The mailbag, brimming with post-Pantani glow, says it better than I can this week. So I won't try to doll this one with my own words, it's already perfect:
This is a Pantani Flower. It was picked half way down Simmons Gap, in a rock garden.
It can only be grown out of the man love that occurs when one has suffered near frostbite after climbing a nearly insurmountable obstacle, only to find solace in the armpits of a bearded friend wearing some sort of oversize bunny onesie. The flower is grown upon the nutrition of cheap beer and the sight of a grown man's backside wearing a black jock strap and hair that Brett Michaels would be proud of.
This is the flower of the Foof Nation.
Beauty thus becomes.
Up, up, up.