Archive Aug 2005

Evil Incommunicado

We're on RAGBRAI. You are not. Once again we claim the moral high ground.

Also, a note from Dave on Evil gear purchases:

"To all of our faithful hordes ordering our super cool shit: we're getting t-shirts in the first week of august, and the cap order should arrive from our secret factory in the UK before Ragbrai, barring the terrible acts there having disrupted shipping. Upon our no doubt triumphant return from Ragbrai, I will put all your shit in waterlogged envelopes, complete with some vermin of some sort (perhaps some Milwaukee rat fur, you can string a banjo with that shit) and send it on out to you. I know, I know, we're slow. We don't care if you're angry. Actually, we do, hence the note. Sit tight, we'll make everything right. Now please, fuck off."

Final Words from France

Dave and I are sitting in Charles De Gaul airport at a bar unable to tell if it's night or day through the haze of sheer overindulgence. It's been a hellish couple of weeks here in France and we're lucky to be leaving alive. But, Ragbrai calls and we must answer. So, as we hang up our press passes, shake the controlled substances from the laptop keyboard, and put the finishing touches on our forged travel documents, let's take stock - or as the case may be - toll the body count.

The past few days in the Pyrenees have been marked by drama, intrigue, and gay midget porn - not necessarily in that order. Our guide for this leg of the tour, Elazar, was a chattering Basque meth addict whose grasp of the English language consisted only of phrases learned by watching Dukes of Hazzard reruns. His driving skills, however matched those of Michael Schumacher as we wove up hors categorie climbs at warp speed. Our fourth rental car of the trip (thank you false identification!) was a 1982 Citroen. It barely contained Dave and my lankiness, but made diminutive Elazar look like he was driving an El Dorado.

Rocketing up Ax-3 Domaines we killed an errant goat while negotiating a particularly hazardous turn, and the goatheard, one of the ugliest fuckers I'd ever seen, raged at us in an indiscernible dialect for 15 minutes. Elazar simply pulled out a piece and kneecapped him. Dave was in the back seat screaming about the bats (which he claimed had been following him since the Alps) and I was so high on Nyquil and Percocets that it took me a good half-hour to put the scene together in my head. By then we were long gone. I knew our driver had our backs - or at least didn't want the authorities involved in any of his shit.

After a night of shivering and vomiting on each other. Dave and I woke at the crack of 3pm to find our wallets and Elazar gone. Fuck! Luckily, both of us had stolen the wallets of American tourists, so it was no great loss. Our money (what was left of it) and our passports were in a "safe place" on Dave's body. Elazar later returned claiming to have chased the scoundrels who robbed us. I didn't believe his story at first, but he produced two severed fingers with frat rings and that was good enough for me.

Later the race went by. Someone was in the lead. Then more racers passed. I don't really remember that part.

Following a meal salvaged from a ski chalet dumpster we struck gold. Dave suddenly remembered that years earlier he'd purchased George Hincapie's soul in a shrewd deal that involved a cherry danish (not the baked treat if you know what I mean) and a bottle of Phillips rye whiskey. Luckily someone was there to snap the photo of the deal going down. (The photos of the cherry danish are safely tucked away thank you very much - but let's just say that George is a bit of a bleeder.)

We rolled to the Discovery Channel buses in disguise (to avoid the restraining order) and knocked on the first door loudly. We claimed to be cancer survivors who'd walked from Bonn, Germany raising money along the way. (What?... It's not like we parked in a handicapped spot. Jesus. Toughen up) Chechu Rubiera opened the door, so we knew we were at the punters RV. "Donde esta fucking George?" Dave shouted. Chechu pointed at a bar. Dave and I grinned.

The ski tavern was hopping for sure. Whored-up French girls, Basque chicks with moustaches, and a Spanish she-male were hovering over racers, spectators, and journalists. We spotted George in the corner, alone and playing Tetris on a Game Boy.

13 rounds and a stern reminder about who owned his soul later, we tumbled out of the bar and back to Elazar and the Citroen. He'd been waiting for us for 5 hours and put away more crank than a hundred truckers, so it was go time. Hincapie had been reticent to agree to our terms, but the deadly serious threats issuing forth from Dave's great maw convinced him that he worked for Evil now. (What George didn't know was that Dave had relapsed and was speaking to the bats, but whatever works, right?)

Our final charge to George: Fuck lance, go out on your own to the Pla d'Adet, bury yourself following some rube, pass him at the line, and tear off your Discovery jersey to show your Evil colors and the true author of your coup.

The next day, we made our way up that final climb and stopped near the summit to mingle with the crowd - and to remind George should he forget his oath. Sure as hell, there he came, sucking on Pereiro's wheel like a piglet on a tit. Elazar had been drinking some wine-ecstacy-Robitussin combination for hours in the hot sun. He had also been tearing out his hair strand by strand and crying and we didn't know what the fuck to do. Then, just as the two leaders came by, Elazar shouted, "I'LL GIT THEM FUCKIN' DUKE BOYS!!!" and ran out onto the course.

Then a motorcycle hit him.

Well, long story short, George won (did I mention what we'd put in his drinks the night before? Nah, I'll leave it to your imagination), DIDN'T show the Evil jersey under his Discovery kit, and has caused us to call in some help in the form of... well, I'm not going to say, but George will likely not finish the tour. Ok, I'll tell. We've found a doctor in Austria who claims to be able to cause taint boils the size of robin's eggs with some secret salve. We've got a guy on it.

So, really, there's not much more of our trip I can tell you without incriminating Dave or myself (or those three underage French schoolboys, 13 sheep on that hill, the four octogenarian retirees, that blow-up doll of Kirsten Gum, and the very kinky Al Trautwig). What I can tell you is that France is a very fucked up place - but it smells kind of like Wisconsin.

Courshu... Cornshle... Courshnugggbaaaarfffff!

I awoke today in a tent on the side of Courchevel with someone's liver in one hand, a pile of unidentifiable entrails in the other, covered in blood. After stumbling out of the tent, careening ten feet to the right, and finding Sov in the next tent over, I realized thankfully that I hadn't gutted him in my drunken stupor the night before. Good things. However, to whom the insides, that were now on the outside and in my hands belonged remains a mystery.

Sov had apparently been locked in the toilet by an irate bar owner the previous evening. The dispute was over an astronomical bar tab and rumors of indiscretions with the man's two daughters (and allegedly his prize Newfoundland). By 5am Sov had escaped, but not before he'd gone into a Hulk-style rage, destroying the pisser entirely.

Earlier that fateful evening we had both ended up at said bar with Phil Ligget, whom we set about destroying with the Dutch pot we had scored and the PBR I had overnighted to me. Ligget, being the beer snob that he is, would have none of it until Sov put him in a full nelson and I punched him repeatedly in the stomach to open up his pie hole, thereby making it more conducive to pouring can after can of the delicious golden brew down his throat. Soon we affixed a battery operated 3 foot bong to Ligget's face (made from some Illes Ballears rider's top tube we sawed off as he was in dope control, and some tape we stole from the Phonak team bus) and sent turbo hits deep into his lungs. Nevermind any of that chatter he said during today's commentary about having a cold, that wrecked voice was courtesy of Evil.

Throughout the process Paul Sherwen tried to come to Phil's rescue, but the ever present Hector the Killer Chihuahua kept him at bay, fangs bared, until we were done with him. We duct taped him to a chairlift pole, scrawled the word "pussy" on his forehead with magic marker, and left him there.

Prior to Operation Destroy Phil, we had dropped some oxycontin with Paco Mancebo. Crazy fucker, that dude. In fact, we ended up in the Spanish part of the overnight town, as the bar we started our nightly assault on our livers had in it Valverde, Mancebo, and Mayo. Mayo is so deep into the crystal meth these day it's no wonder he's stinking up the road. He kept mumbling something along the lines of "I am the Keith Richards of bike riding". Sure, Iban, sure you are....just do me a favor and tweak over there...not by us, cool?

Day... (what day is it?) Day Whatever from the Tour de France

I woke up this morning in a drainage ditch in Mulhouse, France. None of these fuckers gets the Simpsons reference and it's pissing me off!

Last night Dave and I got in an argument with Phil Ligget and Bob Roll about the relative merits of using professional road cyclists as fertilizer - you know chop 'em up and spread them on crops and such. Dave's position was that the high levels of dope in their systems would mean super vegetables that could potentially cure hunger. Ligget, drunk on a potent mixture of absinthe and transmission fluid was absolutely out of his tree. He literally screamed for an hour and a half and we didn't understand a word. Then Bobke just started throwing punches.

It all gets a little fuzzy from there. All I know is that we missed our flight to Grenoble and now we're having to hitch. We got a ride part-way on one of the advertising vans that follow the race like locusts. This one had an enormous fiberglass dirty diaper on top. When Victor the driver pulled a cord, the diaper would shake and emit a terrible baby crapping sound. At first Dave and I just giggled at it - it seemed the perfect ride for us. However, we were well into our pharmaceutical allotment for the day and after an hour or so, the fecal noises from the roof were just too much. I barfed on Victor and he kicked us out.

So, stranded in Fuckall France, and none of these tiny fuckers can understand me - even when I yell and talk real slow. Dave has wandered off in search of this month's Hustler, but I think he might be dead.

Yesterday, we forged press passes (again) and made our way among the busses until we saw our target. New Tour leader Jens Voight.

All our pictures got fucked up when Dave, in a paranoid rage, crammed all our film up his ass convinced he was going to be stopped and searched by "the elves." I never know what he's talking about anymore. Anyway, since our film is gone, here's a picture of Jens and Dave from the Tour of Georgia. (Dave's smirk is a direct result of his sabotaging the WebCor team bikes each with a single ball bearing and a dab of grease in the top tube. Man that makes a scary noise when they let go on a long downhill.)

Either way. We might be screwed. I'm not sure where we are, Dave's gone missing, and there is NO WAY this guy at the counter is going to rent me a car if I can't stand up. Got to keep it together long enough to...

(end transmission)

Sov and Dave Evil Report from the Tour: #2

Tours, France.

It was a r-r-r-rough one last night, and this afternoon, the fruits of all our labor at the bar were spoiled. We knew the night before that Zabriskie was fucked up, you could tell by just by looking at him, and by the fact that the Peroni's (his constant sidekicks since that day's stage ended) had been replaced by Boilermakers with DOUBLE sidecars. "Hey Z," Sov said, "you may wanna take it a little easy, you DO have that Team Time Trial tomorrow."

"Fuck all, man, I can kick the shit out of that course. Besides look at Voight," he said, gesturing to the other side of the bar where Jens was obviously getting along with two women. "You think he's calling it an early night? Pffffffffffft. C'mon, who's next in darts? Fags!"

And so it went. Soon Sov and I both were pretty tanked, and if our 6'4" and 6'6" frames respectively were loaded, then Dave Z, who admirably matched us drink for drink and is considerably smaller and lighter, had to have been at near-death blood alcohol levels. Things inevitably began to tatter as the night wore on. Jens was getting laid, for sure, and exited with both of the comely lasses. Dave Z. was pirouetting around the bar claiming he was indeed the true king of France. Bobby Julich was desperately trying to explain to some of the local cross dressers that he was in fact NOT gay. Sov was on the phone trying to assist in the Minneapolis Police Department in calming down Evil's Bionic Wrexican, who had seemingly gone berserk in the warehouse district and was destroying entire city blocks, and me....well, was just wondering why I sucked at darts so much having lost every match of the night.

We all know what happened the next day. Sov posted a little of it. We're sorry, Mr. Zabriskie. We've had some good times in the last few days, but you were trying to shove 10 pounds of shit in a 5 pound bag, and it cost you your yellow jersey. But that doesn't matter. You were valiant, and you're set for life. Evil will save a spot forever on our roster for you. I mean, you signed your soul away to us when we met in Georgia, I know, but after all this silliness with CSC comes to en end, please report to the PX and get outfitted in your all blacks, along with Voight, Henk Vogels, and the other esteemed riders who deserve to ride with the likes of us.

Sov and I have piled into the Puegot, aptly named the clown car, and have headed down to catch the next few flat stages, most likely from the inside of a bar somewhere outside of the finish towns. We have a passenger with us now, a little one-eyed chihuahua we found on the side of the road that we've named Hector. Good little dude. A hit with the ladies. How two idiots from the midwest end up in France, renting (stealing?) a Puegot, getting drunk with the Yellow Jersey, and finding a chihuahua on the side of the road is beyond me. Stay tuned for more lunacy, which is sure to come. Not sure we'll be back in time for Ragbrai, but we're going to try.

Fuck off.

Sorry for cursing you Dave

Look, we told you it was going to be rough going. Evil ain't easy bro. We warned you not to do shots until 4am with those hookers last night. We pleaded with you to go back to the hotel to get some sleep before the team time trial (ok, well Biddle didn't, but he's just tough as nails and out to pick fights).

You don't just dive into the kind of lifestyle it's taken all of us decades to perfect. Poor dumb kid. Zabriskie just had to prove that he was stinkier than Bear, sassy as Mimi, and retarded as Clarky. We know why he went into the barriers - brown fuckin' liquor. No other explaination.

Maybe he'll get what Wrexican's got now - he's all bionic and shit. Check it out.

Do YOU have a bionic Wrexican? I didn't think so. We got one and it's pissed off, so just move aside when it comes at you friend. That thing can bend a Ford F150 in half, karate chop the shit out of a Sequoia, and then delicately lift a single toro maguro sashimi with chopsticks. We can rebuild him!

Secret signing at Georgia means Evil in Yellow at TdF

After only minor coercion at the hands of Evil Dave (in the form of $14, a July 1978 Penthouse, and three luke-warm cans of PBR), David Zabriskie signed on with Evil in a secret ceremony at the Tour of Georgia earlier this season. "Hell" he was heard to say, "their shit is even better than Bjarne's."

Only the third American to wear the yellow jersey in the history of the Tour, Zabriskie will be working within the pro peloton to foment hatred, cheating, and a plot to fill Lance's seat tube with ball bearings.

What you can't see is the blood being taken from Zabriskie's left arm and being pumped straight into Evil Dave's femoral artery. Blood brothers indeed. Zabriskie later passed out when Evil Dave's liquor-laden blood back flowed into the CSC rider's delicate system.

Evil infiltrates Little 100 in Seattle

A report from the organizers:

It was a great day for racing, hanging out in the sun, drinking a cold beverage, and watching some inane bike enthusiasts duke it out on the newly laid tarmac of the velodrome at Marymoor Park. Whether you were riding a cruiser called the "Rat Rod," racing in a skirt on a team called "Dirty Sanchez," or just listening to the poetic color commentators, this day was all about having fun.

The Evil Crew

The racing started with the Coed cruiser class. Overall, the cruiser class was the least intense race of the day, but one of the most entertaining. Team "Giaccmo" can donned in horse racing get up and rode their steed to victory in the "best-dressed category," while the "Rubicon prom ladies" brought an air of elegance to the proceedings. It was a thing of beauty to see the cruiser bikes on the track

Chevil marking his opponent

The most eclectic and entertaining race of the day was the Women's race. The teams varied from the power house team of "Podium Girls Gone Wild," to the Group Health "triage" unit in their hospital garb, to the "Posterior Ladies" barring their posteriors, to the foxy cheerleaders from "Sexy University." With seven teams battling for the top prizes, it proved to be the most creative and most exciting race for the fans and racers. The ladies from "Podium Girls gone Wild were able to our power and outlast their worthy opponents for an impressive victory in a loaded class. Well done ladies, it was fun to watch! Hopefully the guys will take notes and come out with some better costumes next year.

The Biking Viking grabs a prime

The closest race of the day, and the only sprint finish, was the Men's cat 4 race. Team "Dirty Sanchez" looked to be the favorite after opening a half lap lead early in the race. But team "2nd Ascent" had other ideas. With a steady , "I think I can, I think I can, I think I can" regularity they fought back to take a lead. Meanwhile, team "Evil" (must be cold in hell for them to be showing up in Seattle) who had fallen off the lead lap, decided to focus on the prime prizes, taking them easily from their competitors. As the race came down to the final stretch, three riders were grouped together, with 2 in contention for the win. Aaron Eerbeck from "Dirty Sanchez " and Jason Scott from "Second Ascent" went into turn one in that order. Aaron made a move to break away from his two competitors, and got a couple of bike lengths on them by the time he reached the back side straightaway. Did he make his move too early? Nope, Aaron was just able to hold of a hard charging Jason for the victory. It was a thing of beauty to see a guy in a skirt , blouse, and mustache power through the line.

Out front? Or off the back?

Only three teams had the mental toughness to duke it out, mano-a-mano, in a colossal battle and the final race of the day. Only three teams had the gall to battle it out at the Marymoor Little 100, regardless of what was on the "schedule" on the following day. The three teams were the "Tall Boys" from Byrne Specialty Gas, the "Second Rate," also from Byrne, and the "The Three Little Piggies and the Big Bad Wolf" from Alki/Rubicon Racing. With only three men on the track at any one point, the competitive nature of the race was evident by the looks of intensity on each racer's face. The Tall Boys were strong and efficient, pushing both the 2nd Rate and the Piggies teams hard, lap after lap. Second Rate were not easily beaten. They rode the back stretch of the track aggressively into the wind, and kept the Tall Boys within a 100 meters through the completion even after two major mechanical difficulties. The Piggies and the Wolf huffed and puffed, but could not close the gap on either team. In the end, despite a couple of rough hand-offs, mechanicals and costumes which left a lot to be desired, the Tall Boys rode away from the field and won the 2^nd Annual Cat 1-2-3 Marymoor Little 100 with ease.

Evil at the Tour de France

Greetings from Fromentine, France, where Sov and I are getting shithoused and picking on country stupid Frenchies. "You he-ah for ze toooor?", they ask us. "Nope," we say, "we're here for the liqour and the women. And liquor. Did we say that? Mostly liquor, for your women are less shaven than us, and they smell,....welll......pungent."

Evil's French HQ

Yes, we've jumped the pond to partake in the Tour de France, the Big Enchilada (cheese, thank you), the two wheeled equivalent of WWF wrestling, here it is. A riddle wrapped in an enigma wrapped in a tortilla with guac and a fresh tomato. Day one finds Dr. Sov and I bellied up to a bar bringing our unique insight to the locals, though we do have some strikes against us right now. First, we're American. A certain American has been stealing this race from them for some time now, and the locals aren't exactly too happy about it. On the other hand, who are they gonna put up to compete? Sylvain Chavanel? David Moncoutie? Excuse me while I puke up this crepe from laughter. They're (French) like the Milwaukee Brewers: they got no one. However, they stay true to their riders and favorites. Here's a snippet of a conversation between Sov and one wily local:

Local: "Il sera impossible que Armstrong gagne encore l'excursion. Impossible. Il hésitera, comme personne ne peuvent gagner sept dans une rangée. En outre, vous les porcs américains avez porté hors de votre bienvenue ici et nous ne voulons plus votre argent de touristes. Les grands cheveux et la devise faible, celui sont tous que vous les abrutis apportent jamais ici. Nous garderons vos femmes cependant."

Sov: "Yeah? Fuck you."

"Guuuhhhh"

Luckily we made it through customs and security with all these drugs and liquor. Hell, the riders are doing it, so why not the journalists? Had we been apprehended, we'd be in the clink for sure by now. Sov only has a half crushed pack of smokes left, that would staved off the raping for oh,...about 4 minutes. So we're going to get completely ka-blooeyed and bring you our unique insight as the big show rolls on. Stay tuned.

Some running predictions from the Evil camp:

1. Barring accident or illness, Armstrong (and the best Tour team, period) will win his 7th straight Tour.

2. Beloki will fail miserably, and will not finish the tour.

3. Heras, for that matter, will also suck.

4. Basso second, Vino third.

5. Ullrich, you ask? Somewhere top ten. Maybe a TT stage win, but several minutes adrift when it's all said and done. Same for Mayo.

6. Zabriskie will win one TT stage. I will then win $100.

7. Sov will hump a French bridge troll. I will, too.

8. Vladimir Karpets (best name in the peloton) will turn heads. Sinkewitz - not so much.

9. McEwen will win the green jersey, especially since Ale-Jet isn't coming.

10. Who wants a "Friere Boil Sandwich"? I know I do.

Dave and Sov Lurk near ledgend Eddy Merckx. Merckx seems unimpressed.

Dave went to the Tour of Georgia

He met some people, spread the Evil gospel (drink, destroy, recline, repeat), and cooked up some small children in a white sauce with some new potatoes on the side. Here's his photo tour.

I fell down in Fruita.

Here's the video. I've never had one of my catastrophic wipe-outs captured on tape before. I like it. Thanks to Chef Dog for being there with the camera.

Here's the aftermath. And more Fruita Photos

Speaking of Chef Dog: Here's his debut music video.

Dave's Still Pissed at the Pros:

So much doping, so many races, too much beer, and not enough time. Well, plenty of time, just plain old mismanagement of it. In addition to writing this column, I have to keep the monkeys away from the sharp. things (go read Corrosion's blog from the main page).

Dotsie Cowden is still dodging me. I don't get it. I love her and she should love me back. It makes no sense. Maybe I'll cut off one of my fingers and send it to her via a trained carrier raven. It's worked before, and by work I mean it's gotten me arrested. On to the news:

1. Yay for the Giro! Great race! Couple of dolts chucked out beforehand, but nothing too major on the doping front. Savoldelli does good things, Simoni, though riding better still whines like a girl, and Basso and the rest of the CSC neddledogs showed some serious grit. I want to take a syringe of what Rujano is on, and thanks to Paride Grillo, my dark horse, for getting my floating points in the fantasy Giro game I was playing. El Grillo running McGee into the barriers was pretty fucking funny, too. Although, as much as I dislike Bettini, I don't think he did it on purpose. Note to Brad: you can't shoot gaps that aren't there in the first place.

2. Gaumont has a book out. He quotes : "I devoured everything that he [a doctor] gave me without asking questions," Gaumont related. "I swallowed anything that might make me go faster. At one stage, after 10 years, I couldn't imagine riding a bike without it." Gaumont described how he took Pot Belge in the winter of 1994-1995, then went onto taking amphetamines to do post-Tour criteriums. "They [the foreign riders in Cofidis in 1997] did not use illegal products to improve their performances. We French not only did dope, but what's more, we regularly got high on amphetamines and Pot Belge." Um, Philip.....would you like a job with Evil?

3. Big problems in Spain from cycling news.com: Spanish police have uncovered a large scale doping operation in Catalonia, in the north of the country, arresting 70 people and seizing millions of doses of illegal performance enhancing drugs and €200,000 in cash. According to an AFP report, quoting the Spanish Ministry of Internal Affairs, six laboratories that were illegally manufacturing and distributing anabolic steroids, hormones, and EPO, were busted. In addition to the labs, police also searched garages, basements and houses, where the products were packaged for distribution. The drugs were intended for sale in schools, sporting clubs, specialist stores and Internet sites. so, perhaps Iban Mayo will be fucked again. Maybe the busted one Ribiero 'fessed up as to where he got the shit. Who knows.

4. Stolen Underground. What the fuck are you doing, Matt?

5. The Dauphine looms......Armstrong's second to last race. Should be a big affair, I assume. Let's see what kind of from the Tour de France heavy hitters bring. Mayo claimed his efforts in '04 cost him the tour. No, Iban, your doctor being thrown out before the tour and then subsequently being unavailable to dope your shit was why you lost. Lance might go for it if he gets a good look at it, otherwise, look for a few efforts and a lot of sitting in.

6. Appeals, Appeals, banana peels. Nice try Tyler. You're fucked, but I appreciate your effort to try and clear your name. I think, though, my good sir, your career is OVER.

7. Wachovia. Tour de Georgia. Ragbrai. The North American scene is alive and well. Georgia was awesome, a late but great story on that, complete with pictures, is on the way, sports fans. I got fucked UP. Zabriskie busted me drinking in the press tent. I humped a gremlin. As for Ragbrai, Evil is looking to avenge some wrongs done at the Weed Park crit in Muscatine and win the whole thing. I'm talking GC, mountains, points, all of it. It's gonna be an all-black podium.

8. Ullrich. Ain't heard much...this might be a good thing.

Other than that:

Nothing's really changed.

As you'd expect, Bear has emerged from his cave and is running around trying to get the ladies to help him remove his plug.

Wrexican's on IR after going OTB and busting up his belbow. DRAT!

Biddle said the Trans Iowa "sucked ass" and has been staying at the secret Evil proving grounds in the desert perfecting his 10 mile paceline pulls.

Rob and Gayle have joined the Rainbow People, but mostly just so they can bring down what they've long called a "commie-infested risk to our beloved freedoms" from the inside.

Hurl's got the BMX love again. Look for him on the berms - probably lying there lifeless with multiple puncture wounds.

Jane has joined the Triumvirate of companies who own everything - bent on their overthrow of course. She'll be filtering profits down to us via our Swiss bank account.

Chevil ran away with a Sasquatch of unknown gender.

Carter has worn out his welcome in 7 states, but continues to be my hero - working, but only just.

Tat joined the ranks of the married folk, but has intimated that this is too is an effort to appear ligit, when in reality he's tinkering with cold fusion power in his basement.

Zeke has been infiltrating a school for blind 18 year old cheerleaders in Kansas City. He hopes to bring them along on Ragbrai... for to sell!

BRose is cooking sausage. It's not a euphamism for anything. He really is cooking sausage. While J.Ro is slowly poisoning horrible suburban women with her "Ebola for Her" line of hair care products.

Stein has had two sex changes this past year. We're not even sure what he is now. Either way, it's working for him.

Corrosion has found a way to harness his general hostility toward idiots. If he figures out a way to adequately store this frightening stew, he'll sell it at a roadside stand next to Neverland Ranch.

Dave is still gay.

I've taken to punching myself in the junk every morning before work. I think I may have found Jesus.