Suggested Audio Jukebox ♫
 Down & Town
 Silly Hills
 Chilly Thrills
 Wacky Races
 The Race
 Wacky Races (Reprise)
Drat. And double drat! It’s almost starter’s orders and still no sign of that chucklehead, Muttley. That blundering dummy is going to get us disqualified before the race even begins and I’ve been preparing for this moment for weeks now. If time wasn’t such a factor, I’d kick that tittering twerp to the curb like I should have done the very moment he began gnawing the leather upholstery.
Everything’s hilarious, isn’t it Muttley? Well, let me tell you something, mutt boy – I’m not smiling. I’ve got half a mind to get him spayed and another half to bite an infant in the mall and blame it on him. So what if I get caught in the act? I’ll get a maximum of three years and likely be out in two. If I pin it on him however, then it’s straight off to doggy heaven by way of lethal injection. We’ll see if the blundering little berk finds that funny, shall we?
I wouldn’t mind but he knows how much winning this race means to me. How can I expect to be taken seriously as an evil mastermind, if I can’t grab myself a podium finish? For the record, I plan to be the only one on that podium. Muttley was welcome to join me but he seems far too predisposed digging up bones and chasing the UPS guy back to his van to be taking any bows today. I hope he comes down with gastric torsion and retches his intestines up in his bowl.
As for the rest of the losers, well I’ve got far more despicable plans for them. You see, the last words my dear mother Doris whispered into my ear on her death-bed were “do whatever you have to do to get ahead son” and they always stuck with me. I guess that’s where I get my competitive nature from and why the Wacky Races appeal to me as a contest. So many potential misfires. Just so much that can go awry.
I hate the lot of them, you know. Ten sets of suckers are all that stand between me and that gold cup and they’re all as pathetic as each other. Actually, one of them is somewhat easy on the eye, but that’s neither her nor there. Once that starter pistol fires, I won’t see her buxom bosoms heaving through her top blouse, any more than I’ll discern her camel toe as I leave her spluttering in my tail smoke.
Penelope Pitstop is her name, although some of the lads call her Cockstop and it’s not hard to fathom out why. The race announcers seem to prefer “Glamour Gal of the Gas Pedal” but, while those go-go boots of hers are admittedly rather fetching, I reckon there’s nothing compact about her pussy cat.
Rumor has it that she and Peter Perfect dated for a short time back at boot camp. Well I had the soul-destroying pleasure of showering with this so-called “gentleman” at a NASCAR try out a few months back and, let me tell you, there’s nothing well-mannered about the purple-tipped piledriver he’s packing. By my estimations, that would make her taut little taco more of an over-tossed omelette and even Muttley would turn his snout up at that.
She may think she’s got me fooled with those come hither eyes, pouting pink lips, impossibly lustrous blonde locks, voluptuous curves and contours, and slutty little thighs; but I’m yeast intolerant and refuse sloppy seconds once “the turbo terrific” has trounced the trenches. I’m dreadfully sorry Ms. Pitstop but your beguiling beauty will do you no favors here. Dickie has his game face on, don’t you know.
You want to know who else makes my balls chafe? Cavemen and I’ve got two of these bearded clams to contend with. Rock and Gravel, their names are, not that either one of these primordial pillocks know who is who. Didn’t they receive the bulletin yet? I wonder if these Neanderthal nincompoops find it at all suspicious that their dinosaur chums haven’t hollered at them for over 65 million years now. You could guess they’re not that smart and I’d award you half a point, just because I’m feeling stingey today.
If you ask me, The Boulder Mobile is a trundling deathtrap on wheels. Speaking of which, who gives a ferret’s flange what you invented back in the stone ages when the Mean Machine has a quartet of custom-built competition tires, just aching to burn some asphalt. I look forward to introducing the boys to their namesakes at speeds in excess of 100 mph.
When you think about it, there’s not a world of difference between cavemen and hillbillies. Both struggle to string a sentence together that isn’t just a random collection of guttural grunts, both smell like feet, neither can boss a banjo like Steve Martin, and I glean the very same level of blackened glee from snuffing them out of the equation.
Take Lazy Luke for example, you know, the toothless tool bag responsible for keeping The Arkansas Chugabug out of a museum cabinet, where it belongs for health and safety reasons. You know the crops have perished when your best and only friend in the entire world is an emotionally fragile bear named Blubber. I’m not altogether certain what sets Blubber’s teeth on constant edge, but would imagine it has to do with his pilot pal’s insistence on entrusting steering duties to bis bunions.
Listen, I’m the last person to be harping on about road safety, when I practically wrote the book on how to blatantly ignore it. But I happen to find the smell of unwashed feet most distracting when drifting in their slipstream and that poxy bear should run a flannel through its butt crack too, if you ask me. That said, I’d rather by trailing them than The Buzzwagon. Now I’m not suggesting to know a great deal about the manufacture of automobiles, but any blathering idiot with half a brain and a quarter of a clue how it operates will point out that marrying buzzsaw blade wheels and an oak chassis is a huge engineering no-no.
Rufus Ruffcut may be known for his unparalleled skills as a lumberjack, but he was a fair few logs short of a bundle when it came to selecting a beaver as his travel buddy. Had he been aware that the teeth of these oversized rodents never quit growing, then perhaps he wouldn’t have been so quick to construct a vehicle which is essentially meals on wheels to his hungry hungry henchman.
The very best he can hope for is that Sawtooth will become snagged in the buzzsaws when gnawing through the side panels and be promptly eviscerated. The worst is a long walk home, which is far less fun with an ass full of termites and splinters on your ball sack. Either way, I’ll be paying this pair little mind. Another on the long list of things I loathe are clever dicks and Professor Pat Pending is one such “twiddle-de-dee, look at me” intellectual type. Who outside of the world of science gives a phosphorous fuck whether or not he pioneered and patented The Convert-a-Car?
So what if it can transform into any number of ingenious gadgets at the press of a button? Is it a boat, plane, jetpack, flying carpet, or bicycle built for two? Make your mind up professor as the one thing it’s not is welcome and I highly object to your do-gooding ways. With this kind of future savvy at your fingertips, you should be hatching a nefarious plot for world domination, not assisting your fellow racers when they spring a flat. I’ll ensure you pay a princely sum for your sickeningly humanitarian ways, you mark my words.
If you ask me, The Red Max has the right idea and it should come as no surprise to learn that this daredevil pilot heralds from Bavaria, Deutschland. You can always count on the Germans to have a trick or two up their sleeve and, if this fails to earn them the edge, then mounted machine guns also happen to be rather delightful game-changers. The Crimson Haybailer is more than just a threat on the ground, it’s an avian nightmare to anyone unfortunate enough to taste its propeller blades. Regrettably, it’s also something of a piece of shit and breaks down almost as often as it fires up.
Another deadly duo who warrant slightly less hateful mention are The Gruesome Twosome, a rather odd couple comprising big and little incarnations of monsterized madness. One is a hulking great hunk of lunk of the “IT’S ALIVE!!!” variety; the other a tiny purple vampire who can barely see over the steering column but would wring a tampon out if he thought he could bleed a Bloody Mary out of it. As if not already shady enough, the hearse they mooch about in, The Creepy Coupe or something similarly sinister, comes equipped with its very own belfry and we all know the kind of vermin who hang out there.
Never much cared for bats if I’m honest. From their beady little eyes, to their pointy little ears, nibbly little fangs and flappy little wings – there’s something about these cantankerous cave dwellers that sings “I know a song that’ll get on your nerves, get on your nerves, get on your nerves” and I don’t appreciate their in your face approach one iota. To be fair, The Creepy Coupe also plays host to all manner of ghoulies, ghosties and long-legged beasties, but it’s bats who make my teeth grind. Muttley finds them a source of great amusement of course, which is why I forced my heathen friend to sit through Cujo. Sorry Muttley old buddy, old pal, those overdue rabies shots must have totally slipped my mind. Now get back in your kennel you fuzzy little cunt, before I kick you in the spleen.
I like to call this tough love and two men who know a thing or two about the kindness in cruelty are one-and-a-half-man army, Sergeant Blast and his mildly dim-witted inferior, Private Meekly. I watched Forrest Gump twice and there’s no way I’d trust Lt. Dan behind a loaded cannon, as I hear PTSD is a very real affliction. Sarge, on the other hand, sits front and centre on The Army Surplus Special; leading his shell-shocked comrade into a battle that exists only in his mind. It’s actually somewhat tragic.
Right then, who does that leave? Oh yes, The Ant Hill Mob. How could I possibly not spare a word or three for such a bountiful buffet of buffoons? It’s not easy outrunning the long arm of the law when you don’t possess a solitary long leg between you. If only these fumbling felons could get it into their thick little skulls that it’s not the roaring twenties anymore and crime no longer pays so well, then perhaps they’d form a five-piece vocal group and become a surprise hit off Broadway. Instead, they insist on bringing the entire Wacky Races brand into disrepute, when it clearly states in the terms and conditions that it is my job.
How these Tommy gun-toting twits expect to be taken seriously as a criminal collective with nicknames like Ring-A-Ding and Rug Bug Benny, I will never know but the whole shady operation is crooked from the ground up, if you ask me. Should you spot their getaway car, The Bulletproof Bomb, rattling along in your rearview, accompanied by the words “whack him Willy”; then it’s high time you activate nitrous before they hit a speed bump and everybody dies. It’s not that I’m coming down hard on organized crime, indeed, I’m rather partial to a dabble myself when not hatching devious plans to win races that I’m reasonably assured are rigged in the first place.
There I said it. If anyone is going to sniff out skullduggery, then it’s going to be the one who wrote the heinous handbook. You don’t believe me? Then take a look at the current all-time Wacky Races leaderboard, run your eye straight down to the very bottom, and give Muttley and I a wave. Actually, screw Muttley as he’s evidently too busy scoffing at the misfortunes of others not to be snickering mischievously at my own right now. Not a single victory has been mine, nor a second or third, and I find that statistic subterraneously suspicious. Smells like a stinking fix to me and I reckon someone just gets a sick kick out of hearing me yell “curses, foiled again!” for the umpteenth time in succession.
So you see, it appears that all I’m considered good for is the odd catchy slogan and my inability to convert my conniving ways into podium finishes. Meanwhile, bland nondescripts like Peter Perfect, who happens to be a real cock I might add, grab the winner’s laurels and accompanying headlines. As for little old me, well consequently bananas appear to fit rather snugly in my tailpipe and my future is doomed to consist of further bitter disappointments.
Thus I apologize in advance if I don’t perform the customary ‘tache twirls as I’m feeling massively under-appreciated and just about ready to wave the white flag. Of course, being a cunning evil mastermind, I do have something suitably snidey hatching at this very moment. Let’s see if Muttley can see the funny side when I romp home to my long-awaited first victory and rub his greasy little snout in it like I did when he crapped in my carpet slippers. Actually scrap that, my elusive sidekick has just turned up fashionably late and I really could do with the company. Just one thing Muttley – don’t even think you’re off the hook as I’ve got my beady eye on you. Whatcha got to say about that mutt boy?
How frightfully predictable and mildly infectious. Well I guess the main thing is that you’re here now; I just hope you plan to make yourself helpful. Failure is not an option here; this is one checkered flag we absolutely have to arrive at first or else run the risk of becoming objects of ridicule to everyone. While I’m sure this would suit you down to the ground; I fail to see any humor in our predicament whatsoever. Buckle up laughing boy, it’s gonna be a bumpy ride. Oh and I hope you did your business already as I just got the Mean Machine valeted and flat refuse to make any unforeseen pit stops on your account. Let’s create some mild peril, shall we?
…and now here they are. The most daredevil group of daffy drivers to ever whirl their wheels in the Wacky Races, competing for the title of the world’s wackiest racer. The cars are approaching the starting line as you join us. First is Peter Perfect in his Turbo Terrific, closely followed by Rufus Ruffcut and Sawtooth in The Buzzwagon. Standing to attention just behind them are Sergeant Blast and Private Meekly in The Army Surplus Special. Right on their trail are The Ant Hill Mob in their Bulletproof Bomb. Next up we have ingenious inventor Professor Pat Pending in his Convert-a-Car and The Red Max in The Crimson Haybailer.
And here’s the glamour gal of the gas pedal herself, the lovely Penelope Pitstop in her Compact Pussycat. Lurching to the starting line are The Gruesome Twosome in The Creepy Coupe, The Slag Brothers in The Boulder Mobile, and Luke and Blubber Bear in The Arkansas Chugabug. Last and very much least, bringing up the rear as is customary, are double dealing do-badders Dick Dastardly and his tittering sidekick Muttley in The Mean Machine. All racers are under starter’s orders now…AND THEY’RE OFF!
It’s a dreadful start for Peter Perfect, whose so-called Turbo Terrific appears to be lacking the all-important fuel to make such a sprawling cross-country dash. With the nearest gas station ten miles from his coordinates and a flock of ravenous buzzards circling overhead licking their beaks as they prepare to peck out his eyeballs, it looks like his race has already been run before he even got out of neutral.
Smells like shenanigans to me and, judging by the fact that Muttley is currently lighting his own farts to help propel The Mean Machine into contention, I’d say we’ve found our culprits. You can always count on the villainous Dick Dastardly to throw a wrench in the works and my money’s on another low down dirty trick before the dust can settle. One thing’s for sure, he’ll need to get a wriggle on as The Mean Machine is currently languishing way back in tenth place and some way off the pace.
At the moment, it’s the Slag Brothers hanging on to pole position, with The Gruesome Twosome creeping their way into second and The Army Surplus Special trundling into third. Behind them, it’s nip and tuck for fourth, with a number of racers in close contention. It’s still early days folks and expect the pecking order to change considerably by the time we reach the first checkpoint at Buckskin Gulch, Utah.
Speaking of which, Dick Dastardly is at it again, this time looking to edge The Arkansas Chugabug out of the running. Lazy Luke may be known for his laid back attitude, but he may wish to take heed of his co-pilot’s frantic snivelling, as he appears oblivious to the giant cactus they’re hurtling towards at breakneck speed. Does a bear shit in the woods? I couldn’t tell you but I’m fairly certain this grizzly just dropped a nugget or two in his slipstream. Never mind “what in tarnation is that?” Luke, steer man or you’re darn tooting things are about to get prickly. Too late, he got a calf cramp.
Farewell my hillbilly friends. You’ll be sadly missed for the time it takes to cross you off the roster. But what’s this, it looks like Blubber may still be alive under all that rubble. My bad, it’s just a death rattle. That leaves just nine racers jostling for the title of the world’s wackiest racer and it’s impossible to pick a winner right now. One person you certainly wouldn’t bet against is the lovely Penelope Pitstop and she’s currently leading the chasing pack, with The Slag Brothers and Pat Pending also looking good for a podium finish. However, the real fight is for fourth, where The Army Surplus Special and The Crimson Haybailer and locked in a fierce war of wits.
Red Max looks to have the aerial advantage here and the Bavarian air ace is gearing up for another swooping onslaught as we speak. His mounted machine gun is preparing to unleash its spiteful shrapnel and this could spell trouble for our well-drilled sergeant and his meek minion. The writing’s on the wall folks as they’re dead centre of his crosshairs and only a freak air accident or shoddy engineering can save them now. But they may have been thrown a lifeline as The Haybailer has started spluttering and it looks like its pilot will be required to bail out on the fly. This is desperate news for the Red Max as someone appears to have replaced his only parachute with an accordion.
Fear not Max as all is not yet lost. Play that thing fast enough and maybe, just maybe, you can use it as a miniature hand glider and sail down safely. Would you believe it? He is doing just that and it’s only bloody working. Ze war may be over but there’s still a battle to be won that entails your safe landing friend. There will be other Wacky Races and the main thing is that you come to no grievous bodily harm as an R-rating may damage viewing figures. Just hang a little more to your left and you should be good. No wait… I MEAN RIGHT!
And how about those Buzzwagon blades folks. Did you see the way they opened our kamikaze pilot’s head up like a ripe cantaloupe? Or the way twenty feet of small intestine burst out of his abdomen, as though spring-loaded? It’s a good job he’s animated or that serrated swan-dive could have kept The Red Max out of action for as many as two episodes. Rufus Ruffcut and Sawtooth aren’t complaining as they just moved up to fifth, with Blast and Meekly now squarely in their sights. But it could be all change again momentarily as the unpiloted Crimson Haybailer just reacquainted itself with gravity and is plummeting propeller first towards the contorted cranium of Pat Pending. Remind me professor, what’s the square route of screwed again?
I’ve seen some gushers in my time, mostly during a busman’s holiday in Saigon, but this one squirted the furthest. If I were Pat Pending right now, I’d be packing that lopped off head in ice and running it straight to cryogenics. Alas, science cannot save the professor now and that means we’re down to the final seven. After a strong start, The Gruesome Twosome are way back in fifth and fading quickly. Things could be set to get a whole lot worse as The Ant Hill Mob are gaining fast and I just heard “whack ’em Willy”. With the kind of firepower they’re packing, it might be time for our ghouls to wake the bats from the belfry. Crime story or horror show? Ladies and gentlemen, we’re about to find out.
We’ve got ourselves a horror show, although not the kind that The Gruesome Twosome would have been hoping for. It’s a canny trick when you can summon witches, spooks, serpents and dragons through their portals for reinforcements but not so judicious when you do so all at once it appears. Even the bats have turned against our twosome and they’re about to meet an end that’s ironically somewhat gruesome. Let’s hope they patch it up soon but it’s curtains for this particular contest and that just leaves a hasty half-dozen in contention as we approach the final run-in.
I wonder what sort of treachery Dick Dastardly is plotting at this present moment. My guess is that whatever he’s concocting is bad news for Sergeant Blast and Private Meekly, who’ve surrendered their strong position after the earlier fracas with the ill-fated Red Max, and are now dropping into The Mean Machine’s lowly jurisdiction. Surely The Army Surplus Special couldn’t withstand much more punishment. It’s time to roll out the heavy artillery boys and swat these pests from your slipstream before it all ends in 21-gun salutes and posthumous medals of valor. One good clean shot with your rear facing cannon turret should do. Ready… aim… FIRE!
That was a low down dirty trick Dick. Real filthy. How many other vehicles have you been tampering with unbeknownst to your opponents? If you ask me, it’s a good job the ever glamorous Penelope Pitstop currently has a healthy lead as I know the kind of way your devious mind works Dastardly, if that is your real name. Thankfully, she’s already coasting to a comfortable victory and even has time to touch up her make-up. The Compact Pussycat is perfectly equipped for pamper sessions such as this. Just one press of a button and…
…it’s a four car race. While I commit that image to memory for later, let’s see how things stack up as we enter the final stretch. With The Compact Pussycat now taking one helluva pit stop, it’s The Slag Brothers on top of the pile, shortly followed by The Buzzwagon, with The Ant Hill Mob and The Mean Machine currently neck and neck and vying for third. By my estimations folks, one more casualty and we could be set to make Wacky Races history. It’s been a dry run for Dick Dastardly on the medal front; but all losing streaks have to end sometime and that sometime looks to be this very day. Could we be about to crown a new champion? Or is there to be a cruel sting in the tail?
It’s hard to know where to look right now as there are bitter rivalries between all four of our remaining hopefuls. The Buzzwagon is looking for ways to trim down The Boulder Mobile’s lead and Rufus is busy sharpening his woodman’s axe on his wheels as we speak. Good luck cutting through granite Rufus and I’d watch out for the Pteranodon your primordial opponents just summoned, if I were you.
Those Slag Brothers may be sorely lacking in social airs and graces, but their competitive spirit is certainly showing no signs of extinction. I will say this however – there has to be a better use for those clubs than to bludgeon one another with. Use your imagination guys as, contrary to Muttley’s snickers, internal bleeding really is no laughing matter and your cudgels could make some lucky lady very happy.
While our two race leaders battle it out for pole position, The Ant Hill Mob are looking to end Dick Dastardly’s run of unsportsmanlike advancement courtesy of a stick of dynamite they use for bank jobs and their own general amusement. Mob boss Clyde has already lit the fuse and passed the baton back to Mac.
Another successful changeover sees it land directly in Willy’s sweaty palms. Willy and Benny are on the same page and it’s now found its way back to Kurby. Danny’s up next on hot potato duties and we’re one swift pass from the kind of big bang that Dick Dastardly has had coming for years now. Right then, who’s on anchor duties? Oh no! Please don’t tell me it’s Dum Dum? It’s not a sparkler Dum Dum, TOSS IT YOU BLOCKHEAD!
I’d pay a pretty penny to find out who came up with the term “wise guys”, you know. Anyroad, it’s now a straight sprint for first, second and third and that means a guaranteed podium finish for Dastardly and Muttley if they just manage to keep their necks in long enough to see that checkered flag. With the finish line now in plain sight, it may be just too late for them to claim the victory that has eluded them for so long as they’ve used up all their nitrous.
But what’s this? That detestable Dick Dastardly is twirling his mustache and that could only ever mean one thing. It appears that lightening the load some could provide just the eleventh hour boost he requires to pip his opponents to the post and that’s positively wretched news for his sidekick.
If it’s true what they say about all dogs going to heaven, then Muttley’s well on his way after that drop kick. I can still hear the little fella chuckling to himself as he exits the earth’s atmosphere but he might not be finding it so amusing when he realizes that the Egyptians were bang on the money all along and God is indeed a cat. More importantly right now, we’re heading for a three-way photo finish and picking a winner seems almost impossible. It’s all come down to this folks. The winner of the title of the world’s wackiest racer is…
It’s The Buzzwagon by a beaver’s whisker. The Mean Machine comes in second and it’s The Slag Brothers who will have to be content with a hard-fought third. Considering Rock and Gravel possess a collective IQ of around 14, I’d say they’ll be thrilled just to have figured in the shake-up. Meanwhile, today’s deserving winners, Rufus and Sawtooth, are utterly jubilant to have snagged themselves that numero uno laurel at the very last.
Rather oddly however, there’s no sign whatsoever of the villainous Dick Dastardly. It’s most bizarre, his clothes are all present and correct – the purple overcoat, long red gloves, and large striped hat complete with pilot goggles – it’s all here in a neat little pile, no less. But where’s our runner-up? Is he not content with today’s second prize – a year’s supply of premium dog biscuits? And who’s that shady looking fellow in the green hooded cloak galloping off into the sunset with a chloroform-soaked rag and rapey eyes?
Ms. Pitstop, might I be so bold as to suggest now as a good time for that cutesy cry of “help” young lady? It’s just that we have a dinner date at seven, if you recall. Penelope?.. Sweetie Pie?.. My little pussy fart? Drat! Drat and Double Drat! Fuck it, make it a triple!