Who won that damn NASCAR race?

Like most old-school NASCAR fans; attending a race can present a curious problem.

First, I spend at least $65 for a ticket. I usually have to buy at least two; the wife likes to watch 'em go fast herself. Then I end up paying $20 to park. But this is still not the expensive part of the whole race day extravaganza. The liquor store tab is a bitch. Car racing and drinking go hand and hand, like pizza and cheese. If you don't subscribe to that nugget of truth, then I suggest you drive your Honda minivan right past the racetrack and go drink a French bottled water.

So I am down $250 of my hard earned dollars, just to go see a car race.

It is required that I be "drunker than hell" before the green flag waves for the first time. As the race progresses, my blood alcohol levels reach terrifying heights. New friends are made among other patrons in the stands, as well as short term enemies. At a good race, one should use the phrase "I'll whoop your damn ass" at least twice. Thus a hillbilly state of nirvana is reached, fueled by car exhaust and hard liquor.

Then as suddenly as it started the race ends and a hundred thousand drunk bastards attempt to drive like their favorite driver, to their home. Personally, I rely on pure divine intervention to get home.

The next morning I wake up with the roar of 43 eight-cylinder engines still pounding in my brain. Around my third cup of coffee I realize I have no idea who won the damn race. I have to call somebody, who stayed home and watched the race on TV. "Hey man! Who won that damn race?"