There must be some mistake. I saw James Way rock a triple back in ’02 at the Florida State Fair. He bonked his head pretty hard on the landing ramp, though, and never was quite the same after that. He became obsessed with the song “Holiday Road” — that annoying but infectious Buckingham number — and got a tattoo of the lyrics on his back.
Outside the parlor, I was like, “Jim, maybe you should give it another day or two. You know, not rush into it. And besides, I don’t know if I can afford another tattoo for you.”
He peeled his mouth back into a grotesque rictus, an orange rime of Cheetos powder encircling his rubbery lips, and barked out two loud and distinct Haw Haws. “I’m a get them words on my back. I’m a sing. that. song!” he intoned. That had been his mantra for weeks after the jump. But this time, it was uttered with a sulky defiance that carried more than a hint of a threat.
“Yeah, look, I know you like that song,” I told him, “but, dammit, Jim, we’re broke! You understand what that means? That means no more Cheetos. No more marshmallows. No more Pop Tarts, not even the plain ones. That means, Jim, no more frickin’ tattoos!”
Wordlessly, he let the rollers spin to a halt, unclipped and rested his Kalavinka against our van.
And then…oh, hell. I can’t keep this crap up. The Giro’s on, and the riders are at the foot of Sestriere. I’ll finish the story after seeing whether Contador can catch the escapees.
so what
who the fuck cares
more circus tricks
maybe he should triple back flip over the fucking great wall of china for red bull !
that would be just great
Shit…
There must be some mistake. I saw James Way rock a triple back in ’02 at the Florida State Fair. He bonked his head pretty hard on the landing ramp, though, and never was quite the same after that. He became obsessed with the song “Holiday Road” — that annoying but infectious Buckingham number — and got a tattoo of the lyrics on his back.
Outside the parlor, I was like, “Jim, maybe you should give it another day or two. You know, not rush into it. And besides, I don’t know if I can afford another tattoo for you.”
He peeled his mouth back into a grotesque rictus, an orange rime of Cheetos powder encircling his rubbery lips, and barked out two loud and distinct Haw Haws. “I’m a get them words on my back. I’m a sing. that. song!” he intoned. That had been his mantra for weeks after the jump. But this time, it was uttered with a sulky defiance that carried more than a hint of a threat.
“Yeah, look, I know you like that song,” I told him, “but, dammit, Jim, we’re broke! You understand what that means? That means no more Cheetos. No more marshmallows. No more Pop Tarts, not even the plain ones. That means, Jim, no more frickin’ tattoos!”
Wordlessly, he let the rollers spin to a halt, unclipped and rested his Kalavinka against our van.
And then…oh, hell. I can’t keep this crap up. The Giro’s on, and the riders are at the foot of Sestriere. I’ll finish the story after seeing whether Contador can catch the escapees.
Pffffffft.
Worst triple back flip by bicycle ever.
It ain’t that he flipped three times. It’s that he landed on his wheels after the fact that amazes me.
Wow, I can’t even bring myself to do a back flip on a trampoline. It’s crazy how the level of competition keeps skyrocketing.
so what
who the fuck cares
more circus tricks
maybe he should triple back flip over the fucking great wall of china for red bull !
that would be just great