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A word of warning 

San Luis Obispo

As I sit here stitching up my panniers from my beautiful Kona touring bicycle, I conclude that it is time to quit drinking … again. I keep crashing my baby and periodically look stupid. It has to stop.

I do not think it would be so bad if only I could afford a better quality of alcohol. It is embarrassing to call it a beer. It is not. What it actually is, is a peach fucker. My friend coined that term. It is accurate. There is another flavor, which stains concrete. It looks exactly like a bird had crapped there. True story. Like the vendor says, two is a misdemeanor, and three is a felony. I will disclose no more info on its identity. Either you know or you do not. I suggest that you college kids do not. That is primarily homeless reserve, and my friends and I get bummed when they run out. Furthermore, you’re supposed to be studying. Suffice it to say, if you have one, do not drive. And try not to be an asshole.

So here I sit, stitching away. Just kidding. It is actually a pain in the ass. I have broken six needles, and she’ll never be the same. On top of that, I broke the two main buckles. I had that coming.

At this point, I might as well make a confession. The reason I tell you is because there are lessons in everything if you keep an open mind. I am educating you, I care, and at the same time, I am clearing my conscience. Win win.

I was coming back from the store on a beautiful Saturday morning. My friend and I managed to scrounge up just enough change to stem the tide. Upon arrival back at camp and upon opening my pannier, I find out that these peach fuckers are so cheap that the aluminum is also cheap and my peach fucker sprang a leak. I think I had less money. I am pretty bummed, because I really wanted that peach fucker and, quite obviously, I have super sweet, sticky, nasty-smelling crap everywhere.

At this point, I did not need needle and thread. That came later. My confession is that I told my family that it was a water bottle that killed my phone. That is why I have not been in touch. The truth is that a peach fucker killed my phone. I had just put $25 on it. I reckon I had that coming, too.

So kids, listen up: Beware of the peach fucker—and those other flavors, too.

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