fried chicken and toasted rotten...

I don't want to be a Tour commentator but this is too funny: Rasmussen yanked from the tour. I think the poor bastard was just afraid of crashing during Saturday's time trial.

If I had to pick one for my team, I'd still take Vino over the Chicken. I hated that fucker from the start, never showing any emotion after a stage win this year... you could tell he was a frigging robot. Plus he never gave the podium girls enough lovin'.

Hills from Whore Island tonight. That ride is like a turd sandwich entree after the pain appetizer of Tuesday Night Titans. I was off the back on EVERY climb. My legs hurt a lot.

An open letter to the Landenberg wall:

I hate you. Fuck off.

Love, Robert

Hauling my fat ass over steep hills is obviously not going to feel good. Sometimes I wonder why I intentionally sign up to hurt so much. I know it's not that hard for everyone, and I know I'm a sissy for complaining about 1.5 hours of hills... But sometimes I'm on the Neighborhood Climb and I'm asking myself: "Why not just skip this and have a cold beer instead?"

Then I remember that the cold beer will still be waiting for me when I finish. Plus I ate three cookies at that work meeting today. Gotta love fat guilt.

No Thanks!

Non-stop for a week now I've been listening to this box set of "early punk" - No Thanks! It rocks. I got a copy of it from a friend of mine and was skeptical at first. But it is solid. If you'd like a listen, just ask.

Preparing for the 12 hours of Cranky Monkey, last night was the perfect preparation. Dinner with the brethren of F. Zed Kappa, followed by a few beers with Peaches and El Presidente, and the fine eye-candy attending the East End Cafe last night.

I have to apologize to the parents at the table next to ours at dinner. Your kids now know that the stork didn't bring 'em along. Big deal though, better off not lying to your kids anyway. Now it's time for some breakfast at the good old Post House.