November 23, 2002 - SCK Race, Streets Of Willow. Tom the Elf meets 'The Growler'

Prologue - Don't let your kids read this, The Mother of Disclaimers, and how to artfully string together 'Crotch Ferret,' 'Quantum Yoga,' and 'Mineral Oil' in the same paragraph.

This is a disclaimer. Well, moreover it's an explanation of temporal quantum yoga, relevant experience and imparted wisdom, and the descriptive terminology sprinkled ever-so-gently throughout this work.

Consider this small introduction as a roadmap with which you might navigate, explore, and endear to your mind and heart, the message of this story. So grab a fifth of your favorite Scotch, a roll of duct tape, a liberal supply of mineral oil, a copy of the 'Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy,' and any extra wit you might have laying about, and settle in for the ride.

Specifically, in order to intiate and re-orient readers who may not be familiar with my unique brand of vernacular, I offer you an indexed compendium featuring all that is gross, rude, offensive, and graphically illustrative. You will find these references throughout, and most of them are somehow related to a sexual act. Why? Because I can. This is the Internet, it's supposed to be lewd. I'm a fan of smut.

Consider yourself forewarned.

Here is a brief example of what is to come (if you are not familiar with these definitions, I leave it up to you, the reader, to find the appropriate definitions):

1. Crotch Ferret
2. Jackassery
3. Bling-Bling!
4. Slipping her a Donkey Punch
5. Giving him The Flying Camel
6. The Dirty Sanchez in the Chicane
7. I've been had by Buford/Cleetus/Jasper

Again, I maintain no responsibility for anything written here, as it was whispered to me by a Tibetian Monk while I was on Peyote snacking on bakalava at a rest stop in Tehachape. Or so I'll say under oath.

Chapter 2 - Egg McMuffins, The Myth of the Gosinski Growler, and Why I'm suing Chrysler.

It's 5:23am.

In my mind, we left for Willow 23 minutes ago. I'm waiting for Joe to show. I nod off sitting in my truck outisde my house...waiting....for...Joe. I awake to the visceral experience of three coincidental temporal occurences:

1. I squint, grimace, and shake my head in numbing misbelief as I rub at the impression in my forehead left by the Chrysler logo from my steering wheel's airbag. As I dozed off, my neck snapped forward and my head hit the big Dodge, honking the horn, simultaneously waking me up and causing my attack schnauser to think someone was breaking into the truck.
   
   I now have a scar which pits me remarkably like one, albeit older, Mr. Harry Potter -- although I fancy the Chrysler logo as a much more attractive and marketable forehead scar. I think I'll sue.
   
   
2. I notice it says 5:39am on the dash clock.
   
   
3. Joe drives up, exits his truck, gives me the obligatory (and simultaneous) nod, colloquially slurred, early morning 'wassupbuddy?,' and still manages to perform the always-impressive chewing-tobacco-in-the-used-coffee-cup spitoon action.

We zealously load the truck with Joe's gear which consists of the following: Porn Star duffle bag, 2.5 Gallon Polyethelene car-washing bucket filled with his karting spares (some of them mine, actually,) some form of spiced Turkey Jerky, and the official pimp racing attire, color-matched to his kart's CIK sidepods. Blue if you must know.

I decide to gauge Joe's mood and see if he's going to dare to put on some doze music for the next 1.5 hour commute as we set off on another karting misadventure. Wisely, he does not, and I am spared another hour and a half of playing 'Let's see if Chris can guess this one-hit wonder or otherwise dead singer/guitarist,' while I fantasize about careening over the center divider and ending it all.

We hit the 405, then the 5, merge onto the 14 and hit beautiful downtown Rosamond in exactly 91 minutes.

At this point, my gastric alarm clock begins to ring, and we ritualistically visit McDonalds after exiting the freeway. We rollup behind a fellow karter, park the truck and enter Mickey-D's.

I say hello to Karl Reth after ordering our early morning feast and Joe disappears into the bathroom, commandeering the single stall, single urinal cannage.

For 17 agonizing minutes, mind you.

A line forms outside the bathroom.

People knock and attempt to determine if the occupant (Joe) has not somehow doubled over with renal failure. They knock again. They check their watches. They shake their heads in disbelief.

All three people leave the restaurant in disgust and limp in cramped form out to their vehicles, scanning the horizon for the nearest commode.

A dulled, yet deliberate smile curls onto my lips. I begin to chuckle as I inhale the first of two sausage McGreasins. It's as though I'm witness to my own private CNN and the Ebola virus was just released upon the unwitting public, and I'm the only one with a bio-suit. Sick, huh?

What they have just experienced, ladies and gentlemen, is the famed and self-titled Gosinski Growler. It happens sometimes more than once a day. You can't set a clock by it, but you might consider taking odds on the length of stay. Consider yourself lucky should you never have to experience this freak of nature. It's worse than waiting impatiently for your prom date to put on her makeup. Worse yet than waiting in line at the DMV. You wait...and wait...and...

Joe emerges. Smiling. Proud of his work. I think he really considers this a valid contribution to society given the effort required to give birth to his creation. He is, admittedly so, completely unaware of the civic unrest he has just unleashed upon the municipality of Rosamond. I gather my things and head for the door, as a patron makes the biggest mistake of his young life as he heads toward the facilities. Rut-Roh.

I attempt to recount my version of the event to Joe, making sure to mention the length of stay, as if calling for ringside judges to hold up score cards.

'Whatever,' he sluffs.

I attempt to impart again the event as it unfolded, about which time, the young man who previously trotted toward the bathroom is now stumbling out of same, curled up like a pretzel, grasping his throat, and pleading for air, all the while turning a prettier shade of green throughout.

Joe will have nothing of it. He has his game face on now. Believe it or not, he ignores the gasping agony of his victim in the background and asks about whether we're running on the big track or the streets, as he recalls vividly the depressing difference between the real bathrooms at Big Willow and the portable units at the Streets.

I remind him we are racing at the latter. He glances down at his stomach, checks his watch, looks at the kitchen staff, knods confidently and mutters something about the fact we have 1/2 hour races and enough time in between to get it done.

I can only imagine what he is referring to.

I hand Joe his coffee, egg McMuffin, and one large fruit and granola yogurt parfait. It seems Joe has worked himself up quite an appetite! Of course, I finished my Sausage Egg McMuffins 11 minutes prior, as I watched the spectacle of his pipe-clogging prowess unfold in front of me. Hey, I consider it cheap entertainment.

We roll on for the next 2 miles and enter the Streets, eagerly anticipating the day.

Karte Diem.

Chapter 3 - Why Issac Mizrahi is not a karter, how Jonas Salk could have been if he wanted to, and just what the hell any of this has to do with Shifter Kart Racing...

There are men in this world who are far ahead of their time. Their contributions to humanity outweigh the oddities of their personae. Albert Einstein, Jonas Salk, Mahatma Ghandi. Some of these men find cures to disease, redefine the laws of physics, or change the way in which men define life and how we ought to live it.

Then there is Tom Kutscher. International man of mystery. Fluent in 6 languages (albeit none of them English,) and ambassador to the rich & famous. Idol, Mentor, and Swedish Rockabilly star; the wonders never cease.

You will remember Tom from the previous edition of 'News & Events' sub-titled 'Motor Go Boom!' Tom, the kind-hearted kart team-owner. Tom, the overly-generous customer service agent. Tom...how little we know ye.

Tom and his trusty sidekick, Shayne Shipley -- boy wonder, driver/mechanic and rock star extraordinaire -- camped over at the Streets Friday night after spending a day of practice at the track. Tom was to test the new Extreme Power "Your ass is mine" Honda package, and was there to either blow it up or sell it to me, which ever came first.

Doug Hayashi would call this 'Cheating Bastard Practice.' I call it what it is, an escape from work, and the uncomfortable requirement to spend a night far too close to someone with whom you already spend far too much time with. I'm jealous, can't you tell? Of the track time, you sick bastard! Get your mind out of the gutter!

The ever so popular Mr. Shipley agreed to wrench for me on Saturday so I might obtain my own version of Cheating Bastard Practice and make sure that the new motor, freshly rebuilt from the Vegas incident, would not suffer the same fate as its sibling. I thought I might learn a thing or two from SuperPro-Shayne and not get trodden on in the process.

As we approached the Team Extreme Home on Wheels, Shayne appeared mysteriously from behind his trailer, sort of like that guy in all of Adam Sandler's movies who spontaneously yells "You can do it!" You know the guy.

He seemed far too awake to my liking for being only 7:20 or so in the morning. As I slowly crept the rig forward, Shayne greeted us. Joe and Shayne met, Shayne's dog tried to eat the tires from my truck, and the strange sounds of Neil Diamond poured from the Extreme RV. (OK, I made that last part up, it was Milli Vanilli.) More on Shayne later.

I parked the rig next door, and Joe and I began to get unpacked, unfurrow the running gear, and set about rampaging the countryside for fuel since we had none.

What came about next will be forever etched into the deepest crevices of my psyche -- itchy, irritating, and haunting like discovering a tuft of red lint one finds in one's bellybutton even though you don't wear red -- mysterious and alarming.

This event replays in a sadistic endless loop in my mind -- over and over, in slow motion. I am forever haunted. What was it, this crippling horror of which I speak, you ask?

Observe:

Oh, the humanity! Allow me to summarize:

Louis Vutton sunglasses (at 7:20 in the morning,) Nordic windbreaker with what looked like a tank top underneath, hipwader sweat pants, Calvin klein ankle-high socks, and leather moccasins. Leather Moccassins! How village people!

I knew you'd understand. Here he was, the prince of cool, dressed like a Donkey-punch victim after a prison riot.

Either Friday was a complete disaster, or the guys in RV stall number two took Tom for all he had in a game of strip poker and he raided the nearby homeless shelter for any available clothing.

I'm taking up a contribution fund in Tom's honor, so get your checkbook out because he's obviously not charging us enough for kart repair.

What I fail to understand is just how it's come to this. I mean, he's got spare cylinder heads in his trailer. He stocks pistons, cylinders, rings, bearings, tires, wheels, and fuel. It would appear that sadly the only thing he didn't have was a mirror!

Tom was a one-stop, bad hair-day pushed to the left smudge, Elvis-has-left-the-RV, fashion disaster!

I believe Anne Lander's recommendation as it relates to the 'accessorizing is key' mantra is to perform the following before showing one's self in public: remove anything you think the uncle who always makes fun of you would point out to the family and laugh at during Christmas dinner.

Words to live by, people.

On the other hand, had Tom applied this rule, he'd be naked in the picture above.

Caption: Do I have a kart motor for you!

I respectfully submit into evidence, peoples exhibits A (above) & B (below):

Furthermore, do you notice any resemblance between Tom and the better-accessorized play-ah below?

I'll give you a hint. It ain't the bling-bling, and while tights seem to be making a comeback this year, it's not them, either.

I ask you to focus on the issue of the Moccassins. Uncanny resemblance, are they not? I am truly worried.

In his defense, Tom has been busy of late. However, I'm deathly frightened that he's going to hit rock bottom and pull out his Izod Lacoste pastels, Vidal Sassoon butt-huggers, and converse bubble-gum high-top basketball booties. I'll kill myself (and him) if anything regarding the rumors of leg warmers is in any way true.

Please, people. Give generously before this gets any worse.

By the way, have I mentioned just how much I really like, respect, and appreciate Tom?

He's a super guy. A real role model. Defender of justice, champion of the oppressed, protector of all who are wronged.

Did I also mention that he puts my motors together? It would be bad to be chuckling away, recounting how witty I am as I'm sailing down the front straight of Willow with my brand new engine at my side.

12,500 RPM is not the place to discover that your engine builder has a sense of humor.

Tom: Hey Chris, did I ever tell you the one about the engine builder, the difference between in-lbs and ft-lbs, and the distance to the nearest trauma center?

Chris: Excuse me?

Tom: Try late-apexing that next corner, the run-off's much better there...

Click here for the exciting conclusion - Part deux - Battle!