Sunday, Sunday, Sunday!

How come rednecks are completely obsessed with the combustible engine? It’s a serious fucking mystery. The gas goes into the piston and it shoots out on fire. That gets them wheels a goin’ and it all "Vroom!" And then the exhaust is all like "boom!" It’s a fucking power, man, American steel. Dang friggin’ tootin,’ getterdun.

Somewhere along the way this fuel-letting fascination morphed into an entertainment industry, and it makes no sense. I mention this because the Monster Trucks rolled into the Rose Garden a weekend ago.

Monster Trucks are simply big-ass toys. Grave Digger is a giant matchbox truck/t-shirt-hawking rolling billboard. Monster trucking is professional wrestling for autos; same crowd, same premise. It’s theatre for the aimlessly aggressive.

I love pointless destruction in the name of visual stimulation. Who doesn’t? But Grave Digger, Blue Thunder and friends need to turn up the "fuck it" and turn down the "suck shit." How many times are you going to roll over the same set of pancaked Chrysler LeBarons at 10 mph?

Set them shits ablaze. Let’s see some Monster Chicken. And where’s the damn loop? I was supposed to pay $25 to get in the door (you can sneak in the Rose Garden from the sixth floor parking garage, shhh), entertain me.

If nothing else, "Monster Jam Monster Truck Racing" makes for some ridiculous photos.