Every once in a while, something is publicized that, when you read it, leaves you scratching you head (or other parts of your anatomy) wondering – just where the heck did that come from? Such is the case with the recent Rolling Stone article featuring Tony Stewart.
Normally, I never would have even read the article because, in the grand scheme of things, I really don’t care. However, after hearing other members of the staff here at Frontstretch going on about it around the virtual office’s virtual water cooler, I had to take a look for myself.
I will admit right now that the first thought that crossed my mind as I was reading it was how poorly it was written. I haven’t won any Pulitzer Prizes or anything but, damn! That was sad! If that is the quality of writing that is coming from a long respected rag such as Rolling Stone, the owners of Frontstretch and I will be re-negotiating my contract real soon! Among some of the blatant guffaws that jumped out at me were the author’s assertions that us rednecks come to a track weeks in advance of a race, no driver is assailed with as much hate as Stewart during driver introductions, and the observance that smoke from a “celebratory rubber burn” is a greasy black color.
But aside from the obvious technical flaws of the article, my second thought was – why would Stewart go out of his way to expose his own personal flaws in such a manner?
Now, some will say that the article was a great piece of literature that showed the “true” personality of the man known as “Smoke,” but do we need to know everything about him? Did we really need to know that he is such a womanizer that, according to Tony, “My parents are afraid my dick’s gonna rot off?” Or that upon realizing his “girlfriend” wasn’t the “one” that “Oh, we had to fire her?” What are you trying to say, Tony? You had to pay the girl to be your girlfriend?
Yes, Stewart is a talented, rich young bachelor. His skill at racing just about anything that has wheels is undisputed. His fiery disposition and outspokenness is well documented; but really, Tony, did we really need to learn that you also have no shame?
I, as most everyone else on the planet (I say “most” because I have yet to meet everyone on the planet), have skeletons in my closet, too. I admit that I like doughnuts, fights, and women (back off ladies, I’m taken!), but when the time comes that I finally get my picture on the cover of the Rolling Stone, I want to be able to buy five copies for my mother… without her being ashamed!
I wonder how many copies Tony bought his mom.
Stay off the wall,
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