Two had to head out early, and as luck would have it, the remaining 5 would end up being the drivers. They had gotten together to discuss the notion of fielding a car for the 24 Hours of Lemons. Mike, their fearless and good-looking leader, had gathered them together with the intent of selling them on an entry for "The White Ghost;" the quarter million mile '92 Mercedes 300E 2.8 that had seen bett
er days. Her former owner, Neil Stapleton, was a huge fan of getting hammered
at Mulligans and then driving the winding roads back to his Townhouse; he'd finish up every night trying to master dead-mans hill (or so he called it), the last stretch before home. He claims that on a good night, he could get all 4 wheels off the ground at the crest. Unfortunately, there were a few nights the mix of Budweiser and vodka waters would get the best of old Neil, and The White Ghost had a few bumps and bruises to show for it. The rear right door and quarter panel had tried to tangle with the telephone pole at the top of hill (Neils swears there was snow on the ground); the rear end had somehow destroyed his jerk neighbor's Mailbox - (this time, a huge raccoon
AND it was wet). Neil hadn't bothered to really 'fix' either wreck beyond some crude hammer work. Fate was smiling on Neil though, as the late April '11 hail storms had beaten The Ghost up, and Neils
full coverage insurance payed up, allowing him to upgrade to a '95 E320, while buying back the 2.8 for a mere $500. He'd end up calling the new one Frankenstein, because the deal he worked out with Mike was to swap over some good parts from on the Ghost on to the new car, and a center console, seat switch, AC blower motor, steering wheel, power antenna, and sunroof bracket later, Mike had a racecar. The only cash that was spent was the $29 Mike had to pay for Frankenstiens new Belt. So there they were at Ho***rs, Mike trying to sell 6 of his buddies on the idea of Racing a $29 car called "The White Ghost." Nathan had to bow out to help his dad install a new toilet; he'd end up volunteering to be pit crew, but student loans would keep him from joining the race team. Kyle had to drive back out to Maryville that
night, and so he left after the first pitcher of yeingling. He'd end up making a lot of excuses as to why he couldn't be a driver, but it boiled down to the fact that he is p***y whipped. Next to Mike sat David, Mike's old roommate, who Mike had figured would love to drink beer at ho***rs, and could be convinced to do about anything after splitting 7 or 8 pitchers. David had brought two of his buddies; Gary, a SCCA time trial regular in his sweet Honda S2000, and Jordan, who talked a big game but never really did much of anything. Mike knew he was in business when the first thing Jordan asked was "How big
of a check do I have to write tonight?" Last but certainly not least, across the plate of wings sat Feilden, who wouldn't tell anyone he didn't know how drive a stickshift until they were in the throws of a tr**ny swap. By the time the Heat Bull's Playoff game was going into the fourth quarter, a huge amount of beer and all you can eat wings had been consumed, and Mike could see a team beginning to form. Everyone had to do some some final checks of schedule and get spousal permission,
but for the most part, the five had settled on Sept 24&25 at Charlotte as their destiny. David ordered a bucket of Corona light as their 'desert beer,' mostly
because Jordan had been flirting with waitress to try and get her to give them a 'special'. Somehow, David had missed the sign coming in that buckets of Corona were on special after 10, because as soon as Jenny had offered it, David snatched it up like it like it was a once in a lifetime deal. As soon as they showed up, David grabbed one to
pop it open with bucket opener- and proceeded to sq**rt beer all over Mike. When everyone quit laughing, Feilden decided to show David the proper technique, grabbing the bucket and popping his own Corona - all over the lady sitting behind him. Everyone froze, Feilden still holding a fizzing, half full beer, as they awaited the reaction from
the next table. The lady's biker looking husband furred his brow, and Feilden began groveling while the rest of them did everything they could to hold back torrents of laughter. Lady luck was still on the guys side, and their victim, while wiping beer off herself she laughed
"its alright guys, I have boys your age." No one remembers who said it - they all claim it as their own now - but "Squirting Coronas" was all the table could talk about the rest of the night. Gary would feebly suggest some other names for the team, being a
graphic designer he wanted to paint cool s**t on the car, but their fate was sealed. They agreed on sombrero's and mexican ponchos, with Jordan holding out on mustaches because he had a "real job". The more
practical of the crew suggested the beach chair and bucket would surely cause unnecessary drag, but it was too late- The Squirting Corona's were born.
