NASCAR and Corndogs, Maybe this Muggle Race has Some Hope

Blayne Telling is just as useless as Cameron Weiner, my last Muggle subject. Unfortunately, my therapist rather condemned Cameron’s murder, and has therefore assigned me a new and more tedious subject. She hopes that I may still reconcile with my humanity and realize that “Muggles are friends, not kindling for firewood, snacks for Nagini, or stress balls for pulverising.” This second assignment forces me to research the town where this insolent Muggle Blayne grew up.  Apparently this exercise involves showing how Muggle populations establish deep roots and how “every murder ripples out and affects hundreds of lives.” If you ask me, all the more reason to kill them. Kill hundreds of birds with one curse? Now that’s just efficient. But, anyway, this assignment forces me to show not only how Blayne Telling was shaped and influenced by her hometown, but also how someone like you could possibly possess an interest in the pathetic Muggle suburb of Mooresville, North Carolina. I see your minds and I know your thoughts, “Surely you must fail, Voldemort, oh great and powerful Dark Lord”. Well think a little longer on that response because my dungeons can easily fit a few more. I do not enjoy failure. But surely, there can’t be something of use in a town that even this imbecile Blayne can’t stand. How can one be shaped by this horrid Mooresville, a place of banks, dry cleaners, and nail salons?

Blayne Telling hates her hometown. I know this because when I visited it and rampaged the McDonald’s off exit 33, leveled the Lowes Foods on Williamson, and burnt down the Harris Teeter on 150 (why did that cashier need my zipcode?), she didn’t even bat an eye. In fact, she seemed relieved. Who wouldn’t be? My trip revealed Mooresville to be nothing but a seeping cesspool of intellectual back breeding and materialistic want. It was a place of ignorance and Range Rovers. My stomach churned, and not just from all the bar food - apparently the only cuisine offered in such a pathetic place, although I have to say Nagini was rather fond of the elementary school and their choice menu. As one can obviously see, apart from indigestion and a couple of meaningless murders, my first trip to “hoe-dunk Mo-town,” as the locals call it, was highly unproductive. Being of a sophisticated mind, I attempted to turn instead to literature.  

Cindy Jacobs is apparently the world’s only historian on the terrible place of Mooresville and must have been subjected to some form of brainwashing as a child. She describes herself as being born and raised in that terrible place, and yet she has not slit her wrist, run away and never looked back, or decided to research a place of more worth. Instead she devotes her life to being a historian for the town and seems to describe it with great pride. Pride, you witless imbecile? Pride for a place in which the most thrilling occurrence was apparently “In 1971 [when] Tom Higgins of the Charlotte Observer coined the term ‘reef grief’ to describe the state of boating safety on Lake Norman” (pg. 93). Reef grief? What kind of pathetic and hopelessly idiotic Muggle can’t even figure out how to navigate a lake without endangering their lives? I manage legions of Death Eaters and still find time to raise Nagini and tend to my herb garden all on my own and they can’t even operate a simple piece of Muggle machinery? If there were ever proof that the Muggle species need to be eradicated for being a parasitic leech on my new reign of perfect order, then the town of Mooresville and the area of Lake Norman is the prime choice!  

After I retrieved my book from throwing it across the room (and nursed Nagini’s swelling face and soothed her mewing cries with a fresh bottle of victims’ blood - apparently she had been napping, unnoticed by me, on a nearby rug), I was convinced that this book was beyond all hope. I only continued because I knew that should I not, I would have to kill my therapist in order to cover up not completing the assignment, and if a third were to go missing, some people might grow suspicious. And so, unfortunately, I kept reading. However, during my masochism, I discovered the most interesting piece of information. Apparently “when Burlington Industries decided to close the Mooresville Denim Plant in 1991, the town was dealt a blow with the loss of more than 650 jobs and taxes from the town’s third-largest taxpayer... Mooresville was wounded economically, but first aid came with a roar of engines and a NASCAR logo” (pg. 119). This Mooresville place it turns out is “Race City, USA”, home to all things “NASCAR”, and this new title saved the town’s industry. Now, being a dark lord with a quest for higher knowledge (so that I may turn that knowledge into evil productivity, but that’s beside the point) and not knowing what this “NASCAR” thing happened to be, I immediately grabbed Nagini and set out for my second trip to Mooresville to find out. And it was there at Lowes Motor Speedway that I discovered the greatest sport in the world: Race car driving. The thrill of the track, the bright lights that shine so nicely off my pale complexion, the roar of the engines that drown out the jeers and spitting insults I hurl at the opposing Muggle drivers, the succulent scent and wondrous taste of the Muggle confection called the “corn dog”--it was more than one could bear! I later discovered that apparently Blayne Telling went to a race once when she was fifteen and quite hated the experience, citing how it was “pointless to watch a bunch of cars make continuous left turns while driving really fast.” I crucio-ed her for good measure. By god, I may have found the one stroke of Muggle genius that I shall leave on the world once I eradicate the beasts. (What, did you think just because I enjoyed their southern sporting pastimes that I would let the cretins live? Hah, you jest).  

Against my previous judgment I now state that Mooresville is the perfect place to live, for it is the home of the only redeeming quality of the Muggle race, the wondrous festival of “NASCAR.” Perhaps when I enslave the earth I will set up a hub in this quaint little town (I could visit it on weekends, take Nagini down to a race while the two of us snack on corn dogs and small children). But anyway, in my opinion (ignore that fool Blayne Telling; I certainly do), Mooresville is one of the greatest Muggle establishments. And I further say that all should come to love and respect this beautiful suburb (for it shall be mandatory in my regime). 



Jacobs, Cindy. Around Lake Norman. Charleston: Arcadia, 2008. Google Book
    Search. Web. 30 Oct. 2011.