Dear Bobby Labonte and the People Responsible for This Colossal F-Up,

I haven’t dropped a gold-crusted nugget of advice that you haven’t flat out ignored, rejected, or put up on that dusty shelf along with your 2002 Martinsville trophy.  In short, I hope you’re happy.

Maybe if you had heeded my good counsel you would have a few things in your pocket right now I have always felt are integral to being successful in Cup racing: an owner, a sponsor, and at least a single shred of self-respect.  Mr. Labonte, even I walk around with a sizable pinch of self-respect wedged between my lip and my gums.  You might think that the loss of the famed 43 number, the absence of the Cheerios brand from your hood, and the sad split with Richard Petty might be personal problems for you — but these sad facts deeply affect your legions of fans as well.

Particularly the tattooed fans.

I might note at this point in my missive that I still have not figured out who is going to pay for the removal or modifications of my several Bobby Labonte-related tattoos.  My ink consultant tells me that the only other number you can take on that will enable him to work his magic is the 48 — so I would urge you to get started on that right away.  As far as Cheerios is concerned, I’m screwed.  My left arm is going to look like a dimpled, flabby cereal box for ever.  And the only thing he can do with the Richard Petty tattoo is turn it into a scrotum with sunglasses. 

I don’t know if you are aware, Mr. Labonte, but the only grown-ass man who gets paid to wear blue-and-yellow garb with a breakfast cereal on it is YOU.  I have to shell out hard-earned money for the privilege to advertise for breakfast cereal.  (It’s probably a fair arrangement since wedging a 300-pound redneck into a dirty Cheerios t-shirt doesn’t do the company any favors.)

Might I also add that this will be the very last year for my blue and yellow Bobby Labonte Christmas tree.  Yep — I’m the one who bought all those ornaments from NASCAR.com, and lovingly put them away in their original boxes in March once Christmas was over and it was time to set fire to my Scotch pine in the back yard.  The way I see it, Christmas 2009 is very much in jeopardy in the Bobby Labonte Fan For Life household.

And finally, I might add that my VCR is starting to wear out, and since that is the only audio visual format in which any of your victories is preserved I am SOL for watching you take the checkers, even in a nostalgic sort of way.

Might I suggest a solution to all of our troubles?  Bobby Labonte, it would seem to me, needs to march his butt to Washington DC and get in on the auto bailout.  All this money for Chrysler and not a nickel for my favorite Dodge Charger?  Phooey.  Stick your hand out, Mr. Labonte — they are giving race teams away up there in the Union’s capital.

One more suggestion?  Win a race, tough guy!  The Bobby Labonte I struggle to not think about when I’m lonely late at night could win Daytona in a roll cage strapped to an engine and four dinner plates.  Now that you’ve got that has-been Petty off your back and dropped 64 rear tire carriers and the ass-wipe who won’t answer my e-mail, it’s time to shine, baby.  Just like Wall Street jumps when a good company lays off a bunch of guys like me, your stock is rising.

Mr. Labonte, this is the kind of momentum I have been waiting on for five long seasons.  Don’t disappoint me.  You’ll keep ignoring me, I am certain.  But I am even more certain of the fact that I will keep drinking whiskey and giving you the best ideas my feeble mind has to offer.

Your fan,

Bobby Labonte Fan For Life!!!!