Like any responsible member of the press, here at BRC news headquarters we pride ourselves on intercepting correspondence that we were never intended to see and posting it on the public Internet without any sort of verification of its authenticity. I'm like Wolf Blitzer, but teal.
As such, below is an open letter of admonishment to Gordon Wadsworth from the very jilted Maillot Pistachio. It's all true. And very, very sad.
Sometimes I wish you were just the kind of man who would drink too much, yell at me about how wrinkled I've become, then pee on me on the family room floor and pass out. My life then would be simpler at the very least. Alas, your vices are different, and you go into the mountains to ride your silly bicycle, flashing your supple, creamy hamstrings all over the podiums of the Internet, then stuff your gigantic pectorals into other jerseys that are not me. And it makes me sad.
 |
| creamy |
 |
| The disdain I feel when staring at this picture defies words. And yet, I stare on. |
Look, I just want to have your babies. My ruffles, once magnificent, are drying up inside, and I can't just weep away these last few good years at home, lonesome, burning and reburning the ashes of your pictures while you cavort your pretty little tush around the country, winning, smiling, always smiling.
One time? Couldn't you just wear me up on the podium one lousy time? Let the world see how you really care? That glorious day atop brokenback when we stuck it to the Manimal and soloed in for victory - that was us, sugarbritches. Those nights we spent together in the Berkshires while it snowed outside; the summer afternoons in Aspen...have you forgotten all of those precious moments? YOU SAID YOU LOVED ME!
I knew I should have gone with the Manimal. Sure, he smells like cheese, but he at least looks stylish in his KOM chapeau. Or perhaps I should have waited for David Reid, a responsible man, fine father, hell of a racer, and the kind of man that would have treated me like a real lady. But no, I had to chase you, like chasing dynamite. Is it just the danger I love? Really, I'm so ashamed.
But here's what you don't know about you, Gordon: I'll fucking kill you. You can turn your back on a lover. But you can never turn your back on a jersey. Especially when that jersey is Italian. In February, when you waltz into the Pantani ride, late, unkempt, a little pudgy from your winter of watching cricket and eating chocolate truffles, you'll be in for a Valentine's reckoning that will knock your pretty little green short shorts all the way up to your kidneys you lousy, cheating, heartbreaking piece of man meat. You will know pain.
Until then, I remain.
Yours truly,
The Maillot Pistachio
No comments:
Post a Comment