They didn't get a trophy—mostly because they had technically caused three separate pile-ups and the judges weren't sure if their vehicle qualified as a "car"—but as they walked home carrying the engine in a wagon, Peter knew he’d taught his son an important lesson: if you're going to fail, do it at high speeds with a lot of noise.

Peter sat on the bare asphalt, clutching the bumper car steering wheel, a look of pure triumph on his face. He looked at Chris, who was covered in soot and shaking.

The green flag dropped, and the karts tore away. Peter and Chris were immediately overtaken by a toddler in a Barbie Jeep, but Peter wasn't deterred. He leaned forward, screaming at the engine to "dig deep." As they rounded the first turn, the Griffin Ground-Pounder began to vibrate so violently that Chris’s hat flew off, followed shortly by one of the side mirrors. "We’re losing parts, Dad!"

"See, Chris? That’s what happens when you use quality adhesives."

"Ready to eat my dust, Peter?" Joe shouted over the roar of the engines, his jaw set in that permanent state of intensity.

The drama had started, as most things in the Griffin household did, with a sudden, unearned surge of confidence. Peter and Chris had decided to bond by building a go-kart for the local derby. However, their "engineering" process mostly involved Peter drinking beer while Chris tried to figure out if the wheels were supposed to be round or "more of a hexagon shape for grip."

"That’s just weight reduction, Chris! We’re getting faster!"

The sun beat down on the asphalt of the Quahog speedway, a shimmering haze rising from the track that smelled of burnt rubber and cheap hot dogs. For Peter Griffin, this wasn't just a race; it was a matter of paternal pride—and a desperate attempt to prove he hadn't wasted two weeks’ salary on a motorized frame that looked suspiciously like a lawnmower with an attitude.