A Night at the Races

Bah, these races are a pipe-dream!

I’m starting to believe I’ve been hoodwinked. It is now two-thirty in the morning, and I’ve been sitting on this abandoned beach in southern Virginia since eight o’clock this evening. A slick talking gentlemen, who had a tendency to look around a lot while talking, sold me these two tickets to see the submarine races here, tonight. He even threw in these slightly used lawn chairs provide us a comfy place to watch this epic event. So far, however, I’m not impressed. My wife left hours ago while declaring me lacking in brain-juice, and I am beginning to think she may have been right.

My ticket provider

Fifty dollars for two tickets to see the might and majesty of the United States Navy square off against each other in nautical racing sounded like a can’t-miss opportunity. Even if they were some of the older models and not Fast Attack subs, it’d be a blast to see. For the first couple of hours I thought they were just building up the suspense of when the massive submarines would break through the surface of the Atlantic…but nothing has happened.

My beach-mate

And why am I the only one here? One would have thought that an event as mind-boggling spectacular as this one would be full of people climbing over each other to attend. But I’m the only one here…well, except for the slight and smelly man drinking out of a bag and making periodic demonstrations of flatulence while offering his opinion on whether regression in social Darwinism provides satisfactory explanation for Congress. Other than him, however, I’m the only one on this stinking beach.

Sure, I’ve seen some interesting things while sitting here (namely a friendly Loch Ness monster creature, some alien looking thing with a glowing stomach giving me the finger, and some floating wreckage with the words “Flight 19” written on it), but nothing that remotely reminds me of a submarine. Come to think of it, why would the Navy would allow billions of dollars worth of assets to be racing about when they should be stalking the oceans and practicing to make things go boom and glug-glug.

When was the last time you saw a proctologist?

I suppose there is something to be learned from this, probably because it’s another example of my using poor judgement (rarely, it seems, there is something to be learned from a time I’ve not messed up). Perhaps the lesson here is to not believe an outlandish story just because it sounds like a great thing. Maybe the lesson is to never accept dilapidated lawn chairs as part of a ticket package. Or maybe the lesson is to never accept a business proposal from the guy in the next stall in the bathroom. Whatever it is, in all probability I didn’t learn it.

And in the end, isn’t the understanding of one’s flaws the most important thing? No, didn’t think so.



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