Listen up, fuckers. The sweet lord put me on this earth to do two things: score hot chicks and win hot air balloon races. And if I needed any help doing the first thing, I sure as hell wouldn’t be asking you polesmokers about it.
Now let’s get a couple things straight. This here is a hot air balloon. And this here is the face of a champion. When it’s not buried in mam glands, it’s winning hot air balloon races. All I need is a few pairs of hands to tie a few knots and drop some ballast from time to time. Frankly, from looking at your stupid mugs, I don’t get the impression that any of you slackjawed shitbuckets are up to the job.
Now maybe some of you have actually flown a balloon before. Maybe you think you’re just the hottest shit there is when it comes to hot air balloon racing. Well, let me tell you something, babyboy—this ain’t one of your Sunday-afternoon church potluck balloon parties. Do you see this eye socket here? Take a good look. It’s as empty as your shriveled little nutsacks. You think it got that way while I was playing cribbage during a nice leisurely pleasure cruise over Disneyland? A Swede ripped it out of my face 10,000 feet over the Caspian Sea.
I’ll spare the details so’s not to upset your delicate little tummies, but long story short, Ingmar took my depth perception down with him when he hit those waves, and I won the Bud Light Extreeeme Summertime Balloon Blast.
Point is, this ain’t hot air balloon racing like they taught you in kindergarten. This is the kind of blood-drinking, eye-gouging, no-holds-barred balloon racing that motherfuckers have nightmares about. We WILL be sabotaging balloons on the ground, we WILL be sniping at rival teams with rifles in the air, and we WILL be crossing that finish line first tomorrow. You see this necklace of ears that I’m wearing? Do you think I got it by following the International Balloon Association’s Sportsmanship Guidelines? Guess again, dicklips.
If you so much as blink wrong when we’re flying tomorrow, I will not hesitate to cut your throat and toss you over the side like a fucking Big Mac wrapper. Have a fun time when your face hits the roof of a Wal-Mart at 500 mph. It’ll give me something to chuckle about when I’m shtuping your mom next weekend.
Now, I want you mouthbreathers to read my lips and make goddamn sure that you parlez-vous this fucking Francais: I need one man to tie the rigging, one man to handle the ballast, and one man to step up in case I have to throw a motherfucker over the side for fucking up. I don’t give a screaming shit who does what—you pantysniffers can work it out amongst yourselves.
Me, I’m gonna go drink a bottle of whiskey and then get my freak on with the lovely ladies down at the pool hall by the chicken plant. I’d invite one of you marys along if I thought any of you knew what to do with that little piece of cabbage between your legs. Just make sure you’re at the balloon field ready for takeoff at 4:30 tomorrow morning. And by god, if you don’t take the Hershey-Zippo Pennsylvania Heritage Days Balloon Weekend seriously, I guaran-goddamn-tee you that you will wish you never met my one-eyed balloon-flying ass.