spideyrdr
December 24th, 2012, 08:47 PM
With all due respect to the club, it's board, Tony Baker, and Santa Claus....
Merry Christmas everyone!
'Twas the night before raceday, when all through the pits
Not a creature was stirring, except the last few misfits.
The leathers were hung by the trailer with care.
In hopes that the tech inspector soon would be there.
The racers were nestled all snug in their paddocks
While visions of trophies kept them far from relaxed;
And Brownie drinking heavily, and I out of booze,
Had just settled down for a brief drunken snooze.
When out on the track there arose such a clatter.
I sprang from my cot to see what was the matter.
Away to the zipper I was there in a snap
Tore open the Velcro and undid the giant flap.
The moon on the breast of the freshly cleaned track
Gave the luster of mid-day to the front and the back.
When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But a sauced-up dude on a green John Deer.
A deft, accurate driver, he was no faker,
I knew in a moment it must be Tony Baker.
More rapid than Rossi but far more paler.
He swore and he shouted like a drunken sailor.
"Now, experts! now, vendors! now, novices and more!
Now, scorers! Now corner workers, and Applehans, you whore!
To the office! To the front of the pavilion!
Now get your asses over there!" his face all vermilion.
As dry heaves cleared like he was getting sober
He rolled much faster than he had since October.
So out to the Memorial structure he flew,
Out came smoke from the ATV that was white and blue.
And then, with some crackling, I heard on the P.A.
The clearing of the throat of our esteemed "El Presidente".
As I checked my phone for any missed calls
Tony let out a shout, like he had grown some balls.
He was dressed all in nylon, from his head to his toe.
As if he was a reject from the cast of "Jersey Shore".
A bundle of trophies he had flung on his back,
And he looked like he'd stashed the Lombardi in his pack.
His eyes -- how blood shot! his hair a fright!
His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a light!
His brow was tight, as if he was very mad
And the beard on his chin was thin - it was quite sad.
The bottle of beer he held tight in his hand;
And the foam up on top - who knew where it'd land;
He had a short shirt on that showed off his belly.
It was full of sweat which by now was surely smelly.
He was sauced and drunk, a plastered old racer.
And then he took a shot of whiskey followed by a chaser;
A blink of his eye and a drop of the mike,
Soon we knew we should secure his bike.
He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
And he took out all his trophies, like some sort of jerk,
And laying each finger down, all but one.
And giving us the bird, it was all in good fun.
He sprang to his ATV, to his crew he gave a shout.
And drove away mooning us, his bare ass out.
But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight.
"Good luck tomorrow! You MRA racers are fuggin' alright!"
Merry Christmas everyone!
'Twas the night before raceday, when all through the pits
Not a creature was stirring, except the last few misfits.
The leathers were hung by the trailer with care.
In hopes that the tech inspector soon would be there.
The racers were nestled all snug in their paddocks
While visions of trophies kept them far from relaxed;
And Brownie drinking heavily, and I out of booze,
Had just settled down for a brief drunken snooze.
When out on the track there arose such a clatter.
I sprang from my cot to see what was the matter.
Away to the zipper I was there in a snap
Tore open the Velcro and undid the giant flap.
The moon on the breast of the freshly cleaned track
Gave the luster of mid-day to the front and the back.
When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But a sauced-up dude on a green John Deer.
A deft, accurate driver, he was no faker,
I knew in a moment it must be Tony Baker.
More rapid than Rossi but far more paler.
He swore and he shouted like a drunken sailor.
"Now, experts! now, vendors! now, novices and more!
Now, scorers! Now corner workers, and Applehans, you whore!
To the office! To the front of the pavilion!
Now get your asses over there!" his face all vermilion.
As dry heaves cleared like he was getting sober
He rolled much faster than he had since October.
So out to the Memorial structure he flew,
Out came smoke from the ATV that was white and blue.
And then, with some crackling, I heard on the P.A.
The clearing of the throat of our esteemed "El Presidente".
As I checked my phone for any missed calls
Tony let out a shout, like he had grown some balls.
He was dressed all in nylon, from his head to his toe.
As if he was a reject from the cast of "Jersey Shore".
A bundle of trophies he had flung on his back,
And he looked like he'd stashed the Lombardi in his pack.
His eyes -- how blood shot! his hair a fright!
His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a light!
His brow was tight, as if he was very mad
And the beard on his chin was thin - it was quite sad.
The bottle of beer he held tight in his hand;
And the foam up on top - who knew where it'd land;
He had a short shirt on that showed off his belly.
It was full of sweat which by now was surely smelly.
He was sauced and drunk, a plastered old racer.
And then he took a shot of whiskey followed by a chaser;
A blink of his eye and a drop of the mike,
Soon we knew we should secure his bike.
He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
And he took out all his trophies, like some sort of jerk,
And laying each finger down, all but one.
And giving us the bird, it was all in good fun.
He sprang to his ATV, to his crew he gave a shout.
And drove away mooning us, his bare ass out.
But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight.
"Good luck tomorrow! You MRA racers are fuggin' alright!"