Here's me finishing breakfast.
And here's me trying to act like I wasn't thisclose to puking.
The plan for the day was to head to the Busch race, which explains the gay red cooler on my arm. (By the way, as much as I make fun of the NASCAR experience, I can't argue with them allowing fans to bring coolers into the race. To quote Les Murphy, "That's all the way nice.")
Anyway, the Busch race. The walk from our RV to the track probably took thirty minutes, although it felt like two hours. The walking surface was either a mud/clay mix or gravel. Plus, my cooler had to weigh upwards of 8 lbs.--don't ever forget that I'm a softy. Anyway, at least we were drunk (or getting there). But seriously, I can't tell you how grueling that trek was. The consolation prize came in the form of a black girl.
Her name was Tomica, and I called her beautiful (right after calling her precious and adorable). I think she was turned on by my Hudy Delight bottles.
(Note: I got her number, but things never materialized.)
The journey continued.
As we approached the track, I noticed something familiar up in the sky. Something that made me realize what a special occasion this must be.
A goddamn blimp.
(Can somebody--anybody--explain to me why blimps remain relevant?)
We finally arrived at the track and the anticipation was through the roof. 99.9 percent of the people wanted to see cars drive in a circle, and I wanted to watch rednecks cheering for cars driving in a circle.
Regardless, as we waited for this "excitement" to take place, I took the opportunity to once again mock some hillbillies. For example, I would stand up and scream "FIRE THEM FUCKIN' ENGINES UP!" as loud as possible to aggravate the locals. There was only one problem: nobody seemed to notice. Apparently, this was normal behavior.
The race finally began, and boy was it exciting.
See for yourself.
(Important note: Dale Jr. raced on both Saturday and Sunday, and it would be impossible for me to illustrate how popular he is. My friend, a guy who actually likes this garbage, estimated that 75 percent of NASCAR fans consider Dale Jr. their favorite driver. They would cheer Jr. every time his car passed by...the cheers got louder if he happened to pass someone...and if he was in first place...good God, you've never seen anything like it.)
Guys wore really short shorts.
(I witnessed dozens of rednecks with boxers longer than their ripped jean shorts. You couldn't make this stuff up.)
This local wanted to get a picture with my shirt--which made me something of a celebrity. If only I told him about www.TwinKilling.com...
Post race, we convinced an old lady to bong a beer.
She was proud of herself.
People weren't paying attention to me. I had to upstage the Dick Van Dyke groupie.
(Pay attention to the Dale Sr. homage in the following picture.)
(By the way, how ridiculous is it that I bonged beer inside Talladega Superspeedway and it seemed normal?)
Sadly, no more pictures were taken on Saturday. I lost my camera in the grass and didn't find it until the next morning.
That was Saturday.
-Brad Spieser (Brad@TwinKilling.com)