God Bless R Lee Ermey!!

Big day in NASCAR today. Junior announced his new sponsor and number finally. After weeks of speculation over what digits would adorn Dale's HMS Chevy next year we found out (in my case, via webcast at the office - shhh, I probably used 90% of our bandwidth for about 45 minutes today) that the historic #88 is the magic number.

Now, I understand the rationale. All those Dale Jr. fans out there really wanted him in the #8, or in a car with the #8 on it. I also realize that the #81 and some other "8's" were available, but I consider this move disappointing, albeit genius. First of all, don't get me wrong, I love the #88. As a matter of fact, I think the #88 won the very first NASCAR race that I can remember (1981 Daytona 500 - Bobby Allison's #88 Gatorade Machine) But Junior's move just downright befuddles me.

I was really looking forward to a change. A new beginning of sorts. Lets face it, 99% of Junior fans were seeing double 8's when they were at the track anyway. The stinking number is even red. Its also not exactly the most impressive design (I though the old 8 was a very classy, simple design). It looks like a font right out of Paint Shop Pro or something. Its fat and slow. I guess I can live with it, as long as Junior stays classy and doesn't disrespect the history of the double eights.

In happier news, Sensei of all Doucebags, rodent-esque David Spade has thankfully cancelled his appearance as race Grand Marshall at this weekends Cup race. How do you make up for booking a complete ass-monkey to the most prestigious honorary positions at a Cup race, you ask? Fill in with the manliest man on the freaking planet. Yep, R. Lee Ermey. Although some suit is going to give the command to start engines, I am planning on closing my eyes and imagining good 'ole Sargent Hartman barking something like "Maggots! and the Queer in the 26 car: Start your Engines!!!" Dammit, we are lucky to live on the same planet as this guy.

Speaking of luck, I found a $20 outside Chipotle yesterday. Just laying on the asphalt between my car and the Land Rover parked next to me (OK, maybe it was sort of under the Land Rover-but it was definitely in fair territory) In typical Jeff Terschak style, he suggested we go back into the restaurant and see if anyone dropped it. Yeah, right. Instead, I spent the afternoon snapping the crisp bill in his face.