Predator Press versus NASCAR
Predator Press
[LOBO]
You know, I really love July.
First of all, Ethan and my birthdays are both in July. Hundreds of people in millions of countries are preparing to celebrate them even as we speak. In a few days, even America will break out in spontaneous fireworks displays, commemorating their joyous adoration.
Ethan and I decided that these drunken people with explosive and incendiary devices blowing their fingers off in our honor deserved some kind of tribute; some way of saying "thanks", and saying it in a way they would appreciate.
So we sponsored a car in NASCAR.
Within six hours, our crack team of Predator Press scienticians came up with a sleek new design:
The Stingray
"So you're driving it, right?" asks Ethan.
"Hell no," I says. "I'm going to be cutting out the labels on these potato chips so we can stick them on the car. We're gonna need to sue somebody."
"Well, we need a driver."
"And one that's not weighed down bein' all muscular like we are. We need somebody light."
"There's always midgets," says Ethan hopefully.
"Hey!" I says in epiphany. "They got midgets at that Elementary School. That place is crawling with the tiny little bastards."
***
Man, midgets drive like shit.
During the qualifying lap, a cow walked across the track. And rather than using the assault rifle we provided, this guy swerved right into a tree. NASCAR would later claim this was due to "bad brakes, and subsequent catastrophic wheel failure" or whatever.
Fucking pansies.
* No childeren were harmed in the photography of this story. We used a "stand-in".
... That guy probably got hurt in the actual crash.
[LOBO]
You know, I really love July.
First of all, Ethan and my birthdays are both in July. Hundreds of people in millions of countries are preparing to celebrate them even as we speak. In a few days, even America will break out in spontaneous fireworks displays, commemorating their joyous adoration.
Ethan and I decided that these drunken people with explosive and incendiary devices blowing their fingers off in our honor deserved some kind of tribute; some way of saying "thanks", and saying it in a way they would appreciate.
So we sponsored a car in NASCAR.
Within six hours, our crack team of Predator Press scienticians came up with a sleek new design:
"So you're driving it, right?" asks Ethan.
"Hell no," I says. "I'm going to be cutting out the labels on these potato chips so we can stick them on the car. We're gonna need to sue somebody."
"Well, we need a driver."
"And one that's not weighed down bein' all muscular like we are. We need somebody light."
"There's always midgets," says Ethan hopefully.
"Hey!" I says in epiphany. "They got midgets at that Elementary School. That place is crawling with the tiny little bastards."
Man, midgets drive like shit.
During the qualifying lap, a cow walked across the track. And rather than using the assault rifle we provided, this guy swerved right into a tree. NASCAR would later claim this was due to "bad brakes, and subsequent catastrophic wheel failure" or whatever.
Fucking pansies.
* No childeren were harmed in the photography of this story. We used a "stand-in".
... That guy probably got hurt in the actual crash.
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