Yesterday I decided to watch qualifying for the Daytona 500- all of it. Roughly four hours worth. As always happens this time of year, the hangover period following football season leaves me dangerously unoccupied on Sunday afternoons. Coupled with the effects of late night excursions in search of the future Mrs. Ex-Turkey Hunter on Saturday nights, my couch and I work together as a team to kill the last 24 hours before returning to the suit and tie world in which I masquerade as an adult.
With my body sore from a late night of cranking dat soulja boy and moving a lifeless Hubert up two flights of stairs (incidentally, if you ever bring a girl to your house only to find your door blocked by the lifeless form of your roommate using your welcome mat as a blanket, it helps if said girl is from a former Soviet bloc country as they have a rich tradition of moving bodies there), I was all set to compete with Terry Schiavo in a staring contest. I had my remote and was only missing my Rafferty’s to compete the T. Smith path to happiness. Then I found it- perfect back drop to lazy afternoon naps: Daytona 500 qualifying.
Like many, I will watch the Daytona 500 next Sunday even though I really have no particular interest in who wins. I have been with Matt to a race in person at Richmond and truely enjoyed myself but have yet to catch the fever myself. Matt, to his credit, invented a game that kept me thoroughly entertained that I encourage all to play should you ever find yourself at a NASCAR event. You pick a side, make a wager, and spend the rest of the day trying to figure out if the event hosts more hot girls or people of color. In Richmond, hot girls were slaughtered approximately 47 to ½.
As for qualifying for the 500, I always just assumed drivers took the cars out for a lap or two and they just put them in order of top speeds or lap times. Not so fast my friend! The fine folks at NASCAR decided the world would be much better off if the system of qualifying could only fully be understood by Stephen Hawking.
So to keep you, the loyal blog reader, in the know, I thought I would break it down for you so that next week when you turn on the tele to wait for the big wreck, you understand how the participants got themselves in that pickle to begin with.
First off, I really wish they would use some of these same methods in beauty pageants. Today, 53 drivers took to the track with only the top two performers securing their place in line at the start of next Sunday. Jimmie Johnson and Mikey Waltrip took these prizes. Imagine if you will, a week before Ms. USA, they lined up all the girls and just said “hey you! Texas, California- you appear to be the hottest- you re in. The rest of you better hit the treadmill or the judges rooms cause some of you are going home- Im looking at you Ms. Maryland.”
The 500 hosts 53 people hopeful for a spot on Sunday with only 43 making it. But, the top 35 finishers of last year get in automatically having to compete with everyone not Mikey and Jimmie in two mini races to see where they start. Here, I think it good that that Ms. USA stays away from bringing back last years losers to give them false hopes at redemption- unless you are a wine, aging does not help in almost any competition.
From those two little races, the top two finishers in each qualifier not in the top 35 from last year's final standings get a spot as well. And just for kicks, if you have won the whole damn thing before, even if you show up drunk on scotch buckled into your easy chair, you get in if you don’t earn it for any other reason than you bothered to show up and were slightly less terrible than anyone else in that same boat. As for pageants, I do like the idea of some former beauty queen pushing 3 bills from 19dickey5 showing up unannounced and mixing it up with the youngsters. Wouldn’t you love the camera to catch the Donald mean-mugging judges Donny Osmond and Evander Holyfield for sliding her into the top ten just to see what a Sharpei looks like a two piece?
And there you go, with a day of qualifying, two mini races, and some favoritism to old timers, you get 43 individuals all vying to do some doughnuts of victory next Sunday evening. With that, you have all the knowledge it took me 4 hours, two naps, and a delicious box of Cane’s chicken fingers to acquire. Oh, and Vanderbilt sucks.
Like many, I will watch the Daytona 500 next Sunday even though I really have no particular interest in who wins. I have been with Matt to a race in person at Richmond and truely enjoyed myself but have yet to catch the fever myself. Matt, to his credit, invented a game that kept me thoroughly entertained that I encourage all to play should you ever find yourself at a NASCAR event. You pick a side, make a wager, and spend the rest of the day trying to figure out if the event hosts more hot girls or people of color. In Richmond, hot girls were slaughtered approximately 47 to ½.
As for qualifying for the 500, I always just assumed drivers took the cars out for a lap or two and they just put them in order of top speeds or lap times. Not so fast my friend! The fine folks at NASCAR decided the world would be much better off if the system of qualifying could only fully be understood by Stephen Hawking.
So to keep you, the loyal blog reader, in the know, I thought I would break it down for you so that next week when you turn on the tele to wait for the big wreck, you understand how the participants got themselves in that pickle to begin with.
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