Too much Salami...

Let me be the first to admit it: Nothing ever good comes from too much salami. Oh yes, feel free to read into that as deeply as you choose. Whether it's the salami in my refrigerator cooler drawer or the salami in my drawers, too much salami is never a good thing.

After what seems like a month of feeling like crap on the bike, its seems the body has blown clean of relative sickness & riding is once again enjoyable & punishing at the same time. Glorious days are here again. With all the time I've been spending on the bike I should be plowing through the post ride calories, but oddly enough, I've been content to eat sparingly & still feel full and fueled. Of course two Pabst tall boys followed by three St. Bernardus Pater 6 aren't totally light on calories, but I did manage to eat only a garden salad so it balances out. Or so I tell myself.

But what is all this talk of Salami you say? Well it is somewhat well known that I have a fondness for tubed shaped meat. No asshats, not that kind of tube shaped meat, but dried meat products stuffed in some kind of casing. Ok, ok, I'm getting nowhere with this.

On my trip to Belgium last year, I was in dried meat heaven. I managed to make a habit out of gorging on Stickado, and even managed to smuggle some back in stateside, though they only lasted about 3 days before I ate them all and USDA kicked down my door. So, how can too much salami be so bad? Well if you are a loser with the ladies like I am, it goes down something like this.

I return from a hard ride with Matt "Stickado". Wow that sounded homo.

So anyways, I get back from our ride & I have only about 1 hour to eat, wash up, and head out to yoga, where there is a super cute girl I've been making eyes at. I open the fridge, hmmm, what can I eat quickly & still is satisfying? Why of course, Salami, that will sit fine in my stomach after strenuous exercise. I munch on some tasting soprosetta sausage, and head out to yoga. After some up dogs, down dogs, and other poses that contorts my gut, I begin to feel the salami repeat into my throat. Good job dumbass, lets go talk to the cute girl with salami breath.

Unfortunately I no longer live in NJ, aka Soprano Italian land, so my salami breath would not have the aphrodisiac effect it would have on the ladies back in say, Nutley NJ. Class ends, the cute girl smiles goodbye and my salami breath feel so repulsive to myself that I barely dare crack a smile in fear of leaking out some sausage spices gas.

I return home, tail between my legs, having to wait another week to cross paths again. So to dull the pain of my loserdom, I cook up some stuffed salmon, maybe fish breath is better? No wonder I'm still single.