And while I was less than enthusiastic about the event, I bit my lower lip long enough to get through it and ended up having a rather pleasant afternoon. When I told Brae about the concept of the demolition derby he was thrilled, 'you mean they can crash cars?!'
'Oh yes son, they can. But only in an arena- and only if the driver is sporting 10 year old Wranglers that have a permanent crease in the back pocket from the Copenhagen that he/she has been sitting on for centuries.'
While I was happy enough to take Brae to the first installment of redneck motor sports, I wanted to drop kick my mother into that arena when she offered up to Brae that there would be ANOTHER demolition derby in only a month! Yay!
Damn.
So last weekend we made a 30 mile trek to a neighboring county for their fair and their version of the demolition derby, which heretofore will be known as the derby of death or 'D.O.D.'
Walking up to the fair booth to purchase our tickets I soon realized that we had been ripped from our comfortable suburbs and spewn forth into the land of cowboy hats and cow manure. Everywhere I looked there were confederate flags and Dixie cup spittoons. I signaled my mother over to whisper that I thought we could very well be out of our league here, to which she brushed off and said, 'This is for Brae, you'll survive."
But would I? I have a very sensitive nasal passage and the disastrous combination of Marlboro and B.O. was deadly to my delicate senses. I could feel the brain cells dissolving as I sat on the bleachers attune to conversations around me.
The 'arena' consisted of a dirt pit which was blockaded off from the crowd by giant cement blocks a mere 5 feet from where we sat. Something inside told me that this was not adequate safety measures to ensure that a rusty bumper would not come sailing into the crowd to maim or decapitate my family.
The D.O.D. was over half an hour late in beginning. Half an hour in which I sat sardined into those bleachers between a chain smoking grandfather and a eight year old in a midriff. Half and hour, at which point my nose said, 'fuck this' and slid off my face to go get a corn dog.
It was miserable, and did I mention that we live in Florida? In a state of constant heat and humidity and our state is all, 'Spring? Whats that?!'
The heat only escalated the pheromones emitting from the bodies surrounding me. Thank god my nose had already vacated the premises, or we would have had a serious problem.
Finally, the D.O.D started. Brae was enthralled, as expected. I kept a death grip on his arm, shielding us from potentially airborne car parts, as expected.
Through slanted eyes, I was able to witness some of the carnage. The level of enthusiasm from the bleachers surrounding me was deafening.
'Yeh, gettem. Gettem good! Hit 'em hard. Woooooo! Just like that! Woooooo!'
I tried to coerce my son into yelling, ' GIT R DONE!' at a particularly quiet moment during the D.O.D, but he shot me that, 'mom do NOT mess me right now, mmkay?' look that I have become all too familiar with.
So we survived with all limbs intact, much to my general amazement. And we left before THE MAIN EVENT! as to beat the throng of spectators out to the parking lot.
I was pleased with my level of tolerance. There was a man smoking less than an arms length away from my son and I didn't take the cigarette and shove it up his ass. This new level of patience was incredible.
However, on the way out I grabbed my mothers arm firmly as I whispered on a level not audible to my son, that this was the last demolition derby ever, and if she was to even let the words 'demolition derby' slip through her lips, I would make sure the next man I brought home to meet her would look like this:
YeeHaw.
No comments:
Post a Comment