The Farmhouse Nationals do. Let me explain what the Nationals are to me and about 100 other fun loving Jersey kids are. My friends rent an insane amount of land from some clueless old woman in Pattenburg NJ, which is like the bermuda fucking triangle of Jersey. Imagine if you will a track in the back area of a farmhouse, you must walk up a tire rutted dirt road to get to the track. It had rained the day previous and half the day of the event. So make that a mud road and a mud track. It was a perfect October afternoon as the races started and I had been drinking since around 11 30 in the am. I decided to wear some duck boots that I had found in the closet at my parents house, which proved to be an excellent idea; Angela’s pumas were ruined. If I had real forethought I would have picked up a pair of dickies coveralls and worn those.

When we get there the crowd is somewhat sparse because they’re all at the “track” for the first race. I spot a bar b que smoke truck and I am told that 10 kegs of beer had been purchased. I am also told that campground is still available. I can already smell the meat as I am getting myself another cup of beer. Let me tell you all that I’d much rather enjoy being fat and happy from beer and ribs then any other thing on this planet. I also enjoy a bunch of idiots racing cars in the mud. These cars involved shitty ass late American models complete with chicken wire fronts. There were money races in which the winner collects from a $20 per car pot. It was pretty fucking sweet to get covered in mud and watch them spin out around the hard turn. Kyle’s car got a flat after one race and there was another car driving around the track with the right rear wheel piratically falling off the axel. Ray’s car caught on fire, was extinguished and then run over by a monster truck.

During all of this the vehicle of my dreams and perfect for the track arrived. It was a dune buggy driven by a mad man with a graying mohawk and a thickish accent known well in parts of new jersey that come from a combination of limited vocabulary and saying water in a very particular way. The second I saw that I said “I wanna get the fuck in that”. This dude went around the track several times with some of his friends and then popped up out of the thing and says “who want’s a ride?” No takers were biting, after all this man was driving insanely fast around a mud ridden track in a cage on wheels. The thing was about as muddy as you could get it. He made an attempt to wipe the seat to which I replied by “I don’t give a fuck about the seat!”. A helmet was donated for my safety and we were off. He had made a cross bar in the passenger seat for some thing to ground yourself with. I don’t really know how fast we were going but it felt about 70 and the bushes and mud were smeared together during the ride like an impressionist painting. It was bumpy, muddy, and fucking exhilarating. I was known as the chick that rode the dune buggy after that.

The ribs were served around 6 30 PM and we were all very hungry gluttonous little piglets. The ribs were amazing, they were made slowly the whole day in a smoke truck. I was told they made enough ribs to feed 200 people, but with the way we were eating it was more like 20 (hahaha). I stuffed myself silly (which later I semi regretted). Some NJ punk rock bands known as Post No Bills, and the STDs were there. I changed into my Jerry Only costume and rocked out with the rest of the degenerates of this small scene in Jersey. I think at one point I told someone that there are times in my life that make it all worth it and that this was definitely one of them. THANKS to motherfucking Jersey, hicks, greasers, and punk rockers.