What happened yesterday, we don’t rally know. It was a tough starte when the back tyre on the scöter flied off at 52KPH. No, rally, we thinke, afterwarde maybe it was just 26 KPH, but brutal with crosswind and anger. So kälte. It first hit off of the shin of me so bad, damn, like slap le Walross. Next to that, was Andraž and his bruised ego from, like his 12th sans-dames night. And front of him all I can hear ist Oskar whimmy about he hangüber. I am in a bitch sandwich massif. Already tough was that we know the continent team is racing crit racing in Zealand Neuvo, okay? So we get stuck in the winter with a Jazz scüterrad, a winter kit which comprised just some bib-shortpante, and le Soigneur Petit with odd babyhands and carpal canal inflamme. Ouch. What-ever. Treat me like a ball, so you get the horns.
Andraž problème du vie is he laque a basic way with femme, diet regularity, and have shoot he credit to bits from used German autos. Oskar is one bad result from no contract and a winter in rehab, but slap me in a shin with a 33cm scüterrad tyre? Well, now we are just rally anger.
Le Garmin start to beep, we head back, to find the motor truck key and go get the scütie. When we arrivé, we see Rubier make tires with the glue, high and out of he faqueing head. He say, “Oh no, where is scütie?”
Andraž say, “Faque you, Rubier. Where is the Chianti? Go get Scütie.” Oskar is behind shoppe with vomique crampe, and I am faquing starve for some pan or cheese or something.
Gueule de bois,
Jaque le Coq