Monday, April 28, 2008

Talladega: Day 1 (Hillbillies are Prevalent)

The first day started innocently enough, just fifteen guys meeting at 6 a.m. (actually 6:16 because--of course--I overslept) for an eight-hour journey to the fine state of Alabama. We crammed into two RVs, immediately cranked up the Guns 'N' Roses and headed south. Deep south. The consumption of alcohol kicked off at 7:57, about an hour later than I expected. Clearly, we're getting old.

I tried not to bother my friends with picture requests on the trip--after all, they were on vacation--but I planned on doing a lot of dumb shit in Talladega, and I needed visual evidence for you's guys. This required a fair amount of semi-begging, and my buddies obliged more often than not. I'd say my pictures--without commentary--tell around 53 percent of the story.

47 percent.

My goal is to capture the remaining 47 percent of my inaugural trip to a NASCAR event. I'm sure I'll fail, but here goes nothing.

The first picture is really the only one that shows my obnoxious homemade shirt. I hesitated to post it because I look like a 115 lb. meth addict. Oh well.

The majority of our trip down there was spent playing trash-talking euchre and discussing baseball video games from our childhood, especially Baseball Stars, RBI Baseball, Baseball Simulator 3000 and Bases Loaded (remember the vaunted duo of Bay and Paste?).

This is apparently how white people in their mid-to-late 20s have fun.

As we approached Talladega, it dawned on someone (besides me, obviously) that we would need fire wood for the trip. You know, for fires and stuff. We found this yocal by the side of the road slinging the goods.

As this idiot leaned inside our vehicle, we feared for our lives. We had to act fast.

We offered him beer.

Predictably, he accepted.

We finally arrived and unloaded our crap. In my case, that meant walking around in circles, acting like I was aiding my friends as they set up tents and tables and grills and all the other shit that goes into a weekend of enduring the great outdoors.

While lending a not-so-helpful hand, I checked out the scenery. Listen, I knew Talladega would offer me oodles of material for this decent website, but I didn't realize this would be happening ten feet from me:

The rest of the story regarding our 700 lb. neighbor is this: The next day I was caught taking a picture of the Ralphie May wannabe. Not by him, but by his friend. I saw the large mammal walking into the port-a-potty and I prepared to snap a photo of him coming out. This would allow me to make an obvious comment alongside his picture in this space. Or so I thought. Instead, I was confronted by some tatted-up lowlife and had to wiggle out of trouble with a ridiculous lie that he couldn't have believed. I spent the rest of the weekend looking over my shoulder, half expecting to catch some shit from the him and his friends.

Nothing ever happened.

Up next was my first time partaking in an old Talladega tradition: taking your shirt off.

About twenty PBRs deep, I decided to put on a shirt and walk around, you know, to experience Talladega. That means walking on dirt roads, pissing on trees and pointing out one ridiculous hillbilly after the next.

We eventually stumbled upon something rednecks will always consider hilarious: blow-up dolls. The funny thing about the following picture is that I had no idea that dude was over my left shoulder. In case you were wondering, that's what 91 percent of NASCAR fans look like.

As day officially became night, girls started removing their tops in exchange for beads. Suckers.

But anyway, it wasn't that awesome. It's was a somewhat disturbing, actually. Here's how it would go down: Two girls would walk down a gravel road, some hillbilly would shine a flood light in their direction and 50-75 hornballs would sprint towards them, beads in hand. And all of this for a glimpse of a nipple. That is, a nipple belonging to a usually overweight female, who was almost certainly named Tammy (or Debbie).

(Note: I think this phenomenon explains prison rape. There were so few ladies down there that--even when an ugly girl came around the corner--she was mobbed. Imagine being a good looking prisoner in the land of horny men. Same thing.)

This doesn't mean I didn't have my moments of embarrassing heterosexuality.

When the chicks below put on a ninety-minute softcore (yet nudity free) freak show, well, I was in the front row. I snapped a good forty pictures using my buddy's camera before going to get my own. By the time I returned, the truly graphic acts had subsided. All you need to know is that these nineteenish gals, and their friend in the background entering the RV, acted as naughty as you can imagine for no valid reason. That is, unless you count beads and Miller Lite as valid reasons.

And then I passed out in my chair, which--surprisingly--wasn't as comfortable as my bed.

That was Friday.


Craig and I recorded Monday afternoon--on the topic of Talladega--and I'm still chopping it up; I'll post new podcasts daily for the next several days. But I did grab something to whet your appetite. Our podcast "mocking rednecks never gets old" is less than a minute long, but it gives you a good idea of how much of an dickhead I can be.

Also also, I'll briefly touch on the Bengals draft sometime Tuesday. Needless to say, I'm not happy.

Goodnight, people.

-Brad Spieser (