A nice beauty shot of Bucky from this past weekend.
So, the race. Michael Schumacher's last appearance in Formula One. The Race.
When the Williams boys took each other out (or rather, Rosberg took out Webber, sigh) I had the ominous feeling that it would be that kind of race. When Schumi began his post-safety car charge up the field, I was a hopeful -- I'm a sentimentalist; I wanted him to go out with that eigth title -- but then came the tire puncture and the long pit stop and the seventeenth place and the possibility of being lapped by Massa. Fourth place was respectable; admirable. The pass on Kimi was astounding. He went out as close to on top as circumstances allowed, but still . . .
"Bernie pushed the yellow button on his fuel pump."
"You think?"
"Yeah. A red button kablammo would have been too suspicious, and he couldn't just let the #1 red car go to the front of the grid, so he had to play it all cool, see? Like a dog just casually carrying around his leash. A yellow button incident would make it interesting. Just interesting enough. Get the ratings, boost the ad revenue. Except Bernie didn't anticipate Schumi running over Fisi's front wing, but it still played right into his hands. Also, I'm convinced that in addition to the red/yellow button conspiracy, Bernie's also into numerology and prefered the number seven to the number eight and the hell with what Michael wanted."
"It's a little tangled up in that head of yours isn't it?"
"I'm telling you, it was the yellow button of fiddling, just pressed on qualifying."
"Are we still watching?"
"Is Massa still sambaing with eighteen dozen half-dressed Brazilian hotties?"
"Okay, then."
So, the race. Michael Schumacher's last appearance in Formula One. The Race.
When the Williams boys took each other out (or rather, Rosberg took out Webber, sigh) I had the ominous feeling that it would be that kind of race. When Schumi began his post-safety car charge up the field, I was a hopeful -- I'm a sentimentalist; I wanted him to go out with that eigth title -- but then came the tire puncture and the long pit stop and the seventeenth place and the possibility of being lapped by Massa. Fourth place was respectable; admirable. The pass on Kimi was astounding. He went out as close to on top as circumstances allowed, but still . . .
"Bernie pushed the yellow button on his fuel pump."
"You think?"
"Yeah. A red button kablammo would have been too suspicious, and he couldn't just let the #1 red car go to the front of the grid, so he had to play it all cool, see? Like a dog just casually carrying around his leash. A yellow button incident would make it interesting. Just interesting enough. Get the ratings, boost the ad revenue. Except Bernie didn't anticipate Schumi running over Fisi's front wing, but it still played right into his hands. Also, I'm convinced that in addition to the red/yellow button conspiracy, Bernie's also into numerology and prefered the number seven to the number eight and the hell with what Michael wanted."
"It's a little tangled up in that head of yours isn't it?"
"I'm telling you, it was the yellow button of fiddling, just pressed on qualifying."
"Are we still watching?"
"Is Massa still sambaing with eighteen dozen half-dressed Brazilian hotties?"
"Okay, then."
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