Saturday, May 15, 2010

Part 7- My Humongous Astronomical 2010 Indy 500 Blog Mess: Opening Day

Today was opening day at the Indianapolis Motor Speedway!


I had to perform many U-turns and laps on Georgetown Road because the Yellow Shirts didn’t get the memo to take the bolt cutters to the rusty padlocks on the gates at precisely 9am.

Tony Hulman must be pirouetting in his grave knowing his Yellow Shirts have become recalcitrant malingering malcontents in the performance of their duties.

I parked the PTCBW in the third turn, and soon met up with two long-time and real Indy racing fans.

Hearty handshakes and greetings abounded as we welcomed the long awaited day.

We had beers too, and the cursing was exquisite.

There really is nothing better than downing three Miller High Lifes in quick succession, and colorful cussing, at 9am at Indy.

There can be no argument of this fact.

Shortly thereafter, the three of us proceeded to the garage area, flashed our Bronze Badges, and submitted to a highly unconstitutional, unreasonable, and warrant-less search of our man-bags.

Damn you! Damn you to hell, George W. Bush!

Finding no contraband, the Yellow Shirts allowed us entry into the hallowed grounds of Gasoline Alley.

I took a few pictures, but when you’ve seen one Honda/Dallara/Firestone, you’ve seen ‘em all…even if a few of them are painted differently from last year.

Before too long, it was time to go into the grandstands and watch some real and glistening and colorful openwheel racing machines in action.

Tony Kanaan thrashed the batshit outta every rig in the Team Andretti stables, and was able to get all of them up to speed in short order.

Apparently, Tony is the only driver on Team Andretti who paid attention in IndyCar Shakedown and Setup 101 class, because the rest of his teammates had no interest in even trying to get their sleds dialed in for Indy.

Maybe they are lazy or disgruntled. Who’s to say? Certainly not me.

Tony probably knows that in order to stay employed, he has to be valuable to his employer, Mike Andretti, and Tony also knows that he has to work a lot harder to be valuable to Mike Andretti because of some of the convenient and cozy relationships Mike has with the rest of the drivers on the team.

I will now explain to you why I think this is so.

One huge reason is nepotism.

Hell...who here thinks Marco or John have to work very hard with the last name they have?

I bet those two get away with murder and slough off whenever they want because their daddy or their cousin is the boss.

That’s pretty much how it goes in any other family business.

Just ask Tony George.

Regarding Danica…you think she’s gonna risk breaking a nail or eating Safer Barrier setting up her Indy racer?

She is the Princess…a blazing supernova of a racing star, and she can’t be bothered with the mundane and boring aspects of Indy competition.

Just give her a fast, hooked up machine, dammit, and she will show you a thing or two.

She has no time for bullshit.

She has other more important stuff to do.

Ryan Hunter-Reay, The Hyphen-Nator, has already produced for his boss by winning at Long Beach convincingly and performing brilliantly this season so far.

The Hyphen-Nator is fourth in points and is making money for his boss, so his job is safe and he won’t be asked to shoulder any heavy burdens for his team.


The Hyphen-Nator is being treated like the star varsity quarterback and is being pampered…probably by young hawt chicks that bring him nourishing meals and thirst-quenching liquids.

That’s how I’d treat my driver if he did well and I was in charge of a racing team.

So….therefore…now you see why Tony Kanaan gets all the shit jobs at Team Andretti, and why it won’t do him any good to bitch and cry about it.

Maybe Tony should join a labor union of some kind, but I won’t go into that again.


So there I am…minding my own damn business and watching Indycars orbit the world’s greatest racecourse…when HE appears.


It’s go-time!

Grover scowls as he approaches.

He thinks it’s another case of free beer for him, but he’s got another thing coming.

He stops short when he notices my bulging physique.

I puff up and flex for him.

He knows he’s bitten off more than he can chew this time, because I appear as if I am ready to liberally parcel out some ass-whippings, and he decides he wants none of it.

He offers his hand and tells me he has recently found an inner peace, and that he is no longer war-like.

Grover has become a modern day Mandela…or Gandhi…or something.

Thank you, Barack Obama. I owe it all to you!

Grover informs me that he has also discovered a new-fangled New Castle Brown Ale delivery system, and that he would like nothing more than for me and my compatriots to go to the Turn Three infield to share in his good fortune.

Seeing as I am a man of peace also, and that I don’t hold a grudge, I readily agree to his offer.

Besides, it started raining, and there was nothing better to do than to sit at Indy in the rain and drink alarming quantities of Newkie from a mini-keg!

It was the most fun I’ve had in quite a while…just sitting with good racin’ buddies and figuring out the world’s problems through prolific cursing and beer quaffing.

We discussed art, music, literature, racin’ insider stuff, hawt chicks, airplanes, and man beaver.

I won’t explain that last topic…man beaver…because it’s kinda imprudent and improper and involves the misapplication of punctuation marks…real deep inside joke stuff only three or four people would understand.

Maybe some day I’ll explain it to you.

Or not.

Anyhoo…opening day was fun and entertaining, and, as usual, the people who’s company I enjoy made it so.

Pretty much.

See you trackside tomorrow.


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Cursing and foul language is fine...even encouraged here. In fact, I think cussing is fucking wonderful.

Just remember...this is MY house, and I will not be insulted or maliciously messed with here.

Good-natured ribbing is cool, but if you and I don't have some kind of previous relationship, you had best mind your fucking manners or I will relegate you to the intardnets dustbin for being a cunt.

To know me is to love me.

Or something.