“On the, uh, on the way here I was convinced there wouldn’t be any Randos for me.”
There will always be Randos for you, Bobby.
“Is that a promise or a threat?”
You tell me.
“Depends on the day, really.”
“Dunno why I was nervous. People here couldn’t be nicer. Tell ya what: you thought a Dead crowd had a lotta drugs on them, you should come to a race.”
“That infield’s like Alphabet City in 1975. I have been offered elephant tranquilizer by, like, nine people.”
Don’t take elephant tranquilizer, Bobby.
“LISSEN T’HIM, MAN. AH WANT YOU IN TIPPITY-TOP SHAPE FOR TH’ BIG RACE!”
Elvis, get off the track.
“IF AH CANNOT KARATE WITH HAIRY GARCIA, THEN AH WILL RACE WITH HIS YOUNGER BROTHER BOB SEGER.”
I have no response to that statement.
“LOOK AT ALL THAT SISSY STUFF DRIVERS GOTTA WEAR. KING DON’T EVEN NEED NO HELMET.”
That’s because you’re on a soundstage in front of a rear projection screen.
“TH’ KING DOES ALL HIS OWN STUNTS! NOW STRAP THAT SANDAL-WEARIN’ HIPPIE INNA CAR!”
Stop yelling at me.
“THE CARS IS VERY LOUD!”
“AH AM A BLACK BELT-LEVEL RACE DRIVER. TH’ OTHER NIGHT, AH RACED JOE ESPOSITO AN’ JERRY SCHILLING DOWN ELVIS PRESLEY BOULEVARD.”
“IT IS NOT A CLOSED STREET. IN FACT, ISS A MAJOR THOROUGHFARE. CRASHED INTO A DANG FUNERAL PROCESSION.”
“THEY WAS ALREADY GOIN’ TO TH’ CEMETERY!”
“Don’t rationalize it.”
“RUBBIN’ IS RACIN’!”
Not on a public street.
“ISS MAH STREET! NOW GET BOB SEGER OUT HERE AN’ WAVE TH’ DINGDANG FLAG!”
His name’s not Bob Seger, and he does not race cars.
“I’ll race with you, Elvis.”
You’re coming across as very needy.
“I miss being part of storylines.”
Summer’s coming, buddy.
“I hate this universe.”