White Trash and Mr. Jones

There is something about Chipper Jones that just drives white-trash women crazy. It’s uncanny. Much like NASCAR, buckets of fried-chicken, pit bulls, cold sores, black eyes and having way more babies than they can afford, white-trash women are unable to exist without a love of the Atlanta Braves slugger. It’s a great litmus test: want to find out if your broad is trash? Ask her about Chipper Jones. She gets weak in the knees? Total refuse. Throw some beef jerky off into the woods and bone out when bitch sprints to retrieve it.

The squalid masses were out in full force at Coors Field on Sunday, for the final game of a home-stand against the Atlanta Braves. Chipper Jones jerseys were abundant, as was the flesh and folds of the fat trash-whores who wore them. Settling into my father’s club level seats I was grateful to be separated from the writhing masses below, even if the hallways of the club level at Coors Field have the antiseptic feel of an airport. But then what should appear before my very eyes, one row below me: a little trailer-rat so despicable she should be collected and studied so that when future generations ask what did a trailer-rat look like - because hopefully in the future these people have been completely annihilated, either by tornadoes or a stern but loving government who kindly tells them it’s for the best before plunging syringes into their jugulars - they can say, “They looked exactly like this.” This was not mere trash; this was fucking Waste Management. Clad in her finest Chipper Jones jersey – of course – the little troll couldn’t have been more than 19. She had a pig nose and great mounds of gut that seeped out from every angle. And the lungs this girl had on her, forget about it. She could scream to wake the dead, but unfortunately, her career-habit of Pall Malls had made it so that her voiced cracked and warbled and a pitch so freakishly high and grating that I’m sure animals from all over the city were drawn to Coors Field by it. And of course it was your typical stupid nonsense coming out of this pile of wasted organs.

“Rockies fucking suck!” “Braves rule!” “Yaay, Chipper! Chipper, Chipper, hit a home run, Chipper.”

No Chipper, hit a screaming foul ball and knock this bitch’s lights out.

Accompanying this creature, who my friend Monty and I began referring to as sub-species, was her boyfriend, a pot-bellied slouch of a man, with a forehead like a billboard, and the absent-faced look of complete and total misunderstanding. Simply put, things had stopped making sense to this man years ago, and though he tried to fight it for a while, now he has completely given up. He just doesn’t understand things and that’s the way it’s going to be. I’m sorry, dat’s da way’s gonna be. Git ‘er dun. Fortunately for us, this fella was a Rockies fans, which gave us a delectable insight into the private life and lovers spats of this duo. If the Braves were winning, she would turn to her companion – who I neglected to mention, was at least twice her age – and brattily point and jeer in his face. He would take it, and then grab her and pull her in for a lengthy hug, realizing that this was a moment when his girl was happy and not coming at him with an iron, and odds are he could touch her boob. If the Rockies did something good, she would proceed to say, “Fuck you,” over and over to him and then some corny line about him sleeping on the couch for a week, because she probably saw Roseanne do it one time, and hey, even trash need role models. Then she would look self-satisfied and retreat back to guzzling one of the dozens of beers she kept around her.

As is often the case, those beers continued to surround her throughout the course of the game, as they did her mongoloid boyfriend/uncle. And as is often the case when many beers are consumed, the couple grew amorous. There were some kisses, there was some hugging, and the back-rubbing, oh the back-rubbing. Most of the people around them moved seats. There were many open chairs and club-level people are civilized, so they avoid confrontation/infestations-of-maggots whenever they can. But Monty and I, for whatever reason, stayed put, lost in that same morbid fascination that makes you say yes without even thinking when one of your friends says, “Dude, you want to see something fucked up?”

And something fucked up we did see. Inning nine, Braves ahead, female sub-species happy, so happy, that she leans over in her seat so that she is facing male sub-species and staring straight into his face with a sort-of deranged mania normally reserved for critters. I notice her behavior and find it odd, but I also know that I don’t have the faintest clue how these people operate and so I ignore it. But then, I take another look, and I notice that this girl has started rubbing the privates of male sub-species. Furiously, furtively jerking-this man off through his shorts. I point this out to Monty who immediately bursts into laughter, but our riotous chuckles cannot slow or stop the growing of this man’s member, revealed in sickening clarity through his frayed, aging shorts.

Utterly baffled, creeped the fuck out and unsure how to act, Monty and I are completely helpless as to what to do. And then it hits me. Leave, flee, run, get away. Go, man, go! So we do. We retreat to another section and watch the game, keeping an eye on the homo habili from afar. Fortunately, it seemed that this woman’s impromptu public hand-job was not to be. The Rockies stormed back in the ninth, tied it up, then eventually won on a bomb by Matt Holliday in the bottom of the eleventh. So distraught was the little mule-face that she ceased her erotic massage and choose to yell at everyone around her instead. Everyone around her, chose to respond simply by telling her that the Rockies won, you fucking bucket of slop, so why don’t you shut your fucking mouth? I was proud of everyone around her. And I was more proud of our Rockies. Because by beating those Atlanta Braves, they single-handedly ensured that that couple was not going to have sex that evening. That that man would be, “sleeping on the couch for a week,” and you know what? That’s one week where those people aren’t making babies. And I couldn’t help but think of all the other Chipper Jones-loving white trash women in the stadium that day, and how maybe, just maybe, none of them would reproduce for one week either. And that’s one week with no off-spring from the sub-species of the planet, one week where our world is a better place.

I hope the Braves have the worst season in baseball history.— Adam Cayton-Holland

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Crystal Preston-Watson