A Tribute to a Champion; Dale Earnhardt, submitted by Drew. Dale Earnhardt and his inability to avoid a fatal accident have proven to be one of the most powerful influences on the poetry and prose of complete morons, possibly even giving September 11th a run for its money. After the Intimidator slammed his #3 car into the wall and his blood exploded across his brain I'm sure the shocked silence at the speedway was only interrupted by the dull whirring of ten thousand adult children composing poems and songs about their deceased hero all at once. The same people who would soon be rhyming "we can" with "taliban" deployed their beer coolers and foam novelty fingers across the Internet, letting their simple tears breath new life into the legend.
We weren't looking; we were watching the finish line.
"There was a crash? Well, this is one heck of a time:
Which car was it? Number 19? Number 5? Number 7?"
It was Dale... One Quarter Mile From Heaven...
Nietzsche once wrote "'Evil men have no songs.' How is it, then, that the Russians have songs?" I think his maxim should be revised to "'Stupid men have no poetry.' How is it, then, that the NASCAR fans have poetry?".
The singer dove off the stage and crowd surfed in a sort of reverse funeral procession where the person being carried is the only one truly alive. Touching him I felt religious ecstasy and started speaking in tongues and requesting songs that didn't exist.
There's no easy way to put this, so I'll tell it like it is. Bouillon is died. He went missing before the weekend and yesterday I found his skeletonized remains at the bottom of the #3 soup vat during one of my swims. I thought the cream of mushroom soup had an especially nourishing taste, and a lot more clumps of fur and skin than usual.
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