"Dieselhead. A man and a monster truck exchange brains?" - Peg Bundy, Married with Children

This caught my attention as we drove to the stadium. Is this a statue of two women playing catch with a newborn? In-a-propriate.

As noted earlier in these missives, I had attempted to take The Boy to see Monster™ Trucks®. Despite that fact that he had been grounded from television, snacks, and all non-essential breathing, the date was set. The Boy had gotten himself in trouble at school for teaching the other children that there was such a thing as non-Euclidian geometry. Say what you want about Euclid, but that man owns elementary schools.

Anyhow, I’d promised to take him to Monster™ Trucks®. I explained that to The Mrs. (who had imposed the grounding). Besides, I already had purchased the tickets (for something like $61.56 American dollars). The Mrs. relented, despite the fact that The Boy was in gulag-level grounding. We decided to use this as a lesson in “promises kept” and not the other lesson of “daddy doesn’t want to waste $61.56.”

The Boy and I had lived through the traffic jam last time, and by leaving, oh, an hour earlier we thought we could avoid all of that and get decent parking. I announced we’d leave at 5PM. From 1PM onwards that day, The Boy was glued to the clock, awaiting 5PM and our departure for Monster™ Trucks®. He was as obsessed with time as David Hasselhoff is concerned with, well, David Hasselhoff.

We got to Reliant© Stadium. We finally found the Will Call windows, and picked up actual tickets, after verification of my I.D., Visa card, and DNA. We made our way into the stadium, up a series of escalators and ramps that seemed to defy gravity. That’s when we found ourselves at the Club Level at Reliant® Stadium. If you’ve never been at the Club Level, well, it’s like you were in your kitchen. If you had a nice kitchen. That had a bar in it. With leather furniture. And, (interestingly) a guy who would put all the bacon and cheese and chili that you could want on your burger. Except the guy who puts the toppings on is 16, nearly in tears, and speaks English in such a broken fashion I cannot for all my attention understand but every third word he says. What do you say to a guy like that? Me, I consoled him by saying, “yeah, more bacon. Shake it off. More cheese. Yup, more. Is that chili hot? More. Umm, what was your problem again? Yeah, whatever. Where’s the mayo?”

The Club Level at Reliant Stadium. Burgers good, beer good, sobbing level acceptable.

The Boy and I ate in luxury, with the sobbing of the burger-topping guy serving as subtle background music. As far as I was concerned, we could leave right now. Yeah, I’d paid $12.00 for a burger, but, dang, it had all the bacon, chili and cheese that any human could ever ask for. Plus, the waffle fries had Parmesan and some sort of really good garlic spice. Did I mention that they had ketchup on tap? Oh, and they had beer.

Anyhow, we decided we would go and watch the Monster™ Trucks®. We made our way down to our seats, which were nice and softly padded. The Boy and I had foamy earplugs. All that was missing was the Monster® Trucks™. They finally showed up, late, after a rendition of “Proud to be an American,” by Lee Greenwood’s taped voice (which made everyone stand up – did I miss the point in time when that became the national anthem?) and the Star Spangled Banner done by some dude playing a guitar and channeling the ghost of Jimi Hendrix’ cousin. Then, prior to the show, Ronald McDonald showed up in a giant red shoe car (I’m not making this up) and, in general, sounded like a Soprano’s style gangster in clown makeup when they interviewed him.

Yes. They interviewed Ronald McDonald.

Oh, sure, it would have been interesting if they’d asked his views on capital gains tax, or the recent congressional elections, but they asked him softball questions (The Mrs. demanded to know the questions. I refused to tell her, but, you, Internet, are special. They asked if he was excited to be there. If he liked Monster® Trucks™. Stupid clown.

Finally, the trucks square off. Yawn.

The Monster® Trucks™ finally made their arrival. After an appropriate display of horsepower, they started racing. Yes. Monster® Trucks™ raced. It was, at first, fascinating. Then, I realized that this was nearly as interesting as watching battleships race. Yes, these were big trucks, and nimble for their size, but, really, what about this couldn’t I see at a red light in downtown Houston as the Hummer H2 driven by the secretary faced off against the Ford 350 4x4 Crew Cab driven by the mail guy?

Monster® Truck™ racing is boring. Really loud, but boring. In matter of presentation, it was like watching WWF WWE wrestling – you know it’s not really real, and the rules are mainly for show, but it lacks the personality of two blustering, steroid-enhanced, sweaty men yelling at each other. I know, I know, that’s not exactly Shakespeare either, but at least it has some interaction. It’s much more interesting than the Scarlet Bandit taking on the Iron Outlaw. The difference between the two Trucks™? The paint job.

Monster® Trucks™ are all about the fuel and fire breathing machines squaring off against one another. The drivers are merely an afterthought. I sat and watched The Boy. Was he enjoying this?

Well, let’s just say that that the “freestyle Monster® Truck™” competition was a lot more interesting.

Next: Fire, Smoke, Government Waste, Big Trucks doing Amazing Things, and Punctuality and the Punk