On my honor I will do my best
To do my duty to God and my country
and to obey the Scout Law;
To help other people at all times; 
To keep myself physically strong,
mentally awake, and morally straight.

All Boy Scouts are required to memorize and recite the above oath.  Some of the members of Troop 25 were able to memorize it…but none of us took it to heart.  In fact, we violated every single tenet of the oath in morally reprehensible (and often criminal) ways.  Let me give you an intro to the sordid history of Troop 25 from 1981-1984 by breaking down each line of the Boy Scout Oath…

On my honor I will do my best
When you think of the Boy Scouts, you probably visualize upstanding young citizens, who are eager to learn about camping and nature.  Our troop was comprised of under-achieving miscreants…many of whom did not make it past the 9^th grade.  I can’t recall a single occasion when any member of our troop showed any excitement for anything scout-related.  When we were forced to participate in activities, there was always some sort of uprising that led to one or more “scouts” being paddled and/or banished from the troop.

To do my duty to God and my country
I had never said “Goddammit” before joining the scouts.  Our scoutmaster didn’t mind us chewing tobacco or trading Hustler magazines, but he would get pretty upset when we took the Lord’s name in vain.  So naturally all you heard at our meetings was a bunch of delinquent teenagers running around saying “Goddammit” every other word.    

and to obey the Scout Law;
We didn’t even obey the real law.  For example, the whole troop was thrown in jail overnight on a beach camping trip for drinking beer in the parking lot of a grocery store.  Most of my stories about Troop 25 fall into this category.  Also, we lied and cheated to get just about every rank and merit badge that was “awarded” to us.

To help other people at all times;
If by helping people, you mean “keying” their cars and pissing on their tires…then yes, we helped people.

To keep myself physically strong,;
You had to try to be reasonably fit to protect yourself from the violent man-child rednecks that comprised our troop.  But in reality, I survived mainly due to my sense of humor, and by befriending the black guys.

mentally awake, and morally straight.
I had to be “mentally awake” to avoid having the criminal record that many of my fellow scouts carry with them to this very day.  I don’t think anyone who stayed with the troop more than 2 weeks was “morally straight”…but I never ratted anyone out, so that has to count for something.  Even in this forthcoming series of articles, I shall endeavor to protect the guilty.

There had better be some big-ass mosquitoes nearby to justify this option...

In my opinion, 18 year-old girls look hot in boots and shorts. 60 year-old men do not.

Aunt Jemima...on the auction block.

Goddammit.

Yes, that's Skoal in her back pocket.

I found out last week that an agricultural festival and tractor auction called “The Old Thresher’s Reunion” was going to be within driving distance. People from all over the southeast come to this festival to camp out and show their old tractors and farming equipment. I knew that I had to go to this event and document it, so I headed down there on July 3rd. Here’s a run-down of the day’s proceedings:

9:00 am: I arrived at the fairgrounds in Denton, NC. The parking lot was a gigantic field. There was a long line of cars (and by cars I mean 4-wheel drive trucks with all manner of deer hunting stickers on them) waiting to get in.

9:15 am: I paid $13 dollars for a ticket to look at old tractors and farm equipment.

9:30 am: I walked into the fairgrounds area and started looking around. Immediately I realized that I stood out like a sore thumb…my t-shirt had sleeves and I did not have boots on. Right away I noticed two pregnant teenagers.

10:15 am: It was obvious that every time I pulled out my iPhone to take a photo or video, people looked at me like I was holding an instrument of Satan.

11:00 am: I headed down to the auction area. I saw a man in his mid-sixties, casually talking to his peers before the tractor auction. I noticed this guy because he was sporting denim shorts…and he was wearing cowboy boots.

11:30 am: There was a small auction that appeared to focus on any kind of redneck paraphernalia. For example, a Dale Earnhardt Jr. car that doubled as a billiard light was on the block. The highlight of this auction was an “Aunt Jemima” statue. As far as I could tell, this statue was the only non-white entity within 25 miles of this festival. Nobody bought “Aunt Jemima”…

12:00 pm: The tractor auction was due to begin at any moment. At least 1,000 people were tightly packed around a bunch of dilapidated tractors to see who would buy them. I started noticing how quiet and emotionless all these people were. Were they having fun? I don’t know. The overall vibe I got while standing in the crowd was that these people were inescapably drawn to this event, like moths to a flood light.

All of a sudden, the auction began. I admired the speed at which the auctioneer spewed out his gibberish. The auction company had a team of assistants who worked the crowd by pointing at them, while whooping and hollering. It appeared that only about 5 people were doing any sort of bidding. The rest of the crowd just stood there, as if they had been placed in a trance by a snake charmer.

1:00 pm: I was getting hungry, but there weren’t many options. The only food vendor on this end of the fairgrounds was a carnival trailer advertising Chinese food. I had grave reservations about the quality of Asian food at an event like this. There was no one in line…which not surprising considering that most good ol’ boys and gals are petrified of anything that ain’t served with cornbread and cole slaw. So I walked right up to the window of the trailer and ordered something akin to pepper steak, but made with sliced up steak-ums. Yum.

1:30 pm: I ventured down into the camping area to see what people were displaying and peddling in front of their tents and campers. There were a lot of neat old “hit and miss” engines on display, and I saw an old Porsche tractor. Little did I know that the highlight of the whole event would be found sitting in these shady woods…it was a semi truck (from the Smokey and the Bandit era) with some sort of RV Camper slapped on top of it. I can only hope that one day my photo of this vehicle will find its way back to me in the form of a chain email filled with pictures of rednecks and their antics.

2:00 pm: I stood on the upper rim of the giant bowl arena that was designed to showcase the tractor pull event that was to be held later in the day. I should point out that the event staff called it an arena…I would describe it as a big fucking crater that they dug out. The only activity going on in the arena at this point was a demonstration of a sheep-herding dog terrorizing a group of sheep.

2:30 pm: I was standing in line at a lemonade stand when I happened to notice that the girl in front of me had a can of Skoal in her back pocket.

3:00 pm: It was finally time for the tractor pull event. This was supposed to be the highlight of the day. Thousands of people were sitting on the bank around the “arena”. I expected the crowd to erupt with a joyful noise once these things started roaring and dragging a weight sled behind them. But that did not happen. It was disappointingly silent. I so wanted to hear chants of “Git R Dun” and shit like that, but there was nothing but the occasional polite clapping. Dammit!

No, I didn't doctor this up in Photoshop...

I can't decide which is classier...the sign pleading for more dancers or the Camaro with the homemade hood scoop...

The Paradise Club

The Shack

A sturdy foundation!

Yes, you have to go outside to open the windows.

"The Jar Tree"

You may recall reading a little about Gary, whose ex-wife Tonia was recently arrested in a prostitution/drug bust at a little redneck strip joint called The Paradise Club. Well, I’d like to back up a few years (when Tonia’s infidelity was more of a hobby than a business) and tell the tale of the tool shed/club house that Gary’s estranged stepfather “Bud” built for himself. It seems that Bud needed a way to periodically escape from Gary’s overbearing mother, without having to hop in the ’78 Chevy pickup and drive around with 13 beers on his breath. While the justification for building the shed was sound, the execution of project was anything but.

It had been a long time since anyone had seen Gary, but I wanted to get in touch with him while Jonathan was here from San Francisco so that we could photograph and document one of the finest examples of redneck architecture in the south. We needed to document this thing, because we had been telling people about this shack for years…and frankly I’m sure that everyone thought we were exaggerating.

Like some poor man’s National Geographic crew, we headed down Highway 87 in Graham, North Carolina towards our date with Redneck Americana. I noticed something along the way that nearly caused me to lock the brakes up. So I stopped the car at the 87 South Mobile Home Courts, where it seemed that the denizens of the trailer park had taken a few artistic liberties with the road sign.

Another unscheduled stop was made at The Paradise Club, which is a crude cinderblock oasis of depravity in the middle of a gravel parking lot desert. This “adult entertainment” establishment has a long been associated with acts of violence (murder) and a general lack of dental hygiene (missing teeth). I couldn’t resist the allure of taking a photo of the sign begging for dancers…and little did we know that Gary’s wife Tonia had not been able to resist the sign either.

Before we could see Bud’s masterpiece, we had to stop and pick up our tour guide…Gary (whose trailer was about half of a mile away from Bud’s dwelling.) When we stepped inside Gary’s trailer, I couldn’t help but notice the K-mart car stereo that was installed in the wall. I desperately wanted to take a picture of this innovative home theater system (especially since its mounting was slightly askew), but I couldn’t get away with it without being seen by Gary and/or the unknown cohabitants of his trailer.

After a few awkward minutes at Gary’s, we finally made our way down the dirt road to Bud’s shack. It had been several years since I had gazed upon Bud’s creation, and to my delight, it was still standing. The first thing you’ll notice from the photos is that the exterior is haphazardly covered in tree bark. This was done in order to give the impression that the structure is a log cabin. Now if you ever built Lincoln Log cabins as a kid, you’ll recall that the wall logs run horizontally. This lesson was lost on Bud.

We were directed to pay close attention to the cinderblock foundation. Evidently, there was no need for mortar! It would be entirely possible to kick the foundation at any point, and bring this thing down. If you look at the back right foundation “pillar”, you’ll notice some sort of shim placed between the floor of the shed and the cinderblocks. This was done in order to level the floor. You might ask…“How did that get there”? Answer: The whole structure was lifted up and someone slid broken bricks in the gap.

Gary was grinning ear to ear when he pointed out the window installation. He applauded the effort that it took to put real windows in the shack, but he could barely contain his laughter when he told us that if you wanted to raise the windows (or lock them), you’d need to go outside to do so. Yes…the windows were installed backwards.

I am still kicking myself for not taking a photo of the front door. I don’t know how I forgot, because the door itself was the crowning achievement of the whole project, and a testament to Bud’s redneck ingenuity. You see, when Bud constructed the frame of the structure, he did so without planning for the door. He literally put up four particle board walls and realized that there was no way for him to enter his vacation home (which is 300 feet from his real house). He was able to get around this minor snafu by sawing into the wall until something resembling a rhombus was cut out.

I would be remiss if I failed to mention the work of art beside Bud’s shanty. Gary’s mother decided that it would be a good idea to plant a dead tree in the yard and place Mason jars on the sawed off limbs. I don’t know what to say about “The Jar Tree”, except that I feel that its aura combines with Bud’s shack to create a wonderful White Trash synergy…a degree of redneckness that is greater than the sum of its parts.