When we ran across Karen at a local motocross track berating anyone and everyone around, we knew we had to let her write for us, because, well, she’s very “unique” and that’s what we do here at Vurb. Keep in mind, her opinions do not reflect ours or anyone on the staff at Vurb. Karen has our own opinions about things, which she likes to voice.
Say it with me, America. Loud and proud — Ooooh say can you seeeeee, by the dawn’s early niiiiight, what so something something, something something last gleaming.
See, unlike the rest of you tea-sippin’ expats, I start every single day reverberating the patriotic hymns of the Star Spangled Banner while the American flag propped up in the bed of my truck waves proudly blasting 90mph down I-95. I love America, damn it. I love it so much, they oughtta pay me for it, beyond them welfare checks and stimulus packages already comin’ in.
As you can imagine being the chairwoman of Patriotism, Inc, each and every September when the Motocross of Nations come ‘round, I lather this voluptuous bod in enough red, white and blue food coloring to put Rocket Pops out of business, rooting on the fine trio we sent to represent the Stars and Stripes at the largest international stage motocross knows. For many years, this was the biggest day of celebration on my calendar, ahead of my birthday and even the Tostitos Bowl. Because for all those years, the world was at peace, the universe balanced perfectly on its multidimensional axis, with USA smashing every challenger back to the primordial dust where they belong.
But alas, they say you don’t know what you got till it’s gone. Just like after that last goblet-sized slab of queso dip has been scooped up in my mighty windmill chip-dip technique, I never realized how much beer-bonging victory Silver Bullets after the checkers flew in the final MXGP + Open moto meant to me. But these past few years, my celebrations have instead been replaced by whiskey-fueled troll sessions of the winning team with anti-communist propaganda into the wee hours of Monday morning.
I could keep going, but you get the gist: America has been getting its ass handed to it for a while now, and since none of these candy-ass racers have been able to find the formula, I went looking for myself. And I believe I found the culprit—
“Injury lawyers? Karen, did you just chug Mountain Dew and stroke out again?” No. My doctor said that can’t happen again. Take a lap, you novice.
Sometimes I get bored and peruse the YouTube and sometimes since I consume so much American dirt bike content, I get served up an MXGP video. I know what you’re thinking, and believe it or not this has never led me to smash my phone in a non-protestable, AMA-regulation fueled rage. Truth is I don’t mind the MXGPs; those funny accent bastards can ride some dirt bikes. And in my viewing, I’ve noticed this: Their tracks are as burly as my bare knuckles after a bar brawl in Birmingham.
The MXGP tracks are just gnarlier than the AMA tracks. Bigger bumps, scarier jumps, deeper sand, sharper rocks — there’s a lot of terrain there that’ll put hair on your testes. The result has been a wave of psycho, Terminator-like robot-riders produced in the hellfire of rocks, bumps and lack of safety regulation you get in third-world countries like Slovenia, Slovakia or France. And then over here in America, we got tracks getting sued left and right because Donny Dumbtits seat-bounced himself into a Grade 3 concussion because he never took a second to learn the finer points of basic jump technique. How we expect anyone to compete against ‘em when we’re dealing with the most lawsuit-happy bunch of clown babies of any population on the planet is beyond me.
That’s right, way I see it, it all comes down to track conditions, and as a country where half the billboards on any given interstate feature a smiling suit standing over whatever first crack attempt at “Better Call Saul” they could come up with for a slogan, USA is in trouble. I still think America rules and we’ll stand on top of the podium again one day, but it’s gonna take a hard look in the mirror and some repetition of the words “I will not call my lawyer” any time adversity rears its head.
Until next time, remember the moon landing was fake and 5G will kill us all.