Don't ask don't tell

AAAAAH. When the said he was guilty of using testosterone gel, they meant....GOTCHA.

UR-LAME

I cannot stand stupid vanity plates. Can't stand them. And whats more, the absolute champions of stupid vanity plates are without question the ones that simply tell you what any moron can already gather by looking at your car, which they can't possibly not be doing if they're looking at your stupid plate to begin with.

I usually don't have the time or coordination to take a photo of these gems while I'm buzzing down the highway, but last night I did.


What the hell is your problem? I can't even begin to believe that your brain functions consistently enough for you to actually operate a motor vehicle. You spent double what it costs for a normal plate to declare to all the world "SAAB9-3". Well congratulations; you're an idiot. Hey listen, next time you're at the DMV, make sure you corner the market on PTCRUZR and MYF150. Don't let those get away.

Burned

Two years ago, I didn't even have a bike. Lance Armstrong's charge through the Pyrenees was so inspiring that I went to the gym one week and just hammered on one of the LifeCycles. At that point I knew that as soon as I could afford one, I'd get a bike.

One year ago, I finally had a bike, and moved by the epic rides of Floyd Landis, I banged out emotionally charged rides of my own during July. Then the Landis doping bullshit surfaced. And those rides I did now felt disgusting. And I wondered why I was riding at all, considering all or most of my new-found riding heroes were essentially cheaters. But I hung onto the thread that a few of my favorite guys were still clean.

This year, I was Rasmussen's biggest supporter. The heroic little Rasumussen; all 130 pounds of him, one of the greatest climbers the tour has ever seen. And now leading the tour, who more deserving. As I charged up Washington in July, the thought of his performances factored into a very complicated equation of motivation that propelled me up the mountain. But just like last year, the joke's on me.

So now what.

I race regularly with guys who could be/are/have been professional riders. These are definitely a different breed of human being. They're not built like me, or like most people you or I know. Their lung capacities are ridiculous. They have strength in their legs that I wonder if, in my lifetime, I could ever begin to see. They can do anything I can do on a bike in half the time.

So for something as completely ridiculous as the 2000+ mile Tour de France, I can see how a collection of 189 of the these kinds of people - and not just any of them, but 189 of the best and most talented - could realistically pull of the kind of performances they do. It seems reasonable to me. It's not 189 riders like me. It's 189 hand-picked cycling superstars.

But now they're 189 frauds, until somehow proven otherwise. Even Lance, on any given day, I get wishy-washy about. The last person on earth that is supposed to be questionable. It all sucks. There's just no other word for it. None of it seems real anymore, and it sucks.

It sucks for me, was out of cycling for so long, and then found so many reasons to get back in. It sucks for anyone who's thinking about getting into the sport for the first time. It sucks for the people barely hanging on, who need but the slightest reason not to do it anymore. And it sucks for anyone who may have actually done something in the sport with any legitimacy. Everything is ruined right now.

It sucks. Somebody fix it.

One of the greatest commercials ever made

Rarely have I been so impressed with a commercial. So much so that I put it on YouTube all by myself just to share it with you. Masterful, understated brilliance.

Crapsody in Brown, Second Movement

Okay this is just getting ridiculous. Today I'm pissing like a horse because I'm drinking everything I can get my hands on. Incidentally, have you ever seen a horse take a leak? I have, and it's impressive. It's like a garden hose at full blast, only the hose is full of smelly horse piss.

So one of my trips to the office potty today finds me in the company of some unknown gentleman in the handistall. I'm only here for the quick trip, so I do my thing, and start to wash up.

Something seems strange to me, because the chap on the crapper is extremely quiet. Quiet like Anne Frank-hiding-from-the-Nazis quiet. And not only is he quiet, but there's no telltale "I've been here for a while and I'm basking in the afterglow" post-potty-partum odor. It's odd. I mean, I don't even here him tapping away at a BlackBerry, or hear the intermittent rustling of a WSJ. The air is tense.

And I know immediately what's going on. He's holding out. Holding out for cover. Holding out for me to give him some audio cover, or for me to leave altogether. Dude, if you have to let it fly, that's what we're all here for; for crise sakes don't kill yourself, just take a sh*t already. I can't put a face with the sound, because guess what. You're behind a toilet partition. I mean, sure I just looked at your shoes and I saw that you have a government contractor badge on your belt so I know for sure you work in my office but it's too far away to read or make out the photo so you're safe. Just do it. Solid advice in all affairs - so get on with it.

But I want to test my theory at least. So I fire up the electric hand dryer. Within milliseconds, a shameless but timid crapsplosion echoes throughout the men's room. Intrigued, I stop for a few moments, then fire up the dryer again.

And it's like I'm conducting the most disgusting symphony ever conceived; on cue, Mr. Shittypants on the bass tuba delivers another salvo. Wanting no further part of this, I hastily dry off and make for the door.

Listen, the Romans took craps right next to each other; they didn't even care. For them it was probably awesome and the whole family lined up and did their business. Hell, they probably talked shop the whole time and worked on their technique. All I'm saying is that society has deep roots in the whole multi-user bathroom idea, so get the hell over it and take your dump.