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X-Treme KATT by Ray Printer Friendly

So I kind of dropped the ball on this posting stuff. To be honest, I really haven’t had much to say, and the stuff I thought I had to say turned out to be just me whining. Trust me, you would rather read nothing than the shit that I’ve been writing over the past few days.

Unless you have some sort of fetish for whiny little jackasses talking about how hard their lives are—if that’s the case, you really missed out.

But I was just thinking about NASCAR. It should have been a fleeting thought, because, you know…it was NASCAR. I’m pretty sure words like “thinking” and acronyms such as “NASCAR” should never really be in the same sentence, but I’m a rebel. Not in the “Hey, look at my Confederate flag bed sheets and my NASCAR tattoo” kind of way, but rather in the James Dean, “I wear a cool jacket and smoke cool cigarettes and don’t really have a cause” kind of way.

Here’s what I’m thinking: you know how watching cars drive around in circles is extremely stupid and boring? And you know how the major appeal of automobile racing is to watch someone crash and die? And you know how we really need to thin down the gene pool?

I don’t mean to sound like a hero, but I have found the solutions to these problems, and the solutions I have found will make the world a better place.

X-Treme NASCAR (National Association for Stock Car Auto Racing). Or, if NASCAR will have nothing to do with it because my idea of killing rednecks kicks the shit out of their idea of killing rednecks, maybe we’ll call it X-Treme KATT (Killing All Trailer Trash).

Here’s the premise: Just before the race, all of the drivers are required to drink a bottle of bourbon. And the races will happen at night.

I know what you’re thinking: Ray, these drivers are trained professionals. Even if they dump a bunch of hard liquor into themselves before a race, they still know how to drive. They’ll just slow down, drive five miles an hour around the track, and totally remove the possibility of the fans getting to see a terrible car accident.

But wait, there’s more!

In order to keep X-Treme KATT exciting, the fans will actually be able to be part of the action! A week before each race, a random hillbilly racecar fan will be picked, trained, and allowed to compete. So even it the professionals try to take it easy, they’ll have to live through some drunk-ass redneck burning around the track at hundreds of miles an hour. And if the drunk-ass redneck wins, he gets the fame and the advertising deals!

Think of the endorsements!

Hi! My name’s Billy Rick JoeBob, and before I race, I only drink Lord Calvert. It’s the burnin’ in my gut what helps me concentrate on the road. Glenda Dean, what the hella you doin’? No, I saw you. I SAW YOU, Glenda Dean, makin’ eyes at that camera man. You think he WANTS you? (Billy Rick walks off camera, and what follows are the sounds of slaps and a woman screaming. This continues for several minutes, and then Billy Rick walks back onto camera, his comb-over misshapen, and sweat soaking the front of his t-shirt. He continues talking, over the off-camera sobbing.) Who’s goin’ want you now, slut? (looks back at camera) So, uh…yeah. Drink Lord Calvert, and you can be just like me! (Billy Rick smiles and holds up a plastic bottle of Lord Calvert, the label turned the wrong direction) Guide me, Lord!

And that’s just liquor. The cars could be plastered with decals of porno magazines, cigarettes, and bail bondsmen as well.

Of course, the professional drivers would soon either quit or be killed, but no matter—X-Treme KATT would evolve. And in this evolution is where the true beauty lies. This is where the plan really comes together.

Here’s what you have right now: you have only the cream of the crop driving around in their cars, rarely crashing. You have the stands full of rednecks, hillbillies, and other random bits of gene pool pollution. The problem here is the fans. You can only charge so much before they can’t attend your events anymore. Sure, they’ll max out their credit cards, hawk their food stamps, and skip paying rent in order to buy NASCAR tickets. But that can only go on for so long.

I see the logic behind head guys at NASCAR: “We’ll build our fan base of nothing but ignorant garbage; people who have no idea about contraception or safe sex, therefore guaranteeing longevity.”

It’s a good concept, but the world’s changing. The condom companies started playing dirty, with their catchy little ditties and their commercials that make it seem like as long as you wear a condom, you’ll for sure get laid. And the genetic mud puddles that watch NASCAR are actually getting too stupid to screw, I think.

So here’s the deal: when all of the professional drivers die, you start exclusively running the fans. You grab any outback, redneck, back-ass country screwball, and you offer them a pile of money to drive for you—keep in mind that they’re still driving drunk, and by this time, the racetrack will also have randomly placed concrete pillars and ramps on it, because this is X-Treme, baby!

But if the fans are all participating, who will pay the money to watch? And how will we be able to pay the genetic throw-aways the piles of money, in the first place?

A new breed of spectators. That’s the key. Do you remember those stories about gladiators and stuff, from Rome or wherever? I mean, even the king went to these things. Or whatever Rome had instead of a king—this isn’t a history lesson, my friends. It’s a future lesson!

You get the rich people to come watch. The kings of Wall Street, as it were. You raise ticket prices. You sell box seats. You cater to your new, rich crowd. For a few thousand, you can get someone’s face painted on one of the cars—imagine how that would impress a potential client, if his face was on one of the cars! Especially if that’s the first driver to crash.

Of course, you want to “keep it real,” so you still have cheap tickets for the hill people. In fact, they get seats right in the center of the track—you need to keep them entertained and ensnared, because these are the future drivers.

But what happens when the trash wises up and they stop racing?

Hahahahahahahahahahahahaha! No, but seriously…it’s like you don’t even know the people that watch this shit. Wise up? Yeah, that’s a problem. What happens when water stops being wet? In case my acidic sarcasm is too subtle, let me just tell you: quit being a dumbass, okay? It’s not gonna happen.

So that’s my golden idea for the night.

‘Night, li’l homies.


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