Eddie, Danny, Mikey, and Speed... peculiar little amusements, no? Well, Formula One, the ol’ U.S. of A. is stripping off the red nose and oversized shoes, because we’re tired of looking like clowns.That’s right. We’re done dickin’ around. It’s been three decades since the almighty Mario [angels softly sing out, “ahhhhhhh”] brought you to your knees, and it’s high time those snotty pukes you have spewing champagne all over Qatar, and the rest of creation, get some serious competition.
Yes, we’ve identified the threat and, no, they’ll be no names—you can just call him “O’Shaughnessy.” And there’s no need for a CV, either. Suffice it to say, O’Shaughnessy is napalm in Nomex, the WMD of motorsport, and Special Forces of formula cars all wrapped up into one barely-humanlike form.
He’s a Levi’s wearin’, Marlboro smokin’, ‘Beam swillin’ sh*t storm of AWESOME, and he’s coming to a twisty near you.
O’Shaughnessy has already conducted reconnaissance at your beloved Monza and will be infiltrating your lower formula, posthaste.
For now, he’s in training: pulling coal cars out of the West Virginia mines—with his teeth—while only on respite from skinning Florida ‘gators—with his wheel-crushing bare hands.
How will you know when he has arrived? Oh, there will be no confusion. Look skyward. Behold the mushroom cloud, projectile vomit-inducing bright light, and unmistakable stain in Herr Vettel’s lederhosen.
You have been warned, Formula One. He. Is. Coming. And may God help you... may the Almighty help you.
Uhhh... we got this, Conor, right??
—JM
