Stoned.

In my myriad attempts to be the drunkest of all drunk cyclists, last night's diversionary tactics might just get me into the record books: I had my car loaded with all my mt. bike gear, ready to hit the Blue River for a long night ride, and lo and behold, Urethra Franklin - the Whitest of all Mikes - sends me a picture of the tap takeover at the Flying Saucer...Stone Brewing. My beer geek-itude may be a bit fledgling when compared to many of my closest friends, but in times of embarrassing addictive behavior, I can keep up with the mama bird quite well. As long as the company is correct - and with Handleballs, the aforementioned El Blanco and Ms. Melissa - the Power and Light district can be somewhat tolerable, even when a gaggle of dipshit Futbol fans are sporting their ascots and scarves in a fashion statement that even the Bieber would find offensive.

The saddest part of this sordid tome, however, is the simple fact that I again chose to forgo a chance to get dirty on my Krampus and instead opted for an 18 mile roundtrip ride on my carbon 'cross bike - with slicks.  This revelation alone should get my IMBA card revoked, but the regret I feel this morning is not unlike waking up next to a babe with a hairier face than mine - and pile of Bud Lights and used condoms...