Speaking of Force, I must say his 110th win,
this one coming at the recent Bristol race,
was cutting it a little close for me. I thought
he might be headed for a genuine slump what
with losing the NHRA Funny Car title last year.
Could be the ship of state has righted itself.
And on that subject, how about him and Anderson
in a handicap match race? Give Force three-tenths
of a second jump and see what unfolds.
Shuffling through the empties and the bloody
tissues. Ahhhh ... A U.S. Army brochure. Oh
man (as in a sigh of resignation). I love the
Schumachers and am very fond of the
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Johnsons
who tune the whole package up. But, I have to
say it, it’s real hard to root for the
Army now. How can I put this? It would be like
Bechtel, Halliburton, Kellogg-Root-Brown or
Exxon-Mobil sponsoring race cars. Welcome aboard,
I guess, but don’t even think of messing
with us.
Okay, round file that.
An old Drag Review (IHRA, in case you don’t
recognize the name). What’s the deal with
those guys? It’s like newspaper ink outside
of their house organ is treated like someone
who is HIV positive. Do they still exist? I
mean they’re owned by Clear Channel, who
give us the same Dr Pepper-commercial-ish pop
on 85 percent of the nation’s radio stations.
Clay Millican and Mike Kloeber have been seen
at the NHRA races a lot and have taken two runner-ups.
Is there anyone alive in Norwalk, Ohio? For
Pete’s sake, call the damn wire services
with your race results. Yes, I care that much.
As my eyes start to fog over, I see a picture
of Chris Karamesines’ ‘68 fueler above
my desk. When I first looked at it, I thought
I was looking at a silver handled screw driver.
I knew that wasn’t right because I was
drinking one. “Greek’s” only
made one race this year; I sure hope he makes
the few bouts I’m able to attend. I know
this is personal.
An hallucination that. Well, I can sit here
and type, and tighten up so stiff that I’d
go off like a car alarm if someone bumped into
me. Or wait for the pain killers to skulk away
like a discouraged panhandler, leaving me more
cross-eyed than I am now.
Is that the cat? A floor mop. Do I hear a jackhammer?
No it’s the TV. Circuits are overloading
and popping like Lady Fingers. Through the haze,
I see it’s 8:30 a.m.
Time for bed.
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