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.

It's all fun and games until someone loses a leg

I don’t condone violence of any sort. I’ve never been in a fight in my life and even boxing makes me a little uncomfortable, but being a high school teacher, I’ve seen my share of fights. Most of them are yelling or shoving matches that are broken up fairly quickly, but others are bloody and seem to last forever. In fifteen years I’ve had two fights in my classroom. Both happened on days when I was giving a test (perhaps they were planned).

In one of these fights, a young man got up in the middle of the test, put his pencil on his desk, calmly walked across the room and cold-cocked this other kid right in the face. He then grabbed the kid by the neck and maneuvered him into a headlock. That one was over fairly quickly. The second fight I should’ve known was going to happen. In the middle of the test, a young man took off the shirt he was wearing and put on a wife beater before he slugged the other kid. That fight got so out of hand that I had to have other teachers come in to help me.  They knocked over desks, made highlighters explode, tore pages out of dictionaries…they were going at it. I just remember trying to get all of the others students out safely (the one on crutches was the most difficult).

The best fight that I have ever witnessed was in Weldon, NC. I was sitting in the teachers’ lounge one morning, grading papers when I heard this awful screaming. When I walked out the door, I saw (and heard) the secretary screaming, “OPEN THIS DOOR RIGHT NOW! I SAID OPEN THIS DOOR!” while she was banging on it with both fists. When the door opened, I could not believe what I saw. Two girls were rolling around on the floor and the principal was crawling towards the door. I couldn’t figure out why he was on the ground until he was fully out of the way. Apparently he tried to get in-between the fighters and was knocked to the ground, but not before one of the girls yanked his prosthetic leg off of him and was using it to beat the other girl. I can still see the shoe and sock that were attached to it.

I know I should’ve helped the others who were trying to break up the girls, but I was paralyzed. I had never seen anything like that before in my life (and haven’t since then). All I could do is stand there with another teacher and laugh in disbelief. I felt horrible for laughing, but that was the last thing that I expected to see happen in a fight. The fight was stopped, the principal re-attached his leg and the day continued as normal, but that was the day that fights in school were redefined for me.

You have to start somewhere

The inaugural White Trash Tale, as with many of the other stories you will read here revolves around our lost friend Gary. You see, after he met Tonia he dropped out of sight. As is often the case with a new relationship, he didn’t have time to hang with the boys. We were amazed, however, with the speed and precision that Tonia employed in extricating Gary from our group. After only one blow-j behind the air conditioning unit at her mother’s house Gary was lost to us forever. It should be noted that, up until a few weeks ago, any Alamance County resident could receive similar treatment from Tonia for a mere $40.

Because Gary was totally off the radar we had to rely on 3^rd parties to feed us knowledge of his whereabouts. One day Bobby received a call from one of Gary’s ex-girlfriends. She had stayed close with Gary’s family long after the break-up and they had been telling her things about Tonia’s actions that she found disturbing. So she called Bobby to try and prompt an intervention.

The story she told was this: Tonia had been inviting men over to their trailer while Gary was at work. Seeing as how the trailer occupied the same land as Gary’s parent’s house and as such was in full view of said house, it probably wasn’t the most discreet thing she could be doing.

Rather than tell Gary what the love of his life was up to, his mother decided to confront Tonia directly. This altercation ended with Tonia smacking her future mother in law across the face and advising her to mind her own damn business. When Bud (of Jar Tree fame) caught wind of Tonia slapping his wife, he marched down to the trailer, kicked the door off it’s hinges, grabbed Tonia by the throat, and told her that if she ever lay hands on his wife again he would hit her so hard that it would forever ruin her only means of income (I am paraphrasing here).

Gary, upon learning of Tonia’s infidelity and mother abuse took the same stance that he would use for the great many other horrifying incidents he would endure with Tonia. That is to say that he did absolutely nothing.

After hearing this story, Bobby called me immediately to fill me in on the news. He then made me promise not to tell the rest of our group because he wanted to tell the story himself. He knew that we were all getting together for dinner later that night and it would be the perfect venue for story telling.

We all gathered at the Lone Star steak house in Burlington. It was a charming establishment where they serve roasted peanuts as an appetizer and the customers are encouraged to cast the shells onto the floor.  High class indeed for Burlington.

I was dying to tell the story after having sat on it all day but I knew I had to respect Bob’s wish to tell it himself. But Bobby, per usual, was late. And after sitting through the entire meal about ready to burst, I decided that rather than impart the story through oration I would use a story board instead. This would not be a violation of my promise to not “tell” the story.  Hey showing isn’t telling right?

Turning over my steak-stained placemat, I had the waitress supply me with a packet of crayons and I went about the task of drawing the following comic strip. (Click on the image to enlarge)

Click to enlarge

And so WTT was born. This placemat has adorned the side of Trey’s refrigerator for the past 11 years. It serves as a constant reminder that we have an obligation to you dear readers. This might have been the first White Trash Tale but there are still many more to be told.

Links:

Other stories of Gary and Tonia

Rednecks know how to make their mark

I’m a nice person. Honest, I am. Ask anyone to describe me and that’s usually the first thing that comes out of his/her mouth. I never want to hurt anyone’s feelings at all, so I tend to avoid any situation that could cause me to do just that. When I lived in Roanoke Rapids, NC I met Adam at a club in Rocky Mount one night while I was out with some friends. We seemed to hit it off immediately and I was certainly looking for more friends in the area because I had just moved from Virginia and knew only a couple of people. He called me the next day and we ended up hanging out a few more times with friends, but nothing romantic was on the horizon.

One evening Adam called and wanted to know if I’d go on a “date” date with him. Just the two of us. I wasn’t interested in dating anyone at all, but decided that he was nice enough to give it a shot. If nothing else it would get me out of the house on a Friday night. He worked as a beer distributor and talked me into going to a club in Weldon (which is a stone’s throw away from Roanoke Rapids). He picked me up and we spent the evening drinking and dancing. Unfortunately, this is where it gets a little hazy for me.

I remember him being too drunk to drive me home, but the club had a van that would take people home who had overindulged. The van was called “The Watermelon Crawl” and it was full of, well, drunk people. We finally made it to my apartment and I realized that Adam couldn’t drive home because he was too drunk to drive and he had left his truck at the club anyway. So I let him spend the night. I was only being polite when I offered him my bed (thinking that no gentleman would allow a female to sleep on the floor in her own place…wrong!) and I ended up sleeping on the floor.

We woke up the next morning and I drove him back to the club to get his truck. He went back to Rocky Mount and I headed back home to nurse my aching head. The thought of him being in my bed drunk and drooling grossed me out a little, so I decided that I needed to change the sheets on the bed. When I pulled back the blanket to start stripping the bed I couldn’t believe what greeted me! Adam had left the souvenir to top all souvenirs: a skid mark was on my sheet that was at least 18 inches long. Granted, I didn’t measure it, but it was the biggest racing stripe that I’d ever seen! Not that I have seen anything like that before, but you get the idea. I didn’t even bother trying to wash that shit out, I tossed the sheets immediately.

If only he had worn a diaper

Later that day, Adam called me and left a message. I didn’t know what to say to him. Obviously I couldn’t ever see him again. At least not with a straight face. He called again the next day. And the day after that as well. The last time he left a message, he asked why I wasn’t returning his calls. I knew why, but I couldn’t find it within myself to call him back and let him know the real reason we couldn’t hang out anymore.

So Adam, if you’re out there reading this, please understand. You’re a great guy and I enjoyed the time that we spent together; however, I really prefer guys who use toilet paper.

One pizza too many

You would think that the mere fact that their single product offering is comprised of the number one junk food among American children would be enough to help them capture their intended demographic. Yet somehow they feel that rebranding their restaurants under a heading that calls to mind at worst a ramshackle hobo dwelling and at best the overweight galactic gangster scourge of the universe is going to up their numbers among the hip prepubescent youth.

In all fairness, I am pretty sure that the chain hasn’t served anything resembling an edible pizza in years. So perhaps this is a move to try to thwart any inevitable litigation that would arise from someone mistaking their product for that of our beloved Italian American monument to junk food. In the end Pizza’s good name is probably better off without them.

Links:

MSN Money article about the rebranding