Most cars get a little nervy when some pimply-faced teenager gets into the drivers seat with an I’m-about-to-do-something-stupid grin on his face, but not me. I’m the No. 18 Interstate Batteries car, and my pimply-faced teenage driver is Kyle Busch. He gets that look nearly every day.

Man, we have some good times out on the track together.Kyle and I do more sliding around than a Whopper patty on a bun with extra mayo. And if anyone ever gives us any guff, well, I fully expect my nose to be stuck up under that guy’s bumper like I’m a dog sniffing another dog’s butt. Kyle even seems to know that my favorite color is orange, and he takes advantage of every opportunity to put a little orange paint on me when we’re steaming by Tony Stewart.

After a wreck, you see Kyle Busch climb out of the window and curse a little bit, sure, but what you do NOT hear is me saying “WHOOOO-EEEEEE! Let’s do that again!”

I’m never so proud as when Kyle and I are standing in victory lane and Kyle gives me a little splash of Coca-Cola as a reward for all my hard work. He knows how much I love soft drinks! We’re celebrating and having a great time getting out picture taken, and Kyle’s telling everyone what a great car I am. Everything is right in the world.

Of course, it’s not long after that before those NASCAR officials show up. Those goons take me away from Kyle Busch and poke and prod me with every little tool in their belt. Those guys even check my oil. I hate that. You wouldn’t believe how those creeps get off on playing doctor with me.

But I can take it. I’m as tough as Kyle is skinny. It’s never long until we are reunited, testing somewhere and getting ready to start another violent, irresponsible, downright dangerous adventure.