I don't know if this is the cart Lances uses. Somehow, I imagine he has a personal assistant to do his shopping for him.
Just, if you’re going to be like this…
Honey, town line sign sprints are a hallowed tradition in bicycling.
Okay. Let’s put aside for the moment that you don’t own a bike. There’s still the question of where exactly a town sign is in the grocery store.
It’s the natural delineations. Frozen foods. Stuff you can’t eat–cleaners and cat litter, laundry detergent and batteries. Canned foods. Produce. Deli. C’mon, sweetie. Doesn’t it add a little sense of joie de vivre to what might otherwise be a really mundane necessity?
No. It does not. It takes away from my joy of living. Especially when you ask the managers what they think of the new grocery carts coming out. Whether the carbon frame baskets you’ve heard about really absorb that much more shock. Or when you “draft” off of little old ladies and end up barking their heels with your cart…
I’ve told you before, you’ve got to signal if you’re going to do a rapid deceleration in the peloton.
And I’m telling you, just so it won’t be a surprise when the judge asks, that I want mom to have custody of me.
You don’t mean that.
Like full custody. Like you can’t take me to the grocery store ever unless she says it’s okay.
Honey.
Which she won’t, because I’ll tell her how you have a shopping cart in your basement that you stole and you practice your cornering with it at night.
You wouldn’t.
Of course, you could just buy me a pony and up my allowance.
Would you still come to the grocery store with me, be my George Hincapie?
Ha! No. That’s just to buy my silence. You can’t pay me enough for complicity. Plus, George Hincapie’s leg is gross.
The Man With Two Brains
