There is nothing like NASCAR bringing out a good brawl after two cars exchange paint.

Look at me, using NASCAR lingo.

H/T The Big Lead

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Yahoo Sports

Just days after winning the North Carolina Education Lottery 200, where he posted an average speed of 101.6 mph, Kyle Busch has been ticketed for exceeding that speed on a public North Carolina road.

Busch was cited for careless and reckless driving; deputies observed and clocked him running at 128 mph in a 45-mph zone on Tuesday afternoon.

Busch now joins a list of famous NASCAR drivers who have had a bit of trouble behind the wheel while off the track. Jimmie Johnson once injured himself after sliding off the roof of a moving golf cart. And Richard Petty famously bumped a driver out of the way for going too slowly on Interstate 85 in North Carolina.

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725 days ago by Rudo 0

I’ve always heard its bad to do any cheering in the press box cause you know, writers have no fuckin souls. Just kidding, its cause they aren’t allowed to show any bias whatsoever.

So what lead to the clapping and emotion display in the pressbox:

The “no cheering in the press box rule” is a fiercely held one in media circles. The rule was broken three times in Daytona. The first was when journalists in the media center applauded at the end of the race. The second was when the reporters in the media center clapped after a funny line from race-winner Trevor Bayne about how old Marty Smith, an ESPN writer, is. The third was a round of applause after Bayne’s press conference was over.

Read more: http://aol.sportingnews.com/nascar/story/2011-03-01/clapping-in-press-box-and-defending-it-proves-costly#ixzz1FUv34B7j

Sportingnews

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The bad boy of NASCAR is back from withdrawing last year from suffering a pulmonary embolism and is about to light up the NASCAR scene. I mean for fucks sake, he calls Jeff Gordon “No Fun”, drinks like a sailor and tries to fuck anything that walks. Here is Mike Guy’s first hand account from Vickers Maxim interview of Fuckin Vickers, which is a nickname I hope catches on.

Maxim

I join him on one of those nights, in a bar on Houston Street. Vickers is drinking like an elite athlete-draining a succession of vodkas, waiting for the bar’s owner, a dissolute pop singer named Gavin DeGraw. Vickers makes a phone call to Jeff Gordon, hectoring him for not coming out to get trashed.

“Fuckin’ Gordon,” Vickers says. “He used to be a lot of fun.”

[...]

The night is ending-or nearly. BV’s crew wanders thirstily into the Hiro Ballroom. To a female companion, Vickers wonders aloud who the hottest chick in the room is, and they agree on a willowy blonde looking bored on the dance floor with a banker type.

“I’m going to go give her a ride,” Vickers says. “Hell, what do I have to lose?”

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