So before I begin the REAL blogging, here’s an idea that’s been floating around in my mind for weeks. Just because we’re SO sick of them both, I think Paris Hilton and Tom Cruise should dump their respective fiance’s, get married, have Carl’s Jr. burgers for the reception, jump on that Top Gun motorcycle, and ride off into the sunset. Or better yet, how about careening off the planet altogether? Are you people as TIRED of them as I am? All the smiling, preening, gushing, and couch-jumping-rolling-on-wet-cars escapades have made me want to channel George Costanza’s father “SERENITY NOW! And now, back to our regularly scheduled banter.
I think a lot of you will be hopping out of your socks when I reveal this tasty tidbit: Jethro lives. That’s right, for everyone who’s ever wondered what happened to Elly May’s cousin, listen up. He’s alive and well and I actually conversed with him at the IHBA Boat Drags a couple weekends ago. http://www.ihbaracing.com/ Well, I wouldn’t call it conversing; it was more like him babbling and me watching him bob and weave. His real name was Paul, but his pals did right by assigning him a “Beverly Hillbillies” nickname. http://www.timvp.com/beverlyh.htmlWith a cigar hole in his Salvation Army shorts, a tattered cowboy hat, 47 beers in his gut, a drunken Southern drawl, and the biggest, ugliest boots this side of the Rockies, he made his namesake proud. Git ‘er done!
You know, living in Fresno may not sound like a thrill a minute, but you’d be surprised at all the extracurricular activities one can find. For example, the boat races in Chowchilla, where streamlined machines scream across the water at speeds of 230 mph in under 6 seconds, and the noise is SO deafening, you think your eyeballs are going to pop right out of your sun-soaked head. http://www.ci.chowchilla.ca.us/ And you think that would be scary enough, but it’s not. It’s not watching the drivers’ helmets bobble under the pressure, or their lips peel back from their teeth, or that probable injury-or-death-by-impact lurks just seconds down the stretch. Nope, not even that. The most horrific, terrifying, run-for-your-life, blood curdling, excruciating-to-watch scene has got to be… well… the people. That’s right, the freaky human speed addicts. I’m talkin’ nipple rings, tattoos, plastic chin piercings, poster children for dental floss, fat chicks in pink sausage casings, cleavage for days, and bimbos teetering about on “sensible” 4 inch heels. You have to be one brave bombshell to strap on those babies, keep your balance for hours in the dirt, all the while trying to protect your precious pedicure. Brave, or really stupid, I can’t decide.
However, in all good conscience, I must give kudos to a few gals in the crowd, who deserve some honorable mention:
The woman wearing her “sensible” cork heels, and the shortest denim skirt I have ever seen in my entire life. That tiny piece of material defied all means of gravity, and almost gave new meaning to the term, “bottoms up”.
The several 20-something girlie-girls who courageously pranced about in the world’s teeniest, tiniest promotional bikinis and “sensible” shoes, while fearlessly standing in line at the porta-potties from hell. If only they had pockets for some hand sanitizer.
And finally, the brash broad who strutted about in a neon blue bikini top, spilling over with the most gigantic, amazing, jaw-dropping, traffic-stopping, not-jiggling-an-inch-even-if-there’s-an-earthquake “bolt-ons” I have ever seen on display. I don’t think I could tell you if she was wearing “sensible” shoes or not — and neither could anyone else.
I attended the races with the usual suspects; Flaming Ass Girl (sister Jill), her boyfriend Toxic Gas Man (Jeff), my roomie Cinderella, and their cool cohort, Gordi. While Jeff was up to his elbows in grease as part of the “Problem Child” pit crew, we wandered the grounds in search of Race Chic apparel. With cranberry vodkas in hand, and 12 inches of dust on our flip-flops, we made several contributions to the local vendors fund. Cinderella received many a wolf-whistle with her “boys” hangin’ out, Jill drank her body weight in Coors Lite, http://www.coors.com/ and I endured singed nose hairs and blistered eyes from the nitrous oxide boat fumes. Whew, talk about a head rush; I think I may have destroyed the very last of my brain cells with that stuff shooting up my nostrils.
All in all, it was quite the eventful day. I made a management decision not to return the next morning for the finals, basically because I couldn’t hear anything, sleeping ’til noon sounded much better, and my “sensible” shoes were at the cleaners. But to all of you courageous race fiends who DID go back, I salute you. It takes a lot of pluck to soldier on two days in a row. It takes a valiant effort to pace your way through the beers and cocktails. And it takes a lot of guts to stand up to the Nazis that are the Chowchilla police force, with their serious stares and rental uniforms. I’m convinced they were responsible for the rather stern roadside sign that read, NO GOLF CARTS, NO BATHING SUITS, NO THONGS. No thongs? No thongs?! Wow, I’m surprised everyone didn’t just turn around and go home.