Well, it’s NASCAR time again, and racin’ fans everywhere are gettin’ all het up about the Daytona 500.  Humor The Old Coach when he tells ya that he thinks it’s all a bunch of horse hockey, because to me NASCAR is just another one o’ them fancy-pants and silk-drawers bureaucracies that was designed to ruin what used to be a great sport.  

Yessiree, The Old Coach remembers back when stock-car racing used to be a sport of men, for men, and run by men! No Hollywood snot-nose brat pack/breakfast club wannabes at the old Greater Featherstone International Speedway, that’s for darn sure, you have The Old Coach’s word!  

For instance, no self-respectin’ Featherstone motorhead woulda been caught dead drivin’ on a paved track, and no stack-car enthusiast worth his salt would watch the crap neither. You just hadn’t really experienced a real race unless your clothes were splattered with mud and cinders, you had gravel up your nostrils, and when you combed your hair three days later you found a tire. You can take that to the bank, Bucko, ‘cause The Old Coach said so, and I ain’t nothin’ if I don’t speak the truth!  

What’s with all these sponsors and ads all over the cars, for cryin’ out loud? Back in the day, The Old Coach had only three sponsors, them bein’ Flo & Earl’s Main Street Tap, Charlie’s Mobil, and Seward’s Back Alley Adult Noveties. They’d supply beer for the crew and the odd spark plug our two, but I paid for my own oil. And don’t even think about extra sets of tires, when you blew one out, you rode that sucker on the rim! Pit stops? Pshaw! You stop for repairs during a race, you’re a$$’d be toast and you might as well park that wreck on the flat-bed and head back to the trailer park, loser!  

And could somebody please explain to me about that “yellow caution flag” bullsquat? Sorry, hoss, but if you got into a crash at Featherstone, you’d be lucky if your car got off the track before the race was over.  Some namby-pamby milquetoast mother-driller once actually had the stones to suggest that we at least put a few o’them orange cone thingies around the disabled cars but you can bet we ran his sorry fanny perpendicular outta Dodge toot-sweet!  Hey boy, The Old Coach is talkin’ here!  

Yessiree, you take it from The Old Coach when he tells ya that NASCAR ain’t nothin’ more than a bunch o’ pretty-boy wimp pukes who wouldn’t know a real race if it came up an’ bit ‘em where the Good Lord split’em! Put them in the Saturday Night feature at old Greater Featherstone International Speedway an’ me an’ the boys would rip them a new one!  Pansies, all of ‘em!

And that's the truth! Tell 'em The Old Coach sent ya...

© 2001 Bill Klein. All Rights Reserved.

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