A Leg Up On The Competition

Last night's karaoke was on the better side of average. Yoyoma (my mom) and Timmy (my uncle) accompanied me to the isochronal event. They had high expectations for the night as I had been prepping them for over a month, giving accounts of past sojourns to THE Harvest Moon. The performances of "our crew" did not disappoint. Others, however, should have been told to turn down the suck knob. Way down. Losers.

Anyways, back to the main topic -- me (surprised?). Big Andrew from the HP did some rap song at some point that got a bunch of folks dancing, you know, rap-style. There was some knee-bending, body-twisting, and general rub-up-against-members-of-the-opposite-sex fun. One thing you may not have noticed, had you been there, was that my own knee-bending, body-twisting and general rub-up-against-members-of-the-opposite-sex fun was actually not dancing. It was, in fact, me admiring how incredibly amazing my quads looked in my Seven jeans.

When I eventually stopped flexing, bending, twisting and rubbing, you might have thought it was because my legs were tired and sore. And you would be excused for thinking that, since most people would have sore and tired legs. Of course the true reason I stopped is that those damn Sevens are expensive and I was worried the extraordinary strength and power of my quads would rip the jeans right through at the seams. Not to mention the mass hysteria and swooning that would inevitably occur at the mere sight of my beautiful legs . . .

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Since it looks like everyone is a sissy and won't be riding on Sunday, I think I'll cozy up to my Cycling.tv, watch the Paris-Roubaix coverage and then head out into the deluge once it finishes to give my wonderful legs a chance to go outside and play.