Dear Bobby Labonte and other people looking for BL’s cojones,

I write to inform you that the collection I have started up to sponsor your racecar might be big enough to cover some of your funeral expenses.  In particular, I was thinking of a nice headstone engraved with the words “Cheerios, Ask.com, DLP.”  Like it?  I knew you would.

Dude, have you lost your balls?  As a former fan of yours I thought I watched it all fall apart, the t-shirts that went downhill, the online promotions no one was interested in, and the legendary number you gave up without a thought.  You made it to Hall of Fame Racing, but the Hall of Fame seems less likely than ever.  You’ve sunk even lower than I thought a man who wears a one-piece outfit to work could go. 

Case in point: This is something you actually said.  These words came out of your mouth, as reported by ESPN: “This is a move that will be beneficial to Yates Racing surviving this difficult economic time.  Of course, I’m disappointed that the sponsorship environment is so challenging right now, but I intend to make the most out of the remaining races that I’m behind the wheel for Ask.com, DLP and Hall of Fame Racing.”

Way to write your own elegy, Bobby.  Read between the lines there, and what you really said is, “I am old, tired, and a giant pussy.”  The environment is challenging?  Last time I looked, Dale Earnhardt, Jr. and you had won the same number of races this year, but Dale Jr. drops his turds in a solid gold toilet. 

Yes, this is an intervention.  Somebody named Erik Darnell is cleaning your diminuitive, balding clock.  You got pushed out of your ride by a company called Academy Sports and Camping.  Your brother Terry walks ten feet behind you when you go to the mall together.  It’s bad.

We need to man up in a big way – so I am making an equally big announcement today: I am back on board the number 96 bandwagon.  Let’s do this, and let’s get started today.

Wherever you are when you get this message, drop what you are doing (once you are done reading this letter) and say out loud, “My name is Bobby Motherfucking Labonte, and I am a NASCAR Champion.”  This is called your mantra, and you need to repeat it often and out loud: when you are sleeping, when you sign autographs, while other people are praying before a meal.

Once you have learned you mantra, we need some kind of press hit – so get in your car, drive to the closest grocery store, destroy a Cheerios display, urinate on it, and burn rubber in the parking lot.  That ought to do it.

Next, we need to undo that bad press with something good and positive.  I’m thinking you cut your hair for Locks of Love.  No, not the hair on your head, buddy, that would never work.  I’m talking about your chest hair.  Yep, surrender that prized possession that is still the legend of trailer parks from Tallahoosie to Birch Branch and give some poor redneck the confidence to go forth and conquer some poontang.

Finally, you need to come over and have a beer.  Not a white wine spritzer or an Honest Tea.  A beer from a can.  I’m serious.  Show the world you are reconnecting with your fans.  And I am once again a fan..  You need me, Bobby Labonte, and in some weird non-homosexual kind of way, I need you, too.  Let’s party like it’s 2000 again.  Do it for the money.  Do it for your fan.  Do it for yourself.

And if you ever, ever blame your bullshit on the economy again, I am going to walk down to pit road, so help me, and I am going to kick the ever-living shit out of you.  Your crew would probably help me, at this point.  But that’s tough love, and that’s what I’m talking about.

Time to sack up,

Your #1 Fan