The prophecy of Slowtwicthia as seen by Mr. Tibbs as told to Mrs. Slowman by him.
Mrs. Slowman,
Upon occasion of thoughts in this early Autnum I forsaw the future of this land of Slowtwitchia and how you shall play a role in it’s noble yet frightening future.
These are the days of Slowtwitchia where we go about our lives debating Campy vs. Shimano, showing pictures of our dogs and cats and generally hanging out and being groovey but soon we shall be called by Slowman to his land in California.
We shall follow his call us happy brainwashed mass of the forum folk. We shall cross oceans, deserts, great forest and many streets to setle ourselves in you and Slowman’s presences.
We shall each be given a job that matches our talents and allow us to provide best for this wonderful land. I shall be assigned as your servent. You will take my name and not give me another. You will refer to me as ‘it’, ‘beast’, ‘lesser thing’ and ‘hey you stupid over here’
I will cook your meals, mix your drinks and duck your blows as you yell at me for the one olive instead of two in your cocktail. Though you will be a cruel mistress I will be a humble and obedient servant.
As we grow the sacred land Slowman will take back Quintana Roo and we shall grow it into a most wonderful company of bikes so steep at to appear they may topple at anytime.
These happy times will be short though. The kingdoms of Trek and American Bicycles Group will move to destroy the Roo. They will attack with horrorfic force. We shall not be alone as the Republic Cervelo will swarm from the north and strengthen our defence.
The great warriors of Slowtwitchia will rise and fight. Iron Monk, Kevlarclm, record20ti and Shocka jaylew. He shall be the sexiest of them all!
I will stand a guard outside your chamber and fight off the lycra clad invaders. I will fight with my heart and soul and in the end I shall be fallen. When the victory has been assured Slowman will blow his mighty horn of War and all will swig from there bottles of poisoned Gatorade that will transport us to the happy racing grounds in the sky.
You will open your chamber door and find me horribly wounded and unable to move.
“I can not drink the Gatorade your wonderfullness. I have failed you.” I will say through a haze of pain and failure.
“Wow that’s a shocker.” You will say with the most sharp and painful sarcasm. Then in the only act of kindness you will show me you will life my head and help me drink. You will then hold my head as I slip in the sleep of the slept.
I will awaken in a room of the finest Velvet. I shall wear silken pajamas and smoking jackets and have a shiny black pompadour of much bigness and skin of my clearness. I shall then live forever in complete smoovness and my Rat Terriers will be the goofiest.
So it is written so it shall be done.
