I have my Monster Jam tickets. Do you?
If you haven’t headed to Pepsi Center for this yearly celebration of conspicuous consumption you’re missing out on what it means to be a real American. Monster Trucks are the pro wrestlers of the automotive world, juiced on 2,000 alcohol guzzling horsepower. Their tires are as tall as a man and their suspension travel is measured in feet, not inches.
They’re as useless an invention as man has ever conceived, capable of crushing automobiles, leaping into the air, and attaining speeds in excess of 100 miles per hour, but unable to make a trip to Home Depot. They have only one purpose, to make massive amounts of noise and to entertain half-witted Wal-Mart shoppers like me. Monster Trucks have names like Grave Digger, King Krunch, Iron Warrior, Iron Outlaw, Devastator and Aftershock. The guys and gals who drive the trucks are basically anonymous – it’s the rigs themselves who are the stars of the show.
Any sense that Monster Jam is an actual competition is completely contrived. It’s nothing more than an exhibition of awesomeness and raw badassism aimed at the mouth breather in all of us. Check your intelligence at the door. It is a spectacle best enjoyed with jaw slacked and drool running down your chin.
The people-watching is incredible. Monster Jam crowds looks like redneck family reunions. You’ll see people wearing monster truck fan gear, NASCAR jackets, Dale Earnhardt #8 tattoos, heavy metal tour shirts, blue jeans, more blue jeans and, of course, cowboy boots.
February is the slowest month for sports. Football is over, the NBA playoffs are a long way off, hockey has just gotten under way and baseball is still months away. What better time to load up the kids and take them down to the Can for some noise and destruction?