Thursday, July 12, 2012

White Trash in the Snow Chapters THIRTEEN and FOURTEEN


 by Allison

This is a work of fiction. Any similarity to real persons is strictly coincidence.  I wrote this for fun, and nothing would make me happier than to hear from Friday to Friday that you are finding some enjoyment in reading the adventures of my fictional characters, the Saplin family.  Any similarity to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.  All rights reserved.

Previous  chapters:

From her very earliest memories, Cristol carried a mental picture of her mom being home every day. Cristol was very young when her mother ran for town council in their small, rural town. Rachael Saplin's first election day victory was, for little Cristol, a life changing event. From her current perspective, Cristol could see that it wasn’t really such a big deal, but that didn’t erase the memory of how it felt at the time.
Four-year-old Cristol hated the nights when her mommy had to “go to work.” The child adored her mommy and followed Rachael around while she got ready to go to “Mommy’s meetings.”  Cristol watched as Rachael loosely pinned her hair up on her head and put on makeup. When Rachael described a certain pair of shoes or piece of jewelry, little Cristol would run and find them in her mommy’s closet and in the pretty wooden jewelry box on Mommy’s dresser. It was a game – “Can you find mommy’s black shoes with the gold buckles? Can you find the necklace with the little pearl?”
Cristol would beam when Rachael praised her – “Yes, those are the pair! Good girl. Cristol is so smart. Oh! And that’s the right necklace. Thank-you Honey. Cristol is a big help to Mommy.” Then Rachael would tell Cristol and Field to “be good for Daddy,” give baby Maple a kiss, and head out the door. 
Cristol would run to the front window and watch the car until it disappeared out of sight. On those nights, Cristol missed having her mommy tuck her in and read a story to her. Tad would read to her, but it wasn’t the same; his voice didn’t sound like Cinderella’s fairy godmother no matter how hard he tried. After he gave Cristol a hug good night and left the room, Cristol would usually cry herself to sleep. She loved her daddy but she wanted her mommy.
For a while, after Cristol had said her “now I lay me down to sleep” prayer with her mother or father, she made a special request. “Please God, send me a magic wand.” Her parents thought it was cute, until one night Tad asked what she would do with it. “I’m going to make Mommy's job disappear. Then she can stay home and play with me!”
The magic wand didn’t show up, and the town council position led to bigger things. When Cristol was eight, her mother put so much energy and time into running for mayor that Field and Cristol felt not only ignored but in the way. In retrospect, Cristol believes that is when everything started to slide out of control. Her parents fought more and talked less, her brother picked on her a lot, and she, herself, began to overeat.
Cristol envied Field when he started Middle School and his world opened up. He and his friends seemed to be doing exciting, dangerous, cool things and once in a while, if she promised not to tell on them, they let her tag along. She loved being included when they were shooting hoops, and she would do almost anything to get to go camping and riding snowmobiles with her brother and his friends. Field was very different from Cristol. He was a likeable natural leader, he was popular, he was smart. Other kids followed him with something close to worship. His venturing was often dangerous and some escapades bordered on - or were – illegal, yet that only made him more of a legend among teen Azzles.
Field introduced his sister to an assortment of vices. At thirteen she lit up her first cigarette when he offered it to her. It was Field who showed her how to use a bong, and gave her her first swig of vodka. There were some things her brother tried that even she disagreed with, like doing crystal meth and using OxyContin. His addictions became well known and Cristol promised herself that she was going to be more careful than he had been. She vowed to make better choices.
Cristol was the only girl allowed to go along with Field and his friends on that Halloween when they climbed over the fence at the transportation lot and damaged forty school buses. Inebriated and high on excitement, she had flirted heavily with Wrangler Strauss throughout the evening. She felt rebellious, grownup, sexy, and independent. It was a heady mix. Wrangler was experienced, he was ready to make a move. But as it turned out, it was Wrangler’s friend JJ that she took home with her.
That night she crossed the Rubicon. Later she told Sparkler she had no regrets. “It was, like, totally awesome,” she said, “If my parents knew they would, you know… kill me. But, hey, if I’m old enough to be left alone for the weekend then I’m old enough to make adult choices. Like sleeping with JJ.”
“Yup, they gave you the house to yourself, well, to you and Field. They couldn’t have really thought he’d stay home. Give me a break. And they probably knew what you’d do.”
“No, not my parents,” Cristol said. “They are pretty trusting. My mom always says, 'Don’t do what your father and I did’. Like that’s gonna hold us back. Ha!”
“Your mom admits they did it in high school?”
“No, not exactly. Mom and Dad eloped and Field came seven months later. She says he came early. So what we aren’t supposed to do is elope, but what she’s really saying is don’t get pregnant and have to elope. It’s weird, but we know what she’s saying even though she doesn’t say it.”
“That’s weird.”
“My family is fucked up,” Cristol sighed. “But as long as they continue to go away on weekends, I can deal with that.”
Sparkler nodded. “You are so lucky.”

Azzolla’s new school psychologist could have correctly guessed how the valley kids were spending their long summer nights - drugs, sex and booze. The eldest Saplin daughter’s trifecta of misbehavior was no different than that of other bored, rebellious Azzlles coming of age in a community of inbred ignorance. There were generally two types of teens in Azzolla, those dreaming of “someday” when they could escape to “someplace else” and those who wanted to be an improved version of their own parents. Field was one of the former and Cristol one of the latter.
In Cristol’s projections of “someday“ she and Wrangler had their own home and four kids. In daydreams she furnished and decorated an imaginary nursery. Other times she made wedding plans. Both visions were soft and romantic, whimsical and elaborate, and provided a private escape from reality.
Wrangler thought that talking about baby stuff was “totally lame and boring,” and  a huge waste of phone minutes. Girls! Always talking about who’s having a baby, and stuff like what color crepe paper to use for shower decorations and what nursery theme their friend picked. He’d lived seventeen years unaware that a baby’s bedroom needed a theme.  Then one Saturday, he realized what “blissfully ignorant” meant when he was forced to leave that enviable state.
It all began normally enough. Cristol was craving French fries again, as she had every day that week. The two of them were in McDonald's in mid-afternoon, fries and sodas in front of them on the table. “I have a problem,” she said. “I can’t buy Sareetha a gift until I know the theme.”
“So? Ask her.”
“Can’t, the shower is supposed to be a surprise.”
“So? Ask her mother.”
“Duh, why didn’t I think of that? See why I love you?”
“You owe me,” he said with a smile.
“I’ll pay up tonight,” she said coyly.
Wrangler liked where this was taking them, so he tried to keep it going. “You always talk about themes. I don’t get it.”
“ Oh,” she brightened, happy to explain. “ ummm, a theme is like, you know, like maybe a froggy theme – Christa’s baby has that. Everything is green and has frogs on it.” He looked at her like she had two heads. “Really, I swear. It’s cute. The plastic baby tub has a lily pad painted on the bottom….”
Wrangler was sorry he’d asked.
 “…and Lannie chose that dumb sponge character. I hate that hideous yellow thing. But, Big Bird is yellow, and I do like him. That’s the theme Tasha picked. Big Bird is perfect for her because she doesn’t want to know if she’s having a boy or a girl. She didn't want to know...some girls do and some don't, but, see,  Big Bird is okay either way. I think Big Bird is a boy, though. Don’t you?”
“Whatever.” He was  concentrating on running some fries around inside a tiny paper cup of ketchup.
“ Peter Rabbit is popular again. It’s that old, old Peter Rabbit from, like, maybe the 60s or something. So cute.”
She took a sip of her Coke and ate some fries. Wrangler blessed the silence. 
“ I like zoo animals, that’s a good theme for not knowing if you’re having a boy or a girl. The sky – you know, clouds and balloons and stuff. Bright balloons!”
He kept his eyes down, didn’t want to encourage her.
“We don’t have to know what the baby is to complete the nursery.”
Wrangler noticed she had shifted from other people to themselves. He began to pay more attention.
“Otherwise, like, ummm, if we were having a daughter and wanted a princess theme - ” 
 “Not happening.” He cut her off, clenched teeth on the straw in his Coke. He let go of it and looked straight at her. “And, you know what? If I ran this place, they would use bendy straws.”
“What?” Cristol had no idea what he was talking about.
“You know, bendy straws, like your mom always gets.”
“No, before that; why did you say “not happening? What’s with that?” She sounded pissed.
He set down his drink and laid an arm casually across the back of the vinyl booth.
“The princess thing - not happening. Not for my kid.”
“Oh, really? Who says?”
“I do. My first kid’s going to be a boy.”  
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah, positively.”
 “Well, maybe your first kid is going to be a boy, but that doesn’t mean my first kid has to be a boy.” 
“You heard me.”
“That doesn’t make sense.”
“ Think about it.”
“Are you saying what I think you’re saying?”
“Maybe I’ll marry Dan. Or maybe Carver. Who knows? Until I have a ring, anything can happen.”
“Have they been hittin’ on you?” This time, he sounded pissed.
 “Oooooo, do I hear jealousy? Dan and Carver are my friends, too, you know.”
Making Wrangler jealous was a game Cristol enjoyed even though, when the  roles were reversed, she didn’t take it well herself. Sometimes she wondered how she’d been lucky enough to catch him when he could have any one of a number of cuter girls. Sparkler once said it was either because Cristol’s mother was governor, or because Cristol was easy. At the time, Cristol was drunk and didn’t take offense. Besides, she didn’t need to be told that. She knew either could be true and maybe it was both - if she was going to keep him, she needed to have a hook, and one was as good as the other. Lately, they’d been fighting a lot. She didn’t want another fight right now, so she quickly said, “Don’t be silly, they aren’t hitting on me. But, technically, you know, I’m available.”
“Yeah?” he looked out the window at beautiful mountains that surrounded Azzolla. They made him wish he were out there hunting. Not turning his head to look at her, he said, “Guess that's so. And technically, I’m available, too.”
Cristol was getting nervous. “Just sayin’, Wrangler, don’t take me for granted.”
“I don’t.” 
He turned and they gave each other annoyed looks across the Formica table. It was a standoff, Wrangler matched her instructions with a set of his own. “Don’t you start flirtin' again. I heard the rumors. You got around when you were away.”
She laughed derisively. It was almost a cackle. It reminded Wrangler  of Mrs. S, and the thought caused him to feel slightly repulsed. “Yeah but that was because I hated it there. It didn’t mean anything.” She reached over and put a hand on his. “Look at you! You really are jealous!”
They sat quietly taking turns drawing long French fries out of the grease stained cardboard container and sipping their drinks. An old rock song with a summer theme subconsciously subdued them. 
The next song was another oldie – The Lion Sleeps Tonight. The words sleep and lion triggered Cristol’s memory. She asked, “Did your bedroom have a theme when you were a little kid? Lion King or something? That’s what Field had.” While “oh-wing-oh-wat, oh-wing-oh-wat” and tribal sounding instruments continued to play in the background, Cristol happily shared more childhood memories.“My theme was “101 Dalmatians.  I think I was Pride’s age.”
Wrangler was struck by the absurdity of it all. This song is ridiculous, and so is this conversation, he thought. But if he said that, she’d probably kick him under the table. Worse than that, she could go into one of those week-long pouting sessions. It was yet another behavior he’d found she shared with her mother.
“Sure, Cristol, my bedroom had a theme, it was “sharing a room with my sister and trying to keep her out of my stuff.”
 She frowned tightly. “Fine, be that way. I can see you aren’t taking me serious at all.”
“Oh, but I am. Today’s theme is ‘dirty clothes. Actually, that’s been my theme since Mom’s back started acting up again about a month ago.’” 
Wrangler’s lopsided grin was irresistible. Cristol couldn’t stay mad. She gave him a grudging smile.
“And tonight, when my room is glowing from the midnight sun the theme will be “Wishing Cristol were here.””
A shiver ran through her. I totally loved this redneck jock.
Searching with her index finger through the fries, she found what she wanted and pulled it out slowly, saying, “Oooooo, yesssss, I love big long ones.”
Suggestively licking her lips, she cocked her head at him and tried to look cute.  “Let’s get out of here.’
”You read my mind.”

A few days later, Wrangler was explaining the concept of nursery themes to his friend Carver while they were cleaning their guns. Carver had been his best friend since kindergarten. They shared almost everything, and he trusted his friend wouldn’t think he was weird just because he found this difference between girls and dudes interesting. Interesting like a two-headed snake- a useless excess, a curiosity...
“I ain’t shittin’ ya, they spend a lot of money on that junk - nursery stuff and such.  I think there’s, like, a rule that they have to outdo the last girl.
“Why? Who cares?”
“Girls care. Oh, man, do they care.” He was shaking his head, “Serious competition, man. You’d think it was the Iron Dog.” Picking up the bore swab, he turned his attention to the shotgun he was cleaning.
“So what if they win? What’s the prize?’ Carver asked.
Wrangler shrugged. “Whatever.”
Another couple of minutes passed in comfortable companionship while they worked on their weapons. Carver used a silicone cloth to wipe fingerprints off, and finishing one gun, he began the process again with another. Lacking a new subject, he said, “You and Cristol talk about really lame stuff.”
 “Nothin’ lame about the payoff,” he assured his friend. Getting laid was a respectable topic any time. “Talkin’ about babies – that’s an aphrodisiac, scientifically proven and everything. Don’t you know that?”
“A what?"
“You know, it gets you laid. That kind of talk is the key. It unlocks the box.”
Carver wasn’t about to let his buddy think he was superior just because he was hooking up with the governor’s daughter. Carver considered Cristol to be one of the biggest players in the school. He didn’t think his friend, or anyone else, should trust her. “No offense dude, but that box ain’t been locked since that Halloween night when JJ-"
In one smooth move, Wrangler put down the stock he was polishing, picked up a pistol and took aim at Carver’s chest. Carver raised his hands and froze – a reaction stemming from a respect for guns, not a fear of his friend. He looked at the gun, then at Wrangler’s trigger finger, and then at his friends steady gaze. He got the message. It wasn’t I’m going to shoot you, it was Don’t talk that way about my girl. Carver was cool with that. The crack about Cristol had been crude and he shouldn’t have said it to Wrangler. He should have waited and said it to their friend Dan. Dan would love it.
“Whoa, man, take it easy.” Carver said.
An extra ten second made the point, and Wrangler, nodded tersely, set down the gun, and said, “Just watch how you talk about Cristol.” Then he picked up the shotgun and went back to work on it.
Carver resumed his work, too, but inside his head he kept thinking about how Wrangler was changing. Dan’s right, since he’s been with Cristol, Wrangler thinks he’s hot shit. And like Dan says, Wrangler’s making an ass of himself over a girl and she’s not even pretty.”
“You know what you are, Wrangler? You’re pussy whipped.”
Wrangler shrugged and spit on the garage floor. “Whatever.” He turned the stock over and looked at it more closely, letting the comment roll off him. But Carver was worked up, and getting more so.
“No one wants your stupid advice, either.” Carver said.
“Fine. Let’s drop it.” Wrangler said, Then he made the mistake of adding, “Just sayin, when ya talk about babies and marriage, girls get real agreeable.”
“Marriage? You talkin’ marriage, too? Shit, it’s worse than I thought.”
“Nah, Cristol does, not me I just let her.” This wasn’t quite true. Wrangler carried his own when they talked about marriage, he liked imagining a time not too far off when he’d have his own home and a wife (could be Cristol) with a big-belly. It would be a boy. First a boy, then a girl, just like he and his younger sister. Just like Field and Cristol. Yup, that’s how it was gonna be, someday.
Carver shook his head.“Wow, that’s all I got to say. Wow.”
Wrangler threw down the rag he was using and said, “Let’s go get some beer.”

They sat together on the stoop of Carver’s back steps, and after four beers apiece, they were both feeling pretty good. Carver leaned back and rested on his elbows. “So,” he said, “am I going to be in the wedding?”
Alcohol had loosened Wrangler’s tongue and he opened up. The Saplin-Strauss wedding plans, all were explicit and he could recite them line by line. “On a perfect summer day - that’s how she always describes it – in her folks’ yard – here’s how she says it,” he changed is voice to a falcetto, - “With the lake as a backdrop.” Carver snickered appropriately. “Anyway,” Wrangler continued, “People will be sittin’ in folding chairs and –"
“Dude, that’s unbelievable.” Carver commented.
“Why? Folding chairs are okay, it’s going to be outside.”
“No, dude, the fuckin’ details. Unbelievable.” Carver took a long draught and crushed the empty can. “Weddings, folding chairs – geesus, Wrangler, you’re gettin’ soft in the head.” 
“Don’t worry about my head, ole’ buddy. When Cristol and me are talkin’ about this stuff, she gets horny and I won’t be soft. Trust me.” He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and then held it up, palm toward his “ole’ buddy.” Carver gave it a slap, they picked up the empties and went inside.

Cristol and Wrangler agreed that July, 2009 would be an ideal time for them to publicly repeat promises they were now making to each other privately. Yes, it was true that talking about their wedding plans usually resulted in sex, but, Wrangler also liked coming up with ideas for the ceremony. That was what they were doing on the night before the Saplins were leaving on an Hawaiian vacation.

 “Okay,” Cristol said, “You and my minister hear the plane and that’s your signal to turn toward the lake. Once you turn, my mom stands up. After she stands up, everybody else will. But, I’ve been thinking maybe everyone should stay seated cause when Dad helps me down from the plane, I want our friends to get really good pictures.”

“Nobody’s gonna sit, Cristol. It’s a wedding. People stand up. Sheesh, that’s one thing I know after all the movies you’ve made me watch with you.” Over the summer she’d rented every movie she could find that had a wedding scene in it.

“Not so, Mr. Smarty, it all depends on what my mother does. If she stands, then everyone else stands and if she doesn’t then nobody does.”

“Why? Because she’s the governor?”

“No, silly,” laughed Cristol. “It’s wedding etiquette. You know – a rule.”

 Wrangler looked doubtful. “Are you servin’ me a warm load of moose-pie?”

“No, I’m not, and if you don’t know this stuff I gotta wonder what else your mother didn’t teach you.” She meant it playfully, but he took offense.

 “Oh, yeah? Well your mother is a st-“ He stopped just in time. If he said Ms. S was “a stupid phony and she sounds stupid, too,” the chances of a romantic goodbye would be ruined. He looked up to the sky, counted to ten, and acquiesced, “Don’t worry about me or my mom.”

“You’ll tell her not to stand unless my mom does?”

“Yeah, I’ll tell her. Okay? Let’s change the subject.”

“You better tell your friends too. Those guys don’t know anything, either.” Typical Cristol, piling on even though she knew she had Wrangler beat.

“Whatever. Let’s drop it, okay? Now, tell me the next part again, it’s my favorite part,” he lied.

It was Cristol’s favorite part, however - the fairy tale entrance of the bride and her father. “It is the best part, isn’t it?” she said. Then she began to recite, “As the story of Cristol and Wrangler’s Magnificent Wedding continues, the little red Piper Cub, my father’s pride and joy, docks safely…”

The degree of detail went on ad nauseum – short veil waving in a breeze, bouquet of yellow and orange roses gripped tightly in one hand while she steadies herself with the other hand placed on her father’s shoulder. Carver’s right, thought Wrangler, this is freaky. He continued to half listen. He didn’t care who wrote what vows, or who sang a song, or what the cake looked like.“While I’m on the beach in Hawaii, I’m going to look through magazines and get some ideas for our cake.” When she began to list flavors of cake, flavors of frosting, textures and edible decorations, his eyes glazed over.

Though it seemed to take forever, she finally got to the place Wrangler had been hoping for. On the way home that night he pulled out his phone to text Carver and brag that his theory was tested again and proven true. But, he changed his mind when he saw a message from Carver that read, “Where you at? Lookin 4 foldin chairs? LOL ”

Grow up, Carver, thought Wrangler and he put his phone away.
   Wrangler’s girl had been gone four days and he was drinking again with Dan and Carver, this time  in Dan’s garage. He was maudlin. “Why’d they have to go to Hawaii? Cristol said they’ve never had a family vacation before. Not a real vacation like this is. Why now? This is our summer, our best summer. Ya know what I mean? Next year we gotta get jobs and stuff.” He drained another bottle and threw it ten feet, making it into a barrel. There was a satisfying sound of glass breaking. “Yes!” he crowed, but the elation was temporary.“This is it, damn it. This is the end of our childhood. Damn, ten days is a long time.”

“Bet she’s not missin' you,” Dan said. “ Bet there’s a dude on the beach rubbing sun tan lotion on her right now.” Dan, like Carver, was no fan of Cristol. He often told Wrangler he was “whipped by the ice princess.”

“Shut up.” Wrangler, drunk and lonely, didn’t need Dan giving him any shit.
“Cut it out, Dan.” Carver didn’t want the night spoiled by tension between his two best friends. They didn’t get to hang out with Wrangler much anymore and this was supposed to be a fun night. “Here, I got something for you, Wrangler.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a blunt. “This will help.”

Wrangler took it and lit it. Taking a drag, he let his mind drift. He knew his relationship with Cristol was too intense for his buddies. Maybe they were right. Maybe this time apart from his girl was good for him. That’s what his father said while they were making plans for the hunting trip - the trip that they were going to start on the next morning.

Wrangler and his dad were close. Some of his best childhood memories were made with his dad at his side and guns in their hands, shooting bear, elk, caribou, fishing and riding off-road vehicles. Man stuff. They bonded during those times, and though he knew his sister was jealous over the closeness he and his dad shared, he was protective and selfish when it came to camping trips with their dad. Porsche had looked hurt when she found out about the upcoming trip but, Wrangler refused to beat himself up over it. It wasn’t his fault Porsche was a girl.

Even as he told himself that, he knew it was a lame excuse. Porsche could hunt, fish, and ride an ATV better than any guy he knew. Still, his life had too much women stuff going on and he needed the break. His dad understood the daily concessions Wrangler made, living with two women. And now he had Cristol bossing him around, too. Cristol wanted Wrangler to be with her all the time, which meant hanging out at her house and helping take care of her younger sisters. It could be fun, like when he did the cooking – hots and sausage and burgers and steaks. He even wore an apron! (God, he would never let Dan or Carver know that.) And, how many other guys his age would pitch in after supper to do dishes, clean up, and read to Pride before bed? He was more like their dad than Mr. S.

That was another thing he’d never tell Dan and Carver was that he liked being an ex-officio parent. While barbecuing chicken, tending steaks on the grill, setting out the paper plates, and mixing up lemonade he felt happy inside. It was good practice for the day when he and Cristol would have their own kids, and that was only a few years into the future.
 Cristol’s plan was to be two months pregnant when they finished high school, and not quite four months when they got married. That, she explained to Wrangler, was ideal. He'd have a scholarship to play hockey and they'd live together in campus housing. From some of her brother’s friends, she’d heard of a way Wrangler would be able to college even if he didn't get a hockey scholarship.  As an emancipated adult with a wife and child and not much income, he could take courses for free at the state college and she could stay home and cook and clean and care for their son.
Wrangler’s ideal plan diverged from hers. He didn’t want to go on to college any more than she did, which meant “not at all.” If he could get drafted by a professional hockey team he'd skip the college step and he'd travel with the team. He'd be home in the off season. Kind of like all those guys locally who worked on the Slope. They were away a lot. Heck, Mr. S was away more than most.
Yup, she'd have to understand. But for now, there was no reason to tell her. There would be plenty of time for that later.


cowboy said...

This blog is absolutely wonderful.
I love this information.Thanks for sharing this information.

Horse Head Shot Glass

Duncan said...

Thanks Allison,

It's getting better each week.


Anonymous said...

very good

Anonymous said...

SPLENDID! Do you live in Alaska by any chance? Do you have teenagers? You really know the lingo! :-)
Watching her reality show, she hasn't matured much since her high school infatuation phase, eh? So sad she is stuck there. Tripp is the one who will suffer. Levi is moving on and needs to get that boy before he is lost in that asylum too! Is the smallness of the environment/population diminishing the teenagers dreams of forging into the future and they feel they need to pass over an education for instant gratification. Do they feel trapped by the elements? So sad.

Anonymous said...

Why American men should boycott American women

Boycott American Women

I am an American man, and I have decided to boycott American women. In a nutshell, American women are the most likely to cheat on you, to divorce you, to get fat, to steal half of your money in the divorce courts, don't know how to cook or clean, don't want to have children, etc. Therefore, what intelligent man would want to get involved with American women?

American women are generally immature, selfish, extremely arrogant and self-centered, mentally unstable, irresponsible, and highly unchaste. The behavior of most American women is utterly disgusting, to say the least.

This blog is my attempt to explain why I feel American women are inferior to foreign women (non-American women), and why American men should boycott American women, and date/marry only foreign (non-American) women.

Tens of millions of American men have had their lives completely destroyed by American women through the following crimes:

1. False rape accusations (it has been proven that up to 80 percent of rape accusations are FALSE)

2. False domestic violence (DV) charges (same as above)

3. Financial destruction of men in divorce courts through alimony and support payments (women get up to 95 percent of their ex-husband's income and savings, as well as the house, car, etc)

4. Emotional destruction of men by ex-wives who have stolen their children from them and forbidden the fathers from having custody or contact with their own children

5. Divorced dads who commit suicide as a result

Not one single American woman has EVER condemned their fellow American women for committing these crimes against men. Silence means consent. Therefore, American women support and enjoy destroying men's lives and causing men to commit suicide. Apparently, American women think it is okay to be a criminal, just as long as you are a woman. Therefore, is it any surprise that a huge percent of American men no longer want anything to do with American women, other than using them for easy sex and then throwing them away?

A few more reasons to stay away from American women?

-25 percent of American women take psychiatric drugs for mental illnesses.
-25 percent of women under the age of 30 have at least one STD.
-85 percent of divorces in America are INITIATED by women, thus women are responsible for the vast majority of divorces.
-70 percent of criminals in America were raised by single mothers, thus feminism is responsible for most crime in America.
-The majority of child molestation, child abuse, and child murder in America is done by WOMEN.

Over 50 percent of American women are single, without a boyfriend or husband; so the fact is most American men no longer want to marry American women. Let these worthless American women grow old living alone with their 10 cats.


Anonymous said...

Who dropped you on your head? Just where have you been looking? I've never heard such crap in my life. Been happily married for 53 years and would be so disappointed if my boys had turned out like you. Please go get some help or don't let the door hit you on the way out of the country. You sound like Republican man! Actually, you sound like Todd Palin. You better get some mental therapy real soon. Seriously. Sorry your life has been so crappy, but have you ever thought about what you say? No woman in her right mind would ever give you a second look after you opened your mouth! Perhaps a cabin in the backwoods is your destination. Or the priesthood.

Allison said...

I have no idea where 2:33 pm came from but his rant is fascinating once you get past the stench. This guy gets to vote just like the rest of us. Mitt and Newt and Todd would probably like him. What a whackact lace the GOP has become. If my regular readers ask, I will remove it. Until then, it will stay up.

Anonymous said...

Please leave this up Allison! Everyone needs to see this. They live among us and they vote and reproduce. All the more reason to get out and vote and remove his friends from office. You just know he'll vote the vagina brigade. Have the feeling the judge took his wife's side. :-)

Anonymous said...

That guy works for mail order brides via the Internet; is probably a spambot from Russia.

Levidumpedthepalins said...

2:33 PM hates his mother.

2:33 PM does not have a sister.

2:33 PM does not have a daughter.

2:33 PM never had a girlfriend in his life.

Or 2:33 PM is Todd.

Wasilla's had enough said...

I know you write this is fiction but here is something people like you need to learn:

This should go on the last post, but I clicked this one first.

From every Wasilla teen who has been harassed/bothered by/obsessively questioned by random idiots, STOP it! These are people you're using and abusing. You will never know them, their friends, and their personal histories. Making stupid judgments about Wasilla and its inhabitants based on blogs is even more sad than a bunch of middle aged sitting around ALL DAY dreaming up insult after insult aimed at a group of people whom you will never meet.

As an adult, you should understand the following:
-To truly understand something, you have to live it personally.
- No human is ever justified in the act of judging another human.

Funny that you think because I am from Wasilla, live near a famous family, and engage in activities that you find beneath yourself (like hunting and our outdoorsy hobbies), that I am white trash and ignorant. Ironic that I under the above bulleted remarks perfectly well as a 24 year old person and you apparently do not.

From this blog's purpose, I gather you all want to see change and create a better world. If true, then why do you regularly act like ignorant assholes who make stupid, superficial, often inaccurate judgments?

Stop contacting people for dirt. Stop stalking people with hopes of filling your life with that thing it obviously lacks. Stop assuming the worst about a town/people you don't know.

Simply, act your age for once. Unless you're truly an 11 year old, always picked last, reject of the cool clique. Though even those people are typically good-natured.

Sorry for this but I am SICK of stupid people saying stupid, judgmental things out of hatred. You will never know the people you attack. You don't know their friends. You don't know their internal process. JUST STOP. I personally do not know the Palins but as a resident, I do know some of the biggest gossips and I know how easy it is to PRETEND to know what you're talking about. While my town is amazing, one thing many complain of is hurtful gossip and lies in general. People leave because of it. This is just the nature of a small community.

The country would be a happier place if more people started living proactive lives and stopped complaining about stupid things and what they DONT have. You can literally have anything you want here yet all I read/hear are complaints. JUST END IT. Smile, choose to be happy. Rant over.

Anonymous said...

Cowboy, how is writing a bunch of fiction sharing information? How is this blog a wonderful thing? It's written by someone who's never been to Alaska, never met an Alaskan of anyone she talks about.

Anonymous said...

What is that Boycott Amer Women bs? I am HIGHLY offended by it.

Anonymous said...

Allison, those are some nasty judgments you're making about people you've never met.

Anonymous said...

You should have written about that cute moment when Mrs S taught Wrangler how to roast something. Cute MIL/SIL moment that would bring SOME semblance of truth to your little tale.

Or the time the S's took 3 vacations in 5 months. Not to mention all the traveling they all did over the whole state. Leaves little time for budding lovebirds, esp when one was playing hockey fulltime.

Allison said...

The Wasilla resident's commentary raises so many contradictions. I'd like to hear what others glean from it; here are a couple of my impressions:

This person is making the point we hear over and over - "Don't judge." But, judging is what they are doing throughout their own piece.

He/she says "you think" (do we have a mind reader among us?) and even states he/she knows why I think these presumed thoughts! It's all about them being from Wasilla. Not content with making declarations of what a stranger thinks, and why the stranger thinks the way they do, this commenter judges my humility because, you know, he/she knows me so well. I learned things that my friends would be surprised to learn about me - that hunting and outdoorsy activities are "beneath" me. Hmmm, guess I better move into the city.

Can this person see the irony ranting about bloggers and their readers as being judgmental and then including the sentence that begins "Ironic that I..." and ends with "... and you apparently do not."

The only outright comment I have for Anon is that I do not and have not contacted people for dirt. Don't assume that about me. Period. It's time to apply your own advice and "stop assuming the worst about people you don't know," and you "will never don't know their internal process. JUST STOP."

He/she is 24 and lives in Wasilla. That's their self-description. The rest of what they wrote indicates their ability to think clearly. I have one bit of advice. Remember, when you point a finger, your other three are pointed back at you.

Thanks for stopping by and remember, White Trash in the Snow is fiction, it is not about you.