Thank you, NASCAR, thank you for taking my needs into consideration. I had no idea you were listening. (Are you that presumptuous, sterile poster here on the Marbles who goes around antagonizing me weekly?) I asked for last-lap excitement, you obliged. And in spades, too.
Let's see, not only did you deliver a racing finish with your omnipotent tools of intervention, but you did it with a sense of humor never before seen in your authoritative demeanor: You mule-kicked Kyle Busch in the groin.
Yup, that was exciting. Out-of-the-seat, rock-to-and-fro exciting. Cuss-word exclamatory exciting. Even a few of the long drawn out ones for effect.
That was a classic example of delivering the goods. I'm sure Kyle has a different opinion, should he ever choose to voice it, but one thing is for certain, he finally did learn how to properly smash something to pieces.
I do understand why he didn't talk to the press. He was no doubt worried about how he was going to explain the awful smell originating from his jumpsuit. I can't even eat two slices of a Pizza Hut pepperoni pizza without soiling my drawers, so there is no way he maintained a clean slate after that crash test.
Plus, there was the dichotomy of the finish he saw in his head versus the finish as it unfolded. His version: I win again, suckers. Here is my curtsy, cheer me or boo me. I do not care. I am Kyle, the greatest shrub in all of the kingdom, and I just bested the hottest driver in the garage with a late pass on the holiest of tracks.
Reality: Oh ****. Oh ****. The wall? Aw ************, that hurt like a son of a *****. Holy ****. What the hell was that? **** me. Who is ringing that damn bell? Why am I staring straight at the ground? Am I going over forward? ****. Sweet, four wheels back on land. Why did an air bag just release under my rear? ******* ****, damn Joey Logano. Where the **** did he come from? Skinny-assed punk teammate stealing all my press. You just made my list.
Or something along those lines. Either way, that was exactly the opposite of how he, or any of us, saw that scenario playing out. It couldn't have happened to a nicer guy, either.
I am going to have to revise my stance on just where Kyle should run, too. I was certain that he would be safe out front, where he wouldn't feel the urge to drive someone out of his way. It turns out that he is equally adept at wrecking cars in front of him, beside him and behind him. Now that is talent.
Finally, I'm a bit befuddled by Tony's post-race reaction. Do they test for tranquilizers in this new-fangled screening policy, because Tony had to have been hopped up on Xanax.
(Quick aside. Is Tony the perfect pitchman for Burger King or what? Tony is to Burger King as Carl is to Subway: Tony is all Whopper, while Carl is definitely a meathead, er ball, sub.)
"I hate it to end that way," Smoke said.
Yeah, OK, no one wants to be a principal player in a 20-car pile-up on the frontstretch, but hate is a bit strong. Dislike maybe? You did, after all, collect your second points win - a win you deserved - as an owner at Daytona. And thanks to the safety advances, which were on full display, Kyle (among others) walked away unharmed (physically), though definitely battered. Your souvenir sales just went through the roof with a single tap of the bumper, the fans got another electrifying restrictor-plate finish, and karma reminded us that she is one nasty bitch.
Yeah, I kinda liked it ending that way.
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