Coasters of Thunder

Coasters of Thunder

I like to think of myself as a thrill seeker. While I wasn't too keen on roller coasters as a kid, I was constantly dragged onto them and so I grew up to enjoy them.. or at least forced to enjoy them. They were scary. They really had terrifying names. Stuff that's suppose to scare the shit out of you while you wait in the two hour line. It's all a mind game.

So that's why I'm a bit confused when I see that a new roller coaster is named after someone who couldn't turn right. Then again, anyone in the South knows about him. Rednecks rejoice! Yes, that's right. Nascar legend Dale Ernhardt has gotten himself a roller coaster.

The Intimidator, befitting the man who inspired it, is the fastest, tallest, and longest roller coaster in the Southeast. The snaking steel beast, more than a mile long and named for the late Dale Earnhardt, is 232 feet high and drops 211 feet in one go. Riders at the Carowinds theme park hit 80 miles per hour in cars made to look like the #3 Chevy Monte Carlo, only with the addition of stadium seating that ensures everyone gets a clear view – something we're pretty sure Dale's NASCAR Chevy didn't have.

You folks better watch out for that 4th turn, it's a killer!



The real question now is if this will make Carowinds a highly attractive destination site?
No.
Nothing will ever accomplish that task.
Carowinds is really the worst theme park you could ever go to.

I'm not sure what makes this coaster all that much Dale Earnhardt inspired. Does it have insufficient safety equipment?



I got a joke. What do Dale Earnhardt and Pink Floyd have in common?
Their last big hit was The Wall.

What do Dale Earnhardt and obese dancers have in common?
Their belts break at the worst possible time.



Either way, you know where the red neck crowd is going to be... in line waiting for a Dale Earnhardt roller coaster. Oh man! Bring on the fun! You must be this intoxicated to enjoy this ride.

Just imagine riding this roller coaster on weed. I'm sure it'll seriously rule. I mean, perhaps you'd be straight up giggling the whole ride and then you'll have to deal with the whole theme park being baked and the lines and families would totally kill your buzz. But you have to at least try it once, you know.



You're probably better off bringing a one-hitter/protopipe & smoke a bowl in a little nook away from everybody. Then go stand in line. That'll make that whole experience a whole lot easier. Or perhaps just go on a Wednesday morning. Only stoners will be there at that time anyway. Then again, every theme/amusement park I have been to is 70% white trash high school kids and a handful of families. The worst thing that happens is some little punk asks you to sell him something and you make some cash on the side.

I wonder if acid at an amusement park would be awesome or utterly horrifying? Makes you sort of want to try it out just to see if you could hold it together. Especially under a hot sun. Did I make a joke about turning right yet? Oh, I guess I did.

Well, I've crashed this topic into the wall. What a stupid roller coaster. I'm going to go ride Batman and Superman the ride now.

Let's Talk About Freedom...

Let's Talk About Freedom...

I'm jumping the gun here. We still have Christmas to get through before we start with the year in review.. in this case, it's going to be a decade in review since we're moving on to a new decade hitting the ten mark. Yup, 2010.. we now have a new digit in the third slot! But since it is the end of the year and we like to remind ourselves of our past, I just wanted to take this time to remind you about Freedom Fries..



This is one of the reasons why I ask if this decade can be over already. Americans as a whole are fiercely proud of their ignorance. It's really quite sad. I will never understand why America labels the French so happily as cowards. The French were consistently very successful violent imperialists and their military helped the US get founded. If you really want to rage against a cowardly European country, it's Italy all the way.



I bet the French are feeling really silly right about now. Oh, what's that? their reaction to all this was;

The Embassy of France in Washington, D.C. made no comment beyond pointing out that French fries come from Belgium. "We are at a very serious moment dealing with very serious issues and we are not focusing on the name you give to potatoes," said Nathalie Loisau, an embassy spokeswoman.

Which is another reason I'm embarrassed to be American when traveling. You're better off calling them Fried Salty Fat Sticks.



Then again, this isn't anything new. Americans have always been the land of shit and during WWI we renamed sauerkraut "liberty cabbage" and Dachshunds "Liberty Dogs". This isn't a joke. We really did that. It's good to know your past so you don't make the same mistakes in the future, right? The reason why we call them hot dogs now is that they were previously hunnish frankfurters but no one could think up an alternative for hamburgers that caught on. I guess n that note, Democracy Steaks sounds pretty good.



What else can we turn into a stupid patriotic symbol? Freedom's Mustard? Did you know that Frenches' released a press release saying that they're not really French so they can save sales. That's really stupid of Americans. How about some alternative to "French" things can we think of to please our narrow minded American minds:

Paris, Freedom
Freedom Onion Soup
Freedom Dip au jus
Freedomed rack of lamb
The Freedom Laundry
Freedom cut green beans
Freedom kissing
Freedom Tickler..

Well, the freedom tickler sounds like a device to be used for enhanced interrogation techniques.

How could we hate a nation that brought us alizee ? Speaking of Alizee.. How about some Freedom Tits?

someone needs to cover that tidday

But you see how silly all this sounds. Perhaps in the coming year we wont fall victim to the mob mentality of renaming shit for the sake of national pride.... ha. Yeah, what the fuck was I thinking. Have you ordered your Freedom tray yet?

I wish I could spend my life thinking up really bad products people buy like that. Till then I'm just going to start selling some Freedom Fries fried in Bacon grease.

Southern Californian Bumpkin

Southern Californian Bumpkin


I'm not a hick, you know. I'm not some country bumpkin you can push around. You can call me all the nasty names you want: a yokel, a rube, a hayseed; I've heard them all. It doesn't bother me. I may be a little rustic. Maybe there's some dirt under my fingernails. Maybe you're not used to seeing a man with a rooster on a leash, but you're no better than me. I wasn't born in a log cabin. I was born in a hospital, just like you. And I'll have you know that log cabins are very practical. Many great people lived in them. Abe Lincoln grew up in a log cabin, and it wasn't even nearly as big as mine.

I may not come from a big city, but that doesn't mean I'm not cultured. Go ahead and say it: I come from the boonies, the backwoods, the hinterlands. Plenty of small-town Americans like me have gone on to great things. I'm not a hillbilly. I wasn't raised out in "the sticks." There were a lot of sticks, sure, but it wasn't all sticks. Many, many sticks, though. I still have some of the sticks, and they're great sticks. What is it that you city people have against sticks?



I didn't just fall off the turnip truck, you know. I've never even been in a turnip truck, although I've hopped rides on their bumpers before. Come to think of it, I have fallen off a turnip truck. I'm not ashamed to admit it. But I didn't just fall off the turnip truck.

You cosmopolitan city types are all the same: you look at one little feature of a person, and you stereotype them. Yes, I happen to be holding a turnip. This is one of my everyday turnips, and it has nothing to do with any sort of turnip commerce that might require a truck. Go ahead, call me a yokel for growing this fine turnip. I know you think agriculture is beneath you. Call me a yokel for my honest toil, for growing this gleaming piece of produce in an irrigated porcelain basin in my home that I later found out was for something else. We all make mistakes; at least mine are edible. Think about that.

Yes, it's a straw hat. I guess you find that pretty funny. I guess you'd say, "the clothes make the man." Well, sir, I don't buy that. That's the kind of capitalist cliché invented by the fat-cats to reinforce the hegemony. Einstein wore the same clothes every day, you know. He had a whole closet full, all the same. He had enough on his mind without having to think about how to dress, and that's a philosophy I can subscribe to. See, I even took it one step further: one garment. Yes, just the overalls. Not a whole closet full, either. Just this one pair. I take them off to sleep, I put them on to bathe. When they need mending, I mend them. I guess you could say I one-upped old Einstein. That three-piece suit doesn't make you so smart after all, does it?

Sure, call me a "hick," if a hick is someone who doesn't base his life on material things. In that case, I'm proud to be a hick. Look at you, with your Italian leather briefcase. What do you have in there? Anything that makes your life better? No. Just things that you don't need, things that tie you to your job and make you miserable. You see this? This is my bindle. No, I'm not a hobo. The fact that I enjoy the economy and practicality of the bindle, one of mankind's most reliable inventions, does not make me a hobo. Does your briefcase make you a lawyer? Of course not.

Oh, you are? Well, fair enough, but your briefcase didn't make you one.

This bindle has everything I need. Some pumpkin seeds, some old light bulbs that I sell to the tungsten man for scrap, some extra wheat stalks for my dental upkeep, and a few potaters. Yes, go ahead, laugh it up. That's very mature. Yes, I pronounced a word differently than you, but maybe your accent sounds funny to me, have you ever thought of that?



Believe me, sir, it's a two-way street. You can laugh at my accent and my country ways. You can accuse me of having no teeth and marrying my cousin, but those things are plainly not true. Back home, people say that city people wear tiny short pants under their regular pants, and it turns out that it's true. Care to deny it? No, I didn't think so. They also say you use a fork and knife to play chess, and I wasn't so sure about that one. Having met you, I'm starting to think it may be true.

I know your kind. You're a cynic. You snort at my pure, simple beliefs. Snort all you want, but you won't sway me. You see, I believe in America. I believe in cornbread and applesauce, and I believe in big brown jugs with "XXX" written on them. I believe in hard work, obedient children and spontaneous generation. I believe in vampires and mummies. I believe that the moon is the cause of all illness. And what do you believe in? Nothing, basically.

I'll say good day to you now, sir. I wish I could say it was a pleasure to meet you. As you lie awake tonight wondering why your fancy robot wife and your hundred-dollar socks aren't bringing you any happiness, I hope you'll think of the man you laughed at, the man with the ruddy cheeks and the bare feet, the man with the turnip and the rooster. I hope you'll say to yourself, "maybe I'm the hillbilly."