Fact: the little stats do-dad on this here blog thing informs me that "you people" seem to enjoy reading about my life's miseries (don't worry, I can't ascertain anything further about you other than your preferred internet browser and your computer affiliations... much to my dismay).
Schadenfreude. One of my favourite words.
I suppose I have a tendency towards finding myself in strange situations. Speaking of strange situations, next Friday and Saturday are going to rewrite the definition. But... anyways. I believe this may have something to do with my propensity for making bad life decisions, knowingly and without concern. For example, in the last 8 months, I have left the house without pants four times, which probably isn't normal.
But on to today.
The Warm-up:
1) Tucked and rolled on to a sidewalk from a bicycle to avoid assassination by public transit.
2) Spent 15 minutes hunting some middle aged fat man on an expensive bicycle on some country road.
3) Was studying on my deck when I was accosted by two missionaries. I had a great deal of difficulty keeping a straight face because at the time I was reading an essay concerning the ethics of abortion.
Ok, I'll admit all that stuff was probably more pathetic than funny. That's what happens when you are funemployed, as I have been for a very long time. You become victim to the delusion that people care about all the things you
aren't doing during the day so you can pretend you enjoy sitting around your house between workouts.
The main story is probably in the same category now that I think about it, but I imagine it gave onlookers a laugh or two. And if there's one thing I enjoy, it's people I don't know laughing at my expense.
So it began like this:
I was biking home from da mofo poo', my favourite place of all time. Please note that I look like a large dirt because I am wearing sweaty workout gear and birks and am riding a road bike that could be in a museum.
Obviously going to the Beer Store at 4:30 on the Friday of the long weekend is a bad idea, so that's what I did. Line was out the door, but dammit, I vowed not to return home empty handed. I get to the front of the line and was mildly concerned that my ID would be revoked on account of my looking too filthy to be recognizable.
Luckily this was not the case. However, it turned out that my beer of choice came only in a case of a size that could not be carried safely in my spike bag.
Since the line was probably halfway to Australia at this point, I went with the larger case, justifying it as a bulk purchase.
But now I had a dilemma. A serious one. One for the ages. The most fundamental of all man's struggles.
The transportation of a bike, and a case of beer. There was no room for my sense of dignity, which had vanished much earlier in the day.
At first I thought I could try to bike while holding the case of beer. Then I envisioned broken bottles, dreams. I decided to take the safer, slower option: walking with the bike, while holding the case of beer. This turned out to be reasonably efficient since the top tube of my bike is ergonomically designed for such things. Win.
Wait, so why is this funny?
Probably because I didn't think of putting my helmet in my spike bag. So what I'm sayin' is I looked like the largest doofus you could possibly imagine.
A red-bike-short-yellow tank-sweaty-birk-wearing-helmet-rocking-beer-on-bicycle-being-walked doofus.
That is all. Enjoy sitting in traffic for four hours on the 400,or whatever it is you people actually do on the 2-4.
Addendum:
I was in a really bad mood a while back and wrote
this. I can't tell whether I am being sarcastic or not, which means it was a success.
After completing this cartoon, it occurred to me that the steeplechase deserved its own category. The response for both parties is this:
