"He's back, he's the man behind the mask...
...and he's out of control." -Alice Cooper, theme from Friday the 13th Part III...in 3D in case you don't remember...
My nose would grow a few inches if I told you all I haven't enjoyed the off-season. The only media I have been keeping track of is what pops into my inbox at Jerm's Joint. I haven't gone out of my way to gaze upon NASCAR.com, purchase magazines, or even give it much of a view in our local toilet paper. However, like a fly to his death via the bug zapping light on a hot, humid, summer evening, I did watch some of the Preseason Thunder.
Sure, I have been made privy to all the scuttle-butt goings on in regards to mergers, drivers out of a ride, and rides without sponsors. It is with that I am reluctant to throw much enthusiasm towards 2009. Indeed, I am counting down the days to the 500, as my tickets are currently out of sight and occasioinally out of mind, but I know in my heart that it just won't be the same this season. The economy, coupled with the NASCAR Nazis have made it impossible for anything short of a mega-team to achieve any sort of success in 2009. They took the biggest non-points event of the season, and pussified the shootout like they have the rest of the sport. Give the babies their binkies, because if everyone doesn't get to race in the shootout, they whine like titty infants. Remember when drivers earned their way in the Budweiser Shootout? Seems like a lifetime ago, doesn't it?
I am dearly hoping that I am proved wrong. I want to see the return of competitive racing, some true grit, and drivers scream an enormous amount of four-letter words at each other when they're pissed. NASCAR claims to have loosened the rope around the necks of its folks behind the wheel, but you could have fooled me. I am hoping the bluff is called upon in '09. We, as fans, deserve to see torn sheet metal, hot tempers, and the smell of burning car parts when we go to the track. I challenge those of you going to the 500 to get as falling down drunk as you can and scream "WHOOOOHOOOO! !" at the tops of your lungs, and not knowing exactly why. Damnit, sweat whiskey, beer, and 110 octane if that's what it takes.
Clean racing makes you a good sport, but bumping and grinding gets you cheers and fans...with a spoon full of controversey and rivalry to go along with it. Get us back into it as fans...make us happy, and the rivalries, piss us off. Return the emotion once known as fanship, and screw anyone that wants different. This ain't your momma's Sunday drive, damnit, this is NASCAR, and we deserve all the hillbilly rights that go along with it, regardless of what social division we hail.
Show us the graciousness of barely dressed women who aren't afraid to flash a fun bag every now and then and in the same panoramic allow us to raise an eyebrow to the beer guy who shouldn't even been seen in his own bathroom without his shirt on. Fall upon us driver tattoos and numbers shaved into our heads. Grace us with long skid marks, tumbling automobiles, and angry helmet throwing. Take away the 43 rolling vaginas we have fallen victim to the last couple of season. Re-instate testosterone in massive doses until our balls explode, both men and women alike. Deliver us people with all their teeth, no teeth, or one tooth to make it look good, who all speak one language: RACING. AMEN!
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