Sorry, I have been off the radar for a couple days.  This is due primarily in part to the fact that one of my old friends showed up unexpectedly in town, we will call him "Jerry".   Back in the day during our Navy days, Jerry and I could drink like fish and land the ladies like nobodies biz-nass!

So Jerry shows up at my front door with a case of beer and a bottle of absinthe; yes a fucking bottle of absinthe.  If you don't know what absinthe is, it was best described by Tucker Maxx as follows: 

"I used to think that I'd seen everything. I had experienced so many things that I had become jaded with life; nothing affected me anymore. I was world-weary in the truest sense.  That was before I drank absinthe. That devil juice is brewed from the urine of Lucifer. Now I know why Van Gogh cut off his ear and why Toulouse-Lautrec painted funny looking midgets; it wasn't mental illness, it was that goddamn absinthe."

Apparently, Jerry thinks he is still 20 years old and we start the night off by shot gunning beers; I blush because I feel like a total loser and hope that nobody I know is watching this total mess of machismo ritualistic behavior.  After we finish the first case of beer off and take 150 trips to the deck to piss as my neighbor watches in disgust, Jerry says the most horrifying statement imaginable..."Let's break open the Absinthe!"  Now, here is this internal struggle, I have already learned that absinthe=me, pantless, looking for imaginary friends....but I say "Fuck Ya Bitch! Break it open!".  I'm an idiot; but I am man.  

An hour later, I am sitting on my couch looking across the room at someone who I think is Jerry, but his ears that are as large as an elephant's, and his nose looks like a witches nose, and the color of his skin is chartreuse.  In between us, sits 24 empty beer cans and a fucking empty bottle of absinthe.  I am starting to feel like the guy at Woodstock that took the brown acid and 10 minutes later hears the warning to everyone in the crowd..."DON'T EAT THE BROWN ACID".   At this point I know there is no turning back and I know that this night is going to end badly, and the worst part is...I can't do a fucking thing about it.  The following is what I have been able to piece together since that fateful night:

• - Room starts spinning, but not like in circles, it is spinning like I am in an M.C. Escher painting. I have no fucking clue which way is up, down or sideways.
• - I get up and start to walk across the ceiling to sit with my grossly deformed friend, Jerry. I pull up a chair on the wall and ask Jerry, "Why so green?"
• - Somehow I make it outside and have a burning in my belly for Cool Ranch Doritos, licorice and orange juice.
• - As I traverse the formidable via duct I come across this gang of leprechauns and say to them, "Hey aren't you guys suppose to be under the bridge?". One responded simply with a "fuck you" and then I remember, it's trolls that dwell under the bridge. Man those guys are ill tempered little bastards, and who would have known we would have leprechauns in Whitefish, you would think the winters would be too much for them.
• - As I approach Markus Foods I am wondering why the store is melting and caution myself..."danger, danger", and then forget what I am cautioning myself as I walk in the store.
• - With Doritios, Nibs and OJ in hand I approach the clerk. He says, "Everything alright tonight Berg?", I mumble, "A little blurry, but I guess, why?", he says, "well, I guess it's because I have never seen you actually wear your underwear on the outside of pants before."
  

If there are two things I can ever teach you guys its; 1) Don't eat the brown acid, 2) Stay the fuck away from absinthe!

 

So I have been following the tour pretty intensely this year and I started wondering, why aren't there any Canadians in the Tour?  And then I remembered they are too freakin fat and lazy.   The only cycling the Canadians do is to a box store in  Obnoxiousville to stock up on liters of Drakar, barrels of gravy and a case of  ‘overstating the obvious with a terrible accent'.    Besides I think that if there even was a Canadian that could make the cut into the tour they wouldn't be allowed in because the ‘asshole class' is already full of the French.   Yes, shocker I know, but I don't like the French either.  This year is hard from me because I am not really a huge Lance fan, but I do admire the bastard for losing a nut and then trying to find a comfortable seat position with just one ball.  I bet he has a coach for that.  I am surprised the fu*king French didn't cry foul claiming that only having a uni-ball is an unfair weight advantage.  I think a good practical joke would be to tell all the French riders that they have to cut  off one of their nuts because they tried duct taping an extra ball to Lance but it kept falling off.   Fu*king French...I bet they would do it too...dumb asses.  I have been donning my yellow jersey this week in support of our Montana boy Levi!  I think in order to get into Lance's head, Levi should get one of those little blue bike license plate that says, ‘Having a Ball'. 

This last weekend I was invited to a bbq in my neighborhood hosted by a rather big guy, and when I say "big", I mean FAT, he's a pig.  I usually don't do to these types of affairs. One, I hate banal conversation.  Two, I always get the same annoying question: "So Berg...so how do you get the ladies so easily?"  And all I can think to myself is, "Dude, you have half a jar of mayo on your second chin; the answer of why you can't pull the ladies like The Berg, is looking you in the mirror".  And people think I am the one with a "disability", this guy can't wipe his own ass without breaking a sweat. 
So I'm sitting there nibbiling on this low-grade, high FAT, meat burger made with who knows what kind of "meat", and guess who freakn shows up...KEITH...god damn it, can't I at least eat this disguisting meal in peace. If you don't know who Keith is, read prior postings.  I've got my plate up to my face at this point trying to avoid eye contact with that goofy lil bastard, but sure enough Keith b-lines it straight for me...damn it.  To add insult to injury, the following conversation ensues:

TB: "Hey Keith."

K: "Did you walk here?"

TB: "What do you think Keith? Have you ever seen me drive?"

K: "Maybe you flew."

TB: "Flew what Keith?"

K: "A rocket ship"

TB: INTERNAL MONOLOGUE (a freakin rocket ship?  can't someone shut this f**king kid up.)

TB: "Sorry Keith, my rocket ship license expired last year, had to leave it in the garage."

K: "Then maybe a boat."

TB: "God damn it Keith, do you see any water?"

K: "Maybe your boat was on your trailor?"

TB: "And how would I get the trailor here Keith?"

K: "Your rocket ship?"

TB: "Hey Keith, can you watch my burger, I have to go find some cyanide to gargle and wash my burnt burger down with?"

K: "Sure as long as I can get a ride home in your rocket ship!!!"

TB: "Rocket ship...you got it there Keith, but don't touch my freakn burger Keith....I mean it."

I proceed to the back yard bar, which is constructed of two garbage cans turned upside down, with a sheet of plywood across the top.  Fat boy asks, "What can I get you there Berg, I've got PBR and PBR." I respond, "Do you have anything a little stronger?", "My wife's monthly odor." he responds and all his buddies chuckle while I attempt to keep from puking in my freakin mouth.  At this point, I am reassured that attending these types of events with these people are like watching a marathon of Maury Povich shows.  I turn around to grab my burger and get in my rocket ship and get the f*&k out of wrap party for the movie "Deliverance".  As I approach where I left my burger all I see is Keith with this big shit eating grin on his face; but it wasn't shit, it was my freakn burger which I think he got more on his face and shirt than his mouth.  I said, "Keith, where's my burger?", Keith responded, I packed it in my tummy for our rocket ship ride. 

Feeling a bit sore after breaking my personal record at the 5k fun run yesterday...2hours, 39 seconds, I wish they would have routed it over the duct because I would have thrown a beat down on those skinny little punks clocking in at 16 mins. Also feeling regret for wearing the OP short shorts (again)...forgot about long distance chafing...opps. 

So my good pal Zak thinks its funny that I only have 2 friends on Facebook. So we made a bet...a week from this Friday whoever has fewer FB friends has to buy PBR's for everyone in the Great Northern bar for an hour from 6-7pm...so my fans...YOU have to help me out and "ADD ME"...I can't let zak win this time, the last time was a foot race over the viaduct...thought I had him, I have been studying the course for years.

My FB link is just to the LEFT, just click and ADD and we can all celebrate

As I walk to town every day, I pass a road sign. To me, the sign means absolutely nothing about traffic; it encapsulates what I experience and what I have come to know as the god-awful truth about this kid that lives in my neighborhood, to protect his identity let's just say his name sounds like…Keith. The sign reads simply, "SLOW Children at Play." I think Keith is retarded…not "slow" (to be politically correct), I'm freakin slow (tortoise and the hare baby; but I get there…eventually)..Keith isn't slow, he's retarded, and he is a fast little turd too. Every morning as I pass his house Keith sits on the front stairs next to his old man, let's just say his name sounds like…Larry. So Keith, who appears to have just snorted 10 Ritalin followed by a jug of caffeine insists on running up to me and starts throwing like 1000 freakn questions at me. "Why is the sky blue?, Why is the yard green?, Why are you always walking? What's wrong with your leg?" And the whole time I'm thinking, "Shut the F*&K up Keith!", I am just trying to get to town to pick up my daily goods and wares. Now, don't get me wrong, I love that lil bastard, but what is so damn agitating is that Keith's freakn ol' man, Larry, just sits there with this look while Keith is doing circles around me, a look like "aw isn't that nice, Keith found a special friend". What ol' Larry doesn't understand is that I've got mad mental skills…scored the highest in my naval class, I've got a 152 IQ, and rank in the top 3% of MENSA, just because I'm a little "slow" Larry doesn't mean I couldn't lay a serious beat down of Jeopardy on you. Hey Larry, you are retarded and your kids a STUD!

AHHHHHH what is this firey glow in the sky...and is that what the color blue looks like...the clouds have parted and its officially summer. Looks like I'm break'n out my new sneakers and going for a walk...I've got a freaking Canadian to track down and I just caught a waft of Drakar...

Today started off a little grey; I am sick of walking in the freaking rain.  And just when there was a break in the clouds, I threw my sneakers on, green coat and felt hat and bolted for the door.  As I approached the crosswalk to enter the on ramp to the viaduct, this freaking drunk Canadian driver almost smacked my ass all over Edgewood.  How'd I know he was canadian? I believe it was the thick smell of a combination of Drakar Noir, gravy and cheap whiskey.  I'm coming for you man...you better watch your back.