Kombi Drag Racing

Ok well tonight I had my baptism in to the drag racing community. And it was a bit like a baptism. I was all nervous and sweaty and some bloke was shouting and making lots of hand gestures.

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A hose came out at some point to which I thought maybe this is the bit where they sprinkle water on my forehead, but instead they sprayed in front of my car? A guy was making more hand gestures so I spun the wheels and tried to run him over. I really hadn’t a clue what I was doing.

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I thought back to earlier in the day and it started making sense. Have I joined a cult? I filled out some personal details (I recall doing a personality test once for some needy Scientologists but that’s another story). They checked me over then invited me in. I must have done well because they asked for some money and gave me a secret handshake (actually it was a wrist band but I think it does the same thing!)

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Like all good cults I got to mingle but only with fellow people with wristbands. The ‘other’ non-banded folk had to stand on the other side of a fence and just watch the fun we were having. “Sucked in non-banded people! Look at all of us special people over here, having fun and being all special!” I yelled at them.

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The evening seemed to go quite quickly. We all lined up behind ropes just like waiting to get into a nightclub, and similarly once we were allowed in there was a lot of smoke and lights and loud noise. There were big burly looking fellas, the ones making the hand gestures. They were the bouncers who told you what to do and who would throw you out if you didn’t have the right footwear on. There were paparazzi photographers and people with video cameras. Once the bass dropped it was only 20 seconds and it was all over. I found myself way down the other end near the bushes where the lights were dimmer and no-one else was around. All alone. Finished. I stared at my wristband and thought perhaps I should go home now. But how could I? Like a crack dealer they had given me a taste and I wanted more. I wondered how I could keep affording this habit. I pictured myself spending every cent on this drug and having to steal my neighbours flat-screen to keep it supplied. What had I become?

A drag racer. I had become a drag racer. A slow one, but one all the same.

Now, who wants a blow job for ten bucks?

 

(for anyone interested, I squeezed in five runs. 20.9, 20.9, 20.8, 20.9, 20.9 – how’s that for consistency!)

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