TOOTHLESS EDITORIAL
5/7/04
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Ohhh, sweet Jesus, if there’s anything I’ve said or done over the past years that has really pissed you off, e-mail me. Better yet, do like that bit on the old Saturday Night Live TV show, ring the doorbell and deadpan “Candygram.” Then when I open it, snatch me by the head in those shark jaws and take me to the Mariana Trench.
Good readers, yours truly is on one wicked jag at the moment. After years of abusing my body, I learned that my teeth had to be replaced. Actually, I knew it for sometime, but didn’t have the wherewithal to do it. Thanks to mother, the maitre’d in this restaurant has delivered the check for said lifestyle and right now there’s a big storm cloud over me and the mojo box.
In the past two days, I’ve had 17 extractions and I’m hurting. The source of the considerable pain from the missing teeth is located only a few inches from my brain, and I’m afraid some of the poisons have hit the part closest to my left jaw where I store my drag racing info. The store’s been looted; I’m bereft of lucid commentary, so I’ll have to deal with what’s on my desk, leaving aside the French white heroin and the Dickel Bros. sour mash.
What’s this? Eyes are coming in and out of focus. “2004 predictions for DRO. Look for Rob Passey (Top Fuel), Steven Neese (Funny Car) and George Weiler (Pro Stock) to take the POWERade titles.” Damn, did I actually write that? Well two out of three are still in the running.
Okay, another snippet. “Pool, cards, girls, drag racing.” What the hell is ... oh, wait, I got a handle on it. Karen Stoffer’s recent win at Houston in Pro Stock Bike. Yes, it’s coming back to me. No big deal, I’m too weak to assume a fighting stance. But a woman winning in any drag race category is no big deal. They are every bit as good as the male drivers. No handicaps, no runs, no errors. We in the straight line sport should be proud of this along with those who play poker and pool for a living. Da’ goils can do it just as well as well.
Aleve® pain pills. Man, are these things lifesavers. I think most over-the-counter drug items are generally just a bit above useless. The billions of dollars spent on TV commercials hugely inflate the value of their products. Hell, in some cases, they flat out lie. I know, how naive, Martin, you probably think Sean Hannity should make a run for office. No, a run for the recruitment center, so that table-pounding armchair general can back up his big reactionary mouth.
Oh, what am I doing? Anyway, Aleve® works better than a faith healer. A mouth like a torn pocket ... yet ... the pain is gone.
All right, let’s see. I read in National DRAGSTER where editor Phil Burgess used the “Staging Light” to rebuff some criticism directed at new NHRA Pro Stock boss Greg Anderson. Some of the critics ACTUALLY are ultra-concerned that Anderson is winning too much, and from the tone, some nearly traipsed over the boundary and suggested he might be ... you know ... bending the rules.
Burgess’ response was right on the money and I think dovetails with mine.
Anderson got where he is on talent and ability and his rise to recent fame is
a boon to the sport. We need NEW stars in this sport and this guy is the genuine
article. Burgess alluded to the fact that a guy named Bob Glidden came on like
a big cup of coffee in a somewhat similar way. I love Warren Johnson and I,
like everyone else, will get wet-eyed the day John Force retires. NASCAR effortlessly
survived the passing of Dale Earnhardt, and everyone from his son, Jimmie Johnson,
Kevin Harvick, and Kasey Kahne, plus a whole load of new faces have battled
very competitively for the lead. Anderson’s winning too
much? We need more Greg Andersons, chuckleheads!
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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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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