No, Florida residents, “frost heaves” are not what you get on Saturday morning if you drink too many Banana Daiquiris on Friday night. It’s what you get on your roads at the end of the winter if you live north of the Mason-Dixon line. Some people call it the Waffle House-IHOP line, but the point stands. Every road in the northern part of the country is going to make this race look like the Indianapolis 500 when Spring comes, which should be in mid-July in most places. Luckily, hardworking road crews will be out filling in all the potholes with that fabulous mixture of leftover Olive Garden croutons and discarded eyeshadow they call cold-patch.
Whatever. Hubcaps are for pussies anyway.
[Thanks to Charles Schneider for sending that one along]
Of course they don’t call it that anymore. It’s now the “International Six Days Enduro.” Same sort of badly tuned chainsaw tailpipe vibe, though, with lots of slipping and sliding and shaking of eurotrash fists at sproinged sprockets and fouled plugs along the wayside. Then some accountant with a stopwatch, a spreadsheet, and a hangover figures out who won, and gives them a paperweight.
Except for interregnums for two wars (the good ones, natch) they’ve been running some form of this race, or competition, or ugly pageant, or goat path-clearing scheme since 1913. It’s hard to tell you how to win, and I can’t pronounce most of the winner’s names anyway, so let’s picture ourselves in a pub, next to a peat fire, with a pint in our hand and a song in our hearts, while the dulcet Manx tones of the local commentators flood over us via the wireless. Beats standing in a ditch in the heather while some Spaniard goes by sideways mumbling jesucristo at his clutch:
We’ve got mud. We’ve got more mud. Look, there; there’s some more mud now! Oh, dear, I think a stone was mixed in there with the mud. Yes! We’ve found some muck there, to forestall monotony. Mind, the mire, fellows.
Oh, dear, we’ve got mist, now. There’s some more mist. Now some drizzle mixed in with the mist. Ooh! Foggy mist has now appeared. Looking forward to misty fog. Interestingly, I used to snogg and shag and whatnot with Misty Fogg back in University. But I digress.
Ooh, the Frenchman has some sort of clipboard violation! Give him a yellow card, or a caution, or a paddling, or a bath, or whatever the penalty is, and declare a winner from whoever hasn’t the brains to be here in the pub with us already. Where should we eat offal today, Percy? I hear Clague’s Chophouse has a special on organ meat bubble and squeak.
Awww Yeah. Like A Hive Of Angry Bees. Like The Sound Of Zeus’s Zipper. Motocross Noise
Finally, someone made a video of anything suitable for this website that didn’t have a soundtrack taken from Otto the bus driver’s eight track collection.We want to hear those carbon emissions blattering out into the ether from a red hot tailpipe, thanks,
He’s Looking On The Bright Side: She Made It Almost A Hundred Feet Before Getting Stuck
I see that Cyrillic lettering and I know it’s going to be…
Well –Russian. “Russian” as an adjective and and adverb and a noun all mean the same thing to me: hold my vodak and watch this!
I’ve seen so many dashcam disasters and slav slip-and-slides at this point that I’m learning the language just by hearing it on YouTube videos. Allow me to translate: The driver says, “I’m telling you, there’s a Designer Shoe Warehouse just past that bog.”
(Thanks to tovarisch Charles Schneider for sending that one along)