NASCAR Is the Poor Rube's Mariokart

The latest running of the Daytona 500 was pushed back from Sunday afternoon to Monday night due to inclement weather, and in a roundabout way, this delay could have benefited NASCAR. Prime-time showings typically draw more casual viewers, especially for major events such as Daytona. What's more, during the calender's post-Super Bowl, pre-March Madness lull, sports fans get desperate for a fix of action—and even though NASCAR is not their first or second choice, some were willing to take it for a test spin.

SportsCenter addicts with mixed feelings about NASCAR were waylaid by a comical letdown when they gave Daytona a chance on the night of February 27th. Unabashed haters of NASCAR fared much better by not bothering to give that lame excuse for a sport any credence.*

The actual running of the 2012 Daytona 500 was delayed for more than two hours because driver Juan Pablo Montoya careened off the track and struck a truck containing 200 gallons of jet fuel.

To reiterate, the contest to determine who can drive around in a circle 500 times the fastest was put to a prolonged halt by a raging blaze of jet fuel.

Now, rain delays in baseball are common, and sometimes, in early April, games have been postponed due to snowfall. Power outages have, on occasion, slowed the pace of late-night football games. And once in a great while, backboards shattered by violent dunks cease play in basketball. These things happen.

But I'm really struggling to wrap my brain around the newfound phrase, “Jet-Fuel Fire Delay.”

On a night that could have yielded an appreciable boost of interest in NASCAR, those dopey cousin-fuckers exposed their sport for what it truly is: A redneck shit-show.

Leading up to the Daytona 500, I didn't tune in for the following reasons.

1.It's not a sport if it entails able-bodied participants to sit on their asses the entire time.

2. It's not a sport if the athletic ability of the driver is dwarfed by the prowess of the machine he (or Danica Patrick) controls.

3. Those yokels just drive around in a circle for hours. Take a cue from Mariokart and pave a figure-8 or two, will ya?

4. Those yokels have squandered enough gasoline to re-fill the remains of roughly half-a-billion T-Rexes.

5. Far too many NASCAR lovers proudly wave Confederate flags. Over 150 years ago, the south lost the Civil War, and their defeat was one of the greatest happenings in American history. The Confederate flag pays tribute to losers who fought for an inhumane cause.

Upon completion of the redneck shit-show in question, I was blessed with another reason to dismiss NASCAR.

6.Jet Fuel Fire Delay?! Sweet Jesus, those four words don't belong in the same phrase—aside from a snafu at an airport, perhaps, but definitely not at a sporting event. By botching a key opportunity and laying an inferno of noxious turds on the track, NASCAR made “Jet Fuel Fire Delay” a part of the sports lexicon. NASCAR is a farce, and farce isn't even funny, which means NASCAR is worse than both pro-wrestling and Funny Car Racing.

Here is a rough transcript of the words of a high-ranking NASCAR official leading up to the Daytona 500.

“Aw, hell, Mother Nature done pissed on our high-octane shindig. But you know what? It's a blessing in disguise—just like a knob-gobbler with dentures--heh, heh, heh! Fellers, this rain delay happened on Sunday so that the great sport of NASCAR could prove itself on the big stage. We're takin' over prime-time! Hoooo-weee!”

The NASCAR officials pause to shoot pistols in the air to celebrate. Moonshine is chugged. Nearby cousins are groped and tongue-kissed.

“It's gonna be like our version of Monday Night Football—minus all them athletes and black hooligans. Now, before we bare witness to NASCAR's shining moment, let's all bow our heads in prayer to the ghost of Jefferson Davis, and if there's any time left over, maybe baby Jesus, too.”

Later, after Montoya's blunder behind the wheel, the following was heard from the luxury boxes at Daytona.

“Noooooooo! This can't be happening. Damn you, jet-fuel!”

Here the NASCAR official shakes a raging fist at the incendiary jet-fuel below.

And later still...

“A two-hour delay? During prime-time?! You gotta be shaftin' me in the corn-hole. Ain't them cars s'posed to be powered by car-fuel and not jet-fuel? Why in tarnation we got so much jet-fuel beside the track in the first place? Oh...the HUMANITY!”

During the protracted clean-up efforts, loads of Tide detergent were doused on the track, but the stain on NASCAR won't come clean. It's an awfully shitty stain.

One of the primary reasons why NASCAR isn't even fit to fill the void between the Super Bowl and March Madness is the organization's propensity to shoot itself in the shit-kickers. Real sports flourish, in part, because they leave the possibility of a jet fuel fire delay out of the equation.


*Until now, of course.

Coach, the Short Story

Craig T. Nelson is an actor in his 60s best known for playing the title role of Coach Hayden Fox on an ABC sitcom that peaked in popularity in the early '90s. (He was the embattled dad in the movie Poltergeist, too.) What follows is an account of what happened on his trip to the Atlantic coast of Florida to take in the Daytona 500, a major NASCAR race.

Inside an Applebee's, Craig sits in a booth, alone and solemn, gazing absently at a menu. Suddenly a clamor arises in the pocket of his khaki pants. It's his cell phone, blaring the theme song from Coach—a marching band anthem that flourishes with all the gusto of a John Phillip Sousa arrangement. Craig urgently digs for the cell phone, brings it into the light. Meanwhile, a burly and excitable man in his late 20s overhears the music from his perch at the bar. He sits bolt upright, swivels around, and turns his focus toward Craig. The fight song ceases abruptly, though—an indication that Craig has received a text message rather than a call. He frowns as he reads the text.

“It's over, Craig. Move out by end of month. Goodbye. --Diane.”

His shoulders slink. He groans weakly. On the brink of catatonic despair, he slips the device back into his pocket and stares at the empty seat in front of him.

The young man at the bar approaches, his mouth agape, his eyes bulging in increments with each step he takes in his leather sandals. His t-shirt bares Greek letters; stitching beneath that reads “2001 Pledge.” He grins broadly, tucks his hands behind his head and squeezes the bill of his backward-turned cap. When he gets within an arm's reach of the table, Craig finally notices him.

“Coooaaach!” the young man bellows.

A willowy waitress with a golden ponytail strides over, shaking her head.

“Inside voice, Mike. Please. Tone it down.”

Craig smirks wistfully, a bit revived but still weary.

“It's all right, miss,” he says. “I guess the fanfare is nice sometimes.”

She peers at Craig quizzically. After a moment, she nods with vague recognition.

“Oh—my goodness. I do know you—from television. Yes. A sitcom. What was the name of that program?”

“Coooaaach!” Mike informs her.

“Yup. That's the one,” Craig says, chuckling.

“Well, I've never waited on a celebrity before. How neat! I'll be back to take your order in a minute, sir.”

She walks away, flashing her teeth. Mike lingers, awestruck and vibrating with cheer. Craig extends an open hand to his admirer.

“Pleasure to meet you, Mike.”

Startled by the greeting, Mike gulps anxiously, convulses out of his stupor, and shakes hands. He nods reverently.

“Coach,” he says in a dignified manner.

“Have a seat.”

Mike exerts a quick gasp and then obliges. He slides into the booth and faces his idol.

“You know,” Craig says, “I hate to be needy, but it really is refreshing for an actor to find someone who really likes his work. The years I spent playing Hayden Fox were some of the best of my life—professionally, personally, financially...you name it. Sure, we were never quite as popular as Full House or Seinfeld, but do you know which show had the sixth-highest ratings in prime-time from '92 'til '94?”

“Coach!”

“Bingo! Holy smokes. You really know your Coach facts.”

The waitress returns, poised to jot down Craig's order. As she addresses Mike, she motions toward the bar.

“I think your beer is getting warm...”

“No, it's all right,” Craig insists. “Mike, care to join me for dinner? It's on me, bud.”

Overcome with gratitude, Mike pumps his fist and nods effusively.

“Coach!”

“That's the spirit,” Craig says, squinting at the menu. “I'll have a T-bone steak, rare, with a baked potato on the side. And for my new friend...”

Mike bows his head and gestures to Craig; he defers.

“Coach?”

“You want me to order for you? Sure. Mike will have the same. And a few rounds of beer for the both of us.”

The waitress says she'll be back soon with their meals and departs.

Craig leans forward, raises an eyebrow.

“I ordered the T-bone 'cause that was my nickname when I was about your age. Craig 'T-bone' Nelson.”

The gag is slow to register for Mike. A few seconds pass by, but then, with feigned understanding, he lets out a boisterous laugh. He tilts his head to the side and points to Craig.

“Coooaaach.”

Craig rollicks in his seat, snickering.

“Oh man, sharing some laughs with one of my biggest fans...This is just what I needed.” He reaches into his back pocket and makes a grand presentation of two tickets. “Do you like NASCAR, Mike?”

He nods repeatedly.

“I suddenly have an extra ticket for the Daytona 500 tomorrow. Tell you what: You can be my guest, but only if you pass the quiz. Ready?”

Puzzled but willing, Mike nods again.

“Okay. First question: What is the greatest TV show of all time?”

“Coooaaach!” Mike hollers.

“What was the profession of the character I played?”

“Coach.”

“And, last but not least, who's your favorite character?”

“Coach!”

“Really? Wow. Most people say 'Dauber,'” Craig says. He offers a high-five and is left hanging for less than a millisecond. “Congratulations, Mike, you passed with flying colors. Let's celebrate with some shots of Jameson.” He turns his head and says, “Excuse me—waitress!”

###

At the big race the next day, Craig and Mike are clapping elatedly, standing on their seats with the utmost expectancy. The surrounding spectators are no less enthralled. Craig nudges Mike.

“The last lap. I've got five-grand riding on Jimmie Johnson and he's making a late-charge on that bozo Jeff Gordon. Oh man, Mike—the racing, the gambling—it doesn't get much better than this.”

Mike nods in agreement. They watch the drivers round the final turn. Johnson is trailing Gordon by less than a car-length.

“You can do it, Jimmie!” Craig shouts.

Perhaps mystically spurred on by the Coach's encouragement, Jimmie Johnson indeed does it; he takes the checkered flag by a narrow margin. Bursting with triumph and passion, Craig and Mike hug each other. Craig pulls away and grabs a hold of Mike's chubby cheeks.

“Guess who just got five-thousand dollars richer?”

“Coooaaach!”

“You said it, Mike! Now we gotta celebrate.”

 I swear to God if you buy More Stories, and Additional Stories it will be the greatest decision of your life. Better than having a kid--which, let's face it, Tom and Judy, was really more of an accident.