Odds and Ends
Odds and Ends
(WBL 2011 # 1)
The Mother Ship’s annual lap around Old Sol finally brought it into its favored position, December, the month the bells toll for King Carney, the WBL, and the Zealots who partake of its frozen fruit. On 4 December 2010 the bells were clanging and clattering like there was five alarm fire in Hades, and about 200 Zealots heeded the battle cry and arrived in downtown Athens with swords in their hands and a faraway look in their eyes. After sharpening their blades, the 200 warrior-Zealots set off from downtown Athens on their quixotic quest to hold the world at bay, albeit temporarily, and to beat the bounds at the far edges of the commons, sometimes even encroaching into the white spaces beyond the pale, the terra incognito where unspeakable horrors happen to dropped, bonked, lost, or misbegotten cyclists. After all, in the words of Dirty Harry, a man’s gotta know his limitations. The WBL is here to help a person find his limit and push that line a little further away.
Though the forecasted high for the first Saturday of the 2011 other season was a balmy 59 degrees, the mercury actually never topped a frosty 50 degrees. But despite the frosty clime and the gray clouds pressing down from above, spirits soared as both old timers and fledgling Zealots mixed and mingled in a carnival atmosphere. But the Mardi Gras mood didn’t prevent the large contingent of hardcore Zealots from attending to the task at hand, and they buckled their chinstraps and plunged into the day with a steely look painted on their faces and a certain grim resolve planted in their psyche. As the mega-pack motored out Prince Avenue and beyond, not even a gang of crows squawking ominous warnings or a vulture dragging a ten pound carcass across the road could forestall the pack from its predetermined mission. The group hit cruise control from the gun and never slowed down all day.
At the end of the two-wheeled jubilee, the pack cruised home with 75 miles deposited into the bank at a 20.5 mile-per-hour clip: Salud! Though the skies never cleared for the entirety of the misadventure, and though the circumambient air gripped the pack like icy fingers, the Zealots blasted down the asphalt leaving scorch marks on the road. Though a scattered droplet of rain fell here or there, Fortuna smiled on the two-wheelers and they completed their task with money to burn. They even dodged a bullet when only 30 minutes after arriving home, the skies unleashed a short but significant burst of precipitation. By then the Zealots were safely nestled into their heated cars and headed for home while their appendages sizzled like bacon in a pan—they were already dreaming of next week’s ride.
Shortly after the first ride, Vegas prognosticators posted the odds for this year’s Yellow Jersey contest. A summary of those odds are posted below, as well as the underlying facts on which the calculation is based. After reading the summary of the various riders’ strengths and weaknesses, we are sure you’ll agree that though the methodology is quite different and perhaps even a little odd, at the end of the day, the prediction is spot on. And isn’t it the end result that counts? Bets may be placed by sending cash to Carney at his home address.
Briggs Carney and Humble C: Carney and I were in New York City for the biggest fashion show of the season, the unveiling of the spring fur line. We’d heard that there had been a hugely successful slaughter of exquisite baby seals in the Arctic tundra and we were looking to pick up a pair of fur-lined ear muffs so we could both look like rich Colorado ski bums. We were hanging out at Union Square before the show, soaking up the scene, and just trying to blend in with the the flocculate lumpus of humanity, an assorted admixture of geeks with laptops, gangsters with hoodies, street corner prophets, hucksters, leather punks, black vinyl girls, musicians, businessmen, well-heeled shoppers, Hassidic rabbis, proletariats, six Peta models, vendors, and New York’s Finest wearing not only a sidearm but also a smile. While we were standing in the middle of the swirling riptide of humanity, just trying to blend in the whole mind-blowing scene, a double-decker tourist bus rumbled past and the tour guide stood up on the top deck and pointed at both Carney and me and blurted out over the loudspeaker, “LOOK, THERE GOES TWO NOW!” Forty Japanese tourists pivoted their heads in unison and fired-off a thousand snapshots of Carney and me as the bus roared past. The entire incident has carved a deep gash in my psyche. Two what? Both Carney and I slot in at 243 to 1 odds to take Yellow in 2011. Don’t count us out though.
Matt Whatley: Whatley was meditating yogi-style under a bohdi-tree beside a dirt road outside of Bogart. Directly in front of Whatley, a lithe and supple mama cat crossed the dirt road with a kitten safely secured in its mouth. The kitten went, “Miaow, miaow” and swam its little legs in the air. The kitten made it safely across the road and its mama let the little bundle of love suckle from her teat while she licked its soft fur. Later a schizophrenic mother monkey scampered helter-skelter across the dirt road with a terrified baby clinging to her fur by all fours. The terrorized toddler gripped his mama with every bit of strength he had, but he was bounced loose like a bull rider and he hit the dirt road with a squeal. Mama monkey continued her frenetic sprint across the road and never looked back. The baby monkey wailed for a moment, then was quickly crushed beneath the hooves of a caravan of camels carrying a large contingent of Bedouin sheiks. A short time later, the vultures feasted on the tasty treat. After meditating 7 days, Whatley held up three fingers and spoke: “The WBL is more like the monkey than the cat. In the WBL, one will not be coddled, but one may very well be crushed.” Whatley gained enlightenment and was awarded the title of Zen Master Matt. Because rumors persist that Whatley uses the honorific to pick up chicks in strip clubs, he vaults upwards to 34 to 1 odds to take home the silver cup in 2011.
Matt Karzen: Karzen barreled into the WBL Board meeting room unannounced and without knocking—that kind of thing drives Carney crazy. Carney frowned and put down his martini, pushed his plate of caviar to the side, daubed-out his Cuban cigar, tapped his diamond ring on his imported crystal water glass, sighed loudly, and tossed the Wall Street Journal onto the hand-hewn mahogany table. He had a This better be f----- good expression on his face. Karzen was holding open a twenty pound Black’s Law Dictionary. He was squirming with excitement. “The Zealots might fit the legal definition of a posse,” Karzen declaimed excitedly with his pointing finger buried inside the oversized doorstop: “A posse is either (a) a band of good-hearted souls seeking to capture a black-hearted fugitive and bring the guilty bandito to justice; or (b) a rowdy gaggle of drunken revelers hale-bent on destruction, mayhem, lechery, outright violence, savagery, demagoguery, adultery, banditry, bestiality, fornication, bribery, robbery, grand larceny, and many other types of bawdy behavior, or even worse.” Karzen looked up at the board members in anticipation. Carney squirmed in his seat, he tugged at his collar, he threw back his martini, he sucked on his dry cigar, he wiped his mouth with his sleeve: “Damn son, you might just have us on part b there.” Beads of sweat dotted Carney’s brow. “Sit down, son, and let’s talk about this.” And that’s how Karzen became a Made-Man in the WBL. Because of his legal acumen, Karzen’s odds have been ranked at 29 to 1 odds to take the cup in 2011.
Parker Smith and Jeff Shirey: Parker Smith’s stock market aplomb was evident at an early age. Once when Jeff Shirey was 14 years old and Parker was 8, Santa gave Jeff a shiny red fire truck for Christmas. Jeff beamed like a searchlight that afternoon on the playground while exhibiting all the fancy gadgetry on his flashy red truck to the neighborhood kids. Jeff bragged about the working extension ladders, the real rubber hose, and the plastic Dalmatian doggy that sat up front and was painted in intricate detail. The fire truck also had a working little bell that Jeff was fond of tinkling with his finger. In an attempt to exert his alpha-dog dominance over the smaller kids, and to prove that he was Santa’s favorite, Jeff asked Parker Smith in a smug manner what Santa had brought him. Without removing his hands from his pockets, Parker said, “My grammy gave me 1,000 shares of stock in Con-Ed one month ago. The stock went public last week. I sold short and bought the company that makes your big red fire truck. I have a big red fire truck just like yours parked in front of my house. It’s everything you say it is, except mine’s much bigger than yours.” Jeff stared at Parker for a moment, then he picked up his fire truck without further comment, turned and walked home. Paraphrasing Zarathustra, he’s vanished into the clouds and hasn’t been heard from since. Parker Smith’s Wall Street bravado lands him at 41 to 1 odds to win Yellow in 2011 while Jeff Shirey’s fixation on his firetruck places him at 63 to 1 to grab the gold.
Bill Bray: Bill Bray’s wife sat on the love sofa with her arms and legs crossed. Her right toe was tapping the floor like an angry metronome. The cookoo-clock went “cluck-cluck.” It was 2 o’clock in the morning, and husband Bill wasn’t home. She balled up her fists and buried them in her armpits. Her body radiated heat. She was going to snap Billy Boy’s head off when he walked in. And if he had lipstick on his collar again, he was out on his ass this time. About then, Billy strolled in wearing stacks, bell-bottom jeans, multiple gold chains, and a silk shirt. His wife looked at him and in a calm voice tinged with rage asked, “And just where have you been?” Billy Bray walked past without breaking stride and said, “The blue barn is now red.” His wife’s toe stopped tapping and she furrowed her brow. Billy continued towards the bedroom without breaking stride. His wife silently mouthed his answer and then called out, “What blue barn?” Billy Boy was waiting on that one: “The one that is now red.” He went into the bedroom, stripped naked, and hit the hay before his wife could even whistle Dixie. Billy Bray’s ability to keep the enemy at arms’ length brings him in at 49 to 1 odds to capture the flag in 2011.
Kirk Madsmith: Kirk Madsmith cannot be criticized for not tithing. Madsmithh tithes 10% of his income like clockwork—he understands Marcus Gladwell’s oft-repeated observation that we’ve all had a helping hand at some point along the way. He also wholeheartedly believes in the Newtonian credo that we all “stand on the shoulder of giants.” However, Madsmith tithes 10% of net income, not gross because times are tough. Also, because Madsmith is self employed, his accountant, a creative sort, suggested all sorts of questionable deductions such as his country club dues, his wife’s Lexis lease, his mountain home mortgage, and even the millions he dropped in attorneys’ fees because of the recent sex scandal. Madsmith’s accountant is so crafty that although Madsmith’s company brings in 1.2 million a month, he only “nets” $102.34 after dues expenses are doled out paid. Thus, each month Madsmith proudly deposits ten dollars of folding money plus a shiny quarter into the collection plate with much pomp and circumstance. He even leaves the two extra pennies for the Good Lord’s Penny Jar. However, one month when revenues were down and Madsmith’s Fortune 500 Company only brought in $670,000, instead of tithing, he dropped a bill to the church into the collection plate. He felt the church owed him a refund of $100,000 since he didn’t earn as much that month. When the refund wasn’t forthcoming, Madsmith eased his $10.23 per month on down the road. Madsmith’s numerary skills posit him at 59 to 1 odds to win WBL 2011.
Phil Southerland: Team Type I’s Phil Southerland was the first to notice the art deco inspired bus stops around Athens. For example, there’s one on West Broad Street whose shell is covered with oversized musical notes plastered to the outside of the metal box. In Athens, mostly poor people, or at least people that exist below the poverty line, ride the buses, so it’s nice to see a little money spent on their creative needs once in a while, Phil thinks. Feeling quite idealistic and overcome with passion for all mankind, as Phil drove past one of the bus stops in his 2010 Mercedes Benz Coupe one day, he pulled over and lowered his power window on the passenger side and said, “Excuse me, sir, but are you perchance dreaming about Beethoven’s Fifth, or perhaps an overture by Tchaikovsky, or maybe even one of Schoenberg’s choral works. Sir, I sincerely hope the musical note on the outside of your metal cage allows you a temporary break from your wretched existence.” Phil’s window hummed upwards and sealed shut and off he shot, going from zero to sixty in less than 7 seconds. Phil never even heard the bus-stopper shout “Go F--- Yourself, White Boy” because of the soundproof nature of his custom coupe.” German engineering is positively peerless. Phil Southerland’s soft side places him squarely as 89 to 1 odds to wear yellow roses in 2011.
Mike Buechel: People thought Buechel was crazy last year when he said he was determined to find a goat with a diamond in its ass, but when Beak managed to pluck a 24 karat sparkler out of an mangy, flea-bitten Billy-goat, ole Buechel had the last laugh—the diamond was appraised at $50,000. Instead of cashing-in on his treasure, Buechel had the diamond professionally inserted into the middle of a fake front tooth that he now clips in the front of his mouth first thing every morning. When he smiles, it’s like a thousand disco balls glittering in his mouth. Buechel’s ability to sniff out a diamond in the rough, and to plant it squarely in the middle of his mouth, place him at 55 to 1 odds to capture the flag in WBL 2011, even though he won’t even be here. The diamond, and thus Buechel, just looks that damn good.
Tommy Mulkey: Who’s this skulking to his car in a Santa Claus costume carrying a big sack of toys for needy kids? Why, it’s Tommy Mulkey Look, he’s hoisting the oversized sack of presents into the trunk of his black sedan and closing the hood. He must be on his way to the mall. Mulkey has surely turned over a new leaf: My faith in mankind is restored. But wait, Mulkey drives right past the mall—I wonder where he’s off to now? That’s odd, he’s still driving an hour later, maybe even speeding. Mulkey should slow down, he might kill someone. What’s he doing now? He pulls off the paved road and heads down a dirt road deep into the woods. Look here, he’s pulling over and hauling the sack of presents out of his trunk. Ouch! the sack of toys lands on the ground with a thud. Now he’s dragging the sack of toys into the woods. What’s this old jester up to? Mulkey beats all I’ve ever seen. Mulkey walks into a remote region of the forest and starts digging a hole with a small spade he’s carried in his backpack. What in the world could he be doing? Wait, Mulkey is opening the sack of toys. He’s going to dump the gifts into the hole he’s dug into the earth. Uh-oh, what’s this? I spoke to soon. Out slides a pair of feet followed by the body. Mulkey is dumping a dead man into a shallow grave. Mulkey’s striking resemblance to Santa Claus weighs him in at 53 to 1 odds to take the grand prize in 2011.
Sam Rafal: Sam slunk down in the booth at Waffle House with his new lady friend and grinned like a leghorn chicken holding four aces. When the waitress appeared to take his order, Sam glanced around to make sure there were plenty of folks in earshot—this was his chance to prove he was no longer a pistol-toting, snuff-dipping, truck-driving red-neck. Once assured the audience was large enough, he began his loud soliloquy: “Yes, we’ll start with a plate of escargot in the shell with just a dash of butter and garlic. We’d also like an order of Russian caviar as long as it is from a beluga whale—please, no sturgeon. Bring us a bottle of 2005 Romanee Conti Red Burgundy from France. By the way, that’s a Pinot Noir and the 2002 vintage is currently fetching upwards of six-thousand bucks per bottle. We’ll also all have a spinach salad with shallot-thyme vinaigrette dressing topped with pear and pecans. For the main course, we’ll have braised pork cheeks, tomato chutney, lemon emulsion, red mule grits, fennel slaw, and arugula. For dessert, how about a thick wedge of Harvest cake with cream cheese frosting, vanilla anglaise, and candied walnuts, served with a glass of Marola Grappa.” The waitress never wrote down a thing, but told Sam it would be “right up.” Sammy simply assumed that like all Waffle House waitresses, she had a memory like an elephant. Sam Rafal’s ability to be an elegant and urbane gourmand when it counts lands him at 43 to 1 odds to take the overall victory in WBL 2011.
Ryan Wolfe: Ryan Wolfe carries the party with him wherever he goes. When he’s driving his car, his speakers are always pounding with such fury that the car doors rattle in their cages and his fuzzy dice sway like hanging ferns in a California quake. When he’s walking or riding his bike, the buds from his IPod are always buried in both ears. At home, his turntable is always cranked up to maximum volume. Speakers are mounted on walls both inside and out. Even when he’s asleep and dreaming, his mind is a Mardi Gras of music. On second thought, Wolfe-Man doesn’t carry the party with him; he is the freaking party! Wolf-Man’s penchant to party like a rock star shoots him up to 77 to 1 odds to take the Yellow diadem in 2011.
Mike Edmonds and Andrew Smola: Mike Edmonds’s ability not to show up for rides, yet still make the ride report is nonpareil. Some suggest a payoff, or even worse. Were it not for the fact that it is not a benefit to be mentioned in the ride report, this conspiracy theory might gain a little traction. However, if Edmonds can translate this mystical skill into actually earning points, he could pose a real threat this year, not to the Overall win, but in the Best Looking Person in the Pack Competition. Andrew Smola is reportedly in hissy-fit over Edmonds’s pursuit of his crown. Unfortunately, both riders’ fondness for the comfortable confines of his warm covers on a frigid mid-winter day work against him, as does both riders’ love of drink and Pornographia (the novel, not the noun). Edmonds and Smola rank as 92 to 1 odds to take the Yellow Jersey in 2011. Both have taken to giving their hair 100 brushes every evening in an effort to improve their odds.
Dustin Mealor and Damien Dunn Since his release for the nuthouse over a decade ago, Dustin Mealor has made enormous strides. No longer does Dusty defecate in someone else’s shoe only for the innocent owner to discover the foul deed when he inserts his foot later. Dusty hasn’t cursed in church in nearly 8 years, not counting Wednesdays and Thursdays. Other than one minor slipup when he forgot to take his medication, Dusty hasn’t run naked through downtown Athens screaming, “Paul Revere is coming! Paul Revere is coming!” Dusty has almost completely stopped brawling in the Varsity parking and groping old ladies in grocery stores. He hasn’t worn women’s panties for sixteen days in a row. Dusty no longer believes he is Liberace, though at times he does still insists he is Damien Dunn. The WBL is very proud of Dusty because at one time he was batshit crazy. Now he’s just crazy as a bat. Either way, Dusty slides safely in at 46 to 1 odds to be the victor ludorum, while DD Dunn follows close behind at 47 to 1.
Nick Arroyo. Christian Foster, Nick Reistad, Matt Tunis, (Jered Hegberg): These first four old codgers always smile when they first see each other in the wee Sunday morning hours of the Hub-Jittery Joes parking lot. They have their routine down pat, and like the four old, senile, intransigent, intractable, unbending, obtuse, and obtrusive bastards that they are, they refuse to vary: They exit their cars and enter Jittery Joes at the same time; they all stand in line and order coffee together; they all walk to a small four-person table together and are seated at the same time; they all blow on their coffee and then take a sip; then they all lean in and one whispers sotto voce, “Who do we trash today?” Today, the answer comes swiftly: “Jered Hegberg.” As usual when the victim is named, the four lean back and roar with laughter. After the snickers die down, the onslaught begins. Our four executioners as well as the innocent victim swagger into the room at 54 to 1 odds to cross the line first.
Rich Nelson: Rich’s house was a hubbub of activity when I arrived. Kazoos were squawking and party favors were streaming through the air. “What’s all the excitement about?” I asked a neighbor. “Rich has been picked for the reality TV show The Biggest Loser.” The kazoos went kazonk. The streamers sailed. I was dumfounded because Rich is as skinny as a rail. The neighbor must have noticed my confusion: “It’s not that kind of loser,” he said, “it’s the other kind.” I looked at Rich and said, “Oooooooh, ok.” Rich slots in at 65 to 1 odds to ride the Yellow bus in 2011.
Oscar Clarke: Oscar Clarke doesn’t need your petty paeans to love or your pompous panegyrics to the opposite sex because Oscar Clarke doesn’t need sex! He’s a man of principle, after all. Oscar Clarke can do without you or your sex. He will no longer engage in sex acts of any sort, starting three days after tomorrow. He’s free from bondage…starting three days after tomorrow: Free at last, free at last, thank God almighty, he’s free at last…beginning three days after tomorrow. Instead of slopping around in the mire, starting three days after tomorrow, Oscar Clarke will dwell upon issues that have confounded humans since the beginning of time: the origins of man, the making of myths, the awakening of consciousness, the evolution of the brain, and the blonde versus brunette controversy. Instead of wallowing in the pig sty, he will soar above the clouds; Oscar Clarke will rise above sex; starting three days after tomorrow. The foregoing soliloquy was delivered recently to a federal jury in closing argument at Clarke’s trial on tax evasion and money laundering. He was found “Guilty” on all counts and sentenced to ten years of crushing rocks. Clarke remains free on an appeal bond. Clark’s ability to clean cash catapults him to 33 to 1 odds to land at the top of the dung heap in 2011. Let’s hope he’s as competent at crushing rocks.
Catherine Peacock: Imagine this: You are lean as a beanpole and ripping through the wind on your sparkling steel steed like a knife. Your legs feel lighter than air and you feel no pain as you pump your knees like two angry pistons. You’ve got oxygen to spare. You’re frothing at the mouth, like Johann Mussuew. Catherine Peacock is on your wheel and desperately struggling to hang on. Snot is hanging from her nose by a long rope, her jaw is unhinged, and a look of intense pain is frozen onto her face. Then snap, she cartwheels out the back and away you sail. Well, wake up Wally, because it ain’t gonna happen. The truth of the matter is that you will be sorely disappointed at the end of the day. Both you and John Lennon can imagine whatever type of treacle you wish, but you’ll both be left scratching your chins and wondering what the hale went wrong while C Peacock fades from view like a bird on the horizon. Because C Peacock lives in a world of fact, not fiction, she flies in under the radar at 28 to 1 odds to wear the ermine fur in 2011.
Daniel Holt: Team Type I’s Daniel Hollywood Holt is a true lady’s man, that’s for sure—he reminds me all the time. Hollywood and I were at a bar in Dubai recently (where he was sojourning…Dubai, not the bar) and a curvaceous Persian femme fatale approached him in a sultry, wanton way. She was sending out obvious sex signals and she ran her finger along the back of Hollywood’s shoulders. Honestly, I couldn’t see what Hollywood has. The next thing I knew Hollywood threw back his drink, pushed back his chair, grabbed the voluptuous vixen’s hand, and was on the dance floor cutting the rug. He kept tossing back drinks of some type of dark liquid in a silver shot glass that was burning on top like a lake on fire. A debonair Middle Eastern man with a turban, a toothbrush mustache, red satin shoes, and a white sash kept bringing them to old Hollywood on a silver platter. I just shook my head and grinned, what could I say? I did notice that she was larger than him. We all were drunk and we rode the taxi to Hollywood’s pad and I went to bed and slept like a stone. The next morning I glimpsed a large, hairy Persian man with red satin shoes in his hand as he was leaving the apartment. He looked vaguely familiar. When Old Hollywood walked out of his bedroom he looked as if he’d seen a ghost. Old Hollywood’s suave and sophisticated ways, along with the fact he is living in Atlanta, rank him at 34 to 1 odds to take Gold in 2011.
Chad Little Cappy Capobianco: The other kids at North Oconee High School can spot Little Cappy coming from a mile away. That’s because they hear him first. Little Cappy has ten speakers in his baby blue custom Camero, as well as a tweeter, a wuffer, an equalizer, a hummer, and a vibrator. He doesn’t know what half the gadgets do; the salesman simply said “these things make it louder.” The salesman then narrowed his gaze and leaned in and whispered, “Do you want loud or what?” He drew Little Cappy in like a moth to blue-tipped flame. Little Cappy’s car now sounds like a rolling sonic boom—it can split the atmosphere with sound. When the gang finally sees Little Cappy his Camaro is bouncing on springs and levitating on lifts as it slowly jounces into the North Oconee parking lot. When Little Cappy pulls into his painted spot on the asphalt ocean he lowers his car a good three feet until the body is one inch from the ground. When the hydraulic lift is finished lowering the car, Little Cappy leans his seat back, flips down his shades, reaches behind the passenger seat, and pulls out a Four Loco: time to reeeeee-lax. The other students go into the building when the bell rings and speak of Little Cappy as a modern Day Cool Hand Luke. Meanwhile, Little Cappy has put the unopened Four Loco can back into the cooler and pulled his bike out of the trunk. When no one is looking, he goes on a 100 mile training ride. Later in life, Little Cappy will work as a spy for the Secret Service in Europe. His cover will be a professional bicycle racer in the Tour de France. Little Cappy’s command of legerdemain, combined with his cycling prowess, configure him at 33 to 1 odds to win the Yellow derby in 2011.
Stephen Leotis, Nick Housley, Brendan Cornett and John Best: Leotis sat bare-chested in the prison yard in the blazing Georgia sun sipping a strawberry pina colada while Brendan Cornett sat on a pale next to him and filed his boss’s nails. John Best slowly fanned Leotis with an oversized palm leaf. Nick Housley gave Leotis a foot massage. Leotis was wearing his prison-issued orange painter pants. As “Yard Boss” Leotis enjoyed several perks. His smooth and hairless chest glistened with suntan oil, but a dozen red wires were glued to his ribs and two to each temple. He’d agreed to take a lie detector test (against his attorney’s advice), but only on his terms, one being that it be administered in the prison yard while his factotums attended to his needs. Plus, Leotis knew he wasn’t the actual trigger man for any of the murders anyway. The Examiner, a young female recruit for the F.B.I., fired-off her first question. Leotis smiled and said, “Little Lady, I have sex every day of the week, some days twice even.” Even though Leotis hadn’t had sex in two years and seven months (with another person), the red needle in the lie detector box lay on its side like a dead man in a ditch—it didn’t even twitch. Leotis is one cool cucumber under pressure and his ability to lie without compunction places him at 34 to 1 odds to win the Yellow Helmet Cover on 2011. Brendan Cornett’s ability to file nails like an Egyptian slave, J Bests’s abilty to waive a palm fan land, and Housley’s abilty at deep tissue massage land each squarely at 22 to 1 odds to come out on top.
Though we could go on and on and on and on, we’ve decided to stop here.