Still basking in the glow of President’s Day (by far my favorite of all the holidays) I am struggling to put proverbial pen to paper today, not because there’s a lack on inspiration, or motivation to do so mind you, but rather because I am suffering from a rather severe case of pantaloon and wooden teeth withdrawal;
Eat your heart out, douchebag Tea Partiers.
Just like Alcoholics love St. Patrick’s Day, and co-workers love Bring-Your-Hot-Daughter-To-Work Day, I love President’s Day. It gives me a chance to reflect on the hard work that this big elementary school’s principal does on a daily basis and makes me glad I’m not him. Sure, flying around in your own plane would be sweet, or in Ronald Reagan’s case, mentioning that you like Jelly Bellys and then being presented with a life time’s supply, but the trade off would still be sorely imbalanced.
This year however, for the most part I enjoyed my President’s day from behind a thin veil of hangover. You see, as I mentioned on Monday, the proprietors of Ye Olde Soil Saloon lit the fuse for yet another go around. This time it was for their three year anniversary, and with such cause to celebrate, all stops were pulled.
The break down of this event was simply that for each of the six laps the competitors completed, either a cup of beer was to be consumed, or if a short cut was taken, a shot of whisky. The course was a pretzel knot of single and double track winding through San Francisco’s Golden Gate Park and with what I would estimate to be four to five dozen competitors, an epic battle was about to be waged.
Photos courtesy of Pamela Palma.
The Shitbike was all tuned up (I adjusted one of the brake pads) and ready to rumble as I bounced and creaked around the staging area. Just before the staring shot rang out, I yelled ‘GO’ and stole the holeshot from everyone. However, upon mounting my steed at speed, I cocked the seat so it was at a severe angle, pointing directly upwards into my man bits.
Then, just as I was wrestling to gain the upper hand in what I thought was an understanding between the bike and myself, it kicked me off over the bars and into the ivy making one of my two legs bloody. Apparently this was the sacrifice she needed, because for the remaining six laps (I lost count and did an extra) I was flowing though the trees like a cloud of noxious gas on a breeze.
Post-race the lot of us stood around, and high fived, while we gave and received prizes.
A good time apparently was had by all, as I saw nary a single frown. Except one particular hapless individual who had the misfortune of watching me make myself barf… She was frowning. I suppose in light of that I should say a fine time was had by most, and should you catch wind of one of these events in the future, do yourself a favor and attend. I almost promise you that you won’t be sorry.
Shortly after our departure from the debacle and en-route to Blackoutville, I was shocked at an attack out of stage right by none other than super artist Jason Jagel;
Besides offending his two young daughters, possibly bleeding on his wife, and breaking a plate glass window in the midst of our greeting, he clued me in on an event at which he is speaking tomorrow night in San Francisco. He’s a pretty interesting cat, so if you’re free, make it a date.
In other news of the world, Jesse got in touch to clue us in on some very important happenings in his neck of the woods;
Our cat ate a ribbon from a Valentines Day gift 4 days ago. My fiancee was pretty concerned but I told her it would pass. Here’s a money shot of the bad hole earlier this morning.
P.S. The new Chuey hat with the flaps is nothing short of amazing.
Keep on making the tasty doughnuts.”
The best course of action would be to grab the end and give it a yank like you were starting a chain saw. That would teach the fuzzy buddy not to eat the things other than food.
Secondly, what Jesse says is right. The Chuey caps are indeed the business. You’ll notice that I linked the caps without the flaps. This is because I have sold out of the caps with flaps, but upon crossing paths with Chuey last weekend, we tentatively inked a deal to get some more rolling.
And speaking of caps, you know who put on their big boy pants, gave Champ Sys the finger and went straight to the source? Why, that would be none other than Ritte Van Vlanderingham themselves;
This is good timing too, on account of my old Ritte cap either-
A) got stolen
B) got lost
C) committed suicide
Now I don’t belittle one ending one’s own life, but if you are a miserable excuse for a cycling cap who hates its own existence, and knows that most everyone else hates its existence as well, maybe pulling the plug and getting off this crazy train is the best thing for everyone.
Though regardless of what your own personal preference in cycling caps is, no matter how you slice it, they hardly ever fit over a powdered wig.