October 15, 2011 § 12 Comments
So you are fukking off for the umpteenth time on Craigslist or Ebay trying to find a cheap cherry Specialized SL2 frame and fork well keep looking because this isnt it. This bad bitch has had the snot ridden out of her I bet I put a hundred thousand miles on it this year alone maybe a lot more. Its a old bike too I got it in ’09 in July and have beat the shit out of this bike. Strava fukkin sent me a letter saying dont put any more of your badass rides our servers are crashing.
Now then. This bad boy dont give a shit about being beat to shit not one bit. It is still stiffer than a sailor on shore leave. It has some cool decals on it you will still be a dork but this bad boy has cool decals. One is Saxo Bank. The bikes white. Saxo doesn’t mean some effimanent guy in a jazz bar smokin clove cigs and listening to Barry White or some shit. Saxo is short for Anglosaxons which is short for Saxons which means badass.
The Saxons came from germany before it was even a country and gave the romans a beatdown and the huns and the vandals and the mongrol hoards too. They didn’t have guns or shit they just beat the shit out of everyone with their fukkin clubs and fists. Hitler wouldn’t have stood a chance against these fukkers or Saddam Hussane they would have kicked his ass too. This bike is Saxo Bank, get it? What do you think a Saxon put in the bank money? No fukkin way they didnt have money they put in the bank whupass and a ton of it. You build up this bad bitch and you will make some serious whupass withrdarls from the Saxo Bank on the local rides when you are stomping peoples dicks off.
Now then. This bad bitch has never been crashed but its not because of lack of trying. I road this like a crazy fukker more than you can believe and sure its not cherry. But if you want cherry go hit on a twelve yearold and go to prison you wiredo. Now then. Its got some dings and shit who wouldn’t after a zillion miles I sure would. Theres places on the header tube that have been worn through by cables because the little plastic protector thingy fell off a stone age ago. Well now if you care about that you are a pussy everything is going to fail catastorifically eventully even the sun will fukkin fail and go out. So what the fuk do you expect from a plastic bike.
Now then. Theres a place on the inside of the chain stay all rubbed to sh*t from something probably a magnet. Dont whine to me about that its not cherry you morron its been road to shit and back thats why you aren’t paying full retail at a bike shop because you are a cheapass. Build up this bad bitch and paint over the nasty spots it wont fail but if it does you better not even think about sueing me because I’m already telling you its fukked up some. You are probably one of those jagoffs who buys shit at walmart and wears it for a month and then takes it back for a full refund. Well they hate you and think your a dushe even though they are like smiling and like “Have a nice day” crap. Well I’m not so dont pull any crap okay and I dont care what kind of fukking day you have or ever have.
Well now. You are probably thinking this is too cool to be offered but there is more. Everybody in fukking LA knows this bike because it has kicked more asses than a pointy toed pair of boots in a bar full of transvestites. This fukkin bad boy has inflicted some body pain and some booty pain all over the fukkin South Bay and beyond.
Switchbacks in PV? Kicked some fukkin ass all over that town. PCH? Fukkin engraved my star on that piece of asphalt with this bad bitch. Donut Ride? You show up on the Doney with this bad boy people will say oh fuk thats some badass shit the guys peckers will shrivell all up they will crap in thier pants and the hot chicks will be staring at your pants guaranteed. You put some good componnants on this bad bitch and it will climb its lighter than helium it will pull your saggy ass up the climbs practically. Dont be a cheapass dork and buy this bad bitch and build it up with 105 crap youll look like a dork and for gods sake wear bibs no one wants to look at your hairy buttcrack. Plus its made from FACT carbon which means Fucking Awesome Carbon Thing and its damned good and stiff.
Now then. One day I was riding this bad boy in PV and some dumfuk road crew had just painted the road with white stripe paint shit while they were stoned like theres any other kind of road crew right and then they wnet on a rest break to get stoned some more and forgot the orange conese so I road right through the white striping paint shit. It spalttered like a fukker and its instant dry shit I mean they had just put it down when I road over it.
So this bad bitch gets like sprayed with white paint that after a zillion miles turns gray and looks nasty. Ive took most of it off but there are still spots so if your a prissy pretty boy or prissy pritty girl and your such a loser that you lay on your stomach and stare underneath your fukkin bike with a fukkin microscope you will think “Eeeewwwww” but fuk you I wouldn’t sell this bad bitch to you anyway.
Now your looking at these pictures and going what does he live in a fukkin prison. No asshole I live in a pretty classy place that has big hairy fuks with guns at the door to keep deadbeats like you from sneaking in and stealing the toilet paper. Those are the bars on my balcony not a prison you idiot. I probably have more money in my checking account than your whole fukking family tree and if you had a pot to piss in you wouldnt even know how to spell craigslist.
So now your so hot to buy your like where do I fukkin sign. Well you know what they say the best time to breed the mare is when the farmer is in heat but if you think I’m giving you my contact info your fukkin nuts people get murdered on craigslist over pissant shit like porn and blowjobs much less a bad boy like I’m selling here. So then. You send me a email and don’t give me any poormouth bullshit I dont give a ratsass about your moms chemo cash only please. No I wont take your rubber fukkin check and I wont swap for your supposed web design skills or shit or even think about taking your stolen credit card you dushe. Hard cash only please in this case $500 big ones. Also dont ask if Ill take less than that this isnt Bangaladesh if I wanted $450 I’d have typed $450 morron. If you want to go haggle like your at the fukkin bazar go to Bagdad.
Now then. In case you are a scammer fuk and think your going to meet me somewhere and rip me off well fuk you. I have a federal license for every fukkin kind of killing machine ever invented and guns with caliburs that are big and badass. And I will. use it on the first fuk that tries to rip me off. You may think I’m skinny and no account because I am a fukkin hammer on this bad boy but I know joojitsoo and kung foo and will use it all over your ass upside and down if your not instantly killed in a hail of bullets. Don’t fuk with me plus I carry a big ass knife.
Also dont send me a zillion emails with stupid questions I wont answer them. You think fukkin Eddy Merx gave a ratsass about your stupid questions he didn’t. He climbed the fukkin tours of Giro and France and Spain with six cogs on the back wearing a stinkass wool sweater on a bike that weighs more than your fat sister. He was a fukking hammer stud and he didnt give a ratsass why the fuk should you. You either want this bad boy or your just a tirekicking dick.
I am Standing by to make you one happy dude or chick. Oh yeah its 58cm dont fukking ask me how many inches that is what am I a calculater and it comes with a pretty bitching seatpost I will throw in the bottle cages too if your not a total dushe. They are blue. Which is very rad.
October 14, 2011 § 4 Comments
I’m trying to decide between a Venge and an SL4. They say the Venge is more for guys who are out in the wind, rouleur/solo attacking style, whereas the SL4 is more of a climber/traditional roadie frame. I’m a little of both. Your thoughts?
Both frames went through an extensive R&D period that included more hours in the wind tunnel than any bike, ever. They were also tested extensively beneath the pulsing quads of some of the greatest racers in the pro peloton. The consensus among people who have thoroughly tested both frames is this: they’re wasted on a weekend wanker like you, who wouldn’t be able to tell the difference between an SL4 and a wheelbarrow. In any event, as with every other piece of cycling equipment you’ve ever bought, you’ll still be gasping at the back when crunch time comes, and you’re ejected from the paceline’s rectum quicker than a bad burrito.
I’ve heard people say that Specialized’s strategy is to vertically integrate and lock out all non-Specialized products from their shops in order to reduce competition, raise prices, and limit consumer choice. That’s why I refuse to shop at Specialized shops and why I support my LBS instead. I’m surprised you patronize such places.
I’ve also heard that Banana Republic’s strategy is to lock out all GAP and J. Crew products from their store, and that Toyota refuses to share its manufacturing plants with GM. Who fucking cares? Some people like buying a car off a showroom floor, others like surfing Craigslist and spending six months traveling around LA County to the homes of hookers, perverts, crazies, fraudsters, and axe-murderers in order to get the perfect deal on a lime-colored, low mileage 1997 Dodge LeDouche. My biggest gripe against Specialized is that they’re an adjective. See ya.
Specialized bikes are made in Taiwan, a place that’s notorious for low-quality, gemcrack manufacturing. Give me a hand-crafted European frame any day. Plus, there’s no cycling tradition in Asia like there is here.
I remember when the first Toyotas came into this country. Bigoted pinheads like you called them “rice rockets” and sneered at their shoddy quality and inferior design. You’re now collecting unemployment and the world’s biggest automaker is Japanese. You probably voted for someone in the Tea Party, if you even bothered to vote. Since you probably still drive a Dodge LeDouche, you’ve likely not heard that 99% of all bikes sold here are made in China and Taiwan. Among the Big Three–Trek/Gary Fisher, Specialized, and Giant, all are made in Taiwan. Last time I checked, Cav and Spartacus were making out okay on their “gemcrack” rides. Good point about no cycling tradition in Asia. There’s a much more vibrant bike culture in, say, Houston.
I saw you on your new Venge on Tuesday and heard that you crashed it after the Pier Ride. Heh, heh. How do you like it?
Have you ever heard of someone spending $4,000 on a new frame and then saying that it’s a piece of shit? Of course not. Here are a few iron laws about bike frame reviews: 1) You always like the bike you have. 2) The more you spend the better it feels. 3) Newer is always better. 4) Stern-O’s is newerer and betterer than whatever you’ve got, and has a lower serial number, usually 0001. Look forward to seeing you on the next Pier Ride and showing you a little move I learned from Walshie. Heh, heh.
Heard about your stooooopid Ride to the Rock on your stooooopid Specialized bike. Dincha get the memo? It’s off season, stupey-stoop-stoops. I’m talkin’ core. Build the core. Pray to the core. Turn the core into a rock-hard temple of fuckupedness. Ride tomorrow. Today? Core. Get it? Core it. Done, doodster.
Roger and out,
I failed my first mammalian zoology exam because I couldn’t name all the bones that made up the orbit of the eye. So I’m no expert on body parts. But what is this core of which you speak? I remember last winter when Frankendave came up to me on the track and said, “You need more core work, Wankster.” Frankendave squats 800 pounds and has more muscled ribbing on his abdomen than a Trojan. He has a twelve-pack. He sprints so fast that he’s finished with his third cigarette before I’ve even gotten on top of the gear. Then he took his index finger and poked it into the soft, flabby pouch of tenderness I carry with me wherever I go. As his finger vanished to the second knuckle, he thought it was funny. Then the joint disappeared. Pretty soon, his hand was buried up to the wrist, and he looked perplexed. Then the first half of his forearm vanished, and he got scared. That’s when I tensed my bowels. My jellied midriff went taut as I flexed my kidney and pancreas hard. Now his entire arm was locked in a vicegrip of blubber and internal organs. As the circulation shut off and his face turned purple, I pulled him up closely. “I think my core is fine, buddy.” I released him and he fell backwards, hitting his head (again) on the bike lockers. In other words, Mikey…my core is fine. And send me a picture of yours when you find it. I bet it looks a lot like Brett Favre’s, only lots smaller.
October 12, 2011 § 4 Comments
The better part of a working day had elapsed since my morning crash, so I thought it would be a good time to call DB. He lives in Houston. He’s 60. He’s a former marathoner. He’s a badass bike racer. And whatever story you’ve got, he will top it. Easily.
I told him about the morning adventure with my new Specialized Scratch. “So?” he said. “That’s fucking nothing. I’ve told you about Carlo’s new bike troubles, haven’t I?”
“Yeah, that dumb motherfucker was driving home with his brand new Trek Madone on top of the car, opened the garage, and eased in. But he was going really slow, and the car just ground to a halt. ‘What the fuck?’ he’s wondering, so he kind of backs out and looks to see if he’s run over one of the dogs or one of the kids, and he hasn’t so he eases the car back in. Same fucking thing. Grinds to a halt. ‘What the fuck?’ he says to himself. So he backs out again and this time gasses it a little bit. Fucking sounds like a bomb going off. Goddamn bike is mangled all to shit and he’s done $2,000 damage to the front of the garage.”
“Wow. That almost tops the time he…”
The technical word is “recidivist”
“I ain’t finished. So he gets another fucking bike, and sure enough, couple of months later he’s coming home from a race all beat to shit, hits the garage door opener, and plows right into the garage with his pretty fucking carbon bike. Looked like it had been run through a trash compactor, dumb sonofabitch.”
“That’s as bad as the time he had to take a dump and wound up in the…”
“Goddammit, I ain’t done. So he goes out and gets a third bike, and this time he wises up. ‘I’m gonna put that fucking garage remote in the glovebox so when I get home with my bike I’ll have to look for the remote, and while I’m looking for it that’ll remind me that the bike’s on top of the car.’ So he puts the remote in the glovebox, and sure enough, no problem. A few months go by, smooth as silk. Then one day he’s coming back from a race all beat to shit, and he stops the car in the drive, reaches into the glovebox and hits the remote. Just when he’s about to get out and take off the bike, his fucking cell phone rings. It’s his boss. Pissed off about some dental implant equipment or some shit that has gone bad and turned some poor fucker’s face into alligator mouth. So the boss unloads for about half an hour, Carlo all freaked out, and when he finally hangs up he’s forgotten about the fucking bike.”
I swear it had ceramic bearings
“Man, this is worse than the time we were on that ride and he had to take a dump and there was nowhere to go and so we pedaled up that dirt driveway and he drops trou and just as he gets going that farmer…”
“Yep, he just forgot all about the fucking bike, goes roaring into the garage and it fucking detonates the bike and I’m telling you it was fucking raining carbon shards for a week.”
“Well, at least it’s not as bad as having the farmer drive up and seeing him there logging the guy’s driveway and then pulling out that…”
“Yeah, but get this. He calls his insurance company, and the other bikes have put him over the deductible, so he gets the third bike paid for lock, stock, and barrel, tells them it has all kinds of shit that it never had, Zipps, Di2, Quark cranks, and they cut a check for the whole fucking thing.”
“…shotgun and filling his ass with buckshot.”
DB paused. “Yeah,” he mused. “It ain’t that bad.”
October 11, 2011 § 8 Comments
Shit happens quickly, but in slow motion at the same time. In a split section I had launched sideways, but it took hours to hit the asphalt. With the side of my head. Hard. I lay in a pile, unable to breathe, eavesdropping on the traffic lining PCH that was jammed at the stoplight, listening to the amazed drivers. “Shit, he went down in a heap!” and “He looks bad,” and “Call 911,” and “He’s not moving,” and “He hit his head hard,” and then doors opening and closing and kind, helpful faces staring down at me.
“Are you okay?” the kind hippie in the Porsche asked.
“Yes,” I said, noticing that no words actually came out, and finishing the sentence with “I am always okay when I smash my head and lay down in the middle of the fucking street on my brand new bike before work.” None of those words came out either, but the thought of my brand new bike, now crumpled in a heap somewhere, was enough to make me jerk upright. Only, like the words that didn’t come out, I didn’t move. Finally a big fresh draft of air poured into my lungs, and with it a giant harpoon that had been rammed into my ribcage.
“Shit,” I said. And everyone heard it.
“I’m calling 911,” the kind hippie said.
“No,” I said. “Don’t. I’ll be okay.” Everybody moved back a step. I sat up, my head still ringing from the huge smack I had taken on my right temple, a smack that, had I taken sans helmet, would have meant brain on the pavement.
The inventory had already begun. Bleeding elbow, check. Bleeding knee, check. Bleeding hand, check. Lucid thoughts, no, just a confused jumble of randomly inappropriate ideas. Double check. I glanced over at the new bike with less than 40 miles on it. Brake hoods, twisted over to the side. Bars crooked. Brakes slightly bent. Wheels, check. Frame, not a scratch. Game onnnnnnnn! I threw a leg over and pedaled off after thanking the helpful people.
They looked at me like I was crazy. Immobile and crumpled one second, rolling off the next to find Fuckdude to fix my brakes and straighten my bars.
We’re kicking you off the team for excessive displays of dorkitude
Fuckdude came to the gate and started laughing. “You’re a fucking idiot, dude. Fucking fucked up your new bike on your first ride? Well, at least you got it out of your system. I hope. Better not pull that shit on Man Tour, dude.”
Fuckdude’s awesome wife offered some first aid, but in the Man Tour spirit of things I offered up the old, “I’m okay,” even though my head was still ringing. Fuckdude straightened the bars and the brakes. “Don’t be such a dork, dude. Course, you can’t really help it, dude, being such a fucking dork. Sweet bike. How does it ride? Rad, huh?”
“It really cuts the wind when you’re flying sideways through the air,” I said. “But its handling when the bars hit the asphalt leaves something to be desired.”
Back at the office I showered and tried to reconstruct the crash. I was heading south on PCH, coming up to the intersection at Beryl. A left turn, then briefly onto the sidewalk per the StageOne shortcut in front of the fortune-teller’s, then a tiny 3-inch drop off the curb onto North Gertruda, and…only problem was that the fortune-teller had turned on the sprinkler and the little lip of curb was wet. The slight angle off the curb slicked the wheel out from under me, sending me and the bike into a nice Blue Angels-type aerial formation, you know the kind they do just before they touch wings and plunge down into the viewing stands.
Of course, the Karma God noted with pleasure that a few minutes earlier I’d been sitting on the porch at the Center of the Known Universe, ribbing Frankendave for his propensity to finish out crits with a trip to “crit”ical care. A couple of bandages and an Advil later, though, it’s all good…just waiting for the laughter and ridicule to start raining down. As ye sow, or something like that.
October 9, 2011 § Leave a comment
Day 4 rolling out from Morro Bay is very hard. Last year it was cold, and it rained mud. Cold mud. No one sprang out of bed, there was just one long, creaky ass-drag down to the dining room. Our bodies had gone into survival mode, which meant that unlike Day One, when people picked and chose their way around the food, no one much cared what was on the buffet line. How hungry were we? We cleared out an entire giant tureen of oatmeal. No one eats oatmeal, a staple of prisons, who has a choice. By Day Four, no one had a choice, except Old Dirt, who grew up so poor in rural South Africa that oatmeal was considered fancy food.
Day 4 is also called the Queen Stage, but not because of our celebrity dresser, Pretty Boy, who never wears the same Rapha kit twice. It’s called the Queen Stage because by now your ass feels like it’s been violated by a gang of angry queens, and because it’s the longest day–120 miles–with a hard climb to get over to the coast followed by a 30-mile hammerfest along the 101 all the way into Santa Barbara.
By now it’s the crybaby tour…
Day 4 is the day that, cold and wet, no one pretends to be happy they came. No one is enjoying the cool teameraderie of wearing color-coordinated cycling kits. No one is enjoying the freedom of the open road. No one thinks this is fun. Chief has begun speed-dialing his associates to find out which one will be driving up the coast to pick him up. Gonzo’s herbal medications no longer medicate. Even the happy people are miserable.
With so many people so wet, so cold, so unhappy, and so dirty, what could be a better time than Day 4 to attack the exhausted group and make a solo break for the coast? No time, that’s when. So there we were, with three guys splintering the field, up the road in a breakaway, when Major Major slammed into the back of my bike, shattering his fork and showing everyone why, when you ride a bicycle, it’s important to wear those stupid little gloves: because if you don’t you’ll be skipping along the pavement on your skinless palms.
I’ve been told that carbon fails catastrophically
Major Major didn’t die, but everyone stopped, the epic breakaway came to naught, and we regrouped again at the 101. The final 30 miles were sheer hell. Cars blowing by at 90, nails, rocks, cracks, loaded diapers, glass, wind, rollers, and a nasty, furious chase all the way to the hotel. Iron Mike flatted a couple of times just to test my tire-changing skills (they suck). The threesome of him, Fuckdude, and I flailed along for miles until Fuckdude threw in the towel. We never caught the main group.
The only thing I remember from that evening was the nasty sight of fifteen stinking old men piled into a tiny outdoor hot tub filled with tepid water and gonorrhea. I sat twelve feet away, but wound up with a funny drip just from looking at them. Dinner was an enormous chicken burrito for three wrapped in a green tortilla. I had two of them. Urp.
October 6, 2011 § 5 Comments
With the exception of embrocation and tall, white socks, I rarely recommend cycling products simply because, for the most part, they all suck. And the ones that don’t are so self-evident that if you don’t have one it’s not worth my time telling you about it. However, once in a generation a product comes along that is so revolutionary that the failure to purchase it will relegate you forever to the ranks of the stupid. A brief list of those generational innovations includes cranks with pedals, derailleurs, clipless pedals, brake lever shifters, and of course tall, white socks.
The latest game-changer? The HIOD. Here’s what Swedish CEO Per-Arne Wiberg says about the HIOD (He Is Over Dere): “Even though cycling is a constantly evolving high technology sport, the communication between riders has not developed much over the past decades. The options available today are com-radio and mobile phones, both with significant drawbacks for the sport user. HIOD One fills this gap by offering a new way of sharing your cycling experience.”
Although this clumsy explanation reflects the awkward nature of Swedish, a language that puts its verbs at the end and has unpronounceable letters like “å,” in plain English Mr. Wiberg’s blurb is best translated as follows: “Even though cycling is a giant money sink for gimmicky crap, people still have to scream at the top of their lungs to be heard over the wind, traffic, and death howls from being ground under the wheels of a big rig. The options today are radio earpieces like they’ve banned in the pros and an iPhone, and what with the death of Steve Jobs they will soon suck, too. Oh, wait–they already do! He Is Over Dere (HIOD) will allow cyclists to say, when the guy they’ve been trying to drop for the last three hours finally rides them off his wheel and scatters them individually over several miles of desolate roadway, ‘He is over dere!'”
Wiberg continues: “Some people tink that cycling shouldn’t be for chatting on dere phones because of high death chance. But He Is Over Dere lets dem do just dat. People been trying to stop texting driving forever, but dumfuks still doing it like bananas. I see tree bikers two years ago talking iPhone before smashing into goat. ‘Why dey have to smash into goat?’ I wonders. So I tink up He Is Over Dere. He Is Over Dere safety cyling iPhoning first puts.”
Before reading further it is imperative that you follow this link and watch the promotional video in order to understand the method of function of He Is Over Dere.
Careful observers will note that the mid-sized handlebar unit will displace something that’s already on your bars, like a headlight (extraneous vanity item), cyclocomputer (distance/time/speed/wattage…who really gives a fuck?), or TT extensions (wind resistance is less important than previously thought). In exchange for getting rid of these useless gewgaws, He Is Over Dere will allow you to talk to other cyclists up to 1,300 yards away. And think of how often you want to do that! In fact, any well-organized paceline will be spaced at exactly 1,300 yards per rider, so instead of shouting yourself hoarse you can calmly say, “Take a pull, dipshit,” and “Quit overlapping wheels!” to people that are three blocks away.
In addition to shifting the emphasis of cycling from exercise, discipline, and paying attention, HIOD makes cycling into what it should be–talking on your iPhone or communicating with people you can no longer see, or want to see. He Is Over Dere’s promo video also shows how awful people look when their jerseys are two sizes too big, even when they are blonde, bisexual Swedish women who speak perfect English. It also shows that He Is Over Dere is preferred by blonde, bisexual Swedish women on Scott racing bikes wearing baggy long pants who seek to engage in conversation with men whose dork commuter bike handlebars sport a cute little bell. The bell is extra and can be purchased online at www.dorkybells.com.
The only possible drawback to He Is Over Dere, aside from having to ride late at night without a light, is the special booster pack that you must also strap to your arm. Although slightly on the heavy side (15 lbs.), if you switch arms throughout the ride it will assist in the development of your upper body, remedying one of the long-time complaints about the imbalanced training effect of cycling. The wires from the booster pack, as shown in the photo gallery, insert directly into the rider’s skin, where they interface with blood, muscle, nerves, and other stuff. Although He Is Over Dere is not yet available for retail, Inge, the bisexual Swedish model is. You can videochat with her here for 5kr (Swedish Kronor) per minute. All major credit cards accepted. www.swedishbisexual.com.
October 5, 2011 § 2 Comments
I’m a computer programmer and am leaving this weekend on a two-week group trip to Tuscany with my buddy Tolly Tolliver who owns a villa just outside Casentino. It’s my second time abroad (first foreign trip was to Arizona a few years back), and I don’t want to look like the typical ugly American. My guidebook says that the best way to “blend in” is to learn the “local lingo.” I did an Internet search and came up with some good stuff like “Thanks,” “I’m sorry,” “Where is the —?”, and “I’m from America,” but wondered if you could suggest some useful cycling-related phrases. I know you’re a world traveler and good with languages, so any advice is greatly appreciated.
Apprehensively but with anticipation,
It will be an awesome trip. I’m green with envy. If anything is better than TELO or the Pier Ride, this is surely it. However, your attempts to blend in will be an abject failure. Just think of the Turkish immigrant on a rusty Huffy who speaks four words of badly accented English and how neatly he blends into the South Bay cycling scene. You and your group of Freddies ARE THAT GUY. You will mix in about as well as a hand grenade or a gasoline fire at a crowded nightclub. Possibly worse.
Moreover, you won’t be able to remember any of your native language, let alone Italian, when some skinny fuck who used to race the Giro back in the day is drilling your balls back into your abdominal cavity. All you’ll be able to do is hack, wheeze, hang onto the wheel if you’re lucky, and pray that the hangover ends before it’s time to start drinking again. If you ever learn to say anything cycling-related in Italian, it will be along the lines of “Can I puke here?” or perhaps “I’m too frail for this manly endeavor.”
In short, your best gambit is to pretend that you possess a tongue disability and are unable to speak any language at all other than cunnilingus. If you don’t know what that is, ask your wife. If she pretends not to know, it’s because she’s banging the UPS guy. Anyway, the minute you start butchering Italian they will take you for Amanda Knox’s father and charge you with her crimes in absentia. As a computer programmer you’re essentially dysfunctional in English anyway, so why in the world you’d try to learn a foreign language before being able to speak your own is beyond me.
If you’re still not dissuaded from this quixotic attempt to master a complex language five days before you depart, below is my stock of must-have phrases. Forget all the other crap in the guidebook. These work anywhere, in any country.
- Quanti anni ha tua figlia?
How old is your daughter?
- Questo è il mio pene.
That’s my penis.
- Io non so questi ragazzi
I don’t know these guys.
- Io non sono gay.
I’m not gay.
- Io sono gay.
- Posso fare una foto con lui qui?
Can I take a picture with it here?
- Mi dispiace. Tre minuti è abbastanza buono per me.
I’m sorry. Three minutes is pretty good for me.
- Quante volte ti abbiamo battuto in una guerra mondiale?
How many times did we kick your ass in a World War?
- Un altro bicchiere, per favore.
Another glass, please. (Keep repeating this until you pass out).