The Great Cannonball Run Vax Sweepstakes

by Rich Herschlag

While much of the world languishes on tattered cots and in alleyways scrounging for a COVID-19 vaccination, we here in the land of the free shot literally can’t give it away. As this recent dispatch from the road illustrates, there is a new paradigm of savvy vax opportunism here in America, and we’re just getting started.

Well, it seems like every day they sweeten the pot a little — a college scholarship here, a million dollar lottery there. I’ll admit some of it is kind of tempting, but as a self-made businessman I’m holding out. What am I holding out for? Well, what will the market bear? Have you seen the tires on my Audi A8 lately? No one in this proud country of ours should ever be asked to drag race on tires like those. You see, aside from knocking over mailboxes, setting dog crap on fire on random front porches, tipping cows, and cold-cocking the Chinese, drag racing is one of the only things that’s kept me feeling good this whole pandemic.

Besides, those tires are bald for a good reason. In April me and my two buddies packed the car with a few cases of Coors and did the Cannonball Run. If you don’t know what I’m talking about, you start at the Red Ball Garage in Manhattan and drive 2,800 miles across these great United States to the Portofino Hotel in Redondo Beach, California. Non-stop, baby. Some good old boys have been doing that run for years and the record is a little under 26 hours. Well, me and my buddies sure had a good time but we were about five hours off the record. And for that I blame Nancy Pelosi and Alexandria whatsherface.

Turns out there was all sorts of equipment we needed if we were gonna get anywhere near that record. So, yeah, if you wanna stick that needle in my arm and implant a chip that’s gonna tell Hillary Clinton where I cook my meth, you’re gonna have to do a lot better than just a set of four Goodyear Wrangler Radials. For starters we’re looking at a police scanner, a CB radio, a laser jammer, a thermal camera, and a pair of extra 50-gallon fuel tanks. And they better all be made right here in the USA. Me and my buddies are patriots.

During our 31-hour trip across America, we sure learned a lot. Did you know the Arby’s off Route 80 just outside Chicago serves Pizza Sliders at 50 percent off on Wednesdays? It was kind of hard to slow down all the way going through the drive-thru while keeping a tight schedule, and then we clipped the U-Haul and the parking meter on the way out. Which reminds me, if you want me to be a guinea pig so George Soros can try out a new method of chemical castration, we’re talking a lifetime 75 percent promo code on GrubHub. Plus a $5,000 voucher at Maaco.

Papa didn’t raise no dang fool. He told me to get every last thing coming to you from Kamala Harris. Those were his dying words on a ventilator just last Tuesday. If no mask, no vaccine and a quart of bleach are good enough for the old man they’re good enough for me.

You left-wing socialist commie pinko pussies going to get your pedicures in a Tesla 3 don’t know jack about the road. The road is a lonely place. So if we’re going to go back out there and entertain ya’ll again we’re gonna need a woman for the road. We’re not picky. She just has to be at least half white and under 18. And she’s got to test negative for COVID-19 within 48 hours of the start of the run. I’m just saying. And no vax for her. Lord knows what that thing might do to our children.

It’s tough out there half awake at three in the morning cutting across a dairy field at 165 mph and hearing a dull thud. You think maybe it was a deer and you realize you don’t have time to stop and pick some fine venison out of the front grill. So your friend Bubba crawls out on the hood to take a look and the next thing you know there’s a low hanging branch and another thud and Bubba’s gone. So one day when the time is right we’re gonna need a few thousand dollars to drive back out to Iowa I think it was, find Bubba and give that poor feller a right proper burial. And I don’t want to hear no complaints now. If you want me to roll up my sleeve so you can turn me into a space alien, you gotta pony up. Where I come from we take care of our own.

There were other thuds in the night, too. So many that sometimes they all seemed to blend into one. After a while you don’t even hear the screams anymore. We had a job to do and we did it, and we didn’t take a dime from the government. There were busted fire hydrants, hundreds of chickens flying the coop, sheared off highway signs, and visions straight out of Crazy Taxi, but it was all real and all part of this wonderful country. This land is your land, this land is my land . . . that’s what I kept singing to myself on Route 10 to stay awake after the CD player broke and the Morgan Wallen album stopped. But then Clem told me that dude who wrote this land is your land married a Jew one time so we went back to the satellite radio.

Our first Cannonball Run was no walk in the park, man. There were plenty of summonses those state troopers almost issued, plenty of times we could have used a 12 gauge to clear the way, and a bunch of maxed out credit cards once we got to La-La Land. So, much as I hate to quote another Jew, if you want to stick me full of some weirdo nasty ass Fauci shit that’s gonna make me grow breasts, follow RuPaul on Instagram and vote for Joe Biden, you’re gonna have to send lawyers, guns and money. Plus another Audi A8, or else how in hell are we gonna get back east?

And I want the one-and-done in my right arm — after bowling not before — delivered by a couple of size 2, D cup honeys looking to get it on after they get off work at the CVS. Okay, you got all that? Good. Let me know when you’re ready and I’ll think about it. God bless America.

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