Today marks the beginning of the grueling, nine-month-long Commercialized Crap Carnival that is the NASCAR season. A squirmy little spermy could cook into a full blown human in the time it takes these fuckwads to decide who has the best stickers.
For those of you lucky enough to live alone (or in a house that isn’t smaller than an infield RV with only one television) you might be able to ignore this turd tournament, but your purveyor of poop here isn’t so fortunate.
I’m not going to go into the great debate over whether auto racing is a sport or not. I was forced to take part in the Richard Petty Driving Experience a couple of years ago (I did the ride along, because I’m too scared/lazy to drive) and rode three laps around Indianapolis Motor Speedway at 171 mph. Needless to say, my stomach never left pit road, which was fortunate because if it had come along I surely would have shat myself.
I was thrilled to be a part of it.
My point is that anyone who can hold their composure (and bowels) that long while traveling that fast must have some serious conditioning and endurance. Yet I maintain that staying awake as a spectator through an entire race may be a more impressive feat.
It’s not the constant left turns that makes it so boring. Anyone who thinks so I challenge to sit through a road course race, they’re more painful than shitting a shiv sideways. And why do they swirl the opposite direction of water in a toilet? You’re not fooling anyone, NASCAR. But I digress.
Having lived in Michigan my whole life, I’m well aware that it’s a requirement of citizenship to be sexually aroused by excessive horsepower and I fully comply. I get a raging lady rod whenever I hear the revving engine of some old-school Mopar muscle. But nothing deflates my bitch boner like the constipating cry of “Boogity boogity boogity, let’s go racin’ boys!”
In typical Asshat American fashion each race is begun with a Christian prayer. I’m assuming when they bow their heads they are praying that we never run out of Middle Eastern countries to pillage and burn so that we can continue to shamelessly flaunt our desecration of the planet by senselessly burning countless gallons of fossil fuels every weekend just for shits and grins.
And the latest icon of this careening cowpie contest is the stool-shriveling banshee Danica Patrick. I’m all for powerful women and denouncing the whole “it’s a man’s world” thing, but why does our ambassador into auto racing have to be a sniveling, spoiled twat who storms around like the world owes her something, demanding to be treated “like one of the guys” yet flaunting her ownership of a vagina at every turn? Is there anyone out there, NASCAR fan or not, who doesn’t want to see her crash and burn? (Literally or figuratively works here. I’d prefer both.)
Ready or not, let the shit show begin. If anyone needs me, I’ll be curled up in the fecal position in a secluded outhouse for the next nine months.
**Note: If this post comes off even angrier than normal, it’s because my computer is located in the same room as the TV which hasn’t moved from pre-race coverage the entire morning. I even flung extra feces at the screen but the dung droppings just blend in with Danica’s dumb face. Shitty.