Proof that Will Leet will show up anywhere, at any time, and whoop up on anyone.
No one is ever safe.
Who takin' care of my farm?
Up, up, up.
A grassroots racing team from Charlottesville, VA.
Thursday, June 30, 2016
Will Leet on a farm
Proof that Will Leet will show up anywhere, at any time, and whoop up on anyone. 
Monday, June 27, 2016
Cycling-Relevant Information about getting a Vasectomy
I've tried to keep this off the blog a bit, because hey, these are my nuts I'm about to tell you about. But given just how many bike rider fellas have heard about me getting a vasectomy and contacted me for more information, I figure I'll just come right out with the splendid details and allow the masses to pore over this and, quite possibly, set your troubled minds at ease.
Things you, Mr. Cyclist in your spermal prime, might be wondering about getting a Vasectomy.
1) Is it going to hurt? I'm super scared of this for some reason.
The answer for most people is no, it doesn't really hurt. And for you, My Cyclist in your prime who weighs all of 145 lbs if you've stuffed your pockets with hammer gels, the answer is 10 times no. The reason for that is, these days, they give fellas like us a 2 MG Xanax to take 45 minutes before you go to surgery. I'm no expert on dosing, but I can tell you that a 2 MG Xanax for those of us who pursue endurance sports and get a little tipsy off the first beer, is enough to render you worthless for about 12 hours. I'm talking black out drunk. Think Jeff Cup and then went straight to Foxfield without eating lunch kind of shitfaced. In my case, I took the little xanax right on time, and my wife drove me to the procedure. It's an outpatient deal, takes about 20 minutes, and you're out of there. And by "out of there" I mean, they're going to wheel you to the car in a chair while you laugh and sing the wrong words to Fiona Apple. Just shitfaced. So my wife drives me to the doc, and I'm a little sleepy on the way there, but OK, and then we get out of the car in the parking lot, and I'm a little shaky, but again, fine, and I straighten up, pull it together, straight faced walk to the greeting desk at the doctor and the nurse says, "OK, clearly you've taken the Xanax." And, quite surprised, what I try to say back is, "How did you know I took the Xanax?" But what comes out of my mouth is pure gibberish. I'm shocked by how drugged I am, like, walking into walls and unable to speak or focus on anything. And I'm basically having a great time. So the nurse walks me back to the surgery room, which looks basically like the dentist office, chair and everything, and the instructions from here are super basic: take off your pants and underwear, cover up with this sheet, and the doctor will be right in. Unable to articulate that I don't understand her or follow instructions in general, I completely blow it. I take all my clothes off, lie down on the dentist chair buck naked, and sort of half way cover up with the sheet, but it's still folded up and doesn't really cover up anything, and I can't stop laughing until I pass out.
That's it. Procedure over.
Again, I'm sort of a lightweight, but as a cyclist, generally speaking our tolerance for pharmies is low, and for a procedure that so many of us have so much trepidation about, it was like I was barely even there. Just the easiest thing you could do.
I guess I sort of remember the doctor coming in and laughing at me. Then I think I might recall some poking or prodding, and maybe I said ouch one time, but I don't know. Eventually, they wheel me out to the car, and my wife drove me home, and gave me a Tylenol with codeine, and I slept for about 15 hours. Woke up the next day, used some ice, but it was basically fine.
Anyway, to directly address the question: why am I so scared of this? I think that's a natural human male reaction to someone cutting and pilfering around at sack level. And this is especially true for cyclist who spend an inordinate amount of time avoiding saddle-related pain on long rides.
But really, take that Xanax, and everything from there happens just fine. Enjoy the ride.
2) How long am I going to be off the bike for? - OK, so this is a subject you can split rooms on. The literature says you should give it a week at least. I know guys who said they rode 2 days later. My dad went duck hunting the next day. Other guys had a lot more swelling and were off the bike for 3 weeks. So it really varies. I can tell you that running is probably out for longer than riding. You're going to have a strict "No flopping around" policy for a while. But the pain really isn't bad. Maybe a 2 or 3 out of 10, that just sort of hangs around for a while. I guess I went for a ride exactly 7 days later, and it was OK. Now, close to 1 month out, I'm basically back to normal, just minus a little fitness that I lost along the way. Every now and then, getting on or off the bike, I'll sit on them though, which never used to happen, and sucks a whole lot, but I'm told that goes away.
3) What if I have a saddle sore? No problem. They do ask that you shower first. But the procedure is more directly on your balls than on your taint. So your saddle sore can heal as a part of the team.
4) Who was your Doctor? - This question has come up a lot. It would seem that this sort of procedure happens quite a lot based upon referral, which makes sense. Dr. Frazier Fortenberry here in the Foof has vasectomized probably half of town. Good guy. 10 out of 10, would get vasectomized again.
5) When should I get the procedure done? - I guess the off-season is what most people would recommend, but here in VA that doesn't really exist. The Friday before the Tour De France start would give you a good excuse to sit around, ice your haunches, and watch the Grand Depart. I guess a lot of doctors are booked the week of March Madness and the first round of the NFL playoffs. So consult your local listing.
Anyway, that's about it. I'll trail off here, but assuming you've read this far I imagine you're a cyclist local who is slowly resigning himself to the fact you're going to have this done. Feel free to reach out and we can rap about it.
For me, there's one way back, and it's up, up, up.
Things you, Mr. Cyclist in your spermal prime, might be wondering about getting a Vasectomy.
1) Is it going to hurt? I'm super scared of this for some reason.
The answer for most people is no, it doesn't really hurt. And for you, My Cyclist in your prime who weighs all of 145 lbs if you've stuffed your pockets with hammer gels, the answer is 10 times no. The reason for that is, these days, they give fellas like us a 2 MG Xanax to take 45 minutes before you go to surgery. I'm no expert on dosing, but I can tell you that a 2 MG Xanax for those of us who pursue endurance sports and get a little tipsy off the first beer, is enough to render you worthless for about 12 hours. I'm talking black out drunk. Think Jeff Cup and then went straight to Foxfield without eating lunch kind of shitfaced. In my case, I took the little xanax right on time, and my wife drove me to the procedure. It's an outpatient deal, takes about 20 minutes, and you're out of there. And by "out of there" I mean, they're going to wheel you to the car in a chair while you laugh and sing the wrong words to Fiona Apple. Just shitfaced. So my wife drives me to the doc, and I'm a little sleepy on the way there, but OK, and then we get out of the car in the parking lot, and I'm a little shaky, but again, fine, and I straighten up, pull it together, straight faced walk to the greeting desk at the doctor and the nurse says, "OK, clearly you've taken the Xanax." And, quite surprised, what I try to say back is, "How did you know I took the Xanax?" But what comes out of my mouth is pure gibberish. I'm shocked by how drugged I am, like, walking into walls and unable to speak or focus on anything. And I'm basically having a great time. So the nurse walks me back to the surgery room, which looks basically like the dentist office, chair and everything, and the instructions from here are super basic: take off your pants and underwear, cover up with this sheet, and the doctor will be right in. Unable to articulate that I don't understand her or follow instructions in general, I completely blow it. I take all my clothes off, lie down on the dentist chair buck naked, and sort of half way cover up with the sheet, but it's still folded up and doesn't really cover up anything, and I can't stop laughing until I pass out.
That's it. Procedure over.
Again, I'm sort of a lightweight, but as a cyclist, generally speaking our tolerance for pharmies is low, and for a procedure that so many of us have so much trepidation about, it was like I was barely even there. Just the easiest thing you could do.
I guess I sort of remember the doctor coming in and laughing at me. Then I think I might recall some poking or prodding, and maybe I said ouch one time, but I don't know. Eventually, they wheel me out to the car, and my wife drove me home, and gave me a Tylenol with codeine, and I slept for about 15 hours. Woke up the next day, used some ice, but it was basically fine.
Anyway, to directly address the question: why am I so scared of this? I think that's a natural human male reaction to someone cutting and pilfering around at sack level. And this is especially true for cyclist who spend an inordinate amount of time avoiding saddle-related pain on long rides.
But really, take that Xanax, and everything from there happens just fine. Enjoy the ride.
2) How long am I going to be off the bike for? - OK, so this is a subject you can split rooms on. The literature says you should give it a week at least. I know guys who said they rode 2 days later. My dad went duck hunting the next day. Other guys had a lot more swelling and were off the bike for 3 weeks. So it really varies. I can tell you that running is probably out for longer than riding. You're going to have a strict "No flopping around" policy for a while. But the pain really isn't bad. Maybe a 2 or 3 out of 10, that just sort of hangs around for a while. I guess I went for a ride exactly 7 days later, and it was OK. Now, close to 1 month out, I'm basically back to normal, just minus a little fitness that I lost along the way. Every now and then, getting on or off the bike, I'll sit on them though, which never used to happen, and sucks a whole lot, but I'm told that goes away.
3) What if I have a saddle sore? No problem. They do ask that you shower first. But the procedure is more directly on your balls than on your taint. So your saddle sore can heal as a part of the team.
4) Who was your Doctor? - This question has come up a lot. It would seem that this sort of procedure happens quite a lot based upon referral, which makes sense. Dr. Frazier Fortenberry here in the Foof has vasectomized probably half of town. Good guy. 10 out of 10, would get vasectomized again.
5) When should I get the procedure done? - I guess the off-season is what most people would recommend, but here in VA that doesn't really exist. The Friday before the Tour De France start would give you a good excuse to sit around, ice your haunches, and watch the Grand Depart. I guess a lot of doctors are booked the week of March Madness and the first round of the NFL playoffs. So consult your local listing.
Anyway, that's about it. I'll trail off here, but assuming you've read this far I imagine you're a cyclist local who is slowly resigning himself to the fact you're going to have this done. Feel free to reach out and we can rap about it.
For me, there's one way back, and it's up, up, up.
Wednesday, June 8, 2016
Dear Bear
Dear Bear,
You're killing me here. Not literally, of course. That would be bad, and it's my hope that this letter will serve as a mediatatory step between where we are right now - which is a really unhealthy, angry, one-sided relationship - and one of us getting killed (you.)
You see, Bear, here's the thing. This started out OK. To be honest, it was kind of cool having a bear hanging around a little bit. The kids haven't seen you yet, and I was hoping that might happen somehow in a safe, manageable way where no one felt used or endangered or inappropriately spectated like some kind of zoo critter. And that time you went up the trail about an hour after Scanlon went down the trail and we got it all on camera - hilarious. Well-played. Your comedic timing, I felt, was spot on that time, and I applauded your style.
OK, but here's the thing. Sometime in the last couple of months, this got out of hand. Your behavior, which I will enumerate and expand upon below, is outside of what I'm prepared to accept from a neighboring and presumably slightly dangerous wild animal. I've been as cool about this as I can, but this is still North Earlysville, and I reserve the right to act like ruthless white trash if you keep acting like such a dick.
OK, let me get into it here, and please be sure to read this to the end so we're on the same page moving forward.
1) I can no longer tolerate you ignoring me screaming at you while you are eating from my trashcan. Let me be clear - that's not to say you can't eat the trash. It's fine if you want to pick through it now and then, and obviously your ice cream addiction is something you don't really have a handle on yet. I get that. I relate to that. I see how you push aside the leftover vegetables that my kids won't eat either in order to tear apart the ice cream container and lick every inch of it dry. I've DONE that. So let's be straight, it's OK from time to time. But when I step out not onto the porch at 4 AM in my underwear and I just had a vasectomy 3 days ago and I'm pretty sore, and I yell for you to beat it, do NOT, ever again, under any circumstances, give me your fuck-you-I'm-a-bear face and continue to eat the trash. I will not be ignored.
2) When I go back inside, get my shotgun loaded with bird shot to scare you off, storm back outside angrily, and shoot said shotgun in order to scare you off, I need you to at least ACT scared. Run off. Hustle for once in your life. A slow walk with a fuck-you look over your shoulder again will not be tolerated. It's a SHOTGUN. I need you to at least act like you're somewhat put off and repelled by my white-trash-shotgun-shooting-in-my-underwear rage. Do not simply walk to the edge of the yard and wait for me to go back inside so you can resume eating trash. I'm watching you, you slippery fuck. Also, if you could remind me that my 500 gallon propane tank is right there and I should be more careful with my shotgun warning shots so I don't blow up the entire zip code, that would be sweet.
3) You need to be more gentle with the trash can. I know this is difficult for you because you don't have opposable thumbs, but you are really destroying it. It's not a live, wild animal that you have to stalk, hunt down, and kill. It's entirely inanimate. It's not going to get away. Take your time, calmly bite through the bungie cord that holds the top on since you destroyed the hinges, and have yourself a nice meal. Light some candles, dude - enjoy the moment - it's fuel for your soul too, you know. If you spike the trash can off the heat pump one more time, I swear to God it's on.
4) No more diapers. Period. End of conversation. Those weren't even diapers that came from my trashcan, so I know you're two-timing me at the very least. Not cool.
5) No more daytime trashcan raids. Look, I know you get antsy out there sleeping all day, and the ice cream is calling or whatever, but you gotta stay put until nightfall at the very least. Preferably between the hours of midnight and 5 AM should be fine. Also, Shannon sometimes goes running at 5AM or some ungodly hour that I don't ever see unless I'm awake and trying to manage the fucking crazy bear that won't stop eating our trash, so if you can finish up early on those days that would be super helpful. In fact, if you can just try to manage your behavior in such a way that my bride doesn't have to lay down a suppressive fire with the shotgun from the front porch while I shovel trash back into the house in the middle of the night, that would be a good step towards her not shooting you for realsies.
I think that's it. Really, Bear, I don't feel like I'm asking too much. We've got young kids here, lots of people coming out to ride the farm at all kinds of hours, and as a general rule no one wants to party with a bear that wants to party back. Let's all try to get a handle on our tempers here, act like good neighbors, and return this to a healthy relationship that I know it can be.
I believe in us, bear.
Up, up, up.
You're killing me here. Not literally, of course. That would be bad, and it's my hope that this letter will serve as a mediatatory step between where we are right now - which is a really unhealthy, angry, one-sided relationship - and one of us getting killed (you.)
You see, Bear, here's the thing. This started out OK. To be honest, it was kind of cool having a bear hanging around a little bit. The kids haven't seen you yet, and I was hoping that might happen somehow in a safe, manageable way where no one felt used or endangered or inappropriately spectated like some kind of zoo critter. And that time you went up the trail about an hour after Scanlon went down the trail and we got it all on camera - hilarious. Well-played. Your comedic timing, I felt, was spot on that time, and I applauded your style.
 |
| back when you were funny. |
 |
| (Seriously though, thanks for not eating Scanlon.) |
OK, let me get into it here, and please be sure to read this to the end so we're on the same page moving forward.
1) I can no longer tolerate you ignoring me screaming at you while you are eating from my trashcan. Let me be clear - that's not to say you can't eat the trash. It's fine if you want to pick through it now and then, and obviously your ice cream addiction is something you don't really have a handle on yet. I get that. I relate to that. I see how you push aside the leftover vegetables that my kids won't eat either in order to tear apart the ice cream container and lick every inch of it dry. I've DONE that. So let's be straight, it's OK from time to time. But when I step out not onto the porch at 4 AM in my underwear and I just had a vasectomy 3 days ago and I'm pretty sore, and I yell for you to beat it, do NOT, ever again, under any circumstances, give me your fuck-you-I'm-a-bear face and continue to eat the trash. I will not be ignored.
2) When I go back inside, get my shotgun loaded with bird shot to scare you off, storm back outside angrily, and shoot said shotgun in order to scare you off, I need you to at least ACT scared. Run off. Hustle for once in your life. A slow walk with a fuck-you look over your shoulder again will not be tolerated. It's a SHOTGUN. I need you to at least act like you're somewhat put off and repelled by my white-trash-shotgun-shooting-in-my-underwear rage. Do not simply walk to the edge of the yard and wait for me to go back inside so you can resume eating trash. I'm watching you, you slippery fuck. Also, if you could remind me that my 500 gallon propane tank is right there and I should be more careful with my shotgun warning shots so I don't blow up the entire zip code, that would be sweet.
3) You need to be more gentle with the trash can. I know this is difficult for you because you don't have opposable thumbs, but you are really destroying it. It's not a live, wild animal that you have to stalk, hunt down, and kill. It's entirely inanimate. It's not going to get away. Take your time, calmly bite through the bungie cord that holds the top on since you destroyed the hinges, and have yourself a nice meal. Light some candles, dude - enjoy the moment - it's fuel for your soul too, you know. If you spike the trash can off the heat pump one more time, I swear to God it's on.
4) No more diapers. Period. End of conversation. Those weren't even diapers that came from my trashcan, so I know you're two-timing me at the very least. Not cool.
5) No more daytime trashcan raids. Look, I know you get antsy out there sleeping all day, and the ice cream is calling or whatever, but you gotta stay put until nightfall at the very least. Preferably between the hours of midnight and 5 AM should be fine. Also, Shannon sometimes goes running at 5AM or some ungodly hour that I don't ever see unless I'm awake and trying to manage the fucking crazy bear that won't stop eating our trash, so if you can finish up early on those days that would be super helpful. In fact, if you can just try to manage your behavior in such a way that my bride doesn't have to lay down a suppressive fire with the shotgun from the front porch while I shovel trash back into the house in the middle of the night, that would be a good step towards her not shooting you for realsies.
I think that's it. Really, Bear, I don't feel like I'm asking too much. We've got young kids here, lots of people coming out to ride the farm at all kinds of hours, and as a general rule no one wants to party with a bear that wants to party back. Let's all try to get a handle on our tempers here, act like good neighbors, and return this to a healthy relationship that I know it can be.
I believe in us, bear.
Up, up, up.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)