WILL CHELSEY O'REILLY TAKE OUT DANICA?

My head in the refrigerator, I search for...a pickle?  No, but didn't I buy some strawberries? No, no no, something sweet, something dark, something chocolate.  Yes, and there it is...

Then I hear my ringtone:  Steven Tyler yelling, 'Answer your damn phone.'

I jerk.  My head clunks against something hard, in the door.  A bottle of apple cider vinegar?  And it hurts. "Ooooouch.  Damn."

Rubbing my head, I reach the phone.  "I...yes...Hello?  This is Brentwood.  What time is it?"  The clock says 5:03 am.  Yikes.

"Who may I ask..." I ask.

"It's me. Danica.  Danica Patrick.  What am I going to do?"

"Beats the hell out of..."

"I thought I had way more time before something like this.  She's only fourteen.  How can this be?"

"It's so early...in the...morning...?" I say.  So, this is what a sunrise looks like.  I've always wondered.  Oh boy.  "Maybe, Danica, we should start at the beginning here.  And...how did you get this number?...if I may ask."

"Brentwood, I read your SportsBlog when I 'm not driving and stuff.  Look, I tried my agent, but she's in Hawaii, with some guy named Ronaldo, and my manager is to hell and gone, on some kind of trip up the Amazon."

"So of all the other people in the world..."

"She's only fourteen?  Chelsey O'Reilly, that's her name?  And people already know her.  Driving stock cars in some backwater burg up in Canada.  Agassiz Speedway, British Columbia. She's stealing all my style, all my fire.  She can't be doing this to me."

"Danica, my dear.  It's okay.  Now let's step back, and..."

"She had her picture on Yahoo, with her lucky pink fingernails.  Gimme a break.  No body can drive with those things on.  Trust me, I've tried.   Pink.  Now isn't that cute.  The next woman stock car celebrity?  I'm nothing all of a sudden?  Yesterday's chopped liver?  I don't think so, Little Missy."

"I understand," I say.  "But can't this wait until...?"

"Hey, I am real sorry about that, but, hey man, I got a situation here.  I got maybe what?  Ten years max.  My bikini body ain't getting any younger, you know.  She's only 14, and still growing.   She can only get better."

She breathes heavily.  "This can't be happening.  I'm so screwed."

Do I hear a tear?

"Danica," I say.  "Maybe winning a race, you know, could be good for your image..."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah, win a race.  I know.  But I've won races.  I'm the top lady in racing.  Me.  My fans want to see me.  It's hard work." 

"Chelsey O'Reilly?" I say. "I've read about her.  Her father was a racer too.  Now she's driving the same 1968 Chevy Chevelle he drove."

I click on my computer, move the mouse, and type in Google.

"Here it is.  They call themselves Team O’Reilly.  Driver, Chelsey.  Pit crew, her two sisters, Chrystal and Veronica, Mechanic, Dad, and Moral Support?  That's Mom Margaret.  It's a family affair."

"Damn.  It's perfect.  She's perfect...and she's so young.  Soooo young."

"So..."

"You're right. I could manage a few more top tens, but racing's so hard.  All those other cars. Those guys are good.  Trying to stay in shape. Doing personal appearances.  And now this?"

"Danica, do you seriously think this Chelsey is a real threat?"

"Helloooo.  Her motto is just don't finish last.  Now ain't that cute.  The under dog everybody can get behind.  It's just unfair."

"Well, according to this Yahoo article, she's been practicing ever since she was..."

"It's like I'm a target out there," says Danica.  "I'm crashing all the time, skidding into the wall, and when I spin out right in front of the grandstands, my car doesn't even burst into flames.  Somebody fixed it that way.  It's so humiliating.  I know they're out to get me."

"Tell you what.  Why not sponsor a race up there?  At this Agassiz Speedway?  The Danica 300?  Why fight it?"

"I guess...I could do that?" she says. "That's good.  Sure, she's stealing my fans, stealing my thunder, stealing my title 'Queen of Auto Racing,'  her and her family.  But I'm above all that.  Is that what you're saying?"

"Why not?" I say.  "Why not buy a percentage of her.  Team O'Reilly.   Come on, she's no competition...yet.  What other woman can really take your place?  Promote her yourself."

Silence.

"I like that," she says.  "Like I'm one step ahead of her.  I'm the bigger person.  Brilliant.  And if she gets hot, I'm getting a slice of her action.  Brentwood, how can I thank you?"

"I don't want you thinking like Tanya Harding.  Think like a big corporation.  They just buy out their competition.  Do the same thing."

"You're right.  She's nothing.  But she thinks she's so cute.  They picked her to hand out trophies last weekend.  So she buys herself a tiara to wear.  Hell of lot more to being a NASCAR driver.  A whole lot more."

"She hangs around the track. She drives against drivers twice her age.  She's a woman in a man's world.  Sounds a lot like you, Danica?"

"Kinda.  You wouldn't believe what I did before I got....so...popular.  You're right.  Fans will want somebody else, sometime soon, I know that.  I guess I could start winning races, but this is better.  Rise above these Stock Cars. Start training the next generation.  I like that.  Brentwood you're the best."

"Well, I'm glad I could..."

"I'm going to call her right now."

"She probably in the pits."

"Yeah, polishing those long, pink, stupid...real stupid...fingernails of hers."

...............................

HELP COMES FROM:
sports.yahoo.com/photos/best-of-sports-slideshow/rookie-race-driver-o-reilly
Google/Images, readabilityformulas.com,
..........................

THE DESTINY OF DAYTONA

"Newp, we gotta do something today," says Hampton.  "Can't just sit here by the pool.  I can only drink Mojitos for so long."

"Hamp, come on,"  says Newport.  "Go downstairs.  Play some black jack, slots.  That's why we moved here, hot as hell, and bought this place?"

"It's too early in the day.  I  was at the crap table 'til two last night.  And what, win a couple of grand.  What is that?"

Newport reaches into his terry cloth robe, pulls out an iPhone, and waves it in the air.   "Let's call Pepper and Cinnamon. They're real nice.  Stress release. They never say no."

"They're off in L.A. doing their thing with some movie star people.*

"Well, my friend, remember yesterday when we talked about investing big with our money?"

"Investing, yeah.  About the only thing that gets me excited...you know...at my age."

Two ladies swimming past look up and snicker.

Hampton looks down at them, and shrugs ."It's true, ladies. I'm not eighteen anymore."

"Age is just a date, you know," says one.  The other nods.

"Skippy's coming over, " says Newport.  "Hey," he points, "here he comes now...talk to us about Newport Hampton International."

A young man in Florsheim and Armani, carrying a thick briefcase, strides into the pool area.

The two ladies, middle thirties, micro bikinis, one Honey blond, one Hazel blond, raise their eyebrows.  They float over, elbows over the side, chins on their arms.  This could be interesting.

"So, Skippy," says Newport, "What do you got for us?"

"Hello, gentlemen," he says.
   
He pulls up a plastic deck chair, opens his briefcase, and pulls out single sheets of paper.  "Got what you wanted," he says.  "I spoke with some friends.  Did my due diligence.  Bottom line:  It's a bad idea."

"Geez," says Newport.  "That was quick.  Real sure about this?"

"In effect, you want to start up your own NASCAR Circuit. But I think your money's better off in the bank?"

Honey and Hazel look at each other, and smile. Skippy looks down at them, their bikinis, and adjusts his horn rim glasses.

"But," says Hampton.  "They got no real competition.  We can compete.  Just takes some money to get it started."

"Okay, guys.  You're unconcerned about cost.  You wanted to do more than just invest, you wanted to start something new.  At least 9 figures.  You suggested creating a new NASCAR.  Three year plan, build seven to ten new race courses, bring on TV coverage."

"Me and Newp were watching the 500," says Hampton. "We saw all the crowds, and Wa-La, all the advertising possibilities."

"You want the bottom line?" says Skipper

"Not a good idea?" says Hampton.

"It's a mistake."

Skipper offers copies of his one page analysis.  Hazel waves her hand.  Hampton shrugs. 

"Go ahead," he says. "Give the ladies a copy.  We'll get some independent corroboration."

Skippy hands one to each. They both flash their lashes up at him.  He breathes deeply.
 
"Okay," he says. "You're paying me by the hour, so here it is.  Without further Government intervention, NASCAR gets $100 million a year in tax breaks, and a substantial decrease in  ticket prices, they will cease profitability.  Getting involved would be financial folly.  Daytona has lost more than 40 percent of its ticket revenue, since 2005.

Advertising should make up for it," says  Newport.  "All those ads on the hoods, and those jump suits.  Don't even have to be car stuff either.  Tide, National Guard, M&M's, even GoHampton, our Internet Escort thing..."

Hazel raises her hand.   "Real sad to say, but when Dale Senior left us, he was the last of a long line of drivers who made NASCAR. It's not the same anymore.  We used to watch him on TV when I was real little, me and my Dad."

Hazel is right," say Honey. "Guys that drive today can't drive like the good ol' boys, The Allison brothers, David Pearson, Cale Yarborough, Neil Bonnett, Harry Gant.  They used to fight each other, remember?"

"That's your problem, guys," says Skippy.  "It's...how should I say it...Boring.  NASCAR is owned by the France Family.  They blame the economy, but there's more. Sky high ticket prices, cost of travel, getting a hotel.  Who can go anymore?"

Honey smiles up at the three men.  "I like car racing.  Used to anyway.  You got plate racing now, restricts the power, otherwise insurance cost are through the roof.  And those phantom debris cautions.  What is that?  It's not the same anymore."

They all look at Honey.

 "What?  I used to date this pit crew dude."

"Precisely," says Skippy.

Newport waves his hand.  "We'll just reduce the ticket price.  We’ll do discounts for folks, the four-family-packs and the six-family-packs.  Lunch included in the ticket.  We'll get fans. Lots."

Skippy looks down at the two ladies.  "Your right ladies. It's boring to watch, the drivers are boring, heck, even the sponsors are bland.  The drivers are look-alikes, clean shaven white guys in tracksuits, and their cars, they're interchangeable."

Skippy shakes his head. "Coke Zero 400 had 57,000 seats in the backstretch empty."

"NASCAR drives need to get crazy," says Honey.  "It's like cookie cutter.  Get Jerry Springer behind the wheel.  That'll bring in the fans."

Hampton raises his Mojito, and a man in a bow tie scurries over with a replacement.  "Maybe we could run shorter races, without all the rules?  That'd be more exciting."

"Stop Gap, sir." says Skippy.

"I got Hillbilly roots," says Hazel. "I get the biggest charge watching figure 8 Demolition Derby.  That's my favorite."  She giggles.  "Daytona, the last ten laps, only part that's any good.  $75 is too much to hear an announcer say,'And another left turn' 40 to 50 times in one afternoon.  No me."

"Yeah," says Honey.  "Let's bring back Richard Petty in one of his Plymouth Super Birds."

Hampton looks over at Newport.  "I like these ladies."

Hazel and Honey breast stroke to the shallow end, and wriggle out of the water.  They both put their towels around their necks, and walk toward the men.  Skippy, the gentleman that his is, tries to stand but his knees buckle at their sheer presence, a tad stunned, and he falls back into the chair.

"Sorry," he says.  "Ah, well, thank you ladies for your input."

Hampton and Newport beam.

Honey extends her hand.  "I'm Honey.  And this is Hazel.  We're on vacation.  We're kinda all alone."

"It's our pleasure, ladies," says Newport. "We should continue this discussion...over Champagne?  After all this is Las Vegas?"

"We'd be delighted." says Honey.

"So Skippy," says Newport.  "I think our money will be fine, sitting in the bank today.  Good job. You probably saved us a ton."

"Just doing my job, sir."  He stuffs the papers into his briefcase and waves as he leaves. "You all have a nice day."

"I'm sure we will," says Hampton. 

Honey takes Newport's arm, smiles and winks.  "Me and Hazel've been dying to try the dice table, but it's kinda scary..."

"Ladies," says Hampton.  "Please, let me stake you.  I know a little about this place.  Brunch is sounding terrific.  All of a sudden I'm feeling real lucky."

"Me too," say Honey and Hazel in unison.  They bump fists.

The four laugh, and arm in arm, stroll toward the elevators. Being with two nice ladies, who will help them spend their money?  Sounds exciting.  And isn't that really what they wanted all along?

................................................
Help comes from:

* NCAA Throws the Book at Cal Tech, StiffLeftJab.com,  (July 18,)
Autoracingdaily.com/news/nascar-sprint-cup,
bizjournals.com/charlotte/news/2010/11/04/nascar-hall-attendance-revenue-take.html,
thatsracin.com/2011/05/04/61498/speedway-motorsports-reports,
WikiPedia/NASCAR,  readabilityformulas.com

DANICA'S DIET FOR NASCAR FANS

I sit in my usual booth in the back, by the kitchen, at the Montana Galley.  It's that lull between breakfast and lunch, about 10:45 am.  I nurse a tall buttermilk.  Helena, the blond, and the owner, scootches in.
 
"Gorgeous," I say.

She smiles up at me, and touches her hair,  then stares at me. " What?"   And smiles again.

"The weather.  Outside.   It's gorgeous.  Too bad you have to work inside today.  Beautiful day."

"Oh, yeah, the weather," she says.  She kicks me under the table.

"Hey," I say.  "I can't control the weather."  I sip my buttermilk, and wink.

She holds a menu.  "Let me ask you a question.  Be serious.  I'm adding a Salmon Salad to my menu.  I'm going to call it The Danica Patrick.  What do you think, you're into sports."

"The what?  Danica Patrick?  You're kidding?"

 "What do you mean?  I read about her having this diet.  Diving 600 miles..."

"...Coke Cola 600..."

"...sure isn't easy.  You have to have a strict diet.  Not only so she'll fit into the car, but driving 600 miles, you have to stay alert.   She's does a 500 miler almost every week end."

"When she finishes," I say

She kicks me, again, harder, under the table.

"I read that article, about her diet.  Puff piece."

"What do mean puff piece?  It's Danica Patrick?  One of the biggest names in car racing.  She  comes out for healthy food, where I'm sure they sell tons of nachos, hot dogs,  Cokes,  Gummy Bears..."

"Puff," I say.

She takes a newspaper clipping  from the pocket of her pink apron.  She unfolds it.  "Listen to this...Puff, give me a break.  It says that Danica opened a stand at her last race.  Danica Fit.  You can get turkey and veggie burgers, grilled chicken sandwiches, a salad of asparagus, chic peas, and broccoli, a fruit cup with watermelon, pineapple, and strawberries.  Or how about a vegetable cup, trail mix, baked potato chips or energy bars.

"It did 30 percent better than the regular hot dog places there."

"It's because her name's on it?"

"Maybe, but...I can see the handwriting on the wall."

I look around at the walls.

"Stop," she says.  "People want what she selling."

"Sex is what she's selling, my dear.  Come on.  You get your picture out in front of this place..."

"I'm no Danica Patrick." she says.

"I like you better," I say. I tap her hand.  "Just lack the big money promotion.  She's 5-foot-2, 100-pound.   She has to works out to keeps her body in shape.  That's what guys want to see, regardless of how many races she ever wins.  She was 31st in Sunday's 600, but nobody cares.  She draws attentions, and fans.  That's all sponsors are look for.  Really, she's a non-factor."

"Non-factor?  Ninth in points her first season, and she sucks?  Are you that blind.  Of course they write about her.  She's the first female in car racing to do anything big.  You're going to surprised someday.  You just wait."

She looks back at the piece of newspaper.  "Men," she says.

"But, sweetheart?"

Another kick.

 "Listen to this." She reads again.  "On race weekends she'll eat grilled salmon or grilled chicken with brown rice with peppers and onions.  She also likes egg whites, oatmeal, salads, quinoa, cottage cheese and yogurt."

"Quinoa?  Yogurt?"  I shake my head.  "That's a hard sell.  You're never going to get NASCAR fans to eat that.  Come on, they eat what's affordable, what's quick, and what tastes good.  Nutrition is way down the list.  Like most of us."

Still reading, "During the race, she sips her own carbo protein drink.  She has to keep hydrated.  600 miles."

"Maybe it wasn't all that much a puff piece.  It's personalities rather than real substance that is written about.   Dale Earnhardt Junior, and Tim Tebow also get a lot of press.  And Albert Puljols lately, but he's getting better."

"You're upset 'cause she's a female and that challenges your insecure masculinity?

I lean back.  "Helena, my insecure masculinity.  You really think I'm insecure?"

"Okay," she says, and she squeezes my arm.  "Other guys that are insecure."  She put her head on my shoulder.

"Well," she says. "Danica is the only woman to ever win an Indy race and the only woman to ever lead the Indy 500.  She won a race in Japan, didn't she?"

"Well yeah.  The 2008 Indy Japan 300.  First woman to win.  It was raining hard, and when Marco Andretti's crashed in front of her..."

"She won, right?  So, she's a winner."

"But, how tough can it be to be a race driver?  Same as driving, just a little faster.   If she is the only thing NASCAR has to write about then they're in serious trouble."

"Everybody loves Danica.  I'm going to do this."  She looks at the menu.  "I'm adding the Danica Patrick Salad... a salmon salad...to the menu.  And if you don't like it, I suggest you don't order it.  You know it's good for you."

I take her hand.  "I'm giving you a hard time.  Danica is more than racing.  She's a celebrity.  And getting into health food is brilliant.  It's the wave of the future.  You know it.  It's what you do everyday.  Go with her.  Healthy food is the right thing to do."
 
"I know that's what I have to do more of."  She looks through the menu.  "Too much sugary, and fried foods...empty calories..."

"Still, you're the best thing about this place." I raise my buttermilk.  "By far."

She takes a deep breath.  Her eyes get big.  She folds her hands, and says, "Honey, I get off work at seven."

"I'm real sorry, lady.   I'm crazy busy tonight.  Guys are coming over.  We're going to try to break the Guinness Record on how many cans of Cheez Whiz we can down in an hour."

And as I sit back in the booth, I get another kick, hard, "Ouch," this one hurts, under the table.
...............................................
Help comes from:
sportingnews.com/nascar/feed/2012
askmen.com/celebs/women/models,
espn.go.com/espnw/more-sports/7984714/nascar-star-danica
WikiPedia/Danica Patrick, Google Images, SI.com,

RON ARTEST DID IT, WHY NOT ME?

A young lady in high heels, carries two Macys bags into Gasoline Alley at the B.P. Biloxi Motor Speedway.

"Mary Sue, where you been?"  The voice comes from under a bonnie blue stock car, The General Nathan Forrest.  "We got qualifying coming up in about half an hour."  He slides out, wiping his hands on a oily bonnie blue rag.

"Been shopping, what'd you think?.  Went to the Mall.  And that's not all. Oh, and I changed my name."

A  pin drops.  Or shall we say a lug nut?

"I've been thinking about this for a few months now and well, I went down and got it done.  Put in the application anyway.  They'll let me know in the mail.  It'll take about two weeks."

The man rolls out and stares up at her.  "What?  You changed your name?"  He blinks.  "What?"

"Yup," she says.  "No more Mary Sue Billingsley.  Branson, come on.  It's like that Lakers guy Ron Artest.  He's now Metta World Peace.  If he can do it, so can I."

Branson stands up, and kicks the dolly back under the car.

More lug nuts.

He rubs his forehead. "Tell me you didn't change it to something...crazy."  He leans against a workbench.  "Please, Mary Sue."  He breathes deeply.  "What have you done?"

"Branson, give me some credit here. I want to rid myself of my wild past.  You know, start new.  I 'm a rookie in the major leagues of NASCAR.  This Saturday I could be sitting on the pole in the 2012 Gerbers Baby Food Pascagoula 400."

"So," says Branson.  He takes a deep breath. "What did you change it to?"

"FlowerChild."  She smiles.

A bucket full of lug nuts.

 "What do you think?" she  says. "Hey, it's been on my mind.  And today I did it."

"What?  FlowerChild?  What?"  He loses his balance, and almost falls.

"Yup," she says.  "FlowerChild Free Food for All."

"Free Food for All?  You gotta be kidding.  Mary Sue?  What are you thinking?  FlowerChild Free Food for All?   You didn't?  Tell me you didn't?"

Branson looks out at the racecourse.  Others are qualifying. He looks at them, then stares at the top of the grandstands.

"But, Mary Sue," he says.  "What about your fans?  They know you as Mary Sue Billingsley."

"I'm not crazy."  She drops the bags on a bench, and snaps the top on a bottle of water.  "I want to leave my past in the past.  I was that crazy, mouthy broad, crazy with a Capital K, learned to drive running illegal...whatever....DUI's, that time in jail for aggravated assault.  I want to put that all in the past."

"You think that's what they want, Mary Sue..."

"It's FlowerChild."

"Okay, FlowerChild.   But, all that craziness in your past, that 's why they like you. They're your people.  They're not looking for any... FlowerChild.  And Free Food for All?  Where did that come from?"

A younger man enters the garage.  "'Sup guys.  We going to be in the front row this week?"

"Ask Mary Sue,  Oops I'm sorry.  FlowerChild Free Food for All."

"Who?" he says.  "What?"

"Me," she says.  "I changed my name.  I'm more patient now, laid back, not so crazy,  no more fighting in public.  I looked it up.  It's like John 3:3  I'm born again."  She smiles at  him.  "Ozark, it's still me.  Just a new name, that's all."

Branson looks at her.  "You were Miss Sorghum, and runner up Miss Texarkana.  You have that long blond hair every time you take off you helmet .  Best young female driver since Danica, Junior Dirt Track Champion 5 years running.  That's the Mary Sue they want.  They don't want a FlowerChild."

"Dick Trickle, now there's a name.  Don't tell him I said that."  Ozark laughs.

No," says FlowerChild.  She sips here water. "No, it's done.  No more Mary Sue Billingsley,   You know, when you think about it, Jesus would approve.  Give to the unfortunate, give to the poor. Nobody should go hungry.  How can that be bad?  That's a good thing, right?"
 
"I like it," says Ozark.  "We'll have large flowers painted all over the General Forrest."

"This isn't happening," says Branson.  "What about our sponsors?  Maybe if we were racing in San Francisco, or West L.A., maybe.  Mary Sue?  You can't be serious?"

"Branson, it's not like I quit driving.  It's what I do.  World Peace didn't quit basketball.   I'm still one of the best young drivers around, you know that."

"Every TV camera out there'll will be in here wanting interviews," says Ozark.  "I think it's kinda cool."

"Thank you."  She raises her water bottle.  "I like you, Ozark.
 
He blushes.

"We got sponsors, Mary Sue," says Branson.  "Winn-Dixie, Carolina Bank and Trust, Hilton Head Medical Center, British Petroleum, Biloxi WingStop, and I think Rush Limbaugh is...was... thinking about sponsoring the car.  But with the name FlowerChild?  I don't think any of them are into anything Free.  They should know about this.  See how they feel."

Branson pulls out his iPhone.

"I'll talk to them," says FlowerChild.

"No, I'll call the boss.  He'll know what to do."

His iPhone is ringing.

"Hello...Mr Montgomery?  This is Jasper.  Jasper Branson.  How you doing Sir...I know you're busy, but..."

He listens.

"I'm still here.  Yes, it's about Mary Sue...yes...Mary Sue...NO, No, she fine, she'll be qualifying in about half hour, it's well, you're not going to believe this.  Okay, okay, she's changed her name."

He listens.

"That's right.  Changed her name...yes sir..yes sir...FlowerChild.  That's right but there's more.  FlowerChild...Free Food for All."

He raises his eyebrows and holds the phone out at arms length.  He looks at FlowerChild,
then at Ozark, then closes his eyes.

FlowerChild smiles and sips her water.

"Sir...sir...that's right.  FlowerChild Free Food for All.  Yup...yup...yes sir."

His head down, he listens.  "Yes...yes...Yes sir, I'll tell her.  Yes, okay...yes sir.   Okay I'll tell her."

He stuffs his phone back into his pocket, and stares out at the top of the grandstands again.

"So?" she asks.

"I think I heard, Has she lost her mind, yelled at least five times, but here it is.  The next three races.  You're a rookie, so they're looking for results.  But they didn't seem all that nervous.  Matter of fact, they thought something like this would get us a ton of publicity."

"Told ya," says Ozark.

"That's how I wanted it to be." she says.
 
Branson stares at Ozark.  "We live and die with our sponsors.  They won't like anybody changing their name.  FlowerChild, no way."

"Scott Speed," says Ozark.  "You think that's his real name?  Don't tell him I said this, but I have my suspicions."

"I gotta get ready," says FlowerChild.  "It's my new life.  Free distribution of food, so nobody goes hungry.  I hate that feeling.  Jesus was poor all of his life. He would agree, I'm sure.   Guys, it's the right thing to do.  If my fans or my sponsors can't see that, well, so be it.  Now I gotta get ready to qualify."

Ozark laughs.  "Branson, relax. Come on, if anybody can pull this off, it's Miss Mary Sue. I think, there's going to be a whole new energy around here. And I can feel it already."   He leans back and gives a rebel yell. 

Branson stands there and rubs his forehead with an oily bonnie blue rag.
...................................

Help comes from:
washingtonpost.com/blogs/religious-right-now
wfp.org/hunger
Wikipedia/RonArtest, MettaWorldPeace,
espn.go.com/racing/nascar/
readabilityformulas.com