Buck Junior loves cycling so much he has sworn an oath to himself that he’s going to do everything he can to be the next Lance Armstrong. Dope, blood transfusions, doesn’t matter, if it gets him on that center podium in Paris. So last night as he hung out with his best friend, Doxie, smoking bowls of prime Snoop Dogg brand weed, supergluing his feet inside his cycling shoes seemed like a brilliant idea. The logic is fuzzy now in the morning, something about having more time for riding because he’s never waste time searching for his shoes, but it made more sense in the moment and isn’t everyone telling everyone else you need to live in the moment?
He really needs a shower because he totally reeks like a grow house, but now he is wasting a lot of time trying to pull his skinny black jeans over his bike shoes and if he doesn’t hurry this up, he’s going to be late for the first day of his summer job as a bike messenger. He still can’t believe they’re going to pay him to ride a bike, almost like turning pro. It doesn’t get any cooler than that. Scoring this job made him a total believer in a higher power being on his side. He doesn’t know if it’s God, or The Force, or string theory, it only matters that it likes cycling because a career in football isn’t an option for a guy of five feet six inches and 130 pounds unless he wants to be the towel boy.
Well, the jeans aren’t going to fit over his shoes and the shoes aren’t coming off his feet. Shittle fizzle, he thinks, what would Lance do? So with his pants around his ankles, he drags them behind as he goes in search of a pair of scissors and some more dope.