In Retrospect...

I should have continued on my bender and not bothered with sobering up at all.

My deepest apologies to you, gentle readers, for my absence. It's been quite the hoot-a-nanny around here. I suppose I should start at the beginning.

After we last talked, Daddy's heart tried to leave his body the hard way, i.e. right through his chest. At least, that's what we thought at the time considering Daddy has previously gone the heart attack/bypass route. After a lovely 5 hour stint in the emergency room in which I deeply regretted having ingested Taco Bell for dinner that night, we discovered Daddy's chest cavity had managed to retain said heart but that his blood pressure was running amuck. We were sent home with a ream full of prescriptions and hardy slap on the back. At this point in order to preserve Daddy's sense of decorum, I will not mention the fact that they pumped him so full of dope that he acted like a drunk on tilt-a-whirl. I also won't mention his inability to walk or talk correctly and what he may or may not have done to my bathroom floor but I will mention my contemplated lawsuit toward said emergency room for not admitting him and leaving me to deal with his hepped-up-on-goofballs ass.

Anyhooooo, Cowboy Dan arrived on Tuesday night where we saw really no reason to delay or alter our Daytona-bound plans since Daddy was right as rain and promised me limited activity whilst I was away. Soooo, on Wednesday, we set out for the Nirvana of Redneckdom, otherwise knows as the Pepsi 400.

We met up with Kitty and other track friends and just as I was getting into a cab to hit some of Daytona Beach's fine, fine drinking establishments, I got a call from Daddy who was back in the old hospital. Luckily, Daddy is a race fan and refused to let me come home. So, I did what any reasonable daughter would do in such a situation....I got drunk.

Daddy had to stay prisoner in the hospital for a few days but was released with new drugs and feeling like he was run over by a dump truck. But he is on the mend and no permanent damage done...at least until I kill his ass if he doesn't take better care of himself (You hear me, Old Man? You're toast for cutting the grass).

I, however, continued to indulge in my worship of King Budweiser for a full 4 days with side offerings to Lord Jim Beam and Lady Kettle One. Daddy would have wanted it that way, after all.

So, let's review some Daytona debauchery, shall we?

Let's compare this recent Daytona trip to racing trips of the past...

I drank moonshine...again.

3 girls managed to consume 6 cases of beer over 4 days...again.

I managed to play piss poor poker....again.

I wrestled over whom I should marry, Dale Jr. or Elliott Sadler....again.

I rode around on a golfcart like I was the grand poobah of infield relations...again.

I did shots of some bizarro purple concotion at some pseudo bar set up by guys who were living in a tent for 4 days...again.

Kitty and Cowboy Dan were pulled around on a little red wagon throughout the infield like they were on parade...again.

I drank myself some rythym and decided I was the 21st century's answer to the Solid Gold Dancers....again.

I got my ass spanked a couple of times...again.

I enjoyed said spanking...again.

Oh, and there was some racing....saw that too...again.

A lovely time was had by all...at least from what I can remember.

OOOOOOO! Wait...here's a goood one. Soooooo, Friday morning, we all head to the Fan Zone which is a little happening spot in the middle of the infield at Daytona where one can commune with fellow racing fans and also pay $8.50 from some frozen fruity drink concoction. Me and my pals are sitting around the table enjoying the first drink of the day and Kitty suddenly gets an odd look on her face. She grabs the arm of my chair with sort of a panicked expression and begins looking around frantically. She bolts out of her chair...and WAAAAIIIIIT FOR IT....pukes right back into her glass. Right at the table. Without any warning. Filled the almost empty glass right full again. You will be proud of me though - amongst the sounds of shock and disapproval from the families sitting around us (and frankly, serves them right - the infield is no place for kids), I managed to hold in my laughter for a full 2 minutes....at least until Kitty could wipe the spittle off the tip of her nose.

True friendship? You bet your sweet ass.