Monday, February 28, 2005

Another Day, Another Dollar

5:13 Must leave before boss realizes how stupid I am, must leave before boss realizes how stupid I am....uh oh....too late.

5:14 I don't suppose having the General Hospital soap opera update on the computer screen helps much....doesn't he know Faith got shot!

5:15 How long does one have to stay when it's Mexican Food Monday Night?

5:16 Adios.

Thursday, February 24, 2005

2005 Daytona 500

What exactly is there that can be said about my recent travels to the Daytona 500? Considering the motto of “what happens at the track, stays at the track”, not much. But of course I do have a few observations.

When driving 87 miles per hour down Interstate 75, it’s best to have a set of hooters in order to get out of a ticket. And hats off to Cowboy Dan for hiding her beer, rolling down the window and popping gum in her mouth in 5 seconds flat.

You want to shock the hell out of some little convenience store clerk in south Georgia? Go in and ask for 9 cases of Bud Light and 4 pack of cigarettes and let the fun begin.

We have a buddy….his name is Chicago….seriously….his name is Chicago. He managed to track down Kitty within 5 minutes of her setting foot in the infield. Leading one to think that Kitty has been implanted by some homing device which draws all fans near and far to her in droves. To me, this is simply further proof that Kitty is the by-product of some alien love experiment.

Cowboy Dan can drink 12 beers on a road trip to Daytona and then still feel like she has to tell people that she is drunk… the jackass grin and glazed eyes weren’t clue enough. Impressive by anyone standards.

While I can get out of speeding tickets, my hooters have no sway of force over Officer Buzzkill when he pulls over your golf cart. Also represents the first time I’ve been pulled over by a dork in his own golf cart – one wonders how easy it is for him to be all tough when he’s sitting in a mini-form of transportation with a go-cart engine. Apparently, tough enough.

Kitty will spend oodles of money on a new r.v. but won’t fork up the $20 a month to have satellite in that r.v. (And a hearty shout-out to Endora, our new styling digs)

The truck racing at Daytona is 10 times more exciting than the cup cars – especially if one could withstand that cold temps on top of the r.v. to actually watch said truck race….well, we can go in and catch it on t.v…..oh wait! NO SATELLITE.

The track has added a real nice fan deck where the common folk can stand and watch the goings-on in the garage. This is especially helpful when we are actually in the garage so the common man can watch and envy us…..which is all we ever really live for.

When running into Mathew McConaughey in the garage area, make sure you are not standing next to Kitty as she will simply hand you the camera as she and Cowboy Dan go wrap their greedy little mitts around said stud muffin. (This was clearly Kitty’s way of calling me fat)

Without a doubt, I will always be parked next to the r.v. with the weirdo guy who decided to bring a stripper as his date for the weekend. I have no real issues with that and especially appreciated when she started sucking his nipples in public which was only slightly less offensive then when she picked the lint out of his belly button. No jokes here, people, all true.

Occasionally, I will be parked next to a really nice couple who will feed us and ply us with racing foolishness. Apparently, despite our collective girth, all people at racetracks feel compelled to feed us like we are the starving children of Cambodia that our parents so warned us about.

Nice couple will also allow Cowboy Dan to put on their authentic Dale Jarrett helmet and drive her around the infield to stir up the masses….but apparently the masses weren’t fooled as Cowboy Dan is way taller than Dale Jarrett.

Here again, despite our collective girth, if there is a wagon holding a cooler, Kitty and Cowboy Dan will take that as an opportunity to ride atop said cooler to avoid having to motor under their own speed. So they ride everywhere….doing a parade wave….not embarrassing at all. (Of course, I walked alongside like a fat kid waiting for them to toss some candy from the float)

Well, that’s about all I can share, other than I had a great time and Atlanta infield here we come!

Much love,
Vladimir Poopshoot

Tuesday, February 22, 2005

Survived Daytona 500 But...

Can't talk...coming down.

More later.

Monday, February 14, 2005

Someone Shoot That Little Fat Bastard Cupid

Well, yippee skippy, it’s Valentine’s Day ….again.

Top Ten Reasons Valentine’s Day Sucks Donkey Balls

1. My mother signs my cards not “Love, Mom” but with her full god-given name as if I don’t know who she is and why she is sending me a card.
2. I’m 34 years old yet my grandmother has once again sent me a cutesy little card with a kitten on it. Are kittens the universal sign of Valentine’s? Are they the official animal of Valentine’s Day? Are they sponsored by Hallmark? I think not.
3. Tonight, I will go to eat Mexican with my cousins and have to witness joy and happiness in other people’s faces which makes me want to stab them with my fork after tossing my sizzling fajita plate in their smiling little faces. (Please note – I say “eat Mexican” as in Mexican food, not as in “eat a Mexican” which has an entirely different meaning.)
4. Someone seriously asked me if I had gotten my dogs Valentine’s gifts – yes, yes I did…it’s called food and shelter. Like I don’t feel guilty enough for not giving them heartworm medication, now I have to worry that their little feelings are hurt?
5. Princess of Darkness is boycotting spending any time with me today in order to celebrate Valentine’s Day over the phone with her friends in Chicago – cause even losers over the phone are better than hanging with me. Nice, real nice – that’s the last time I paint her room black.
6. The only flower I got was single pink carnation from building management which they handed out to everyone this morning. And let’s talk about pink carnations, shall we? This is the white trash version of the rose. The carnation says “Look! I’ll give you a flower but only a cheap ass one that I can buy in bulk. And to make it festive, I’m going to dip into some sort of flower dye to make it a color not found in nature. Cause nothing says ‘I care’ like something that glows in the dark.” Save your nickel, you trailer living, wife beating yutz.
7. I did receive a Winnie-the-Pooh valentine from Anal Coworker (have no fear – Anal Coworker’s Wife is well aware of Anal Coworker’s pity valentine – his 4 year old daughter however is extremely pissed at Daddy for dipping into her card stash so rumor has is she put a rat poison cake through her Easy Bake Oven for a treat for Daddy). (Please note – this only qualifies as sucking since it is the ONLY one I received – it does not suck that Anal Coworker risks his child’s wrath to be nice)
8. Somewhere, somehow, millions of folks will be knocking boots tonight….and I’ll be sleeping with two dogs who apparently are pissed at me for not purchasing heart shaped bones for them.
9. Everyone seems to think it necessary to wear red or pink and be all “happy valentine’s day!”…..listen…take you cheerful ass self and your little well-wishes and shove up your posterior region cause you look like tomato and your false bravado makes me want to shove my boot up your valentine.
10. Despite my Grinch attempts, this holiday keeps coming and coming…it comes without cards, it comes without flowers….it comes without balloons, it comes without candy….it simply keeps coming and so I will not join in the festivities but instead will drown myself in margaritas and hope to hell the waiter doesn’t wish me a Happy Valentine’s Day cause I take no responsibility for the blood bath that will surely follow.

Much love,
Vladimir Poopshoot

Friday, February 11, 2005

Like Sands Through the Hourglass...

8:15 It’s Friday. Where the hell is the free breakfast?

8:19 I love McDonald’s biscuits.

8:26 What’s for lunch?

8:36 Maybe I should do some work….

8:47 Hmmm…perhaps I should have gotten the last name of the family where Princess of Darkness is spending the night.

9:14 Why is Cowboy Dan the only one that works this early in the damn morning?

9:15 I bet Fat Baby’s Mamma is still asleep, that cow.

9:22 It’s only 9:22, plenty of time to work later.

9:47 Pretend to work. Pretend to work. Pretend to work.

11:30 Lunch – Anal coworker and I must go early to beat the crowds….not going early to avoid working, honest.

12:48 Need 5th Diet Coke of the day to avoid post-luncheon food coma.

1:08 Wonder if Princess of Darkness remembered to take along the good dried chicken bones? She’ll need them for the ritual sacrifice.

1:34 How long 'till it’s beer time?

2:29 Hmmm…email from stepfather reveals Princess of Darkness has run up 4,000 minutes on her cell phone.

2:32 Punishing Princess of Darkness is always fun…..perhaps I should paint her room pink…that would learn her.

3:06 This time next week, I’ll be Drunky McDrunk at Daytona and living the redneck lifestyle.

3:07 God, I wish it was next week.

3:48 Seriously, how much longer do I have to sit here and play good worker?

4:03 Wonder if they’ve posted the General Hospital update on TV guide online yet.

4:04 Nope…damn their slow asses! Don’t they know Jason has been shot?!

4:05 I hate people who use exclamation points in their writing.

4:46 My friends who don’t work are already sitting at the Paradise drinking. Damn this capitalistic society that makes me work! Bring on Communism, you pinkie bastards! I want to live off the government teat!

4:47 I bet Fat Baby’s Mamma passed out with a bourbon bottle in her hand around 2 this afternoon.

4:54 Apparently, the only other person not working is Cowboy Dan with whom I have now exchanged my 56th email of the day – and we’ve included Fat Baby’s Mamma on all them. She’s going to have a lot of reading to do when roused out of her drunken stupor.

5:03 When did the work world go from standard 9 to 5 days to 8:30 to 5:30? I wasn’t consulted, I didn’t agree. Who’s bright idea was this crap?? Anal Coworker already escaped to his family – why can’t I have a family that lets me escape? Blast you, Princess of Darkness!! Can’t you use one of the 4,000 minutes to call me with some emergency?

5:16 I can literally hear the sweet, sweet siren call of the Bud Light.

5:28 Screw this. I’m out of here.

Thursday, February 10, 2005

Ode to Cowboy Dan and Kitty

It has been brought to my attention with the subtlety of a sledgehammer that I have been remiss in failing to discuss my racing buddies, Cowboy Dan and Kitty. Apparently, my previous ramblings have left Cowboy Dan and Kitty with the impression that the entire Internet world views them under a false light (the "entire Internet world" otherwise known as my readership of 9 people –who by the way already KNOW them). So I would like to take this opportunity to clear up two of the many myths surrounding the legends of Cowboy Dan and Kitty.

Myth #1. Cowboy Dan and/or Kitty are my lesbian lovers.

Let’s make something perfectly clear. IF I was to start playing for the other team, I would leave them far behind and aim for some type of macho biker chick who could make me look all fragile and ladylike. Always wanted to look ladylike but with my propensity for swear words, it's not bloody likely to happen anytime soon.

Further, Cowboy Dan and I could never date as she is 7 feet tall and I simply am not as vertically blessed. Our Christmas card pictures would look like the Chrysler Building standing next to a Rhodesian pig farmer’s mud hut (and no, I don’t know if Rhodesians live in mud huts but I also don’t know if they farm pigs…so what’s your point?).

I also could never date Kitty despite rampant rumors to the contrary (hey people, just because we attend all weddings and family functions together doesn’t mean we’re planning on our commitment ceremony). Despite many discussions, Kitty and I have never been able to agree about who the man would be in our relationship. One would think that Kitty with her love of guns, recreational vehicles and all things mechanical would be the obvious choice but she refuses such a role in our hypothetical world. She feels her lipstick beauty trumps my short and dumpy existence to make her the June Cleaver to my Ward (fighting over the Beaver! Get it? The Beaver?!?). Besides, Kitty’s poor taste in men is legendary in these circles and I would hate to break her streak of dating non-drinking, personality lacking paramours.

Myth #2. Cowboy Dan and Kitty were recent candidates for Extreme Makeover due to their horse-like teeth and bad bangs.

Despite what you might think, Cowboy Dan and Kitty are NOT one knuckle dragging moment away from being two big old homely gals. Far, far from the truth. Both of my peeps are very good looking (and if I ever learn how to post pictures on this thing, I ‘ll prove it – anonymity be damned).

Cowboy Dan’s lumberjack ways attract many a fella to her manhands. Matter of fact, Kitty and I consider Cowboy Dan our “magic”. Her presence alone guarantees an onslaught of male attention at any racetrack. Thus explaining why Kitty and I dumped Fat Baby’s Mamma and replaced her with the younger, baby-less version known as Cowboy Dan. As an added bonus, Cowboy Dan always prefers to pick up the Ugmo (i.e. the ugly jean short and manjewelry wearing guy) in any given group of young (or heck, old) men. This of course leaves the better pickins open to mine and Kitty’s subtle charms.

Kitty is also very pretty as anyone in the Juniors department of Burdines can attest to. Kitty is a sly and tricky creature. She has been known to draw an occasional, impressionable19 year old into her web and has also managed to ensnare a few folks with NASCAR connections as well (Kitty’s always looking to share her NASCAR obsession). Men are often drawn to the fact that she owns her own deluxe R.V. (and right about now you should be able to picture the type of man I’m talking about…..yep….he’s a winner). Luckily, I keep the coast relatively clear as I often threaten to drunkenly “pop a cap in their ass” (you should be aware that when drunk I often turn either real ghetto or real Cajun – hard to figure, I know).

Soooooo….where does this all leave me? I seem to get all the drunken rugby players and a 24 year old that must be the illegitimate love child of Ward Burton.

Nuf sed.

Love to all,
Vladimir Poopshoot.

P.S. Princess of Darkness is here and she gives a "shout out" to you all and a "hail, Satan, prince of evil" as well.

Tuesday, February 08, 2005

Nubbin Ventured, Nubbin Gained

I’m not going to lie…I have issues with some physical deformities. Not the big ones – not the paralyses or muscular type stuff or the really big stuff that would make me insensitive to the plight of others….just the nubbins. As all the enlightened know, a nubbin is a diminished appendage or perhaps a superfluous third nipple. Nubbin also of course includes small unexplained growths and other tidbits that seem to branch off one’s body at odd angles. For example, “he grasped his hot dog with his wee little nubbins which frightened me to my core.”

I bring up my nubbin fascination (as opposed to my fearful fascination with clowns which is for another post) to share a grievance. A grievance about an acquaintance I’ll call Nubbin (and no, it’s not any of you so stop checking your appendages).

Nubbin is the type of “friend” who thinks you two are much closer than you consider yourself to be. For instance, while I find the topic fascinating in others, I have no interest in her college exploits or the functioning of her digestive tract. She thinks she’s your best pal even though she is unaware that you never make such decisions without the heavy, heavy influence of your best friend, Bud Light. But I digress. Suffice to say, that if I see Nubbin coming, I start to search around for a hot poker to shove through my eyeball in the hopes it may lessen conversation time. However, knowing Nubbin, a hot poker protruding from any orifice may not disuade her.

Now, let me be clear. Nubbin is not a BAD person. She really isn’t. She is very nice in a plain oatmeal sort of way – you know what I mean - oatmeal is better than starving but it certainly isn’t bacon (my all consuming love of bacon is a subject to be covered in another post). Her problem is that she is mind numbingly boring. She likes to engage in long inane conversations about her satanic children while all you can do is look at her nubbin and wonder in your head “why doesn’t she get that fixed?”

I also find a high correlation between the presence of a nubbin situation and the lack of a humor situation. Perhaps whatever energy the body put forth into producing its nubbin resulted in turn to a depleted humor resource. Cause folks, let me tell you – Nubbin ain’t funny.

Do Nubbin and her kin know this? No. They often chuckle at their own little witticisms while you feverishly wonder what would happen to your dog if you threw yourself out the old high-rise window – which of course would be a very dramatic statement – at least until you realize that the tempered shatter-proof glass would most likely propel you backwards onto your ass with resounding force. Then of course you would be forced to explain to Nubbin that "no, you were not trying to commit suicide but that you were suffering from some sort seizure that inexplicably threw you against the window". This of course would be followed by a story from Nubbin about how her Great Uncle Pete suffered a seizure once while driving to Poughkeepsie in his ’74 Impala.

Lesson learned? When conversing with a nubbin, best to escape to fantasies of marrying Dale Earnhardt, Jr. and hope the nubbin doesn’t ask you a question.

P.S. Editing supplied by my friend, Good Coworker. Good Coworker is the only one at the workplace who is aware of my little hobby so if I get fired, I will be posting his home address along with pictures of his wife and child for all to extract their revenge upon.

P.S.S. I feel the love. This is Good Coworker's response -"That's "EXACT their revenge upon." Dumbass."

P.P.S. Good Coworker has informed me that the above "P.S.S." should have been "P.P.S." to which my response is Good Coworker shall be known as Anal Coworker from henceforth.

Friday, February 04, 2005

The Allure of the Buttery Nipple

The allure of the buttery nipple....or how a semi-sane 34 year old can be sucked into doing shots on a school night.

Can someone please explain to me why relatively sane adults revert to their shooter guzzling youth at the words "hey, let's do a shot!"? Let's think this trough - I know not to do shots. I'm a lover of beer and have learned through manyrepetitive toilet-hugging sessions that it is wise if I simply stick to Bud Light and let the rest of the fire water drinking heathens have their little shooters. But like a lemming to the sea, if I hear a "hey, let's do a shot!", I'm following right behind to my inevitable death.

And exactly who is this dumbass that sneaks up on mature adults and decides to let lose the college battle cry of "hey, let's do a shot!"? I have several theories.

1. He's the guy that is positive deep down that if you get shitfaced enough, you will forget his bad combover and askew orthodontry to go have a little fun with him in the back of his Ford Fiesta.
2. He's the guy that has made a small career out of getting plastered but for some reason, does not want to be "THAT GUY" who is drunk all by himself so he brings you down with him.
3. He's the guy that really doesn't know how to drink a real manly drink so he gets his freak on by ingesting small fruity cocktails in tiny little glasses to avoid the embarassment of being a grown man and ordering a Pink Panty Pulldown (okay, and we all know I went here just so I could say "Pink Panty Pulldown").
4. He's the guy who thinks he's being suave cause he's ordering you a drink....newsflash, rocket scientist, a shot is not a drink - it is a bullet straight to your brain which has already checked out of the party after the 7 or 8 beers you pickled it in.
5. He's the guy trying to avoid the carbs in beer so he orders a shot that is 50% sugar and 50% unadulterated brain squeezing alcohol.
6. He's the guy who was recently laid off from his job and he gets his jollies from thinking of you sitting at your desk the next morning trying not to vomit all over your keyboard and simultaneously losing whatever remaining grip you have in your ass cheeks (as Kitty likes to say, "Butt cheeks don't fail me now!" - but the subject of Kitty's digestive system is for another post another time).
7. He's the guy that is 40 years old but mentally is still in college so he sees nothing wrong with the party call for tequilla shots - he is easily identified by the uncut hair, rumpled oxford over a tshirt that reads "Rugby Naked" and says "dude" and "awesome" a lot.
8. He's the Jeff Gordon fan.....nuf sed.
9. He's the guy that owns (and wears) more women's lingerie than I do (not that there is anything wrong with that).
10. He's Satan.

Think I'll go puke now.

Painfully yours,
Vladimir Poopshoot

Thursday, February 03, 2005

Holy Crap

So I was reading some other folk's blogs and have come to a horrible realization - I'm just not that funny. I agree that I have moments of brevity but in general not that consistently knee-slapping funny (but if you think about it, have you ever seen some really slap their knee when amused? It just doesn't happen.) There are some seriously funny folks out there and apparently the only people I amuse are my moronic friends who apparently are easily impressed - who knew?. Perhaps they need to get out more. Oh well - luckily I haven't told many about this little project so the point is moot.

Good news of the day - Cowboy Dan, Kitty and I have pit passes to the Daytona 500. What this means to you out there who are Nascar newbies is that we now have an official pass to mingle with drivers and harass the shit out of them. This folds in well with my plans to be Mrs. Dale Earnhardt Jr. But who are we kidding - I would settle for Mrs. Elliott Sadler, Mrs. Kasey Kahne....oh hell, I would settle for being Mrs. Fatback McSwain to get a chance to live in the inner circle. I realize a few of you may not know Fatback McSwain but trust me - he ain't named Fatback for nothing.

In my unending attempts to insert myself into the Nascar glitterati, I emailed the guys over at Track Smack on to once again offer my services as a commentator. As of yet, I have not heard back from them but one can hope. Just so you're in the loop, the following is what I sent:

Dear Track Smackers,

Apparently my last request to join your esteemed company was met with little enthusiasm. Therefore, I am on to Plan B. I think you need a roving infield correspondent and, coincidentally enough, I tend to spend a good deal of time in various infields. I think we all can agree that a glimpse into infield entertainment would provide a much needed perspective of NASCAR life to the average stay-at-home fan.

So, without further ado, below please find the top ten reasons you should recruit me to be your infield correspondent:

1. MartDawg has become way too famous to kick it with the common man.
2. Trust me – together with my two pals we are three blond chicks by ourselves in the infield….you think we don’t get to know EVERYBODY in the infield!?!
3. Nothing like a full description of the infield showers to give that reader the old “in the middle of the action” feeling.
4. The amount of beer we bring into the infield would seriously diminish the reimbursable meals on my expense report for Turner Sports.
5. Have R.V., will travel….okay, really my friend has the R.V. but you get the point.
6. I already have plans for both Daytonas, both Talladegas and both Atlantas – you guys only have to pick up expenses for the other 30 races.
7. The fun I get in harassing folks on Marty’s Mailbag message board is waning – I need to be able to harass them in person.
8. Can supply own video camera and enough film to keep editors at working for years (just good clean family fun video - keep the mind out of the gutters, guys).
9. Providing me a safe outlet for creative expression may…just MAY…keep me from harassing y’all on a weekly basis.
10. is sorely missing an interview with that toothless, jean short wearing guy who uses his sock for a beer coozie and keeps blasting Freebird from the stereo in his converted bus with the big 3 on the side.

To further prove my infield fun factor and to show that I’m not nuts, here’s me and Elvis in the Talladega infield…Elvis sends his love.
[please note - I'm too stupid to figure out how to post pictures here yet]

I’ll be waiting on your call.

Aka Buckshotfan

I'll let you know when I hear back from them.

Wednesday, February 02, 2005

Cast of Characters

So it occurred to me last night that an unassuming reader will need a brief rundown of the characters in my life. You'll notice they often have strange names and you may want to believe that I have changed their names to hide their real life guilt and shame - but actually I pretty much call these people by these names to their faces as well. Wellll, some of them I might not - the crazy ones for instance - never call a crazy person crazy - they might stab you with a pair of rounded scissors. I learned this from Cowboy Dan who called her mother a "fucking whackjob" to her face and we'll just say the results weren't pretty - but have no fear, Cowboy Dan's scars are clearing up real nice. But I digress...

Floyd's Cast of Characters:

1. Floyd - okay, so only a dumbass would identify themselves on their own cast of characters but I thought I would throw in some aliases as well - also known as Lil Bit, Vladimir Poopshoot, Carni - and if we include the voices in my head, Fattie, Dumbass, Idiot and Superstar (one of my voices is really really confident).

2. Kitty - Floyd's best friend and Nascar compatriot. Kitty is a unique individual and frankly, the only thing missing to make her a guy is the old twig and berries. Don't get me wrong - she's quite pretty but has a fascination with guns, cars and all boy type toys. Kitty joins me on all my exploits.

3. Cowboy Dan - Floyd's other best friend and Nascar compatriot. Cowboy Dan also goes by Manhands in that she is quite tall - good farm stock. She's a horse whisperer - shhhhhh. She trains horses when not assisting in fixing the world's plumbing problems through her other job. Cowboy Dan also joins in all Nascar exploits and attracts men like a fat kid to cake - even though Cowboy Dan will always pick the ugmo in the crowd to spend special time with (Kitty and I don't understand this too much but we usually benefit so no complaining).

4. Fat Baby Clan - this invovles several folks so I'm lumping them together. Fat Baby is a fat baby and one in which we are keenly interested in since Fat Baby's Mamma is our best friend and Cowboy Dan's sister. Fat Baby also has a Fat Baby Daddy, Fat Baby Uncle, Fat Baby Aunt whom I expect all to make regular appearances as well. Fat Baby's Mamma occasionally joins in on the Nascar fun when she can pry Fat Baby's grubby little mitts off her.

5. Princess of Darness - my little sister who is 14 and lives with me. Let's just say she's gothic and I'm worried about the cat....we'll leave it at that.

6. Captain Fruitloop - Cowboy Dan's and FBM's mom. Loved by all and feared by most.

7. Captain Nutty - Floyd and Princess of Darkness' mom. Makes Captain Fruitloop look downright sane.

Now, if tradition serves, there will be several guest appearances along the way as we work our way through this year's Nascar seasonso I expect this cast to grow and multiply. It should all be great fun.

Truly yours,
Vladimir Poopshoot.

Tuesday, February 01, 2005

Welcome to Floyd's Tailgate!

Hello all and welcome to my tailgate.

So I was just sitting here talking to my pal Kitty and she says I should write some stuff - which basically is Kitty's code for leave me the hell alone and go bug other people. Kitty and I had some discussion about what to call this lovely little spot and Floyd's Tailgate won out....mainly because all the ones Kitty came up with sounded dirty. By the way, Kitty wants to make sure everyone knows we're not lesbos (except for that one time Kitty was in college but she doesn't like you to tease her about that).

Sooooooo.....this blog will be a spot for our NASCAR tales - our adventures in infield partying. I'm sure we'll be throwing in other random shit as well as we quite often go off topic.

Kitty thinks it best we start out with a mission statement so here is an itemized list of our goals (by the way, Kitty says missions are one liners but screw Kitty):

1. To share otherwise unsharable exploits at NASCAR brew ha-ha's through our eyes....our eyes being the all girl, all blond crew of me (Floyd or Lil'Bit), Kitty and our pal Cowboy Dan (also known as Manhands).
2. To find something to do that doesn't make me want to shoot myself like my job does.
3. To be able to use this as a cool pickup line for a little redneck at a race, i.e. "come check out my blog".
4. To become world famous, toss our careers out the window and shove it to the man.

Well, this is just a little forewarning here - I'll add more later - most likely while I'm at work pretending to work.

Yours truly,
Vladimir Poopshoot (but you can call me Floyd)