This column brought to you by Jesus who reminds you that he did not place that beer in your hands, and that drinking 13 more cans will not make it so.

If you’re anything like me, when you think of a place that’s filled with lunatics, drunks, and rednecks, you think of the White House. Of course, the next thing you’d probably think of is a NASCAR track on Sunday. I am not ashamed to admit that I’m a NASCAR fan, and no one makes fun of me for being a NASCAR fan. Of course, I do brutally murder all opposition to me, but that’s beside the point. The point is I was at a NASCAR race this past Sunday, as I had the privilege to direct traffic on one of the track entrances. From my orange barrel stationed in the middle of the action, I got the true NASCAR experience, and though people kept trying to knock me out by hitting me over the head with beer bottles, I am here to tell you my story, as well as its moral, which is, don’t fuck with rednecks. Ha ha! I’m just kidding. The moral is to never fuck rednecks’ sheep.

But enough about the moral, let’s get to the story. The day started at 3 AM when I stumbled into the shower and accidentally turned on the icy cold water. Then I realized that I had been dumped in the Arctic Circle by my friends in the Romanian Mafia again, and I started back home. Those jokers! In any case, the U.S. military owed me a favor and dropped me off over at my house, then they proceeded to blow up my next door neighbor’s house. Last time the bastard steals a chainsaw from me. Before fire and rescue crews could arrive and accuse me of something, I was off to the race. On my way, I passed an old cemetery where Tom Cruise was shooting a new movie where he eats what’s left of the flesh of dead people. Should be a good movie. Wait a minute, there weren’t any cameras.

Anyways, I parked my car outside the speedway gates and went to sleep for a few hours. Then a speedway worker knocked on my window and told me to get to work directing traffic. There wasn’t much traffic to direct at first, so I mainly watched the campground area, where people had literally been partying all night. Some of these people hadn’t slept in days, so I decided to have a little fun with them while I wasn’t busy. In one camper, I released a pack of hungry dogs after I poured Tabasco sauce all over the drunken inhabitants. They thought I was giving them a sponge bath. To be even more cruel, I released a thousand bumblebees into another camper after I gave their dog and two cats baths in honey sauce. I thought that the campers would be upset, but they called it the best damn show they ever saw. Then they gave me a beer. Dissatisfied, I made my cruelest move of all by releasing Jeff Gordon into another camp. I heard a lot of screaming, a lot of chainsaw noises, and a lot of hole digging, and Jeff never came out. Next time, maybe I won’t forget to use the Jeff Gordon Tackling Dummy (copyright 1998 Hasbro Toys). I heard that the dummy placed 4th in the race though.

When I headed back to my post, a lineup of cars had formed, so I started letting them through. Of course, if a car came to me, it was headed in one of two directions: inside the speedway or left to handicap parking. The majority of the cars at first were headed inside the speedway, mainly because they were the pit crews and families of the drivers. I stopped
a few pit crews and made them do four tire changes on their vans. Then I proceeded to shake my head and tell them that the sort of times they put up were “winning times.” Of course, they did the best they could without any tools. I had fun with the families of the drivers too. I told them that during the race, I would kill their daddy. Then I laughed, saying I was just joking, that I’d find him AFTER the race and kill him. They seemed unhappy, but I think eventually they got the joke. Soon, actual cars started piling in, though some of the cars with handicap stickers didn’t appear to be filled with handicapped people. Does anyone else think that morbid obesity is not a handicap, that these people should just get the frickin’ liposuction and get it over with? Is it so hard for some of these people to ride an exercise bike while watching the race? These people notwithstanding, the “handicapped” problem got worse. One of the other parking attendants saw a couple walking away from their handicapped-stickered vehicle and noticed something strange. He told the couple that one of
them had to work on their limp a little. The man then proceeded to act like he was limping. The saddest part of all this is that I am not making it up.

Throughout the day, I saw many interesting people walk by me. Earlier in the day I saw a husband and wife arguing. Let me tell ya, some people are dead serious about their arguing. I mean, the guy didn’t even think twice about killing the wife. Then he asked me to help him dig the shallow grave. Then he hired Johnny Cochran. This happened in the span of about an hour. I hope his “The police are out to frame violent, sex-crazed lunatics like my client” argument holds up in court. Good luck Johnny! A number of people also came over to me and asked me if the train that ran to the other end of the speedway was running today, this in spite of the fact that it was running DIRECTLY BEHIND ME. I happily pointed the people in the right direction, although the morbidly obese people were more than a little upset about having to walk the 50 feet to the nearest train. I guess it’s pretty bad when you can hear their feet screaming for mercy. The t-shirts were really cool though. Give NASCAR fans this: They know a good t-shirt when they see it. One t-shirt advertised a new brand of M&Ms, called S&Ms. I didn’t know that the yellow peanut liked it rough, or that the green M&M looked so damn good wearing leather and holding a whip. The best t-shirt of the day though had to be the one that said on the front, “Drink ‘Til You Want Me.” The spirit of NASCAR lives on.

Once the race started, allegiances were evident. The Jeff Gordon fans collected under the grandstands for fear of oppression. I think it was a little much of them to believe that the Holy Gordon Spirit was coming to give them bravery enough to sit in the grandstands. I also think it was a little much for Jesus to be standing there not letting them out. The Dale Earnhardt, Jr. fans were everywhere in the stands, though you couldn’t understand them when they talked, mainly because every single noun was “Dale,” “Earnhardt,” or “Junior.” Here’s a sample conversation:

Redneck 1: So Dale was down at the Junior the other Earnhardt.
Redneck 2: Oh really? Did Junior buy the Dale?
Redneck 1: Nope, Earnhardt thought Dale’d be better off with the Earnhardt.
Redneck 2: Well, Junior’s a Dale. Guess Dale’d better go with the Earnhardt.

And they all knew what the other was talking about. I tell ya, with Dale Earnhardt Junior, it’s like hero-worship. They cheer him when he wins, they cheer him when he loses, the threaten death upon anyone who causes Dale pain (I was flooded with about 420 death threats after I typed this paragraph, and I didn’t even send it out immediately. How did they get my email?) I do, however, think it was a little much for them to make Junior keep his father’s corpse in the back of his car.

Well, after being showered with rubber from being so close to the track, and having had to throw water on driver Ricky Rudd as he tried to climb the grandstand fence while on fire (although I still think it was funny to shoot out his tire), I left the race. I learned a lot that day, the best lesson being that girls, when sprayed with a hose and doused with
alcohol, always show their breasts. It is a lesson I will cherish always. Well, now I’m sunburned and my skin is trying to slowly crawl away, so I better be going. But take it from me, always wear pants to a NASCAR race, even if most of the rednecks aren’t wearing clothes at all. They sold the clothes to buy tickets for this race. This happens, I’m serious. I already bought 5 kids off of 3 different couples.

(Dr. Stinky knows you aren’t a race car, but he’ll still ride you any day.)