Today's guest post comes from my dear friend, Baby Face Finster. Getting him to contribute this post was a huge accomplishment (however my powers of persuasion are legendary and so he couldn't exactly say no)- now if only I could get his snarky ass on Twitter...
Random musings on your Bristol experience…
It’s painfully obvious that - despite your parents’ best efforts - you have regressed beyond the point of rehabilitation. They have truly lost you. Welcome to “the island of misfit chromosomes” – step to the left to receive your general issue flannel shirt.
You have led a blessed and charmed life to date – You’ve attended finishing school, labored through harpsichord lessons, summered in the Hamptons, were exposed to the cultural experiences and refinements that one can only be subjected to by growing up in the second greatest city on earth, and you’ve obtained a quality, advanced education from the University of New Jersey at Durham. I can only imagine your parents’ lament as they wring their hands, wearing the prints from their fingers in a Capone-esque fashion. Where, oh where, could they have ever gone wrong?
What started as a pleasant diversion - a social research study intended to introduce a stranger to a strange land and foreign culture - has had such a profound and detrimental impact that you have now embraced the lifestyle and espouse the generalizations that many of us struggle to disprove. Congratulations! You have become Colonel Walter E. Kurtz from “Apocalypse Now”. If it gets out that you were drinking domestic beer – out of an aluminum can, no less – you’ll be publicly castigated and permanently excommunicated from high society. No number of “Julie and Julia” posts will suffice in getting you back into the good graces of the upper crust. I strongly recommend that you seek counseling with immediate effect. If you choose to ignore this advice, just head on back to the trailer and start frying something, Tammy.
Ironically, there is a parallel between our dearest Zsa Zsa and the great American sporting series that is NASCAR - that being a migration from the origins that made them so beloved. I have witnessed with great sadness the extreme commercialization of this great sport over the past 30 years – a sport that, at its very core, unabashedly embraces commercialism. The intent was honorable – expand the breadth and marketability of the sport while breaking free of the associated stereotypes. What once was a series filled with characters like Runt Pittman, D.W., Harry Hyde, Benny Parsons, Chocolate Myers, Tiny Lund, Tim Richmond (an Ohio native, by the way, Lilsaej), Dave Marcis, Jimmy “Smut” Means, JD McDuffie and countless others has been usurped by a group of Stepford wife-like underwear models. Every time one of ‘em gets interviewed I wait in anticipation and hope that their faceplate will pop off and they’ll start shooting sparks ala Yul Brenner in “Westworld”. God, I miss Jimmy Spencer. Unfortunately Jimmy couldn’t sell jeans as proficiently as some of the younger guys, so he was unceremoniously dumped. It should be noted that he didn’t go quietly into the night, though…One of his final acts as a driver, which is commonly considered by many to be the high water mark of the old guard vs. new guard conflict, was when Jimmy used Kurt Busch’s face to keep his fist from going through Kurt’s head. Kurt obviously learned his lesson. He had his ears pinned back closer to his head and he’s now currently playing the role of the smiling, affable pitchman for Miller Light who vigilantly reminds us all to drink responsibly.
It used to be that the guys in the cars were the guys that literally welded the spectator seats at the track (re: Ernie Irvin). Now they’re being programmed in elementary school to spray Pepsi all over any bystanders as soon as they dismount the go-cart. Apparently, paying ones dues is now passé. I fully acknowledge that there are a few bright spots - I hold out hope for Tony Stewart even though I feel that he should actually start eating some of the Subway products he promotes – Tony’s starting to bulk up a little and slightly resembles infamous 70’s professional wrestler Adrian Adonis. It truly is a cry for help when one fails in comparison while standing next to “Jared”.
As far as the Bristol race went, it was much less eventful than previous Sharpie 500’s – at times it bordered on tedious. Unlike Zsa Zsa and Lilsaej, I’m neutral on Kyle Busch – good driver, has a face like a bastard cat, which is refreshing considering the crop of Nivea models he competes against – but at least he’s out there mixing it up and making things happen. There are too many nice guys on the track nowadays and we all know that nice guys suck. If you don’t believe me go to Myrtle Beach and ask any group of 20-24 year old young ladies – you know, those nubile little kittens that are willing to siphon your money/alcohol for hours only to mysteriously disappear after going to the bathroom en masse mere microseconds before the house lights come on…I digress. It’s good to have a guy around with an axe to grind – It keeps you interested.
In closing I would recommend that you abstain from criticizing the fine Appalachian-American engineering expertise that went into your neighbors grill construction. Knowing race fans as I do, I can say without reservation that this group of pudgy, middle aged men (based on the photo posted) almost certainly would have invited you two younger ladies over to share a meal. Despite any ulterior motives on their part (and trust me, they had them since they’re middle aged primates) it should be noted that chivalry is not dead - not, at least, in Bristol, Tennessee. I’ll await confirmation from you that this, like all of my assertions, is absolutely correct.
Peace, love, understanding, and the Cat Square Suprette…
1 day ago