Univ. of Denver Cycling team: 1 ... Mr. Moro: 0

for those of you who don't know what this is all about, allow me to enlighten you. mr. moro (whose first name i would rather not use, as he seems to be the narcissistic type that would google his own name, and thus could stumble upon this page) raced in the criterium that my university put on last year, which looped around a park in denver. well, there are a few expansion joints in the concrete that hug the curb in the roundabouts, which the course includes, and these miniature crevasses are chalked out to prevent people from putting their wheels in them. mr. m failed to notice these joints (or in a fatigue-induced state decided chancing the inside line was the only way to claim cat 3 glory) and proceeded to become enmeshed in one of them, at which point he was jettisoned from his bike and his collar bone was broken. such are risks that we take as cyclists. people crash and bones get broken. this is an intrinsic element of the sport, albeit one that people tend not to dwell on. it's not always the "fault" (per se) of the cyclist who ends up damaged goods, but in knowing the risks of cycling (especially in the higher categories...i.e., cat 3-4-5) you accept that these things can happen. however, mr. m moronically decided to use the facebook event page for this years race as a pulpit from which to excoriate the race organizers (us) and decry that our cycling team was responsible for his accident, namely because our chalking of the expansion joints was insufficient.


exhibit a

tha milkshake then tactfully responded to mr. m's response, and tried to explain that as the only serious roundabout casualty of the day, that surely "rider error" must have factored in to the accident.


exhibit b

but no. that stubborn asshole refused to admit any semblance of error on his part, and made one final retort (see exhibit b). after childishly resorting to doling out facebook criticisms, mr. m then stupidly decided to attend the event he had been bashing (and had refused to "attend" on the facebook event page)...a mistake he would come to regret. newly upgraded mr. m toed the line of the pro-1-2 race, as the announcing microphone lay firmly in my grasp. i took it upon myself to first introduce him personally to the spectators as the fucko that had broken his collar bone last year, and then informed him of the dangers of the course and commended him for pre-riding it. as the field made its first circulation of the 0.77 (repeating) mile course, and some anonymous rio grande b-squad rider appeared to be making a fruitless move off the front, i noticed that mr. m was solidly tail-gunning at the back. i illustrated this point to the spectators, and sighed with relief every lap that his collar bone evaded accident. a couple laps later he was gone. i mourned his loss publicly, and pondered the possible fate of mr. m. he had been dropped from the field (less than four or five laps in), and for a moment i was deeply aggrieved, assuming the worst. like a ray of golden sunshine, though, mr. m appeared, exiting the roundabout moments later. he triumphantly made his way through the start finish, and i cried into the microphone, "his collar bone is okay!" my enthusiasm to see him alive and well obviously was not a boost to his stamina...(too bad he didn't put powdered pangolin scales in his water bottles, as they are proven stamina enhancers)..., as he quickly dropped out from the race. he learned an important lesson though...

...the internet (especially facebook) is not an anonymous forum where you can be a fucking asshole without retribution.

peacock mantis shrimp versus blue-ringed octopus

The transaction had gone horribly. It was seven in the evening as Vincent Chevalier drove along Amsterdam Avenue, haphazardly stitching his R8 in and out of the homeward bound procession. He had endured the better part of the last decade dealing with these Japanese steel assholes and their pseudo-Yakuza bullshit. The fabled politeness and venerability of the Japanese was lost on these goons, who were just as likely to show up unannounced in one’s office, as they were to do so wielding meter-long katanas. As he made his right onto West 88th Street he definitively made up his mind to retire Dodgson, who had somehow mutated into a spineless sycophant, a caricature of his once brilliant former self. “Too many hours in that goddamn opium den,” Chevalier told himself. The steady clockwise movement of the tachometer was his only release from the situation, and only moments later he found himself in the driveway. Noticing the ominous loitering of a decaying moving truck outside of his estate, Chevalier nervously pumped the brakes, and the car began to waver on the gravel. “Shit,” he thought to himself. It quickly dawned on him, however, that there was no way those bespoke suit-clad Japanese had arrived in this wretched vehicle to off him. His heart receded back into his chest as he put the car in park, and began curiously up the stairs towards the front door. As he neared, a gangrenous stench ebbed from his palatial entryway, and an unknown man issued a stern command. Vincent paused short of the door, and a smile crept across his face as he teased his mustache. His komodo dragon had arrived.