The Way Things Are






Worlds collide.
2006-05-25, 4:19 p.m.

Once every two or three years, I take enough pictures to merit getting the disposable camera developed, and I treat you all to a story told in pictures.

Today, we’ll explore some contrasts between middle-income white collar, and middle-income white trash, and the tragedy that results when those two worlds collide.

First, our front porch.

White trash collection of dead plants haphazardly scattered about, torn-up carpet remnant for the dogs, and one muttish dog standing guard. How very sad. And how very going-to-be-rectified this weekend.

Second, our dining room.

Beat-up old TV trays that have served as our coffee and end tables for quite a few years now, hanging out with the fancy dining ensemble. Die, TV trays! Die!


Nothing says disposable income like a new, shiny leather sofa, next to a brand new end table with the store tag still hanging off of it.


Nothing says lame-ass like the photo quality you get from a disposable camera. Please note that Monkey Bowl makes an appearance in this one. Do not taunt Monkey Bowl.

I know this is grainy.

All the old furniture is piled in the middle of the room, awaiting manly labor to haul it upstairs to its final resting place: the Lair of Lil Guy. Fancy!

I don’t know why I took this one. But I do like the way Piper hugs the wall when she walks down the hall.

I’m very busy leaving a dog-dirt line on the wall, and you’re in my way.

If you look closely, you can see the cow that used to visit us from the neighbors’, and Mrs. Beans tearing through the yard with wild delight at the thought of a gentleman caller.

Never mind he’s of a different species – I LOVE HIM!!!

Here’s my red-faced husband lying on the couch, with one sixty pounder on him, and one thirty-fiver up again’ him.

Hello. I am a dog magnet. I like to wear t-shirts with the sleeves cut out of them to show off my bulbous pecs and luxurious pelt of armpit hair. I like beer from a can, long walks on the golf course, and snuggling.

Here’s a different angle. Get a load of Beans’s scary glowing eyeballs of death.

I will kill you in your sleep, bitch. Back off. He’s mine.

I leave you with a shot of my child swimming in a white trash swimming pool: turning the hose on himself standing in the wheelbarrow.

There’s a trash can, and a wheelbarrow. Wheelbarrow’ll be good for you.

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