Monday, July 2, 2012

2012 Tour de Pants.

Well, the live-streaming of this years Tour de France has begun - which means the Fat Bottom household is awash with boring conversation about sprint stats and the aerodynamics of rear wheels countered with vapid remarks about how pretty the Leopard Trek outfits are and what a pity it is they are now called Team RadioShack Nissan Trek because it's a lot less mysterious to have 'Nissan' written on your badonka-donk.

I am personally mourning the absence of Andy Schleck, only because I enjoy saying 'Andy Schleck' a lot more than saying 'Frank Schleck' but fate has been kind and given me a gift in the form of Edvald Boasson Hagen and I challenge any person alive not to think fondly about waffles and icecream when saying 'Boasson Hagen'. Sometimes I whisper it softly to myself as I squirt Cottee's Ice Magic on a Pop-Tart and shed a single tear for 2011 edition Andy Schleck. His sorbet blue helmet left a hole in my heart.

Come back, Pastel Andy Schleck!

Of course, Australia is almost as emotionally invested in the 2012 Tour as they are in say, Olympic Curling - thanks to the defending champion being ONE OF US. Yes, like a marsupial transmitted urinary tract infection, I am supposed to feel the sting of patriotism deep inside when I see Cadel Evans - But instead I suffer from what can only be described as extremely localised Tourette's syndrome. Whenever I see his 'Thunderbirds puppet who was too wooden for Thunderbirds' visage, words spill from my mouth entirely beyond my control.

"Muppet. Muppet face. Muppet face butt chin."

"For goodness sake, cut back on the waving before you get his string tangled."

So long as our internet connection remains, there will be little respite from the testosterone driven glory of the Tour de France and my chances of a mutually upright bicycle with Ginger (Not a euphemism) will be slim to none as the fever takes him. I must resign myself to the endless whirr of the bike trainer, be-lycraed bottoms flashing across my screen and the fact that not even my traditional methods of communication will break through his mania:

"Over here! Booooooobeeeeeees!"

And pray to the Roadie Gods that he doesn't find out about '' because I don't know if I can stand to see car advertising wobbling along in front of me without stabbing it with a fork.

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