Our Roots, Yo

So this is the trailer where Dad spent his teenage years in Alaska.

It's in North Pole - yes THE North Pole - and it is surrounded by fast food restaurants. There is no conceivable reason why this trailer - sorry Dad - wanagan survives fifty years later. I am fairly sure that it was old even when Dad lived there. So I have to assume that it is meant to be a memorial of sorts.

Proof of our white trash roots.

So, with that in mind, I am off to buy some cheetos, a super big gulp of diet coke, and some blue eyeliner. This weekend I will head over to Walmart to get me some Juicy Couture knock-off track suits (hopefully with some pithy saying written in a particularly virulent color across my ass) and some midriff-baring tank tops.

I've been trying to decide what tattoo to get but the location is a natural. Somewhere on my bosoms. Preferably in my visible cleavage. I'm thinking Tasmanian Devil, Drunken Mushroom, or - in my future baby daddy's honor - a leprechaun with a big erection. What do you think?

I'm also thinking that the Subaru Outback has to go. We need something cooler. A bronco with jacked-up suspension and a vanity plate that says 'BORNWLD'? A van with an airbrushed tiger on the side, plush carpeting and a captain's chair? What to do, what to do.

I'll be quitting my job next week. I've decided that the career prospects at Hooters are really promising.

In case you think that all of this is a joke, you're wrong. Remember, I did enter a Busweiser bikini contest. That was just practice. It's on now, yo.