,” Dr. Mohan confirms, though she doesn’t sound annoyed. More… rueful, maybe.

“Well, we thought you were kind of stuck-up until last month,” Princess says, leaning companionably against Dr. Mohan’s shoulder.

Dr. Mohan frowns, but it doesn't look as though she really means it. “I’m not! I’m just… studying, most of the time.”

“You never seemed stuck-up to me,” Mel offers, unsure if it will help at this moment but willing to try.

“You seemed super stuck up to me, but you’re also kind of the shit so it’s fine,” Santos says.

“Okay, you all are doctors, your opinion on doctors is irrelevant,” says Princess. “Do you want to hear about the whole Walsh Abbot thing or what?” They all want to hear about the whole Walsh Abbot thing, so she continues. “All we know at this point is that these guys have beef, big time. But nobody can figure out if it’s like, sexual tension—”

‘’—genuine hatred,” Donnie chimes in.

“I had five bucks on ‘Walsh ran over Abbot’s dog,’ I remember,” Princess said with a certain air of reminiscence.

“Anyway,” Donnie continues, “everybody’s trying to figure it out — we check Linked-In to try and see if they worked together before or what, but Abbot doesn’t even have a fuckin’ Linked-In. So somebody, not naming names, his name might begin with J-E-S-U-S, looks at their personnel files, and there’s no overlap anywhere.”

“However!” Princess says, lifting her hand with one finger aloft, dramatic as all get-out. Mel finds herself oddly captivated by it. She wonders how many residents and med students have heard this story at their feet, learning not just how to heal and mend but the lore and mythos of the hospital itself, the things you learn when you don’t think you’re learning at all.

“However,” Donnie is saying, echoing Princess’s word if not her gesture, “there’s a gap in Dr. Abbot’s work history. Eighteen months, right after he’s injured in Afghanistan.”

“So then,” Princess continues, “somebody gets real fucked up and calls their friend at the VA, who checks their records. And during those eighteen months, guess where Dr. Walsh was working?”

“A VA hospital,” Mel guesses, which receives an odd response — everyone else makes a theatrical ooh sound.

“Yes, exactly,” Princess says. “Turns out Walsh is the doc who amputated his foot.” There's a louder oooh; Mel can't really pinpoint why she joins in, but there's a certain satisfaction to it.

"And after that? They don’t work at the same place but they’re always in the same city. Charlottesville—“

“Portland—”

“—then Detroit. And now they’re here.”

“…Secretly married?” Dr. Mohan ventures, pursing her entire face. “I mean, I could maybe see it. Is that what you meant by related?”

“No fair, Slo-Mo, you said you wouldn’t bet!” Santos protests.

“Not married,” Donnie says. “Not divorced.”

“They have definitely never known each other biblically,” Princess confirms. “No, it’s even worse than that. They’re—” She pauses, and Donnie drums his hands on his knees, as though this were an announcement on an old-time contestant show. “—in-laws.”

“What?” says…well, pretty much everybody.

“Walsh married Abbot’s little sister,” Donnie says, nodding. “Pretty much the day it was legal in PA.”

Mel felt a sinking in her abdomen. “Does Dr. Abbot not… approve, or—"

“Oh, fuck no — sorry, no,” Donnie says, laughing as he reaches out a hand. “No, dude’s chill with the LGBTQ-Plus, don’t even worry, no. It’s kinda… so look, we weren’t there, we can’t say what happened—"

“Fuck you, I can,” Princess says, dismissing him with a wave. “Abbot’s sister came in once, looking for him, and I managed to get her to cough up the story. What happened was at the wedding, Abbot got totally fucking hammered and gave like — the most embarrassing speech of all time, like about how his little sister came out to him first and he expressed his allyship by taking her to a dyke bar in downtown Phoenix.”

“Seems supportive to me,” Santos says.

Whitaker snorts. “Yeah, that’s because you’re broken,” to which Javadi nods thoughtfully.

[sugarpucks]

I present my offering; Cigarette Mom Miku

She’ll let you buy candy with the change, if you go buy her a Diet Coke from the party store.

[tvrools]

Justified ramble: Something that has always intrigued me about justified and Dickie as a character is the cruelty of Raylan towards him. While Dickie is a criminal, a murder etc, the way Raylan treats him compared to the other convicts is...different. As viewers we are supposed to cheer on Raylan as he brings justice to criminals but often times his treatment of Dickie is much more cruel (especially compared to how he works with Boyd who is in many ways much worse than Dickie). From almost executing him in the woods to framing him for attempted murder, breaking and entering, threatning to take away disability accommodations in prison and finally shooting him in his leg (worsening his condition) Raylan really has it out for him. Theres always the debate on whether what Raylan did was "justified" (like every time he does anything) and thats what i love so much about the show. It follows this flawed character who does things that are very morally grey but does them in the name of justice. (i love raylan and boyd btw im not complaining about them!!). i watched this show literally 4 years ago but it sits in a part of my mind still. So have a Dickie drawing page, hes a fun character.

[weirdlookindog]

Scum of the Earth (1974)

AKA Poor White Trash Part II

[veronicaleighauthor]

Loft Issue VI

Wonderful news! Loft Issue VI has been released! It features my story, “Clean Green.” If you’d like to check the issue out, you can do so at Loft’s website. It is the issue at the bottom. You can even download it, if you want. Looks like a great issue!

Really ecstatic to see this story in print. Special thanks to the editors for including it in their publication.

I hope to do a Fun Facts post in a few days, which shares some tidbits about this story and what inspired it.

Until next time!

[rabbits-of-negative-euphoria]

if your conclusion after reading Hillbilly Elegy (and I don't think most people who say this did read it) is "J.D. Vance is from Ohio, he's not a real hillbilly and knows nothing about Appalachia," you missed the entire point of the book.

[sohannabarberaesque]

Scenes from extremist political rallies targeting the Lower Classes we'd love to see

Some misguided "patriot" organisation hires a sound engineer who turns out to be so incompetent, he drives the mostly "poor white trash" audience (more than likely bussed in from rural areas with Walmart or Dollar General gift cards as inducement) into utter confusion when, for some reason, he winds up playing "The Tra-La-La Song" (otherwise familiar to many of you as The Banana Splits' theme) on the tannoy rather than some strident patriotic ballad aimed at stoking latent hatreds in service to God and Country on a par with the Horst Wessel back in Nazi Germany or "Die Stem van Suid-Afrika" in apartheid South Africa.

[schlock-luster-video]

Remembering underground film icon Timothy Carey on the anniversary of his death.

R.I.P. (1929 - 1994)

[leafened]

i literally cant think about microplastics bc my family would microwave food on styrofoam plates. like there were pieces of styrofoam stuck to my food and i know bc it would leave dents/thinner spots in the plates... also microwaved nissan cup noodle every day for years

macroplastics

[go-go-devil]

That one post I reblogged asking about the worst movies you paid to see inspired me to consider every film I've ever truly detested sitting through, and for those curious here's my Top 5: Chicken Little (2005), Pinocchio: A True Story (2021), Cats (2019), The Lobster (2015), El Topo (1970)