Guess who’s coming to dinner, and just guess what you’ll have to listen to at dinner

With the full understanding that the following comments may be subject to cultural reappropriation for purposes of full information security, and absolving all author, agent, and proprietor of High Arka of all liability for any such reappropriation, I hereby present this series of dinnertime comments from two or three meals earlier this month, edited for clarity:

–My brother is a fucking loser for taking up a trade as a young adult and not going directly to college. That stupid, resentful bastard waited until he was in his forties to get his bachelor’s and master’s degrees and become a high school history teacher.

–The Downeaster heiress who’s married to the charming Jordanian sheikh owns a much nicer and more tasteful island mansion than her sister, the one who’s married to the dullard banker with the new money proclivities.

–That faggot couple gave their IVF surrogate son a goofy, old-fashioned name, and I’m not really comfortable with the idea of these butt buddies being married, let alone having another kid that way, but as a good liberal I don’t want to be accused of homophobia, so pardon me while I disintegrate into an inarticulate hot mess.

–I’m totally bummed out that the immigrants from Omari Mullastan ended up closing their groovy Mid-Peninsula ethnic restaurant.

–I’m totally bummed out that the Darshanistani immigrants from Equatorial Fort Lee ended up shutting down their groovy Mid-Peninsula ethnic restaurant.

–I’m totally stoked that the immigrants from the Grand Antirohingya Regency of Hoon-Ta are still running this groovy Mid-Peninsula ethnic restaurant.

–It’s great to see yet another downtown business district on the Mid-Peninsula eviscerated of all dull-normal enterprise and rededicated to the aggrandizement of status-whoring bourgeois supremacist wankers who likely as not have absolutely no discernible productive relationship with the tangible economy.

–I’m not comfortable with that colored fella marrying into the family, but as a good liberal I don’t want to sound like a racist, so I think I’ll project instead by accusing the Republican father of the bride-to-be, who is helping raise a black foster son, of being the real racist here.

–As the top-decile autodicact spouse of a PhD who has had university tenure since the Nixon Administration, I cannot for the life of me understand regression to the mean as a statistical or sociological concept. Can you possibly explain why we have a child who is still haphazardly pursuing a bachelor’s degree at the age of thirty and why neither of you has even applied for admission to a terminal degree program? And before we change the subject, would it be possible for you to explain your own homelessness and unemployment by eliding structural impediments, such as entanglement with people you keep calling belligerent white trash and thinking about reporting to the police, or the job and housing markets being impossible to navigate? By the way, it’s getting difficult for us to share our mansion and gardens with a grown child who should be back out on the Peninsula’s grotesquely inflated open housing market, competing against stock option instamillionaires and Chinese robber barons who are trying to park their money beyond the reach of their homeland’s civil authorities and secure in-state tuition for their own brats.

*****

I banged that mill town hooker in her trailer down by the river for a reason. Mainly to get a piece of ass, come to think of it. Her pad wasn’t bad at all for a stabbin’ cabin, in spite of the stench of cigarette smoke and the piles of clutter all over the floor and dresser drawers. She was apologetic about the smoke (she tries to keep the door to her room closed to confine the stench to the rest of the trailer, and it works well enough) and really apologetic about all the clutter. “My friends keep coming over and leaving their shit everywhere. I try to tell them, this is the incall room, you can’t leave your shit all over the fucking place.” She had been frantically trying to clean the room when I texted her to confirm that our booking was still on. I inferred that her friends crash in her incall room pretty often after hours or between her incalls. That’s how the poors roll.

There’s no need to read the Atlantic to get in on the trend of Millennial cohousing. In fact, there’s no particular need to read the Atlantic at all; the piece in that link definitely sucks in a way that it wouldn’t if the author had hung out from time to time with the intersectional sex work/unemployment/drugs community in some crappy out-of-the-way industrial town on the skids before writing it. Or around one of the less trendy stops on the PATCO Speed Line. Homegirl told me it’s all too easy to pick up some “hooker hookers” at the local “shitty convenience stores,” and to pick up whatever else they’ve picked up and cultured for rebroadcasting on the journey of life.

Decent, peaceable white trash is sometimes what it takes to keep me sane and focused. Pot-o-Shit Friend certainly doesn’t instill serenity in his neighbors, even if it is a bootyful day on the neighborhood can. Joe Dirtbag got seriously wacked out when I saw him last, a bit over a week ago, and I had to get away from that shit. A town whore in another town who smokes too much but also bathes and doesn’t erratically gaslight everyone in her path because she’s having a mad about a new tenant’s shitty work ethic is as good an antidote as any. When one’s overly precious highbrow native class is worked up over failspawn who can’t even finish degrees at their safety schools or have ended up homeless because no one will stand up to an emotionally abusive family extortionist, sometimes what it takes to break the mental jam is to be shown a text from a prospective client who wants to know, “If Greek isn’t available, can I still stick my finger up your ass?” It’s more literate and educated than thinking that Jamul was the apostle closest to Jesus, but still, as Tricky Dick always said, Christ. It would be thirsty white-knighting to commiserate with some amateur cocktease about rude, sexually explicit text messages from one of her bad boys, but homegirl had already put out and was snuggling with me after the deed, both of us stark naked, so she knew I wasn’t trying to flatter my way into her pants. She’s a professional. She knows why the boys show up, and she’s cool with it. It’s just that she’d rather not deal with ones who aren’t gentlemanly enough to refrain from explicitly requesting free butt stuff on top of a discount on a blow-and-go outcall.

Besides, in her crowd it’s considered adequately successful to be a recreational semi-addict who hasn’t dropped out of community college. I’ve witnessed too much handwringing about the supposedly unambitious and troubled failspawn of the top half of the top decile not to respect the shit out of that stance. To listen to some of the alarmed parents, one might think their children are cracked out in a squat full of bruisers in Lillooet. For crying out loud, many of us don’t even touch drugs. I hardly even touch alcohol when I’m on my own.

Sometimes socializing with the below-average is what it takes to understand and chronicle the above-average, because *Very George Bailey Voice* it’s the below-average, Mr. Potter, who do most of the working and the screwing and the whoring and the whorehouse cleaning and the complaining about customers with rude pocket telegram etiquette in this town. It isn’t the two or three town whores with current ads up on Backpage who turn Bedford Falls into Pottersville, by the way; that’s more likely to be the sort of gents who send women strange to them explicit requests to put fingers up their asses as part of the base fee if buttcocking is off the menu, and likelier yet to be even worse, lower men.

That Boomer Bailey brat should have been told to play her shitty piano tunes in a soundproofed practice room at the high school. Her old man was right to tell her to shut up. More than a few real Boomers still on the scene today should be told to take their meals either in holy contemplative silence among those of us with discernible table manners and tact about sensitive subjects of conversation, or else away from us, so that we might hold out some hope of maintaining a separate peace. Silents: they aren’t actually anything of the sort.

I don’t always write about whores and the men who bone them, but when I do, it’s usually to restore decorum to the pubic discourse. I mean, uh, I had to borrow the L for my aid. Giggity.

It could always be worse. It already has, within this very essay, been worse.

 

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