With NASCAR season now in full swing, Budweiser sales in the South have reason dramatically once again. Every man, woman and child, who is missing a tooth, owns two or more 'coon hounds or uses STP as a hair care product, is glued to the television on Sunday afternoons watching motorized billboards circle a paved oval track.

Since many of the fans live on dirt roads, those made of asphalt are quite intriguing in their own right. However, the bond Southerners have with this sport is due more to tradition than to road surface. Many of them witnessed or heard tell of an ancestor who helped create stock car racing by running 'shine down back roads with the revenuers in hot pursuit.

Today NASCAR fans are much more likely to do jail time for the alcohol inside their body than that which is hidden in the trunk of the car. The runnin' of 'shine has long ago passed, relegating your average redneck to the role of spectator. Every fan has his or her own favorite and most hated driver. Reasons for cheering or booing a racer are quite diverse. They range from the type of car, Chevrolet, Ford or Pontiac, to an incident that occurred at Rockingham, Atlanta or Charlotte back in '92 to the driver's hometown (which makes Jeff Gordon, a born and bred Yankee, an interesting favorite for Confederate flag waving North Carolinians).

Of course, as with any activity involving men and couches, beer is an essential component to NASCAR spectatorship. Keeping with the Southern value of a cheap high, the malt beverages of choice are mass-produced American Lagers (Budweiser, Busch, Milwaukee's Best, etc.). That's why they named the racing undercard to NASCAR the Busch Grand National rather than the Sam Adams Sprint.

On Sunday, just after noon, the grocery stores are packed with NASCAR paraphernalia clad fans carrying out these weak, but effectively buzz producing, Wahoo! lubricants by the case. All muttering to friends about the strength of pit crews, starting positions and something called a Dick Trickle (The Slayer is not certain what that is, but believes it must have something to do with the car sponsored by Trojan condoms).

Obviously, any sport that involves the mundanality of watching grown men in cars drive around in circles (something he could witness on any Wilmington street by following a car with Ohio plates) and the palate anesthetizing flavor of American Lagers is not The Slayer's pint of Porter. Therefore, as you must already know, this column deals with neither of these subjects directly.

This commentary is about The Slayer's friend, Jimmy Ray Oxendine. Jimmy, a born and raised North Carolinian, enjoys NASCAR races as much as the next share cropper's son. However, he takes a different approach to his fan participation. You see, Jimmy is a renaissance redneck. He knows the difference between a Manet and a velvet Elvis. He doesn't think Puccini is a new Mueller's pasta shaped like a small dog. He even refers to the conflict between the North and the South as the Civil War; rather than the War of Northern Aggression.

In keeping with his relatively learned manner, Jimmy does not consume large quantities of American Lager during a NASCAR race. He prefers to sup of the nectar of a fine microbrew or import while watching souped up instruments of death going nowhere fast. Though his malt beverage choice has made him the target of much mindless ribbing, Jimmy continues to bring his own craft brews to racing throw-downs.

As if walking into a crowd of NASCAR revelers carrying a mere six-pack of Leinenkugel's Big Butt Bock is not enough to bring about a few askance glances, Jimmy compounds this break in protocol by also referring to racing situations in beer terms. Unfortunately, due to his inability to follow the lead of American Public Schools by dumbing-down, Jimmy has been kicked out a few stock car soirees because he did not conform to NASCAR norms.

Since watching racing alone is much like being the only witness to an execution (you can feel the electricity, but it doesn't pack the same punch) The Slayer invites Jimmy over to watch the race when he is exiled from a party. Having done this on several occasions, he has had a chance to witness Jimmy's malt metaphors first hand. The Slayer will never look at NASCAR racing quite the same.

To best appreciate Jimmy's colorful beer infused descriptions of a race, one really needs to hear it for themselves. Nonetheless, The Slayer will try to give you a feel for Jimmy's unique commentary by giving you examples of his race verbage taken from the last event they watched together.

As Jimmy saw the camera pan over the track somewhere in You-ain't- from-ėround- here-are-you-boy, Virginia or North Carolina, he said, Woowee, the banks on those turns are steeper than the price of Lindeman's Peche at a fu-fu wine store. Noticing the size of the crowd, he continued, Why, there are more people in that crown than bubbles in a good Hefeweiss.

When the cars finally took the track and the talking head announcers had some visual backup, Jimmy commented, That pace car reminds me that I better slow down on my drinkin'. I've only got four Wild Goose IPA left. Once those are gone, I'll be like a sponsorless driver who just wrecked his only car; too poor to purchase the means to quench my desire.

As the race continued, so did Jimmy's brew metaphors and analogies. Of one driver, The Slayer thinks it was Dale Jarret, Jimmy commented, He's what I call a ėGuinness driver', silky smooth with a good head. When Mark Martin deftly maneuvered his car around the race's first wreck, Jimmy shouted, Did you see that? He turned that car with the crispness of a Czech Pilsner served at 43 degrees.

Jimmy, a true NASCAR aficionado, also observed, These guys suck up more draft than three hundred pound man eating jalepenos by the keg. Of pit stops, he remarked, Those boys in the pit crew are as brave as the people who drank my last homebrewed beer. As the race drew to a close, Mark Martin, Terry Labonte and Dale Ernhardt came out of the fourth turn three abreast. Jimmy, a Terry Labonte fan, screamed at the electronic window, Come on, Terry! Pass them like a bowl of beer nuts!

Alas, Terry Labonte came in third. Waxing philosophic about the outcome, Jimmy eased back with his last Wild Goose IPA and said, Sometimes, when you reach the end of a hard day's work, you find your wife drinking the last Hefeweiss in the house.

Jimmy certainly does have a way with words. The Slayer enjoys it when he visits. Its refreshing to find a redneck with enough sense to drink microbrews. Jimmy Ray Oxendine, The Renaissance Redneck, is a complex individual trapped in a simple man's world. Or, as he'd say, A Belgian Lambic in a Budweiser bottle.