The Indianapolis 333 And A Third
Did anyone know that a woman raced in the Indianapolis 500 this year? I sure as shit didn’t. For those of you who are not racing fans, the Indianapolis 500 is the biggest car race for men in America. In some circles it’s bigger than the Super Bowl, Kentucky Derby, and the Mint 500 smashed into one glorious wreck. It is a grueling, several-hour test of skill and dexterity that challenges not only one’s physical and mental stamina, but also their ability to endlessly turn left.
Turn left?
Women have been shit at that since the yellow light was invented.
The reason I didn’t know that Danica Patrick raced in the Indy 500 this year is because she didn’t fucking win. An Englishman won. It was a proud day for the English too because he was the first Englishman ever to do so. And we all would have been eating blood pudding and bangers and mash and hitting our teeth with hammers in honor of it if the press hadn’t been 100% pussy whipped by Danica Patrick.
Fortunately men don’t compete for attention and glory and media interviews and that kind of bullshit. We do it for honor.
Since I didn’t see any of the news coverage (I was speaking at a men’s conference), in order to write this I had to do a fair amount of research on why exactly a woman would enter a man’s sport. She’s a woman. Women can’t drive, they suck at sports, and they sure as shit can’t turn left. So what was this one doing at Indy 500 and not wearing a bikini? Is she perhaps crazy? Was this one of those Make A Wish Foundation fantasy charity events that I’ve heard so much about? Either way I had to be sure because I’m a man and therefore thorough at all times.
What I did was point myself over to Danica Patrick’s official website expecting to read a bit about the guild-iron gladiatrix. Here’s the first sentence right off her fucking website.
“Danica Patrick, this attractive 5-foot-1, 100-pound woman…”
What in the freshly brewed fuck does that have to do with car racing? Does Donald Trump’s website say some ridiculous shit like that about him?
“Donald Trump is like six feet tall and can bench press 180 pounds. His hair is totally real. He showed me. He also likes the ladies. Wink, wink.”
No. Guess what it fucking doesn’t. That’s because Donald Trump is a man and men have tact, class, the wherewithal to not rely on their bodies to get them attention and most importantly a sense of relevance. Women, as we all know not only from Danica’s website, but also from ever having spoken to one, provide information and worthless, discarded tidbits about themselves like a Pez dispenser with its head cut off and a magical never ending grip of saccharine, sugary candies that will rot your teeth and your brain.
Doing further research, I read over some of the events of the race. The first thing I stumbled on was that Danica stalled her Super Car in the pits near the end of the race. Even if you’re not a Raceman, you can appreciate the deliciousness of that.
Clutch in, gas down. It’s that simple ladies who need to fuck off both my site and the race track.
The only reason Miss Patrick placed 4th (which is first off the podium), is because she only weighs 100 pounds compared to all the other 200 pound male drivers — which is bullshit, pretty much cheating, and probably early signs of an eating disorder which is nothing to laugh about; and because before the guy said “Gentlepersons…Start Your Engines!”, someone duct taped an engagement ring to the left side of her hood.
Look left. Go left.
