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You’re not really sure how you got dragged here, you recall there was a lot of kicking and screaming on your part, but you hate it here.
Everywhere you look there are absolutely hammered rednecks speaking in a volume that almost rivals yours. These beer-guzzling wastes of space are all donned in white tank-tops and what John has referred to as “beer hats”. One of these prime examples of human evolution has decided that he is just so excited that he is going to let you know! And how is he going to do that? Why, he is going to scream into your ear and throw his hands in the air like a fucking moron, of course!
You feel like you will need one of those beer hats in order to make it through this. The less sober you are, the better.
“Aw, c’mon. Cheer up, Karkles!” John says throwing a light punch into your arm. He’s donned in what you've come to assume must be the uniform for these things: the tank and hat.
“Fuck. Off. I don’t know how you got me here or what divine dump God has decided to take on me to spite me for whatever horrible wrongdoing I had committed in a past life, but I really would rather not exist on this godforsaken Earth than be here in this shitty stadium right now.” You snipe, looking around for some can of cheap, gold happiness to prove that the benevolent God your father had been spouting off about was actually real. The beer can eludes you.
Your father was a liar.
“It’s not even that bad! You’re just being melodramatic!” He complained, eyes traversing the track as if something new would happen.
You look off to follow his gaze and see a fire. Fake God, please let it be a meteor. If you are real, let it be a meteor filled with some sort of weird homicidal aliens bent on killing the human race. Let the aliens kill every single inbred asswipe in this stadium, but especially Egbert.
Prayers complete, you notice it’s just a wreck.
Son of a bitch.
“Egbert. If I spend even a fraction of a second more in this special brand of hell, I am going to die. I want you to know that. How do you feel knowing you’re going to cause my imminent demise? Bet that makes you feel pretty fucking randy, right? Was that the point of this shitty adventure into the untouched spoils of middle America? To lead me to my doom in order to end me in the most excruciatingly painful and boring way possible as a last sort of ‘fuck you, kk’?” You spit at him as he rolls his eyes at you.
“Would you cut that out? If you’d stop bitching for like two seconds and just watched, I’m sure you’d be at least a little entertained.” He snaps back and it shuts you right up. Well, fine; you’ll try and watch this stupid fucking sad excuse of a sport until you feel the need to gouge your eyes out with the straws of one of the several hundred beer hats conveniently located near you. Thumbs up for that one, Big Guy. Thumbs way the hell up your ass for that one.
True to your word, you watch for a few minutes. And, it’s not exactly half bad. John happily tells you who all the drivers are and details about pit crews. He even explains some of the rules and regulations the drivers follow with their strict code of conduct. The whole thing is actually, daresay, interesting. Before you know it, you’re cheering with the crowd and arguing with the people beside you.
“What the everloving fuck do you mean Tony Stewart is better than Dale Earnhardt Jr? You must be vapid and stoned out of your mind if you honestly believe that Stewart’s handling is anywhere near as stable as Earnhardt’s! Oh, so you saw Earnhardt lose to Stewart? Did you see me shove my foot up your unintelligent ass, ‘cause it’s about to happen if you don’t admit Earnhardt’s obvious superiority and mastery of the track! Say he can ‘go eat a dick’ again, I dare you! I fucking double dog dare you to say it again and see what happens, asshole! Try it!” You seethe about ready to tear the bastard next to you a new one. Unfortunately, before you can utterly school this ignorant excuse for a fan on just how right you are, John hurriedly wheels you away and won’t stop pushing until you’re in the main lobby outside the track stadiums.
“Jesus, I thought you hated Nascar!” John laughs, finally letting you go as you head toward the exit to the parking lot.
“Psh, that’s because I couldn’t see the stupendous beauty and craft of it. Nascar is a masterpiece not to be taken lightly by some hapless chump who thinks he knows what it is without digging deep down into his core and reaching Nirvana.” You state.
“Nascarvana?” He smiles and you punch him in the arm, partially because that was one of the dumbest things you have ever heard and partially because you somehow find it kind of adorable.
“Shut up. I don’t want to hear you make shitty Nascar puns for the rest of the ride home, so let’s just drop this here. Now, I need you to direct me to the Dodger Dogs, since Dave explained to me that when people go to a sporting event, they always get Dodger Dogs.” And John bursts out laughing when you say that. You take back the cute part and make a mental note to chew Strider out when you get online tonight, the dick.
“Karkat, they only sell Dodger Dogs at Dodger Stadium. Plus, the Dodgers are a baseball team in Southern California and have nothing to do whatsoever with Nascar!” He’s guffawing now, bent in half and rubbing at the tears in his eyes like it’s the single funniest thing since his super lame joke book.
“Well, fine. Then what can we get?”
~@~
You stare down at your bowl of Cocoa Puffs with an unamused glare. “Seriously though?” He just starts laughing again so you decide to throw your cereal at his big, dorky head. This, of course, promptly shuts him up, but it also leads to you being forced into buying him new Nascar gear. You guess it’s not all bad since you got a pretty nice hat for yourself out of it too.
And, he may have rewarded you with a peck on the cheek.
And it may have been the best end to a day at the track that you could ever possibly pray for, maybe even enough to convince you that God works miracles in a roundabout way where he doesn’t always make you the butt of his jokes.
Yeah, you’ll let Dad slide for this one.