“I know,” I say solemnly. “We’ve been called to serve.”
Someone adds Stiles to the chat. His dark-bearded face pops into a square on my screen. “We were born for this. It’s in our blood,” he says matter-of-factly.
West: “You two judging anything is a public safety risk. Icannot wait.”
Rhett: “I’m flying out. I wanna tailgate for this race and heckle at least one Wienermobile.”
Pharo: “You need theme music. You need to walk onto the track with theme music.”
Mandy: “You need to win.”
“We’re notracing,” I remind him.
“You still need to win.”
Stiles leans into frame, beaming. “This is bigger than us.”
“We’re not just men anymore,” I say. “We’re stewards of the bun.”
And somehow, for the first time in my whole messy, mustard-stained life… I feel like I’ve found my calling.
West’s Mad Libs
Just a Sunday leisurely drive
You’ll need:
A verb ending in-ing
A celebrity name
A body part (plural)
A kitchen appliance
Something sticky
