My Protege Stabs Me In The Back

Turns out my little Randall Scott protégé hasn’t been listening to my advice after all. Since he started here I’ve been telling Collier Wright, our afternoon sales rep, to strategically fail classes in order to remain in college for as long as he can. Being a little older and wiser, I’ve taken Big-C under my wing and let him in on some secrets regarding post college life – like once you finish college, you have to start paying for it – and you also have to pay for rent, food, health insurance, sex……. and when you graduate Theo Epstein isn’t going to offer you a job in the Red Sox front office just because you haven’t missed a game since freshman year - and when you get a job there’s most certainly an attendance policy and it’s called be here everyday or Randall Scott will fire you faster than Michael Jackson can sign up for a Home Alone marathon – and when you go out on Thursday night and drink 20 beers you’ll be hung over for two days, not two hours.

(Me and Big-C)


So Big-C has a leg up on all the other 21-year-old stallions he runs with, knowing the ominous fate that awaits him after he accepts that evil diploma. However, despite my guidance I recently found that Big-C has 4.0 GPA. Perhaps his parents have been contradicting my counsel, or maybe today’s youth have no interest in heeding the advice of a washed-up Marketing Director who constantly brags about how many points he scored in last Tuesday’s Men’s League game – but mark my words Big-C, once the last note of ‘Pomp and Circumstance’ has been played, hanging out in the freshman dorms is officially not cool.

Well, I’m not mad at you Big-C. If you want to take the fast track and graduate in four years, it’s your prerogative. Grad School you say? I’ve been there, done that Big-C. People actually do the reading and you’re expected to participate in class. Oh, but you already know that, and probably like it – getting this 4.0 behind my back

So Big-C, we all wish you the best on your finals this week, and if, for some reason, you don’t ace them all, just tell your parents it was my fault. If anyone wants to send Big-C a care package(he loves oatmeal cookies), or some advice, send it to:

Randall Scott Cycle Company attn: Backstabber Wright
2897 Mapleton Avenue Suite 100 - Boulder Colorado - 80301

The Phillip Seymour Hoffman Spyshots are Finally Here

Yeah, I know…we’ve been promising what appear to be the Phillip Seymour Hoffman spyshots for months, but research like this takes time. We’ve heavily scrutinized these pictures for weeks and have come to this conclusion: They sure look a lot like Hoffman.

However, there is some circumstantial evidence that has us wondering whether or not we have, in fact, caught the PSH in his natural habitat

Photo #1: The Money Shot

We saw Hoffman’s graceful athleticism on display in Along Came Polly, and witnessed more of his physical prowess as he bounded through rafters in Mission Impossible 3, but could he really pull a wheelie like that on a cruiser – questionable at best. Not to mention, if you look closely, patches of ice are scattered across the pavement. Sure, Hoffman is known for living life in the fast lane, but wheelies on ice, c'mon, that’s just nuts.

Photo #2: Pedal Breaks

This picture seems to be taken in the middle of a sick skid-out. However, I’ve heard from more than one person that Hoffman apparently hates pedal breaks. Whoever is in this photo is obviously comfortable with lockin’ em’up at full speed (without a helmet – VERY DANGEROUS) and fishtailing to an intimidating stop. Rumors have been flying around regarding a possible production of RAD 2 being shot in Boulder, so perhaps Hoffman is beefing up on his BMX skills, because everyone knows if you can wheelie and skid out on a cruiser with pedal breaks – you can do it on anything.

Photo # 3: The Body

Actors gain and lose weight to better fit the different roles they play, but have we ever seen Hoffman so chiseled? I mean, the guy in this picture could make orange juice with his thighs, bench press a pony, and you can see the short straps struggling to fit over his giant lats. If this isn’t some sort of stunt double, Hoffman has spent the last month straight on Tony Little’s Gazelle.

Photo #4: The Gear

Where did he get all that amazing Randall Scott Gear? We know we aren’t sponsoring him, but we found some interesting things when we checked the history of our jersey orders. About a month ago there was an order to Hollywood, CA made by one Rodolpho Capote. As we know, actors live in Hollywood. And as we know, Hoffman recently played Capote on the silver screen. Rodolpho? The name of Jennifer Anniston’s ferret in Along Came Polly. It’s almost like he wanted us to find him.

With a lot of contradictory evidence, we find it hard to tell if Performance NICycle has infiltrated our inner circle and planted this imposter in our back yard, or if we’re the first on the scene with Emmy worthy spyshots and the perfect alibi. Making ourselves vulnerable like this is risky, but if in a year from now we see Hoffman’s gorgeous blonde mane flying in the breeze as he pops a wheelie in a preview for Rad 2, it will be well worth it. A risk we just have to take - and I mean seriously, how can that not be PSH?

Randall Scott Carries Out the Redhead's Plan

As the clock approached 2:00 am, boss #1 rolled from beneath the massive structure. Sweat trickled through the healthy serving of grease that liberally smeared his face, and we all took a step back, scrutinizing the product of our toil. Since our meeting with the Redheaded bombshell we had been working around the clock - at the office during the day and our makeshift laboratory by night. Our determination to slow global warming had culminated with the creation of the Icebergarator – yes, a maker of icebergs.

After running a myriad of tests involving fish bowls and ice cubes we discovered that ice + water = colder water. Standing eight feet tall and four feet wide, the Icebergarator makes giant ice cubes just able to fit in the bed of Boss #1’s truck. It was now after 2:00 am, but we mustered up enough energy to throw a group high-five before we parted ways for the night and let the Icebergarator make its bounty.

(Loading up the truck with the season's first berg)

The next morning we showed up rejuvenated with a few hours of sleep and excited with the pent up anticipation of our first ice-drop. It was the moment of truth, and before we peeked in the Icebergarator we looked at each other in a moment of reticence. That reticence was unfounded, as inside stood a sparkling iceberg worth its weight in gold. After loading up the Tundra, we hit the open road, heading West towards the Colorado River and the imminent demise of global warming.

“I can’t believe no one else has thought of this,” offered boss #2.
“Well, we’ll have to split some of the profits with the Readheaded bombshell,” said Boss #1
"That’s where you’re wrong,” I interjected, “the whole world will share in these profits – except the jellyfish.”

Laughter filled the truck as we sped towards our destination and immortality.

Unloading the berg was nothing more than a technicality as it effortlessly slid from the bed to the river. We watched as the berg did its job, slowly floating down the rapids and cooling the river, which cools the ocean, which cools the earth and ruins the diabolical plot of the nefarious jellyfish. Feelings of pride warmed our overworked bodies as the berg vanished around the bend, and boss #2 said, “we carve our logo into the next one.”

Randall Scott and Redheaded Bombshell hatch a plan on Boulder's Pearl Street

A steady succession of snowflakes veiled, ever so slightly, the tired orange hews of the ancient streetlights that methodically line Boulder’s Pearl Street, illuminating the night with a feeling of insulated warmth and concealing the ground’s adulterations with a growing blanket of untrodden snow. The bosses and I sat in silence at our table, hypnotized by winter’s intrigue, but grateful for the large pane of glass that separated us from the elements and trapped the swirling heat being pushed through the clunky vents that intrusively hung from the ceiling. An occasional passerby could be spotted scurrying with conviction to destinations unknown, leaving ephemeral footprints for winter to paint with its pallid brush, perpetually restoring virginity to the landscape.

“Tuna with lemon, Calamari a gratin, Ono with wasabi, and coffee,” as the waiter carefully placed our meals in front of us I wondered how an old fisherman from New Hampshire got talked into eating seafood in Colorado’s interior. It was an informal business meeting - me, the bosses, and a redheaded bombshell were discussing how to increase publicity. She didn’t have an MBA, or even a business degree, but her fair skin, tumbling amber locks, and sensually voluptuous silhouette would prove to dominate the table. With her white cotton shirt draped across her chest and the night snow floating in the window behind her, she looked like an angel.

(The Bosses)

“Perhaps we should reevaluate our advertising budget, we could buy a blimp with our logo on it and fly it around Boulder.” This was boss #1’s outside-the-box suggestion. Boss # 2 sipped his tea with a grimace, offering, “if we’re going to pull a stunt like that, we should just buy a bullhorn and have Phillip drive around town announcing our sales.” I thought both ideas to be formidable, but we were looking for the big one, the thing that would get us nationwide attention and vault our small, hard working business into the fortune 500. That’s when she said it, “Jellyfish are taking over the ocean.”
“What do you mean,” I asked, pushing my untouched plate of freeze dried tuna to the middle of the table?
“Global warming silly. The jellyfish like the warmer water and are taking over the ocean,” She exclaimed innocently tucking her hair behind her ear.
She didn’t know it, but her naïve pontification had shown us what needed to be done. We could see the headlines in our minds, “Randall Scott Cycle Company Slows Global Warming”. We have always been environmentally conscious, specifically choosing a green-built energy efficient building, organic cotton apparel, and our logo’s green, so this seemed like the next logical step. Smiles spread like sunlight over the bosses’ faces, and the gerbils were running full tilt on their wheels.
“Do you know how many bikes we’d sell if we slowed Global Warming,” said boss #1 with dollar signs in his eyes.
“A lot, a 2$%#$ lot,” chortled a giddy boss #2 trying to control his laughter.

(Alex Waterman, Redhead angel, business consultant sometimes single)

Unwittingly giving birth to the plan of the century, the angel in the corner seemed to radiate purity, oblivious to what she had done, but happy just to help. Wrapping herself in her scarf, she winked as she bid adieu, “You boys have a long night ahead of you, I’ll leave you to your work.” Ahh, perhaps this sneaky fawn knew too well the pot she stirred, and as she calmly vanished into the night, out of the street’s light, we ordered two pitchers of coffee and laid the groundwork for a plan that would save the world and sell bikes. The plan you ask……….that was the easy part.

TO BE CONTINUED………