It's the Law of Murphy that the second you sprain your ankle, you will end up having to use said ankle more than you ever thought possible.

But I've learned some valuable lessons this weekend, the most important being that if you try to rest your ankle while sitting on the sidewalk at the finish line of the MS 150 Bike Tour, you will see spandex covering the most interesting and complex of physical protuberances, namely Camel Toes as far as the eye could see before you gouged them out in despair. No two were alike.

But just to be contrary, anyone who says spandex ought to be outlawed will be banned permanently from my blog. Spandex should not be outlawed. It should be required. It never gets old to see it. It only gets old to say it. And as long as you can still feel that thrill of revulsion when a 300 lb gentleman, oozing with sweat, saunters into your line of sight with his spandex shorts pulled up to his armpits and his entire package firmly encased and protruding from his left thigh, let it not be anathema.

However, I think some people ought to be aware that being skinny doesn't automatically mean you look good in spandex. Wear it, by all means. I sit in no judgment and frankly, the comedic value is far too high. But for your own sake, you might want to reconsider the strutting of your stuff when you haven't any stuff to strut.

What was I doing at the finish line MS-150 when I am so opposed to physical exertion of any kind? Well may you ask. It's actually pretty simple. Jethro's sister, her husband, and their cousin participated. For Halliburton, no less. They asked if Jethro would pick them up at the finish line in Austin and I tagged along.

They sucked. They were supposed to finish at 12 noon and we were supposed to leave immediately from there. They finished at 5:00pm. That left Jethro and I with 5 hours of waiting. If I had known it would be that long, I would have called Trashman. But instead, I had to suffer through the heat, boredom, sprained ankle and the insufferable Austinites.

Austin is a beautiful, pleasant city except for the hippie stench that is the equivalent of smog in LA. It's where the old hippies go to die and from the smell of them, they've been dying since the 60s. But at least they haven't moved to California, snort coke from their poolside lounges and happily tell the rest of us how we oppress the poor when we bitch about taxes. Noooo. They haven't sold out.

I think what set me off was when we were on the drag and I thought I'd buy a couple of bracelets for Gwennie and Emma. I was looking through the tables and every one of the unwashed artisans had some anti-American example of their art, from leatherworks of desecrated American flags, to hammers and sickels, to Fidel-fucking-Castro etched in stone. Fuck that. I don't care how old, smelly, or talented they are. They can sing their protest songs and bitch about The Man. I will keep my filthy lucre. No need to make it any filthier by putting it in the hands of those stinking weirdos.

And speaking of filth, I must return to the cleansing of my habitat. It is unfit for humanity.