Well, folks, I’ve about reached the end of my rope.  There used to be one sanctum sanctorium for regular Americans, but now it seems that rich folk is fixin’ to invade NASCAR.  We might as well all pack it in because we all know what happens when the fancypants goofballs of the upper crust settle in.

If you’ve been to a race lately you’ve seen ‘em.  Rolling into the parking lot with their foreign nameplate automobiles.  Hidin’ from the sun beneath a fancy tent.  Cookin’ with propane.  Listenin’ to satellite radidio.  Usin’ the portapotties.  It’s insanity.

They cheer for Jeff Gordon, drive up the prices of fan merchandise (especially golf visors), and generally make a menace of themselves.  Heaven forbid someone would step in a puddle of my piss with his leather pennyloafers.

I’d like to take one of those trust fund babies and rip the sleeves right off his Tommy Bahama shirt.

When I go to a race, it’s for three reasons only: stuff my face, put a hurtin’ on my liver, and damage my hearing.  Occasionally I will harrass some FYT’s (Fine Young Things), but only if I am ahead of schedule on my drinking. 

And if you’ll notice the country club set at the race, there’s one thing they never bring with them: their women.  Those delicate flowers are at home enjoying an afternoon at the spa or starting their own jewelry design labels while their good-for-nothing husbands rape and pillage at the turkey leg concession.  Last week, one Silver Spoon in front of me asked for a knife and fork.  I nearly handled the knife part of his request for him — right in his soft, lily-white tummy.

There’s no excuse for high society creeping into the redneck cathedrals of our great nation.  Splash and Go doesn’t believe in judging people by race or creed (long as you got one) but when it comes to the alligator-shirt crowd, we ought to have some segregation, or at least some sensitivity training, at the track.

I don’t go to five star restaurants and demand a chili dog with extra onions and a cold BL.  I don’t go to the Mercedes dealership and ask where the pick-em-up trucks are.  And I know better than to go to an opera, even in my best pair of ripped-up jeans and my nicest Insane Clown Posse t-shirt.  Doing those things would make me look stupid and get me eighty-sixed from most establishments.

You’d think that rich folks, too, would have the decency to leave their nasally voices and refined tastes in the east wing of their mansions before they set out for the track.  If they don’t, and they insist on bringing manners to my tailgate or polite applause to my section of the grandstand, there’ll be trouble in Turn Harley Coe, I’ll tell you what.