...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!