Sunday Sunday Sunday

By Dale Miller and Sean Nyilassy

Rum, mullets and 11-foot tall trucks–we’ve never felt so white.

The 575 cubic inch engines resonated in our ears as we strolled into the Monster Jam. Although the stench of alcohol overpowered us, we managed to escape the labyrinth beneath the Saddledome and find our seats.

Pouring our rum and cokes was a guilty pleasure with a gang of nine-year-olds sitting a few feet in front of us–but we persevered. The kids’ earmuffs dampened the roar of Gravedigger’s supercharged V8, but the image of destroyed domestic vehicles will forever remain etched in their minds.

Destined to sport magnificent mullets, the children of the crowd coaxed on the carnage by constantly cheering their favourite vehicles. We, however, sat back and soaked in a beautiful red-neck tradition.

During the intermission, remote control cars soared off the jumps, exciting the crowd with flips and up-side-down landings. Things only improved from there, with an apparently stock Jeep Grand Cherokee out-performing a souped up YJ­–like the Ferengi defeating the Borg!

Then came the main event, the freestyle monster truck competition. Our crush lust was slaked by Maniac destroying a molester van along with everything in sight. The monster truck championship continued in WWE fashion with progressively hyped-up competitors, ending with a spectacular 40m Gravedigger wheelie straight into Jurassic Attack, sending the crowd to its feet.

The standing ovation brought on a two minute doughnut-fest, sending us to virtual orgasm with its burning rubber and flying dust. When the dust cleared, the three fans in the front row who were chosen to be the official judges valiantly raised their judging cards revealing perfect 10s. Gravedigger was the champion.

As we got up to leave the stadium we were interrupted by an announcement that the demolition derby had yet to come. For some in the crowd this made no difference, but we weren’t quite finished our mickies, so we sat back down to await the car-crushing onslaught. We were not disappointed.

The cars entered under their own power and looked pretty good doing it–at least in terms of brightly coloured American land yachts.

This was not to last.

After five minutes, a dozen destroyed radiators, twisted metal and crushed dreams, only one car managed to survive. The rest of the smouldering field was cleared shamefully by a team of bobcat undertakers.

Shell-shocked and awe-struck, we managed to stumble our way into the daylight and reality. We can’t think of many better ways spend a Sunday than paying respect to our heritage by drinking fine no-name rum and breathing in toxic exhaust.

Long live Monster Jam.

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