It's a weekday in January, 2:30pm and you're out there in your authentic team-sponsored replica road bike kit, 80 miles into your 120 mile personal epic uber-century. I'm sitting here at work making good money, better than a lot of people. I look out the window and can't help but ask myself: do you fuckers have jobs?
How do you eat? Were you born into money? Did your great-great-grandparents get a street named after them? Is that why you're spending what seems like hours every day jogging up and down the "urban stairwalk" that normal people like me use to schlep ourselves between the office and Subway?
Good for you, of course, if you think I sound jealous, you're right. But you're too old to be a college student and dressed too dorkily to be a bartender or waitress or whatever service industry job is cool these days. Is it weird to expect people who look perfectly middle- or upper-middle-class to need to show up for work during business hours?
How can I get one of these sweet jobs where I'm allowed to spend all my time training for the next alt-marathon or ironic cyclocross fest?