I didn't win the Tour de France

Last weekend, Michelle and I headed up to Boston for her birthday. I hoped we wouldn't get the same kind of heat we had the earlier part of the week. I'd have to bring a few extra shirts since I'd get all sweaty walking around. "Hot town, summer in the city, back of my neck get dirt and gritty..." It was really humid, but we still had a nice time. It rained a little too, but that's okay because, unlike the aliens in Signs, I'm not allergic to water. (Ha! Did I ruin the ending for you? You should have seen Signs long ago. Get with the times. Since then M. Night Shamalamadingdong has put out like 12 or 54 movies.)

If her birthday was only one week later, we'd have had the chance to see Gilbert Gottfried at the comedy connection in Boston. Too bad. He's funny. And ugly, but mostly funny. Okay. Actually, he's mostly ugly.

Before we left, I was riding my bike (a Trek 1500, carbon-titanium-adamantium alloy fork and spoon and frame, with Look carbon-based lifeform pedals, shimano-Ronco™ shifters and components, and a sweet hot pink, anus-master 3000 gel seat). I fell over after a squirrel ran out into the road, swinging a battle axe at me. I ripped my face off, but got a new one from Mel Gibson. Now I can read women's minds. So far most of them are saying, "My boobs have nipples." Here's a picture of my arm after the crash.



The pained look in my eye is because I just poured salt all over my arm. The wound looks like Italy because I'm half Italian. I'm also half Mexican, half Russian, and half & half with Equal. I did end up catching the squirrel. I ate his face off.

My pal Stan was only about 70 miles (instead of the usual 1200 miles), since he was at Cape Cod in Massachusetts. He was there with his mom and dad and some other family. Too bad we couldn't have found a way to hook up somewhere. Oh well.

Speaking of polacks, here's the big news from Goshen (pronounced like Gosh-in, absolutely not like Go-shin, no way). Big news in a small town. Whoopee! Losers...