The phone rang this morning.  The voice splurted out invectives in some sort of strange melange of accents that made it hard to place, much less understand.  I've become used to this recently.  

"Hey sideburns.  What's up?"

translation follows:

"This playdate or bike race?"

"Whaddya mean SB?"

"Playdate you share, make nice-nice.  Bike Race you win."

"Well, ok.  But sometimes to win you have to share.  And what are you ranting about?"

"Riis have good phone numbers in address book.  Only explanation."

"Only explanation for what SB?"

"Pleuve, Regen, Vent: crap, in other words.  And Contador and his super-sexy must-not-photo-drive-train bike need change-y-wange-y.  Twice."

"Ah . . . are you suggesting that some other team should have taken advantage of that 'situatie'?"

"Who you I am thinking? Tucker Carlson?  Of course they should have.  Teach Contador lesson:  like use extra insulation for battery motor on wet days.  Like, is hard to light matches on wet days, so is best to make skinny little explosive climber dudes burn them when you can.  Like is better to apologize than ask permission."

"My head hurting is now."

"Good, must camper-van now moving, no want Cassani see me here."