Note: With the Carolina Panthers off to a disappointing 0-2 start, Page 2 enlisted Carolina native Ricky Bobby to pen a guest column about his favorite NFL franchise.

Awright now, listen up cuz I ain't got all day: the little twerpy fella who normally writes this column took the dang week off, probably to go to France or someothersomesuch state and the folks at ESPN (that's Spanish for e-s-p-n if y'all didn't already know) asked me to fill in with a column on all the wild hysteria surrounding the 0-2 start of my beloved Carolina Panthers down here in God's country.

Normally I don't go for such stuff. I don't write so great, for starters. But that never seemed to bother them turds at Page 2 before. Plus, you know, once Cal gets back from his photo shoot we'll be busy getting the Wonder Bread team back up and running and ready for Dover this weekend.

But I love me some Panthers, don't care what their record is. Most of those guys live in my kick-ass mega-deluxe neighborhood out here by the lake and they've been real cool about my pet cougar roaming free on my jet ski and eating their cats and bunnies and all. So it pains me when folks round the country start running their mouth 'bout my Cats, saying they're one super-sized sorry sack-a-losers.

Cuz it just ain't true. It ain't.

How do I know? Shoot man, I'm Ricky Bobby. El Diablo.

You've seen my life story in "Talladega Nights: The Ballad of Ricky Bobby." (And if you haven't this column's gonna seem dumber than a velvet painting of a dolphin and a whale getting it on. I do certainly apologize for that.) All you need to know is this: plain and simple, I'm the best there is. I'm a big hairy American winning machine, you know?

And I've always believed in three things: Going fast, Fig Newtons, my smoking hot ex-wife Carley, Highlander the movie, Waffle House, and my life's motto, If You Ain't First You're Last.

Yeah, I know that's six, not three like I said, but you shut your pie hole cuz I look like Ben Roethlisberger and that makes me an expert on the NFL. And if you say it don't well I'll UPS my boys, Walker and Texas Ranger, right to your dang front door and they'll pound you like a pack of crazed spider monkeys jacked up on the Mountain Dew.

You done? Yeah, thought so.

SHAKE-N-BAKE, baby. Yeah.

Hold up. Close your eyes, concentrate.

SHAKE-N-BAKE.

(Believe it. That just happened. In writing no less.)

What I mean is this: I'm Ricky Bobby. I go fast. I win. Period. And I don't associate with losers. So these Cats just gotta be okay. Even their coach, that silver-haired Johnny Fox fella (best stage name I've heard since Mike Honcho) he says this is nothing more than a little old slump. And anybody who saw me when Jean Girard forced me outta my ride and left me delivering pizzas on a borrowed bike, well, you know I know that you know I know a little something about slumps.

They can be tougher to figure than a NASCAR rulebook, assuming one actually exists, that is. But I fixed that problem and I can fix the Panthers, with one word -- speed. Just like Eleanor Roosevelt said in 1936: America is all about speed. Hot, nasty, badass speed.

Problem is, Caroliner's got plenty o' big dudes but not enough hot nasty speed. I mean Kris Jenkins? Son, that man is almost as big as Tony Stewart. And he hits. Hard. He'll hit ya so hard you'll be running around Bank O'Merica Stadium in yer tighty whities yelling, "Help me Tom Cruise! Help me Oprah Winfrey!"

To be honest, only guy I don't care for on that defense is that Chris Gamble, the one who threw that punt-pass against Minnesota. Man what was he thinking? With all due respect (and, according to the Geneva Conventions I can say anything I want so long as I preface it with that phrase) that was dumber than Billy Volek trying to double-cross Jeff Fisher.

I mean, you're the Cats and you travel all the way up to Canada only to lose a game like that? That's the dumbest thing I heard of since Cal took up modeling while I was at community college or covering your windshield with a giant Fig Newton sticker or starting Chris Simms without a decent backup, or, shoot, Jean Girard and his husband retiring to Stockholm to create a currency for cats and dogs to use.

Man, forget that. Learning to win in the NFL again is just like learning to go fast again in a race car. So what the Cougars -- 'scuse me -- what the Panthers need is to get that nasty Steve Smith and all his El Diablo speed back on the field. And I saw him on the news yesterday and he was cutting and running fine, just fine.

But just to be safe let's meditate awhile on that injury of his. Cal likes to think of Smith as an ice dancer, dressed in an all-white jumpsuit or as a mischievous badger or with eagles' wings playing lead guitarist for Lynyrd Skynyrd. Not me. I like to think of him at Santa Monica Community College or playing with a broken neck at Utah or when he made that catch in St. Louis to beat the Rams in the playoffs or even when he was a bit younger living in California. Helps me concentrate.

Dear tiny, infant, 8-pound 6-ounce little baby Steve Smith, all dressed in your golden fleece diapers, not even spoken a word yet, watching your little Baby Einstein tapes with the colors and shapes and whatnot, please think ahead to when you're an all-pro wideout and you account for 45 percent of your team's offense and that team is favored to win the Super Bowl but starts 0-2, please, at that moment, please little baby Steve Smith all warm and snuggly in your footie pajamas, please remember not to run so fast that you blow out your hammy like a defective Goodyear …

… Oh and P.S., by binding contractual agreement I am obligated to mention POWERade in all my, you know, thoughts and such, and so may I just say we all eagerly await the release of the new flavor Blue Mystique Spring. Ahmen.

There, all done. Now the Cats can get a little Shake-n-Jake going again. And if that don't work on that hammy, well, I'll be forced to have Lucius stick a knife in it and cut around all the bad meat.

I guess what I'm saying is, you don't need to be all book learned and read stuff like L'Entranger (unless you're a big fan of the Cure or something) to know that it all comes down to Smitty. A healthy Steve Smith will draw double coverage and open things up for Keyshawn Johnson on third downs where the Panthers are at something like 19.2 conversion percentage (kinda like my SATs) and that would keep teams from loading the box with an extra safety to stuff the Cats' truly awesome new rookie running back DeAngelo Williams.

Well, come to think of it, I guess they also need Jordan Gross getting comfortable protecting Jake's blindside on the left now with Travelle Wharton out and the defense needs to get used to playing without their quarterback Dan Morgan. But that's it. I think.

If they take care o' that, my Cats will be right back in the chase, so to speak.

Caroliner slingshot: engaged.

You taste that? Mmm. That tastes like a Panthers playoff berth. Just needed a little Ricky Bobby shake-n-bake and a quick reheat in the microwave's all. Man that tastes good. Tastes like hot, nasty speed. Tastes like Lombardi … like … America.

Yeah, I know, what can I say? You're all sitting there, staring at the computer stunned by my good looks, writing skills and football knowledge.

It's real nice, ain't it?

I got it at Target.

It was on sale.

David Fleming is a senior writer for ESPN The Magazine. His first book was "Noah's Rainbow: a Father's Emotional Journey from the Death of his Son to the Birth of his Daughter". His next book, based on the controversial 1925 NFL Pottsville Maroons (ESPN Books 2007) has been optioned as a movie by Sentinel Entertainment. Contact him at Dave.Fleming@espn3.com