Pansy Loves Grease

It took years of Mr. Pansy's begging before Pansy finally acquiesced to going to: The Auto Rama. Who could possibly enjoy that? It's nothing but a buncha stupid cars. Sitting around, with their stupid owners sitting around their stupid cars while other, possibly more stupid, people walk around the sitting around cars/owners. Perhaps the walking around people are more stupid. After all, they paid to come look at the sitting around cars/owners. But wait? The sitting around their cars owners also paid to be IN the Auto Rama. OK, it's a tie as to who is more stupid. The cars for sure aren't the stupid ones. They are the innocent victims. Like Pansy. She knew she would hate it.

NOT! Within a very embarrassingly few SECONDS Pansy realized she was In Love! With the cars. With their owners. With everything about the Auto Rama. OMG, she's a Closet Greaseball Whore Bitch Twin to Paris Hilton! Those stupid cars are hot! Their sleazy, slimey, greasy, stupid owners are hot! Pansy would pay the hot sleazy, slimey, greasy, stupid owners to take her in a hot split second. In fact, she would pay extry if there is grease under their hot nasty pinchy fingernails which she would want them to use to pinch Her Hot Nasty a Lot, or certainly at least until their hot nasty pinchy fingers cramped up. Where did this awful recessive gene come (hot nasty pun!) from? And how did it go so dominant so fast?

Pansy should have known. For many years prior to this Auto Rama she and Mr. Pansy have been avid Drag Racing fans. Not the kind Pansy would like to see which would involve men dressed up like Big Time Female Icon Stars competing in races in high heels. No, Pansy, poor thing and being the Most Manned Up Woman Ever, has had to do that stuff all by herself in all her triathlons/marathons because No One Else Will. But that's yesterday's news.

I'm talking here and now about the monster horsepower, permanently deafening, ground shaking that registers on a Richter Scale, erection simulating/possibly causing actual erections because Pansy damn near gets an erection herself, top fuel drag racing. This stuff can only be fully appreciated Live and In Person. Forget the TV broadcasts, which we also watch without fail. Many a year we'd drive down to Bakersfield, CA in March and much like being at the Tour De France.....right there in front of you, willing to chit chat, etc. are all the biggest, greatest, smartest, home-grown backyard engineers/mechanics/damn near rocket scientists you could ever hope to meet. These guys are actually geniuses, inventors, innovators, serious high-end athletes with jet fighter pilot reflexes and they are greaseballs---all in one hot nasty package and they have PACKAGES, too! And most of them (swoon) are of that "shorter" size Pansy lusts for the very most. Don't even try to hold me back.

Lucky for Pansy there is a stupid little podunk drag racing strip near her neighborhood and one year DON GARLITS came to town as a goodwill gesture. If you don't know who Don Garlits is, do not tell Pansy. She will kill you for that crime. Google him up and even then you cannot know how fabulous this guy really is. You can read all the National Dragster Weekly editions from since before Pansy was born (which she has read because even before she was conceived she was a Very Good Reader) and biographies about him. And read his own stories he has told about himself. And even then you won't know as much about him as Pansy does. Why, at this very second, just writing about him, she is all sweaty and pantish. Ooops! There went her panties. I guess she has a crush on him! ~blush~ And he so deserves it.

So, Pansy goes to some store where greaseballs go to buy tickets to the local drag strip when Don will be in town. To surprise Mr. Pansy. Because it would definitely surprise him to see Pansy run away with Don Garlits right in front of the whole town. Pansy was babbling (can you believe that?) to the counter clerks about Don this and Don that and Pansy loves Don even more than Mr. Pansy loves Don (but not in a gay way) and such. They are smiling and Pansy knows they are patronizing her but she does not care. She is all high just to be able to talk to someone who knows what she's talking about. No, the counter clerks did not know what Pansy was talking about but we can all pretend here for just a moment, can't we? Finally, one clerk excuses himself and goes back into the offices. He comes back out with......FUCKING DON GARLITS. Who has overheard (can you believe that?) Pansy's babbling about him. OH. OH. OH. Don is just beaming at me and so proud that I know all about him and his Swamp Rats and his this and his that. He then comes outside with me, poses with me for pictures which meant he TOUCHED ME!
MMmmmrrrrrRRrrrrHHhhhhhhhhhhhH! I have not bathed since.

Hey! Did you know that Mr. Pansy is a packrat? He is awful. Not to the point that we have a maze of ceiling-high stacks of old newspapers to negotiate through our house. But he is a packrat. I am a military child. Nothing in my possession makes it past 3 years. Except for Mr. Pansy. He's stuck with me. But this particular packratting story has me rethinking my attachment to Mr. Pansy:

Mr. Pansy has saved every spark plug from every car tuneup he has ever done on any car since HIS FIRST CAR TUNEUP in his life. And said used spark plugs were carefully placed in zip lock bags that are clearly and legibly labelled with: 1) make, model of vehicle; 2) mileage on spark plugs; 3) date removed. We no longer even own the cars these fucking used spark plugs came out of. But the bagged, labeled spark plugs live on in our garage. Why? Because, in his very own fucking words, Mr. Pansy says "When the depression comes, these will be useful." There'll be a depression all right. When I'm done slamming the bags of spark plugs into his skull.

Three times....THREE TIMES....Mr. Pansy caught me at the garbage can "that close" to tipping the box of labeled/bagged/used spark plugs into oblivion. Each time Pansy tried to toss the spark plugs it created a fairly severe crisis in our relationship. And then those fucking snotty spark plugs went back into the garage, into their cabinet. The one with special "soft glow" lighting under which the sneering sparkplugs would bask and mock me. You just wait until next time, you little shits.

Pansy actually finally gave up the fight over the spark plugs. This is how bad it got rubbed in her face. (rub anything you want in Pansy's face, Don) Mr. Pansy's brother lives in Atlanta, Georgia. He went to Florida for some reason or other and made a special trip to the Don Garlits Museum (lord let me die now if I can just go to the Museum once) to buy and send to Mr. Pansy this item: a singular spark plug from THE car that Mr. Pansy and his brother saw Garlits race in Bakersfield back in the 50s. It arrived, in a lovely presentation gift box, in a plastic bag, labeled with 1)specific Swamp Rat drag racer it came from; 2)some sort of data re the spark plug; 3) date used/removed. FUCKING DON GARLITS also has saved every fucking thing associated with all of his racing, ever. And labelled it. And bagged it. Well, if it's good enough for FUCKING DON GARLITS, Pansy says "have at it, Mr. Pansy." (please please god let me have at it with Don Garlits just for a few minutes)

I got to give Mr. Pansy not just tickets to the Don Garlits event but also a lovely framed photo of me hugging all close and up personal onto Don himself with big smiles on both our faces. The best part is, if you look real close, there is lipstick smeared on my teeth. How utterly attractive. No wonder all those counter clerks and Don were smirking so much! ~blush~ I can only hope Greaseball Girls are allowed lipstick mishaps. I'd mishap whatever Don wanted me to on him with my lipstick as much as he wants. I know. Pansy should not talk like that about Don. He is not that kinda guy. Really.

Mr. Pansy and I eventually mated and produced two girlie girls, who also rather enjoy drag races. Not as much as mama and papa but they sure won't forget their first, and so far ONLY, event. It was at Sears Point Raceway (last I knew it's now Infineon), which is near the California coast, which means always, always, always cool/foggy weather. Good for racing, kinda chilly for viewers. It had also been quite a few years since the Pansys had been to a live event. I called for tickets, was asked where we wanted to sit, so I said "front and center". Really, where else would a Pansy want to sit? Guess what? Things have changed since those Bakersfield days. More safety (courtesy of Inventor/Innovator Don Garlits) evidently has allowed for more up close and personal seating. We used to sit miles away in bleachers while the cars exploded down on the track. Now we were at most 40 feet away from the exploding cars. How can this be?

We don't know. We don't care. Rock on! Until that first car fired up on the line. Oh. My. God. The concussion thumped our bodies like we were being given full, head-to-toe body blows by Muhammad Ali. The fuel fumes immediately scalded and chemically burned our exposed flesh and our internal flesh. And blinded us by the instantaneous spurting of tears from our frantic eyeballs. And the smoke from the burnouts gave us retroactive lung cancer. What had happened in the intervening years? We figured the crews down on the track were suffering as much as we were, except for that part about they had breathing apparatus on and full bodysuits and NASA ear protection. No wonder not one other person was sitting within 50 feet of either side of us four schmucks! The girls literally dived to the ground, crying and wailing in fear! We all bailed for the concession booths where they were selling ear protection. Not until we bought all 4 options available did we find something that would work for the girls. We were willing to be brutalized by the cars but they were really terrified. And we moved down the bleachers toward the finish line.

It seemed warmish that day and we were overdressed for the anticipated cool/foggy weather. As it got hotter and hotter I, being a Good Mother, kept taking the girls into the restrooms and soaking all their clothes with sink water so that they could stay cooler. With the extra clothing I made "cooling blankets" to keep their legs and arms from burning. We had to re-soak the clothes every 25 minutes. It also seemed we were buying bottles of water every time we turned around but there was no denying it was hot. And it's not even noon. Finally, I cleverly noticed the First Aid Trailer. If you are a mother with darling little wilting children they let you into the trailer. Where is it Air Conditioned! And they had ICE! So I am sucking up all the valuable resources there because I could get away with it. No one else seemed to notice the impending doom.

Around 12:30pm things took a turn. The authorities/announcers "suddenly" realized they had a full-on emergency happening. The whole place was fainting away, especially those who had been drinking beer aka The Official Fuel Of Spectators of Sporting Events. It was 115 degrees in the air.....so god knows what the track temp was but it got freaky! The race is somewhat suspended while trucks came screeching in from everywhere loaded with Now Free bottles of water which at first the stupidoes threw randomly into the air toward the people clamoring like they were in a Fourth World country. That didn't work so well when many of the bottles hit people on their heads. The lines at the First Aid Trailer were huge. I think even the beer sales were suspended.

I told people around me to go soak their clothes in the bathrooms. How stupid are people anyway when they have to get advice from a Pansy? This is how stupid: I had to tell them to NOT use the toilet water, use the SINK water. I suppose some just were too desperate to differentiate. Oh, well. After awhile things calmed down, the races began again, and people were subdued for lack of a better word. That event is still talked about to this day on race shows because it was so uncharacteristically hot. And not in a Paris Hilton hot kind of way.

It's fun to go to drag races. Lots of crazy people to watch, lots of noise, lots of meeting and touching big names like John Force, Tony Schumacher, the Pedregons, the Bernsteins, etc. And not to forget the pro stock and motorcycle classes, either. We just try to pretend and forget about the fumes/exhaust/ear damage/future health problems these things have got to be contributing to. But some things are just plain worth it.

Meanwhile, back at the Auto Rama one year Pansy spied this Extra Special Yummy Snackboy scampering along: Jimmie Lee Vaughn. He's in town at the Auto Rama because he has entered his "Ironic Twist"......one gawdawful fucking ugly GREEN glitteramick metal-flake honking huge Land Shark car. For a short guy, he can sure hustle along. Pansy had to run to catch him! Her pickup line: "What is a handsome Texas Boy like you doing in Sacramento?" He swooned right into her waiting clutches. (Car pun!)

p.s. What ever did happen to those spark plugs you ask? That fucking low life cheating cruel scab sucking shit Mr. Pansy.....Threw Them Away. By himself. Alone at home one day during a remodel he decided it was time for them to go. And he didn't tell me for days. Some load of crap about grieving over them. He thought that "event" was worth crying over? I'll make him cry like a person's never cried before over anything. I may never forgive him. But then he goes and wiggles those hot nasty pinchy greasy fingers of his and............