Hotter Than Georgia Asphalt

Here’s the latest in genre fiction that aspiring hacks might want to sharpen their hacksickels for: NASCAR romance fiction.

I know many of you are slapping your foreheads, and some of you are doing it because you’re thinking, “Why didn’t I think of that?” Don’t be too hard on yourself. Sometimes the most obvious ideas are staring us right in the face, with a slack jaw, a bad haircut, and a number 8 hat on their greasy heads. Nothing says romance like the smell of burning rubber and oil, jumpsuits covered in ad patches, and the shivery frisson of possible fatalities on the track. If you and your missus ever spent your honeymoon in the snake pit at Indy, you know what I’m talkin’ about.

I had a whole list of strained metaphors and double entendres to pepper this post with, but I bet any of you could come up with something at least as good as,

“Shellee breathlessly announced to her pit crew that she was in major need of some lubricating.”

“Lula May wasn’t going to settle for Mr. Goodwrench when she knew, somewhere in the South Carolina night, Mr. Greatwrench was waiting for her.”

“Doris felt her passion circling her in great waves, round and round in deafening roars, until it was way past time to wave the yellow flag of caution.”

(Thanks to Neddie Jingo)

One Reply to “Hotter Than Georgia Asphalt”

  1. We’ve acquired an exclusive sample of their first novel, “Left Turn Lovers”:

    When Billy Bob’s racecar pulled up to her house and he stepped out, Mary Lou caught her breath. The way the sweat on his jiggling belly caught the sun made Mary Lou shiver. She wished she had taken the time to brush her tooth, but she knew you didn’t keep a man like Billy Bob waiting.

    “Oh Mary Lou,” Billy Bob whispered. “You’re the purtiest lady I ever done seen. I won me ten dollars at the last race, more money I ever had in my whole life. Would you do me the honor o’ bein’ my wife? We can git married and spend the honeymoon at Wal-Mart.”

    “Sure as shootin’,” Mary Lou said shyly. “Why don’t you put down that beer, come over here, and kiss me with them big cold sore-riddled lips.”

    Just then, their mother called out, “Kids, it’s time for supper! Go get your Pa and scrape up some roadkill for the stewpot!”

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