KISS MY ASS, GRAVEDIGGER
By Kip Gouveneur
Well, best put down your socket wrenches and get to genuflectin’ because God’s own truck Gravedigger is comin’ through. Might as well roll out a carpet of red sedans for Gravedigger to smash over on its way to another title for a bunch of hollerin’ yahoos who wouldn’t know a clean 270 wheel jack from a freeway accident. Kiss my ass, Gravedigger.
It doesn’t matter how hard we monster jam, the second that Gravedigger crew comes swaggerin’ in, cock of the the walk, we know they’ll end up on that podium. In ’02, Steelzebub set a record for jumpin’ over flaming cars then Gravedigger won. In ’97, Desekrator managed to knock over 13 Pintos like dominoes before flattenin’ them into explosive pancakes. Gravedigger won. Hell, I broke three Monster Jam speed records while towin’ the carcass of a burned-out Chrysler in ’95 alone while Gravedigger farted around the track runnin’ over some dilapidated tractors and wouldn’t you know it, it’s Gravedigger on the podium leading the crowd in the Gravedigger anthem while I’m given a pat on the back and a sixer of Molson.
One time, we went out to Save Mart Center. It was me and Mailfist and Minotaur and Headbutter and Truckulence. Everyone’s all juiced up because Gravedigger was appearin’ at the Rosemont Horizon, so we all feel we’ve got a shot, even through the rain of boos and Gravedigger foam shovels that the fans rain down on the arena when they figure out that Gravedigger’s a no-show. But then, all of a sudden, there’s an engine revvin’ up that I’d recognize anywhere. Another Gravedigger. I stormed into Bert Mantlethorpe’s office, knockin’ his shit everywhere with a monster tire iron. He told me to settle down. Kip you should know better’n anyone that we can’t roll a fuckin’ monster skateboard over a dozen hotwheels without a Gravedigger, he said. He told me to hit the ramp, get the check, and keep my goddamn mouth shut or I’d never monster jam in this town again.
Rock Tamerlane, the driver of Dysentery, stormed out of the Bojangles Coliseum when a third Gravedigger showed up. They found his chassis in a vacant lot hours away, jammed beyond recognition.
It’s time for this Gravedigger bullshit to end. I challenge Gravedigger — any ’em, I don’t care — to Jam ’97 and Camouflage Pants Expo, the sacred ritual of one-on-one monster jam to the death. This is it, Gravedigger. There’re no corrupt judges to save you. No clueless dipshit Gravedigger fans to chant your name for poppin’ a single goddamn wheelie. No Gravedigger merchandise empire to prop you up. No Monster Jam International to let you throw your 10,000 pounds and 1,700 horsepower around like you’re the only truck on the face of the earth.
When the monster gong sounds and the crews of Doberman, Clawhammer, Shuriken, Acid Rain, Arteriosclerosis, and every other son-of-a-bitch who’s ever stared down the ramp at a dozen Impalas rigged with fireworks come out to the abandoned, torch-lit junk yard, we’ll see who can jam. No special ramps. No entrance music. No Gravedigger street team sellin’ t-shirts and beer-coozies from the Gravedigger Monster Van. When we strap on our ceremonial skull helmets and drag out the symbolic 75-foot-long coffins, it all ends with just pure truck-to-truck combat.
When it’s all over, when Gravedigger lies idling in a mass of twisted recreational vehicles, monster jam will be taken away from those green-visored accountants and returned to the drivers and the purists. Free to return to open competition out of the shadow of a megalomaniacal truck syndicate. Gravedigger, I will bury you.
