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'.