IMMORTAL: Curtis Turner

I listened to the entire Nascar race today on the radio, working in the backyard on your average weekend family handyman projects. But the more I follow today's Nascar, the more I hate it - a bunch of whiny-voiced pussies racing cars that they can't even ding up for fear of sponsorship complaints. They have to drink whatever crappy drink is laid out for them in victory circle. Today, they were complaining because of trash getting on the grills, as if the point was to take this million-dollar machines and have them in a vaccuum to make the racing sport pure. Fuck that. They should race on dirt with Wal-Mart bags blowing in tornado circles in the turns and then we'll see who can drive and who can't. It sucks. When a little faggot like Tony Stewart is the resident tough guy (don't get me wrong, I like Tony Stewart), then you've got a bunch of punk asses driving cars.
So I figured I hadn't done an IMMORTAL in some time, and Curtis Turner fits the bill more than anybody. He was from Nascar's early days when they still raced on the beach at Daytona, and he would get drunk most of the night before, sleep a few hours on the hood of his car, and then go win races. He got blacklisted late in his career for trying to unionize the drivers, but he also was a legend. Most notably was his weird penchant for flying his private plane while drunk. One Sunday morning, he landed it in a church parking lot because they had run out of drink onboard. And supposedly, when he finally died in a plane crash, everybody figured he did his famous trick, where he told his guests to fly the plane while he took a nap, regardless of the guests' ability to fly an airplane.
Thinking back on looney-tunes like Curtis Turner, as well as Junior Johnson and the other oddballs from back then (CooCoo Marlin as well, who just recently died), Nascar needs some retuning. I know it's on an upswing for the middle class Dodge with Hemi dads to act like they're suburban rednecks while pumping the latest sterile Brad Paisley or Toby Keith offerings while refilling at the convenience store on their way to go pick up the new Larry the Cable Guy DVD at the Wal-Mart Supercenter. But that'll fall off, and Nascar better remember its roots - all those dirtbags filling up the dirt tracks and half-mile asphalts every Friday and Saturday night. Those guys are all still wearing #3 t-shirts, and #8 by association, but there's no real superstars they believe in to carry the torch anymore. It used to be a family-business and you'd stick with driving families. Who the fuck was Jeff Gordon, or Jimmie Johnson's dad? Probably insurance salesmen. Fuckin' Nascar.