White Trash Babies
Please note: though this story may seem far-fetched at times, it is absolutely, completely 100% true. It is also lewd, crude, and very white trash. It is not for the faint hearted, nor for people who think babies can do no wrong.
I recently went back to my tiny, dusty little hometown of Kensington, Georgia to help my little sister get ready for college. We went for a walk to reminisce about old times. The town had changed, and not for the better.
Paint peeled off in long gray-white strips from all the trailers. Former shiny satellite dishes were dingy, reception long abandoned. Half-constructed cars, which had used to provide lively splashes of color among the dirt yards, were nothing but hulking, rusting skeletons.
The Kensington River, where we had frolicked every summer in sun-dappled waters, was green and murky, filled with old beer cans and cigarette butts.
Me: What happened to this place?
Morgan (my sister): It sucks now. Everything’s different.
Me: It can’t be all bad. Hey, remember all the fun we had in Girl Scouts? And the time our troops sold more cookies than any other town in Georgia and we were on the news?
Morgan: The Girl Scouts sell meth now.
Me: What?
Morgan: Brings in a lot more money than cookies, apparently. You don’t even want to know what the Brownies have been up to.
Me: Okay, but hey, what about that sweet little old lady librarian. Remember how she used to always help us find books…you know, Mrs. Applebaum?
Morgan: She’s a prostitute now.
Me: Whaaat?
Morgan: Yeah, old lady porn’s really big right now. It’s the new fetish. She has a website and everything.
Me: Oh, man. Isn’t anything the same?
Morgan: The park’s still pretty nice.
Me: Let’s go there.
So we headed over to the park, where I breathed a sigh of relief. The paint was chipping from the swing sets and the slide was a tiny bit rusted, but it was still green and shady with quaint little wooden benches. We sat down.
Me: Look at that cute little baby in the sandbox! He’s adorable.
Morgan: Oh look, two more are coming over. Sweet little baby boys. Look at their little overalls, and their sweet little chubby fingers!
Me: Cute!
The two babies, about fifteen months old, toddled over to join their friend in the sandbox.
Morgan and I watched, beaming, but our smiles slowly faded. The town sickness had spread: even the babies were bad.
The following conversation is reprinted word for word, possible thanks to the mini tape recorder I happened to have in my pocket.
Baby 1: ’sup.
Baby 2: ’sup.
Baby 3: ’sup.
They started to fill a little yellow plastic bucket with sand.
Baby 2: Got any smokes?
Baby 1: Get your own.
Baby 2: How ’bout some hootch?
Baby 1: Nah, my old man guzzled the last of it last night.
Baby2: Damn, he’s a rotten drunk.
Baby 1: At least I know who my daddy is.
Baby 2: At least I ain’t sucking on my Mama’s titties still. I take it from the bottle, like a real man.
Baby 1: Screw you.
Baby 3: His mama’s got a nice rack, though.
Baby 2: I know. I was all up in that last night.
Baby 2 and 3 high-five each other.
Baby 1: Screw ya both.
Baby 2: Damn, I need something to take the edge off. You seen any Girl Scouts around?
Baby 3: You think you got problems? My woman’s driving me crazy. She’s all up in my grill and shit.
Baby 1: Why she buggin’?
Baby 3: She’s all, Why aren’t you potty trained yet? I’M potty trained. All my friends make fun of me ‘cuz my man’s still in diapers. So I had enough and told her, Listen, beeyotch, you ain’t been no good to me since you got teeth, so get steppin’. Now she’s all pissed and saying her new boyfriend’s gonna kick my ass or some shit.
Baby 2: Women ain’t nothin’ but trouble.
Baby 1: Word.
They dumped the sand out of the bucket and start filling it again.
Baby 2: Damn, I need a diaper change.
Baby 3: Where’s your mama?
Baby 2: Eh, she dropped me off on the way to the titty bar. She’s working there now.
Baby 1: Sweet.
Baby 2: So, we goin’ out tonight or what?
Baby 3: Yeah, what’s the dilly yo?
Baby 1: There ain’t nothing to do in this town. We could hitch into Atlanta, but the girls over there only care about the benjamins.
Baby 3: That scene’s crawling with 5-0 anyway.
Baby 2: For shizzle.
Baby 3: Nobody says that anymore, dumbass.
Morgan (whispering): That’s true.
Baby 1: This blows. Let’s go to the mall or something.
He toddled away, followed by Baby 3, leaving tiny little footprints in the sand. Baby 2 stopped and looked at Morgan.
Baby 2: You’re a fine lookin’ beeyotch. Wanna come over to my crib?
Morgan: Um…I’m good, thanks.
Baby 2: Your loss, baby. (crawls away)
Morgan: I am so moving away from this town.
Me: Word.
It was a depressing experience, but it’s true what they say: things just don’t stay the same.
We couldn’t take any pictures of the babies in the sandbox because we didn’t want them to know we were listening, but we followed them out of the park and took pictures of them at Baby 1’s trailer. Here they are:
Baby 1
Baby 2
Baby 3
They’re in prison now.
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