Rental Car Rally is a competitive road trip. You get a car. You gather a team. You wear a costume.  And then you compete for cash and prizes.
In other words, it's a challenge, chum. A challenge to break the dim shackles of your amateur porn-addled brain, rise from your butt-crusted Laz-E-Boy, tuck your t-shirt into your panties and finally (finally!) do that thing — that one glorious, fully tumescent thing — that all Red Bull-blooded Americans with disposable income, a valid driving license and a curious penchant for costumed buffoonery yearn for in their vestigial 9-to-5 hearts: rent a car, raise some hell.
It's not for the weak-hearted. It's not for the easily intimidated. It's not for anyone who would like to someday run for public office.
How it works
You buy a ticket. You gather some friends, or likeminded souls with equally poor judgment. And then you cram those friends/souls, clown car-like, into a single vehicle and join a hundred (or so) other competitors on Friday night, July 17th, at the starting line, which is hidden deep in the fetid, bum-filled bowels of downtown LA. Together, we depart at midnight for back roads and misdemeanors unknown. You won't know where you're going until you leave the starting line.Â
Will you see abandoned amusement parks? Strange and wondrous domes that're home to Satan worshippers? Secret junkyards? Probably! Rental Car Rally takes you to off-the-radar places you never knew existed, and will never forget.
Throughout the night you'll hit about 10 checkpoints. And all along the way, every other costumed, wackadoodle competitor will be trying to sabotage your chance at victory, or at least try to hump your leg.
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Should you make it to the end of this wackadoo journey having a) driven the fewest miles and b) impressed the most competitors, then your peach-fuzzed hindquarters are going home with a golden gas pump and five-hundred dollars worth of loose change. Sometimes we spray point that change gold. It gets messy.
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So get on this thing, or someday tell your grandchildren about how you wasted your youth.
Did you ever read Ka-Zar? You know, back when you were about the size of a fire hydrant, and flipping through 75 cent comics? And Ka-Zar lived in this place called The Savage Land, a prehistoric tropical reserve hidden in Antartica? Created by the Nuwali at the behest of the Beyonders? And it was lush and dangerous and chockablock with tricera-whatevers and probably ferns? But anyway it was hidden away from everybody and nobody knew where it was? As in it was a secret? From everybody? Where it was?
Imagine, if you will, driving in American darkness for 15 hours, desperately trying to find ghost towns or dilapidated dinosaurs or who knows what else, kept company only by an increasingly stinky cadre of costumed friends and the last vestiges of beef jerky, chased by a horde of egg-throwing warboys, and then finally, finally arriving at ye olde paragon of comfort, a roadside inn, and collapsing into a bed where countless strangers have vigorously boned before. That glory can be yours, friend.
At journey's end, what a manthing or woman-person needs is not a drinks-filled scrum in some woebegone small town bar, filled wall to wood-panelled wall with smellier-than-thou hoodlums, all half-dressed in costumes and frothing from the nose. But that's what you'll get. You'll get it and you'll like it and you'll never have more fun, not ever ever ever, amen.
