Monday, May 09. 2016

I’m grateful for NASCAR.

I got to listen to something other than politics. This morning FNC was all over insults from one or the other about just about, just about. It is rather watching jealous people throw uncooked rice, overhand, at wedding departures.

I do regret that I still do not know who won the NASCAR however.

I did note, with some amusement, that the Earnhardt clan are still fighting over the Brand Name of Earnhardt.

Jr. never wanted to be a race driver. Wanted to work for Pop in the Dealership. The Step mom wanted, and got the dealership. The two sides have been fighting ever since pop’s death.

Rather like Wolf Man Jack, although the fight over his body started before he was even dead. M. Jackson would be better probably; or even Elvis – who stayed in the room for a long time too long.


From the reaches,

Ten Whiskey

About tenwhiskey

User tenwhiskey is also the author of this blog. He currently lives in small town Kansas in a semi-retired condition. His kids are married and gone (thank you). An empty nester. Divorced. Very happy with life as it is. Ten Mile maintains a personal blog here, writing of events as they appear to him; commentary, and opinions abound. He deviates into fiction as the mood strikes and creates flash fiction stories and short stories. He will not warn the reader when he drifts from fact to fiction. He feels adults are, generally, smart enough to figure out which is which. He does, however, attempt to make his fiction sound as true to life as possible. You have been warned. He, as time permits, writes and occasionally sells writing. More often than not he gives it away to various non-paying publishers of Ether Magazines, forums or for entertainment on a wall for in need of a hand friends. He likes candy, pies and a certain amount of strife. In the matter of strife - in his yourth on the farm, he became embroiled in a slinging fight. The fight involved lath as a launcher, fresh cow patties as ammo and it was a six way free for all. A little mud only adds (Umm?) a certain taste to life.
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