RAVEN MACK is a mystic poet-philosopher-artist of the Greater Appalachian unorthodox tradition. He does have an amazing PATREON, but also *normal* ARTIST WEBSITE too.

Monday, March 7

Ponytail Challenge - Pt. 3 of 36

So Nascar had another race that I guess was on the regular free TVs, and came from Las Vegas. Having visited Las Vegas last year, I can't think of a better and more appropriate shithole for a new school Nascar race. Both are shiny, designed to fleece halfwits of money in goofy assed ways that are not nearly as awe-inducing when you see them up close.
That being said, I did not watch a second of it. I did see a dude I know post on Facebook that he was thankful Jeff Gordon was out. I am too. Jeff Gordon is all that is wrong with Nascar; and yet they would have you believe he is the noble aging warrior of Nascar, the standard-bearer of this new era. Fuck.
Anyways, there were still three dudes who raced in the Daytona 500 (thus still on the Ponytail Challenge potential champions list) that did not even try to qualify for the Kobalt Tools 400, which is what the Las Vegas race was paid to be called - Terry Labonte, Michael Waltrip, and Steve Wallace. Obviously two of those dudes are semi-famous, although if you watch even half of one of those fucking Napa Auto Parts commercials with Michael Waltrip, you might try to blot him from your mind with chloroform. The other is Rusty Wallace's kid. As of the start of this alleged race today, Rusty Wallace's stupid kid was the furthest down in the standings, thus in my completely made up way of eliminating people one by one each race, he is the eliminated, and finishes in 41st in this Nascar competition of the year 2011.
Previous dumbasses you never heard of who were eliminated - 42nd: Robert Richardson Jr. (did not race in Subway Fresh Fit 500), 43rd: J.J. Yeley (finished last in Daytona 500).
So there. I was gonna talk about a drinking and driving race or maybe how awesome dirt tracks are, but shit man, dirt track season hasn't even started at Eastside Speedway in Waynesboro yet. I am hoping to go hit up the Virginia Motor Speedway for a big Va. Sprints weekend in Saluda in April, to kick off the local enjoyment of cars racing around in circles. At least at the local dirt track, your ass gets sore on wooden bleachers, and little kids are wrecking cars into each other on the bleachers in front of you, gawking at your beard and weird jacket covered in strange patches and wondering what is wrong with you, until his overweight mom with Little Debbie crumbs on her chest leans over and tells him something, and he gives you one last look and then turns around, ashamed. The dad never really looks at you, probably wishing you didn't exist. There's a Mexican dude with an overweight white woman up front, and like five kids that may or may not be both of their's or one of or the other of their's or his sister's or something, and he smiles at you because he knows you are both fucking outcasts here. But then you are freaked out because he also has a face tattoo. Who the fuck has a face tattoo in real life? People who have been in jail, that's who, and not, "I kinda fucked up one time" jail but for real jails, where shit is so deep and jail civilization has grown so incredibly that even though you're not supposed to have anything that could do such a thing, you get a tattoo, on your face. But the good thing is, at the dirt track races, you still see people who buy and wear wrestling t-shirts, and I will tell you from last year's dirt track observations, the top two wrestlers in the world right now are The Undertaker and John Cena. Also, if you are wondering if there are actual juggalos in your area of the Earth, in case you don't live in the midwest, then the local dirt track is the place to go. There used to be a website that would tell you where the closest dirt track (or any race track) is, but they stopped doing it.
I digress. Fuck Nascar. Support your local dirt track. It ain't racing if there ain't dirt in your beer. Of course in Waynesboro, you can't drink in the grandstands, even though the local Coors factory sponsors the whole thing. That's why you see a lot of dudes like me and the Mexican and the older juggalos piling out to the parking lot two or three times a night in packs of two or three people. You'd be amazed at how fast you can shotgun four beers during the mini modified races. And then when you hear the roar of the late models cranking up as they are circling around to line up, you know it's time to go back inside and hope that fucking kid stops staring at you. Oh to take that kid and show him a world larger than the one he knows. Would it make him better, or simply pollute his sheltered purpose in life? I am disappointed in myself for being so judgmental towards the white underclass in this Nascar write-up. But I tell you, white underclass. Think locally. Go to the Waynesboros and Saludas of the world and buy a $20 t-shirt of guys named Boogie Bradshaw or Travis Clinchfield or the local dudes who will actually be stoked you bought a t-shirt. Sure, Travis Clinchfield may be propped up by his dad's used car business, and a spoiled kid who is already racing late models at age 20, but when they run out of t-shirts, they will get more screen-printed at a shop in the industrial part of town. They will use actual machine shops to weld shit for them, if they don't already know how to weld themselves. And Boogie Bradshaw? That guy's been racing forever, and everybody knows that dude. He's good people. You buy one of his shirts and that means he's got enough money to grab a 12-pack of Miller Genuine Draft on the ride home, to wind down tonight, and wind back up tomorrow. You think fucking Jeff Gordon or Jimmie Johnson or anybody gives a fuck if you buy a $30 t-shirt, much less one of those garish jackets that I imagine cost more than a drug dealer would feel comfortable spending (although isn't it funny as fuck when you see an urban-type black dude wearing a Nascar jacket)? Of course they don't. Your money is nothing to them.

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