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Demo Derby the Threequel; and Turtle Races!!


This is probably going to be my last blog on demo derbies for a while.  Not because I’m going to quit attending them, and not because I’ve lost my excitement for them in any way, but simply because I’m running out of jokes about how demo derby drivers have extra scrotums for all their testosterone, and how they like to make sodomites out of football players.

And, although I’ll tell you about turtle races below, it’s a one shot deal.  Frightened reptiles just don’t inspire as much passion as people smashing the fuck out of each other… So…

A week ago Sunday the whole demo crew and I drove an hour and a half to the Lake Perris Fair to take in the latest demolition derby.  This was an especially important derby because my online supporters — the James Gunn Appreciation Society (www.jgas.org) — were sponsoring a car.


Linda Derbillini had her own custom JGAS shirt made at the fair, and she rocked that motherfucker Sherri-Moon-Zombie style.

JP, Linda, and I got pit passes and went into the actual pit where the drivers were working on the cars to check out the JGAS-mobile.  The car was an old station wagon with our insignia proudly emblazoned on the back and on the roof.

In the pit we ran into a whole gaggle of JGASers – Just Linda (who flew in from Seattle!), Beaselbub, BHall, Fangirl, Tommy the Zombie Slayer, Joe, Erin, Pete, and some other people who are now feeling left out as they read this.  Some of them came with presents.

A few weeks ago, I shared on the JGAS boards that I saw the Fandango bag-puppet commercial before a film, and that night I had a sex dream about a bag puppet girl with spindly pipe-cleaner arms and a humanish vagina.  Perverted?  No.  She was actually very loving and kind to me when I was sad and needed her, brushing my cheek with her pipe cleaner fingers, and covering my face with crinkly paper kisses as I tenderly shot my nut inside her.  So Tommy the Vampire Slayer gave me a replica.  Later that night, the sex with her was hollow and unfeeling and the whore gave me paper cuts all over my penis (paper bag puppet gonorrhea).  She was nothing like the girl in my dream.  Fuck you, Tommy.

B-Hall brought me an autographed photo, from my arch enemy, line-butter, and cheeseball, Perry King.

I interviewed the driver of the JGAS-mobile, Stan "Mac Attack" McDonald.  I told him I had been up all night figuring out strategy for our car.  My plan was to duct tape eight infants around the sides of the car.  That way, the other drivers would avoid ours for fear of destroying innocent lives. 

Mac said if the other drivers would avoid crushing innocent babies, then they’re complete fucking pussies and don’t deserve to drive in a demo derby.  I knew that we had chosen the right man.

Tommy the Zombie Slayer and JP both filmed the interview and the car prep.  There is already a trailer for the day up at www.jgas.org.  Go ahead and watch it now.  You can come back.

JP was in an awesome mood.  Wherever he goes, he just brings life and exuberance to the proceedings.  Great, great guy.

(That’s Just Linda and Tommy the Zombie Slayer behind him.  I don’t know why they hate JP so much.  Probably because of his personality).

We watched the first heat from the pit.  Meara got shattered glass in her eyes.  For real.  How awesome is that?!  Too bad it wasn’t more disfiguring, because then she could become an awesome supervillain like Two-Face.  That’s just what happens when a certain amount of your face is royally fucked.

After the first heat, it was announced that Mac Attack came in number one with points.  But you know what that means?  Jack shit.  It all depends on the second heat, which is last man standing.

They worked on the car before the 2nd heat, doing some delicate undenting work.

I gave them some pointers on how to best fix a JGASmobile, and then I got a little snack.

By the way – this is true – I had a friend who was a psychologist who once treated a man who killed his three-year old daughter.  The man kept the girl’s rigor-mortised rotting corpse wrapped up in a blanket in the trunk of his car.  It had gotten stiff and hard in the summer heat.  Every once in a while the man would pull over to the side of the road and go for what he called "a little snack" – which was fucking the corpse of his dead daughter.  Anyway, now I can’t use the phrase "little snack" without thinking of that.  Or getting a hard-on.

Just kidding.  I say "little snack" all the time and don’t even think of it.

We went up and watched the 2nd heat from the stands.  Nick — with his own special derby shirt —  and Tabitha — with the JGAS derby shirt (from www.cafepress.com/jgas) — had both shown up, along with JGASers Meara and KJ, who had driven three hours to be there.

Guess what happened?  Mac came in third. There’s a technical demolition derby term for people who come in third place – gaywads.

However, Mac might be a gaywad for only a few hours.  That night there was going to be a second demolition derby, so he had a chance to redeem himself.  He thought he might be able to get the car in shape in time.

I’m already doomed to the life of a gaywad.  So I went and played with this zebra.

But we still had five hours to kill.  So I went to a "petting zoo" where you could pet cows and pigs being raised for their meat.  Lake Perris has a strange way of looking at things.

A few of us also went to see the prize chickens being prepared for slaughter.  They were incredibly dirty and disgusting.  Many of them were missing feathers and covered in red splotches.   One chicken was in such pain it was lying on its side, heaving, holding one leg up in the air so that its bloody, diseased stomach wasn’t touching the ground.  Mind you, these are "show chickens."  You can imagine what non-show-quality chickens look like.  If not —

Probably something like this.

Linda and I both walked out of there vowing never to eat a chicken again.  Forty-five minutes later she had a chicken taco (and I’m not at all kidding).

One of my favorite rides is the fucking zipper.  There was no line.  I guess the toothless carny who was running the thing thought he was doing us a fucking favor by keeping the ride going and going for a good – I shit you not – eight fucking minutes.  I realized that after a certain amount of time, the fun of an amusement park ride wears off and it’s like being in a continuous car wreck.

My old pal Spooky Dan showed up with his fiance Tammy.  They, uh, kinda didn’t fit in at Lake Perris, where monkey-like children were reaching up to touch my brother’s fauxhawk as if it were a fucking fin growing from the top of his head.

As I write this I’m remembering that I forgot to send back the invitation to Dan and Tammy’s wedding.  Guys, I’m coming.  Does this count?  I know you read this blog.

Mackenzie, Val, and Sean were too afraid for the Zipper, so they went on this more fruity ride.

I did a dart game and won this wonderful print of Jesus knocking on the door.  The dude that gave it to me noted that there is no doorknob on this door – that’s because you have to let Jesus in from the inside.  I told him that I would definitely let Jesus inside, but I would have one of those metal buckets over the door attached to a trip wire, so that when Jesus walked in the bucket would turn over and he’d be covered with pig’s blood or 1,000 smelt or maybe even, if I’m feeling crazy, urine.  Jesus would just smile and shake his head and try to be a good sport about it, but inside he would be completely pissed off.  He just couldn’t say anything because he didn’t put anything about not doing practical jokes in the Bible.  He’d totally fucking regret that, so as soon as he left my doorknob-less house he’d probably use his Jesus time-traveling powers to go back in time and put something about "not shalting to do practical jokes" in the Bible.  But the joke would be on HIM.  Because I’d do it anyway!  I don’t care about that stuff!  In fact, that would be part of my whole plan – to get Jesus twice!

Actually, doesn’t this photo kind of look like Jesus is flipping me off?  Maybe he used his X-ray vision and he already knows there’s a bucket inside.

Oh, I’m probably over-thinking it.

We watched a Mexican rodeo where Mexicans got chased around by this baby bull.  It just seemed uncool, and I rooted for the bull – not just to do some damage, but to do some major damage.  I guess there’s something wrong with me, but I would have been ecstatic to see the bull tear open one of these guy’s necks with a well-placed hoof.  I mean, fuck these dudes.  It’s a baby fucking bull.  He was just confused and wanted to get the hell out of there.  One dude in a big hat sitting on the wall kicked him in the head, hard.  And they filed down the fucker’s horns so he didn’t have a sporting chance.

They also made these horses dance like monkeys.  I’m going to make my own rodeo.  I’m going to invite all these same dudes, but I’m going to make a plan with the horses ahead of time.  Halfway through their dance, the horses will flip the dudes off their backs and rape them.  And it counts as a practical joke, so Jesus can’t hold it against me.

It turned dark and LOLLILOVE co-writer, editor, and cinematographer Pete Alton (www.myspace.com/peteralton) showed up.   (BTW – you heard it here first – Pete and I are cooking up some post-LOLLILOVE fun soon).

And then the night derby came.  Mac’s car was ready in time, but we were worried about him.  Almost all of the other competitors hadn’t run in the day derby, so their cars weren’t half-fucked already.

But it didn’t matter, because, at the end of the derby, only one car was standing.  The JGAS-mobile!

Mac took the whole thing!  Seriously, for us, this was like winning the World fucking Series, only even drunker and with whiplash from the Zipper.

We went back down to the pit to chat with Mac one final time and check out the car.  Mac said he thinks he’ll be able to get one more derby out of it.  But he might have to go with my duct-tape-infant idea next time.

Linda W’s flight in from Seattle to see the derby all worth it!

"Now get the fuck out of here, you Hollywood faggots."

Note: Thanks to Spooky Dan, Nick Holmes, Fangirl, and Pete Alton for additional above photos.


On an esoteric-sporting-events high, I attended the turtle races at Brennan’s pub in Santa Monica four days later.  You’re not allowed to point at the turtles during the turtle races.  If you do, they stop the race and the pointer is charged five dollars (yes, truly).  My friend Kristina Klebe rented a turtle named Minnie and we waited for her to race.

One thing I learned is that it is very, very hard not to point at turtles, especially when they look pretty much the same and you don’t know which one is which while they’re running.  I’m not an especially stupid guy, but I pointed and almost-pointed at turtles about 47 times.

Anway, though it’s a bit difficult to see, here’s Minnie race.  She won.  My streak continues!  It’s only logical that I should go out and gamble my house!  Or my brother Sean’s kidney!

© 2007 – 2009, Just Linda. All rights reserved.


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