Random Excerpts From My Turner Flag

Negative Nancy and Debbie Downer are about to take a stroll down memory lane, but that's what writing's for.

My baby cous was dead in a casket tonight. His face warped into the little boy in diapers and cowboy boots (just like little lambo) when I stared at him. Visions of Donkey Kong and rolling down hills and soaking in Epsom salt played over and over and over.

My family consumed the classy funeral home like a beautiful plague. Scorpions vests of glory highlighted each room in clusters and kindergarten straight lines.

The slide show eventually displayed pictures of him and his friends/family drinking and partying. Several of the pictures contained middle fingers in the funeral home. Fuck yes, they did. These beautiful displays of non-affection made me smile because today, I flip off the world. Fuck the world for this.

A distant cousin told me I looked like my mama in front of Deddy. He stood still and tears rolled down his cheeks, and then he gasped for air from crying. I held him, and he held me, and at that moment, I realized again just how beautiful our relationship is.

A couple of previous men in my life called me "white trash" in times of lame break-ups. They called me this because of my family, and I remember no tears, only hatred and anger. If "white trash" is getting by, then damn-fucking-right that's what I am. The world's lame-ass attempt at derogatory terms is the dumbest shit I've ever heard. I run with the rich. I run with the poor. I run with rednecks. I run with thugs. I run with white trash. I am white trash. Put it on my casket and my whole family's with a big "Fuck You" because I am proud.

I want the world to know that my Turner flag flies in glory. Today and this week, it flies half staff just like it did for everyone else. We are a gang—a mob—a organism that feeds off of alcohol, drugs, and death, and we're so tired of the latter.