Ethanol, global warmin’, can’t start new wells on our own soil ‘n shores. No new nuclear power plants. Can’t build new refineries. This bullsh-t is long past ‘gettin’ old. It’s been old ‘n we’re payin’ for it.
Cousin Carl had ‘em covered – que the duck. Montoya, lapped, messes up the leader on a restart. Later, Edwards approached to put him another lap down ‘n he wouldn’t get out of the way all day. Edwards gave him a l’il help findin’ another groove.
Sorry, Junior. Qualifyin’ is three miles. The race is 500.
With the exception of Johnson, HMS was out to lunch. And, he finishes second then bad mouths the car – never once sayin’ the name Chevrolet in the post race interview. Jimmie, ya got beat. Live with it. Gordon finishes dead last with a car he had to park because he couldn’t drive it.
All three JGR cars seventh or better.
Yeley loses it ‘n smacks the inside wall a ton. Nothin’ new. UNOFFICIAL, blackbox data indicates McDowell hit the wall in qualifyin’, moment of impact, 161 mph. Damn!
The Texas shots were great. The cattle. A cowboy or six. The boot with a spur on it trophy. The hats were kindah corny. The SAA clones awarded the winner were identified as Berettas. Perfect weather. 190,000 folks showed up to watch a more’n decent race with a stand up to watch, ain’t nobody leavin’ finish. Nice job, Texas!