Bump Day at Indy has always historically been a hoot for me because it is another opportunity for me to abuse my body with exotic intoxicants and make an ass out of myself.
This year’s version of Bump Day at Indy was no exception.
I arrived relatively early and found a front row spot in the Third Turn infield to park the Paul Tracy Commemorative Beer Wagon.
Because I have issues, I quickly power-slammed a 16-ounce Coors and then secreted several more in my camera bag so that I could stealthily evade the prying eyes of the yellow shirted government agents.
I rode the tram to the Vigoda Plaza, disembarked, and stumbled over to my normal perch located atop the F1 garages in the First Turn.
There, I found my usual racin’ buddies absent because they were being wholesome elsewhere trackside, and they didn’t want me to embarrass them with my semi-drunken shenanigans in front of their elderly parents or innocent young children.
So…I just sat there, basking in the glorious sunshine and watching fast and shiny and real Indy racers practice for the pants-wetting drama that would be Bump Day.
I had another beer too.
All was right with the world until I heard a heinous POP that indicated to me that someone had taken an improper and imprudent line through MY Turn One.
As it turns out, the Lucky Dragoons racer piloted by Pat Carpenter was what I heard kissing SAFER barrier. The car was reduced to ruins and its shattered remnants were quickly deposited in Indy’s now infamous Hurt Locker.
Fortunately, Mr. Carpenter was relatively OK as the result of his running out of interest in pursuing an approved line though MY corner at Indy.
Unfortunately, Team Lucky Dragoons was then fresh out of shiny and not-so-fast Indy racing machines because their other driver, Chinese Indy Racing Legend Ho Chi Minh, destroyed their other car a day earlier.
Subsequently, Team Lucky Dragoons had to pack their shit up and head out of town in complete disgrace.
Maybe next year.
Things got kinda slow on the racing surfaces, and I soon found myself Tweeting insulting one-liners on Twatter. If anyone was offended I am sorry and I will delete things later.
It was apparent to me at about this time that The Indianapolis Motor Speedway was not going to entertain me by forcing drivers against their will to get on track and risk further near-certain death, so I took a quick stroll through the garage area.
There, I saw nothing of interest or unusual…just a whole ass-load of Honda/Dallara/Firestones. Nor did I run into any of my racin’ buddies.
I was quickly getting lonely and depressed and despondent. I felt I could snap at any moment, but I knew the remedy.
I would go over to the Vigoda Plaza, plop my narrow ass down on a concrete wall under a shade tree, and drink another beer.
I told you people I had issues.
Maybe next time you will listen to me.
Anyhoo…as I sat there, I was treated to an interview with black Indy Racing Legend Willy T. Ribbs on the RC Cola and MoonPie Stage.
Willy told the enthusiastic throng gathered before him that Danica Hospenthal was his hero.
Willy also said that he and his son were accomplished shot-gun shooters, and that all us thin-lipped, white-bread, honkie motherfuckers better think twice before we go messing with either one of them because we would get our fool cracka-ass heads blown clean off if we did.
Damn. Lighten up, Willy. Ain’t nobody here rayciss an shit…
Soon, I got a phone call from one of my dear racin’ buddies. He told me he would join me shortly in the Vigoda Plaza, and that he would be bringing good tidings and cheer.
When a person says he is bringing you beer, you know that person is cool.
In this case, I also knew that my cool friend knew that I might have an interview with Indy Racing Legend Paul Tracy later on, and my friend knows that if he and other folks ply me with enough beer that I will become even more funnier and talkative and that I will provide them with copious amounts of excellent intardnets fodder later on.
Yes. I am being used.
Use me…until you use me up.
It was almost time for qualifying to begin, so we went to or usual spot for this event…the Tower Terrace seats right next to the entrance of Gasoline Alley.
This is a most excellent place to sit for Bump Day because you can watch the teams get nervous before a qualifying run.
Or, you can watch as they slit their own wrists when they get bumped out of the field.
Or, you can cheer a heroic and damn near suicidal attempt to make the field.
Or, you can heckle and shout out stupid shit to drivers and celebrities.
It is all quite enjoyable no matter what you decide to do or how you wish to conduct yourself.
I heartily endorse these activities.
I will not bore you with the intricacies of what went on during qualifying. It would be ponderous for me. If you are really interested you can find that information elsewhere.
Before too long, a typhoon rolled in, all track activities ceased, and we were forced against our will to exit the grand stands.
More jack-booted thuggery from armed government agents, I suppose…
Here is a platoon of sluts parading at Indy after the storm.
The storm departed, the track was dried, and more qualifications happened.
Again…I will not detail these events for you.
Deal with it.
Finally, the field was filled and Bump Day was officially over.
But not for me, because the planets had aligned and it looked like I was definitely going to interview Paul Tracy.
After getting things squared away with PT’s handlers, I lined up expert still and video photographers.
We waited patiently outside PT’s garage.
The interview went off pretty good, I think, even though I looked like a troll and sounded like a Hoosier hill jack.
Oh well…it was honest, and I didn’t try to pull off any idea that I am some kind of important, pretentious asshole.
God knows we have enough of those at Indy
PT was cool to put up with my bullshit.
The interview should be on YouTubes soon.
I hope you all enjoy it. It didn’t go exactly as I had envisioned, but I think it’s an honest representation of who I am and what my deal is.
Yes. Bump Day at Indy was fun and exciting.