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Slurred Words On Motorsports - by RC Shivers

 
I Eat, Sleep and Breathe NASCAR!! I have raced in several divisions on the local level and been a crew member for a NASCAR Modified Tour competitor. My involvement in the sport dates back to the beginning of NASCAR's modern era. I give you an experienced inside look at the sport including news directly from Charlotte, the heart of NASCAR competition.

So grab a cold drink, set up your chair, turn on the tube, put on your scanner head phones and get ready for SLURRED WORDS ON MOTORSPORTS.

SLURRED WORDS ON MOTORSPORTS IS ALL YOUR NASCAR NEWS IN ONE PLACE!!!!!

I'm so damn classy it hurts.

At some point on Saturday night, I dropped my phone into a urinal and then proceeded to try and piss it down the drain. Guys, you know when you've been holding in your pee for a long time, and you're standing there at the urinal and you try to push the urinal cake thing down the drain with your powerful urine-stream? Yeah, I did that. If you squint, my phone kind-of looks like a urinal cake.

You see, I was quite intoxicated. Partially on the superhuman amount of alcohol and miscellaneous pharmaceuticals coursing through my system, but mainly on my own sense of awesomnity (yes, that's a word, and I lay claim to it). I was enjoying several beverages with some good friends at the Townie Hotel in Sydney



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Phone tag.

When I go out drinking, I inevitably end up with a whole bunch of phone numbers in my phone, and no recollection of who these people actually are. Sometimes when I get phone numbers I have a moment of clarity as I enter the name, and add details to help me remember who that person is. A couple of examples are "Kel..wantsarmink", "Jess..hugetitsbutstupid". You get the idea.

So I met this girl on Saturday night, and I want to hook up with her, but I can't for the life of me remember her name. I distinctly remember getting her number, she gave it to me while her friends were dragging her away, classic cockblock style. She's a cool girl too, and probably a 7.5, though she'd go straight to a high 8.5 if she got fake boobs. But fucked if I can remember her name, dammit. Going through my phone doesn't help at all, there's waaaay too many numbers in there to sort through. So I decided to conduct an experiment this morning



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The Redneck Bar.

OK, so across the road from work there's this pub called The Queenslander. It's not just any pub, it's a fucking experience. It's the kind of place where people threaten and berate you for looking different before you've even set foot in the door. Ever seen The Blues Brothers? There's a bar in that film, you know the one I'm talking aboot - "We've got both kinds of music, Country AND Western!". The one where there's a chicken-wire fence in front of the stage to catch the broken bottles being thrown at the band. The Queenslander doesn't have the chicken-wire fence, but you get the general idea.

Now, heading down to the Queenslander is something that I'd advise against. But sometimes when you've exhausted all the alcohol in the house, and you're just at the point where you think locking yourself in the car and singing along to the radio, burning yourself with the car keys, or roaming shoeless in a construction site is a good idea, you just get that certain urge. The urge to be a complete idiot and flirt with danger, if you will


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