I'm writing today's blog to the guy in the pick-up truck who threw his cup full of tobacco spit juice all over our paceline last night on the Natchez Trace.
Dude! Priceless! That was comedic genius! The way that you managed to get maximum spread from the spew? That, sir, is a blend of artistry and athleticism not often seen from someone with your burly heft. I can only assume that you have been practicing the "spit toss" for years. I would imagine that the timing involved in hitting a group of bicycles moving in the opposite direction at almost 20 mph is tricky, so I hope that you first practiced on a group of pedestrians. Maybe some senior citizens sitting on a bench ... or even better some handicapped children at a bus stop. I'm certain that you and your friends nearly died laughing as you watched kids in wheelchairs cry. I only wish that you could have laughed just a little harder.
With a throwing arm like yours, it's a wonder you never made it to the major leagues. Of course, the system has always been rigged against you. The way that the big-time scouts don't even start looking for talent until you're playing high school ball ... it's a crying shame. Heck, you learned all you needed in seventh grade anyways. Third time was the charm.
Some people in cars are content to merely buzz cyclists, or pull alongside us and honk their horn, or yell "Hey Lance!" or "Bikers suck!" But you, sir, have elevated the art of automotive harassment to a new level -- the initial light contact of a spray of spit and leaf, combined with a lasting residue both visible and olfactory. The joke and its legacy stayed with us for the rest of our ride. You can't imagine just how funny I and my fellow riders found it.
You really can't.
By the way, your brand choice was impeccable. What could possibly be more appropriate than Red Man? The way that it picked up the redolence of your lunch -- fried chicken, fried okra, and Budweiser, right? Plus, the texture and consistency made it all but impossible for us to just wipe the flakes off our faces and arms. Hilarious! You're killing me.
Um, that last is just an expression, of course. Kind of like "you rock!" You aren't really saying that somebody shifts their weight from side to side, like in a rocking chair. So, when I say, "you're killing me," I don't want you to get any ideas. Heaven forbid you get something like an idea.
I mean, that whole "sociopathic tendencies" thing that the guidance counselor in 7th grade went on and on about (second time around ... not that wiener Mr. Cooper the third time through). Well, what did she know? Lots of kids like to play a little rough with their pets. That cat was old, anyhow.
All I wanted to say was, good job. After the passing this week of one of the Comedic Greats, Ryan Dunn, many of us were concerned that humor might lapse again into subtlety and craft, using those stupid "word" things again. Physical humor is an art, and it is at its most pure when we can laugh at the misfortune of others, particularly when it puts them in some form of peril. What if your "spittle missile" had caused a crash that brought us all to the pavement in a mangle of torn flesh and broken bones? Can you imagine how funny that would have been?
You can't? Well, don't strain yourself.
Anyway, I hope that some night you will come by the school parking lot in Fieldstone Farms and entertain us further with your unique brand of comedy. I, for one, would love to buy you a beer ... and maybe a fresh tin of Red Man.