Every time I perform in the South, somehow I manage to get surrounded by NASCAR fanatics meeting for the first time. Ritualistically, they start asking each other in a droning redneck mantra, “Who’s your favorite driver? Who’s your favorite dryy-ver? Who’s your favorite dryyy-ver?”
Then every goofball starts sounding off:
This is confusing because these quasi-homoerotic proclamations are always given by very “heterosexual” men who smell like WD-40, stale Budweiser, and campfire smoke.
There are millions of closeted NASCAR fans, trying to get out.
This is what they really are saying:
“Mark Martin’s my man, I used to like Kyle Petty but he wouldn’t shave his moustache and it kinda hurt when we kiss and stuff and Ernie Irvin broke my heart in 93’. That’s why I’m a Mark Martin Man, now! I tell you what boy, every time I see a Number Six, Viagra car, I get hard as a can of Copenhagen!”
This is my impression of a NASCAR fan in Ancient Greece:
“Who’s your favorite diety? Who’s your favorite dee-ahh-tee? Who’s your favorite dee-ahhh-tee?”
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This is my first solid lesson in life.
Never get drunk if you have to take the subway system home.
They only reason I’m home right now is because of this wonderful person named Baby. She’s going straight to heaven. And even though I’m an athiest I believe she’s gunna get something good in life for thing.
Um hey, I’m sorry I wrote that when I was drunk. You can totally delete both of these if you want.
u sadoes
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