I Don't Think We're in North Carolina Anymore

Over the past few weeks I have been conducting an informal survey when I go out. I have been asking Seattle guys what the acronym NASCAR stands for, exactly. Every guy that I have queried knows what NASCAR represents; it represents a bunch of guys in gas-guzzling cars driving way too fast (even for hicks) around a big oval track lined with hicks. I was prompted to begin this survey after reading an article in the newspaper about the possible construction of a NASCAR track in the Seattle area. Maybe the people thinking about building the track should reconsider the demographic they are working with here in America’s upper left-hand corner.

Every guy I asked started off confidently: “North American…,” or, “North American Stock Car…,” and “North American Stock Car…American.” As their voices trailed off they usually tried to change the subject. Yeah guys, I already know that Bush is a lousy president but I want to know what NASCAR means. I seriously doubt that there is a male over the age of seven in North Carolina--who isn’t a choreographer--who doesn’t know what NASCAR means. Of course, there probably isn’t a male over the age of seven in that state who doesn’t have a ring imprinted on his back pocket from his chew can. Whether or not choreographers chew tobacco is the subject for another essay. Today I just want to know what the fuck NASCAR means.

After interviewing about 30-40 pansies, my friend, Curtis, finally came up with the answer, but he doesn’t count because he’s just a geek who could probably name the deputy secretary of agriculture or the exact latitude and longitude of the Salomon Islands. Just like we would all get beat up in a bar in North Carolina for not knowing what NASCAR means, Curtis would get beat up for naming all of the vice presidents.

It is so completely taken for granted that the NASCAR acronym--like NATO--is common knowledge, that in today’s sports section there is an article about yesterday’s Auto Club 500 NASCAR race that doesn’t bother to decipher the initials. If you want to know what it means I don’t think you should ask a hick. You may as well ask him what those fifty stars mean on that piece of cloth hanging on that pole.

I’m now five paragraphs into this essay and I finally know what it is about: We are all a bunch of effete liberals. Sure, we probably could all change our own oil but then we’d agonize for hours over how to get rid of the old oil. We’d argue over whether or not synthetic oil is ultimately better for the environment. I’m just a big, fat, effete, liberal sack of manure. Makes you want to just sit down in front of the TV with a beer and watch a race.