how long should our "concept" submission be?

Unless our NASA-themed 1964 Dodge Dart rolls over or explodes at any of the earlier races we run in 2013, we'll be coming home to our own backyard with a full crew and (hopefully) the best iteration of our theme yet.

Not really sure what else to put here, as I'm signing up for a September race in February in order to snag the popular car number that our theme so desperately requires. Hell, I don't know who will be there, I don't know for sure if we'll keep the same theme, I don't even know if we'll have the same powertrain in the car! Hopefully, by the time anyone at HQ reads this, we'll be well-known awesome dudes who you just can't wait to invite back.

But since I can't change the Team Concept after this, I better make it good. Let's speculate, shall we? The following is an "artist's" rendition of what our crappy "racecar" will look like in September 2013:

At our first race in March, the butt-terrible 7-1/4" stock rear end in our car exploded into several pieces, igniting all the gear oil and giving our rocketship-themed economy sedan a glorious tail of fire as we screamed back into the pits. Fortunately, the gas tank survived as the consequences of that would be really sad and/or even more expensive. With 6 weeks to go before the North Dallas Hooptie, we pulled the rear axle out of a Chrysler Fifth Avenue. While we were there, we decided to grab the heavier-duty 727 transmission as well. The rest of my team argued vigorously for taking the 318 V8 with it, spewing such blasphemies as "Our car was hella slow at CMP with that goddamned slant six," "They won't notice, we'll say it was stock," and "We'll string you up if you try to stop us, I swear to God." Luckily, I fought off my mutinous teammates with a tire iron and a shard of broken windshield. Once the strongest of them was put down, the others fell back in line.

It wasn't until later that we discovered the difference in starter location between the V8 and slant 6 transmissions, which necessitated a new round of furious cursing, redneck fabrication, and renewed threats of mutiny.

At the North Dallas Hooptie, which may or may not have been 24 hours, our renewed and more reliable drivetrain held up well, allowing us to stay on track most of the weekend and make up the terribly unfair BS penalties inflicted upon us by Judge Phil, which we nevertheless accepted like the steely-eyed missile men we pretend to be. The lack of breakdowns even allowed us to almost make up for the terribly slow pace of our old and tired 6-cylinder, now attempting to put power to the ground through an unimaginably low rear-end gear ratio that you would expect to see behind a V8 if you knew what the hell you were doing when you pulled the thing out of the junkyard.

After an utterly disappointing and boring performance, punctuated by pointing and laughing from air-cooled VW drivers passing us in the straights and capped off by no trophies whatsoever, my teammates' frustration at the horrible slowness of our car finally reached frightening levels. They petitioned; they revolted; they threatened me with death and mutilation. But I held fast to my principles; "This is a LEMON!" I cried. "If you want cheatonium, BUILD IT YOURSELF! But NOT in my car! CLASS C FOREVER!!"

I suddenly found myself the lone member of Escape Velocity Racing. It was a sad time, but there would be months for self pity and recruitment of new drivers. First, the car had to be used as a rolling art exhibit/mobile bar at a regional burn in Texas. Think Burning Man, but smaller and with less desert. If you don't know what that is, ask someone else. Suffice it to say that the trunk lid was removed, a functional bar was installed in the trunk, and many gallons of space-themed jungle punch were served out of it over the course of a long, hot Memorial Day weekend. Along the way, a roiling mob of hippies and weirdos slowly and subtly altered my glorious monument to mankind's triumph of the stars, perverting it into an artsy statement of the human animal's futile quest for glory, a virulent carrier of the human condition, an icon of cosmic hubris.

In a turbulent, peyote-fueled fever dream, I realized these "burners" were right. There was no meaning in exploration or science; these space-age technologies, computers and rockets, were just newer and deadlier iterations of the sword, and wielded just as savagely. The iconic scene in 2001: A Space Odyssey played in reverse, the space station turning back into a club as it descended into the outstretched hand of an angry chimp.

I awoke, shaken to my very core. What good were my principles now? A mockery! What purpose did my steadfast devotion to the idea of a "lemon" serve, but to drive away those poor tired souls who stood with me before, searching desperately for some fleeting moment of happiness or triumph before the void encloses us all? Life is short and meaningless; why suffer under arbitrary "rules" and "budgets" only to stifle one's own quest for happiness? The world is ruled by men who broke the rules! Races are won by douchebags driving E30s, and why should they not be? My shackles were broken. I stood resolute once again, the furious nihilism washing over me. The engine was coming out.

Back home, I set out immediately to find the perfect replacement. It would have to be powerful, reliable, and still look shitty enough that I wouldn't be crippled by penalty laps. I didn't have to search long. My daily driver of several years, a Mercury Grand Marquis, was on its last legs, deteriorating rapidly from months of hard driving, shuttling back and forth to work on my new old automotive mistress. But its heart still beat strong. An unbreakable powerplant, the Ford 4.6L Modular V8, tested time and again. It would never fail, and it's 250ish HP would be more than enough to push my light little A-body to an overall win! I had no idea how to mate this beast up to the Torqueflite, but with my old teammates back with me, we made it work. I still don't remember exactly how. Some new springs, torsion bars, and cheaty shocks were stripped of all stickers and paint and acid-etched to develop a beautiful patina of camouflage. No way would a Judge bother sitting on the fender of this car! Victory will be ours!

So that's basically what happened. Or what WILL happen, I don't know, I spaced out a little bit toward the end of the story. Now I have to get back to work, or else my boss will show up asking where the report is that I haven't finished yet, and if he comes in my office he might realize how drunk I am at work. See you in September! We'll bring bacon!